Books: Leah Mordecai
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Mrs. Belle Kendrick Abbott >> Leah Mordecai
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The greetings, congratulations, and presentations were over, and
Madam Truxton, in all her stately elegance, had at last relaxed her
rigid vigilance, and the "finishing class" were free--free to wander
for the first time, and that first the last too, among the spacious
halls and corridors of the old school building, as young ladies.
Free to receive the smiles and addresses of the long-forbidden
cadets without fear of madam's portentous frown.
At length the sound of music rose upon the air. Knotted groups here
and there bespoke the preparation for the dance. Sets were forming
in drawing-rooms and halls, and impatient feet were moving to the
measure of the prelude.
"Miss Heartwell, may I claim your hand for the quadrille?" said
George Marshall, bowing before Lizzie at the presentation of Madam
Truxton herself.
"I thank you, I never dance, Mr. Marshall."
"Not dance! How's that?"
"Never learned, sir."
"That's stranger still. I supposed all of madam's young ladies
danced."
"In general they do," replied Lizzie, "but from peculiar
circumstances I am an exception to the general rule. If you desire a
partner in the dance, allow ne to present you to my friend, Bertha
Levy. She dances like a fay."
"Not just now, thank you, Miss Heartwell; if it is not impertinent,
I would like to know why you do not dance."
"Well, it's a simple story, quickly told; and if you will listen a
moment I'll inform you, if you desire."
"With pleasure. Go on."
"Melrose, my native home, in the State of --, is a quiet little
town, with little social life and less gayety. My mother, too, is a
widow, who has lived in great seclusion ever since my father's
death, which occurred when I was a little child. I have been her
only companion in all these years of bereavement and sorrow, and it
has never been her desire that I should indulge in any of the
pleasures and gayeties that young people are fond of. From these
causes my life has assumed a sombre tone that may seem, and indeed
is, unnatural in the young. Yet, as I have known nothing else all my
life, it is no trial for me to forego the pleasures that are so
alluring to you, perhaps, Mr. Marshall."
George Marshall made no reply, and for a time seemed absorbed in
contemplation. He had listened attentively to this simple, half-told
history of her life. And as he marked the gentle expression of her
spirituelle face, she became in his eyes a model of beauty. The
allusion to the death of her father had recalled to his mind the
time and manner of his own father's death--a time when the terrible
plague of yellow fever had swept over the Queen City with
devastating wing. Observing George Marshall's silent, absorbed
manner, Lizzie continued:
"You think me very uninteresting, I dare say. Young ladies who do
not dance are generally so considered. Allow me to present you to
some of my friends who will--"
"I beg pardon, Miss Heartwell, for my inattention. I was thinking of
the past--the past recalled by your own story. Excuse my abstraction,
I pray."
"But the young ladies?" said Lizzie.
"I do not care to dance now, if you will allow me the pleasure of a
promenade," he replied.
"Certainly I will," replied Lizzie with a graceful bend of the
shapely head; and clasping with her timid little hand the strong arm
of the manly cadet, she passed with him from the lower drawing-room
across the hall to the library.
"There's more room in the corridor than here," said Lizzie; "suppose
we go there?"
"First let me ask a question, suggested by the musical instrument I
see standing in the library. Do you sing? Do you sing with the
harp?"
"I do."
"Will you not sing for me?"
"I will, with pleasure, if you will make room in the library," she
replied with unaffected simplicity. The library was occupied by a
number of matronly ladies and elderly gentlemen--all of the guests
who were not participating in the dance. Lizzie bowed her head
slightly, and passed to the harp, now silent in one corner. Without
hesitation she seated herself before it, and the slender fingers
grasped the strings of the instrument with a masterly touch, running
through a soft, sweet prelude of tender chords. Her voice at last
trilled forth in the charming strains of the old Scotch ballad,
"Down the burn, Davy, love."
Concluding this old favorite air, she sang again, with sweetness,
the witching song, "I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows."
Then rising from the harp, she said, with sweet accent and sweeter
smile, "Now that I have bewitched you with my music, Mr. Marshall, I
am ready for the promenade on the corridor."
These words so lightly spoken by the girl, were but the utterance of
a truth of which she had no suspicion. George Marshall was indeed
bewitched, and bowing a silent assent, he offered his arm to the
enchantress, and soon Lizzie found herself among the dancers, who
were seeking temporary relaxation from the exercise, scattered in
groups here, there, and everywhere about the spacious building.
Out into the long balcony, where the silvery moonlight lay softly as
dew upon the flowers, George Marshall led the way, with the young
girl clinging timidly to the brave strong arm, that for months had
known no tenderer touch than the cold, cruel steel of the musket,
the constant companion of the cadet in the military course just
closing.
They passed in silence through the corridor, and at last stood at
the eastern end that overlooked the sea, stretching her arms around
the child of her bosom, the devoted Queen City.
George Marshall, always taciturn, was now painfully silent. His
brain, always quick and clear to comprehend a problem in Legendre,
now seemed beclouded and sluggish. At length, embarrassed by the
oppressive silence, Lizzie endeavored to arouse her companion by
remarking,
"Are you fond of the sea, Mr. Marshall?"
Still gazing eastward over the deep, he replied abstractedly:
"Do you mean, am I fond of sea-life? If so, I answer most
emphatically, No. There's but one life in this world that attracts
me"--and here his manner grew constrained as he continued--"but one,
and that's the life of a soldier. I love military life and service,
and when my course is finished--which time is near at hand--if I am
successful, as I hope to be, I shall offer myself to my country, and
await impatiently her refusal or acceptance of my humble services.
But I beg your pardon, if my enthusiasm has led me away from your
inquiry. I only like to look upon the sea; its grandeur in a storm,
and the peaceful repose that follows, excite my admiration, but
that's all. It's something too treacherous to love."
"You fear the water, then," asked Lizzie smiling.
"Look to-night, if you please," was the answer, "at the soft silver
sheen that covers its beautiful blue bosom, and imagine, if you can,
such peaceful water engulfing a hapless bark within its silent
depths! Oh no; I only admire the sea as a part of God's wonderful
creation. But, Miss Heartwell, there's something just visible in the
hazy distance that I do love; it's old Defiance. You see the lights
of the old fort twinkling far off on the water? They stir within me
the martial spirit, and seem to beckon me on to an unknown, but
longed-for destiny. It may be fancy, yet there has been a peculiar
feeling toward that old fort ever since I first became a cadet at
the Citadel. Why do you frown? Do you object to my enthusiasm?"
"By no means," replied Lizzie quickly; "but, strangely as it seems
to fascinate you, it has always repelled, and even terrified me.
It's the only object of the beautiful harbor that has ever cast a
shadow across the loveliness of the sea. I hate it; and I have often
wished the sea would draw it silently into its hungry depths, and
leave no trace of it behind."
George laughed.
"Your fancy amuses me," he said. "It would never do to obliterate
old Defiance, for then the enemy, should they ever come, would find
easy access to the Queen City, and ruin and destruction might
follow."
"Well, I guess my wishes will be unavailing in the future, as they
have been in the past; and as I leave the Queen City to-morrow, old
Defiance will fade from my sight though not from my memory, for a
long, long time. So for the present I wish it no ill."
"Indeed," replied George Marshall in surprise, "do you leave the
Queen City to-morrow--so soon?"
"Yes, I go by steamer--by the Firefly, that leaves to-morrow for the
port of --, in my native State, and from there to Melrose, where I
live."
"At what hour does the steamer leave?" inquired the young man
thoughtfully.
"At six P.M., uncle tells me."
"And you leave so soon--six P.M. to-morrow?" he asked. "Maybe I am
selfish in monopolizing you so long, Miss Heartwell. I have two
friends you must know before the evening closes--Edwin Calhoun and
Emile Le Grande. Have you met them? The dancing has ceased again,
and we'll look them up."
"Thank you."
"Before we leave this moonlit spot, however, Miss Heartwell, I beg
that you make friends with old Defiance, for my sake, and recall
that cruel wish concerning him," he said playfully, and with an arch
smile.
Lizzie replied, "For your sake, I will, and for yours only;" and
throwing a kiss across the silvery sea, she said, "Take that, old
fort, as a peace-offering."
The winds sighed and the sea murmured as they turned to rejoin the
revellers, and that sportive kiss was borne away on the wandering
breeze.
The revelry must end. Madam's love-bound pupils must be separated.
The adieus must be spoken, but there must be no tears; that were a
weak and indecorous manifestation of feeling, in madam's estimation.
Blandly bowing her stately head, and kindly congratulating each upon
having "finished," and finished well, madam gracefully waved them
out of her presence, into the future, with a gentle motion of her
jewelled hand.
"I shall see you to morrow, Lizzie," whispered Leah Mordecai, as she
passed from the seminary escorted by Emile Le Grande.
"Certainly, at any hour, and do not disappoint me. Remember it's the
last day."
All were gone. The stars twinkled faintly in the sky. Every light in
madam's great house was extinguished, and all sound of that
evening's revel hushed forever.
CHAPTER X.
THE morning sun threw its ruddy beams, warm almost to tropical heat,
through the half-closed casement of Leah Mordecai's apartment, and
the intrusive light opened the dark, dreamy eyes to consciousness.
The hour was late. Toil-worn and languid from hard study and the
relaxing climate, Leah rested in her bed reluctant to arise.
"It's all over now; school-days are ended, and I am acknowledged a
young lady, I suppose," thought Leah half-consciously, as she
aroused at length from slumber. Then the thought came that it was
the last day of Lizzie Heartwell's sojourn in the Queen City; and
Leah sprang from her repose with a new and powerful impulse. "I
shall spend these last hours with her," she muttered articulately,
as she hastily performed the morning's simple toilet. "Yes, I'll
tell her my secret, too, though to no living soul have I breathed it
yet," she continued audibly, as she adjusted a pin here and there
among the dark braids of her hair. At last, smoothing the jetty
bands across the fair, oval forehead, she glanced back again to see
that the scar--the hated, dreadful scar--was hidden. Then placing a
knot of scarlet ribbon amid the delicate lace-work of her snowy
morning dress, she languidly descended the stairs and entered the
library, where her father sat awaiting her appearance.
Mr. Mordecai was proud of Leah; proud of her attainments at school,
gratified with her grade of deportment, and delighted that she had
"finished," and with so much credit. As she entered the library, he
arose, and clasping her in his arms, imprinted first a good-morning
and then a congratulatory kiss upon her face.
"I am proud of my daughter," he said; "proud that no one at Madam
Truxton's excelled my own Leah. I am proud of your example to your
sisters, and trust they will strive to emulate it."
"Thank you, father. I hope I shall never cause you shame," she
replied with tenderness.
During this brief dialogue, the evil-eyed mother had sat an
attentive listener, her jealous nature stirred to its depths. Then
she said:
"If you are so proud of Leah now, what will you feel when Sarah is
through school?"
"Additional happiness, I trust; and following her sister's example,
she cannot disappoint papa," said Mr. Mordecai, stroking Sarah upon
the head softly, as he arose and led the way to the breakfast table.
The morning repast was finished with more than becoming haste, for
Mr. Mordecai had waited to welcome his daughter, and would
consequently be late at his bank.
"It's real late," said Leah, as she followed her father from the
house. "I hear the Citadel clock striking ten. I must spend the
morning with Lizzie." Then donning the light Leghorn hat that gave
her a gypsy-like appearance, she started forth toward Rev. Dr.
Heartwell's unpretentious house. As she passed block and square that
marked the distance, her heart was heavy and her thoughts were
sorrowful. She realized that it was perhaps her final leave--taking
of her most cherished friend. Her path led past the walls of the
dark, gray citadel, and as she cast a glance up toward its turreted
heights, and its prison-like windows, she sighed a deep-drawn,
heart-felt sigh. And why?
The gentle sea-breeze had arisen, and though it sported with the
helpless ribbon upon her bosom, and kissed again and again the
crimson cheeks, it could not cool the fires of anxiety and sorrow
that burned within her heart. She felt that she was losing much in
losing Lizzie Heartwell. And the fear was not an idle one.
Trembling with fatigue and deep-hidden emotion, Leah at length stood
at the door of Dr. Heartwell's house, awaiting the answer of the
porter.
The door opened. "M-m-miss L-l-lizzie s-s-says c-c-come right u-up
stairs, M-m-iss M-m-ordecai," stuttered out the polished black
Hannibal who attended the door, known throughout the large circle of
Dr. Heartwell's friends and acquaintances as a most accomplished
servant and a most miserable stammerer.
"Very well; please show me the way," replied Leah, repressing a
smile.
Up two flights of stairs she followed the dark guide, and when they
arrived at Lizzie's room, whose door stood ajar, he said, with a
flourish of his right hand; "M-m-iss M-m-mordecai, M-m-iss
L-l-lizzie."
"Well, Hannibal, why don't you tell me?" said Lizzie playfully; and
Hannibal retreated below stairs, grinning and rubbing his head in
confusion. The girls were left alone. Lizzie was busy packing trunks
and arranging boxes, while every description of feminine
paraphernalia was lying about the room in disorder.
"Now let me help you, dear," said Leah, "and then we can have a long
talk."
"Thank you, so we will. I'll first tumble these things into that
trunk quick as a flash, for Aunt Rose will not come up to inspect
them, I guess; and when I get home my mother will give them a good
overhauling. I am tired and worn out from hard study and excitement,
and my good mother will excuse my disorder, this time. Cram them in.
Here goes the shawl, now comes my dress, the muslin I wore last
night. Don't let me crush that. I'll fold it carefully, for the sake
of the compliment it secured me last night," said Lizzie, smiling as
she turned the snowy garment about, folding it for the trunk.
"What was that?" said Leah.
"George Marshall said I looked like a pearl, my dress was so gauzy.
How does that sound to-day? It sounded very well last night. I
scarcely made him a reply. I don't know how to reply to such
speeches, but I thought if I did look like a pearl in my gauzy
robes, it was owing to my mother's good taste and skilful fingers,
for no professional modiste touched or contrived my dress."
"It's as handsome as any Madame Aufait turns out, I think," said
Leah.
"Not as handsome as yours, Leah; but then my mother has to consider
the cost in everything, and you do not."
These words of Lizzie's, this kind and loving allusion to her
mother's tenderness and never-wearying care, fell upon the heart of
Leah as the cold, cruel steel falls upon the unoffending dove. She
looked out of the window and brushed a tear from the fringed
eyelids, that Lizzie might not see it.
Lizzie continued, "I must take care of this dress, Leah; I don't
know when I shall have a new one again. Maybe, dear, the next time
you hear from me, I'll be playing school--ma'am, and such robes will
not be often brought into use. How would you like to be my pupil,
Leah?" she said, with a forced attempt at pleasantry.
Leah looked seriously at her friend a moment, and said, "You haven't
any idea of teaching, really, Lizzie?"
"Yes, dear, I may teach. My mother is a widow, you know, and by no
means wealthy. I am the oldest child. She has educated me at great
sacrifice, with my dear uncle's assistance, and it would be wrong in
me not to show my gratitude by at least endeavoring to maintain
myself, if nothing more. Oh yes, love, by and by I shall be an
angular school--ma'am, unless"--and she laughed a roguish, merry
laugh--"unless I get married."
"Dear me! how the wind blows!" said Leah, as the white muslin
curtain flapped backward and forward in the playful breeze, ever and
anon covering her beautiful head and face.
"Yes, Leah, this same sweet sea-breeze will soon waft me far from
you, when to meet again, God only knows. I am about through this
packing now, and we must have our talk--our last, long, confidential
chat, for many, many days."--"Maybe years," Leah added sorrowfully.
"Here goes old trunk number one. Books, and everything pertaining to
school-days, are tucked away in you;" and she turned the key. "This
one, number two, I shall not close till Aunt Rose makes a little
deposit in it of something for my mother--so she requested me." Then
stooping down, Lizzie drew forth from its hiding-place a carefully
wrapped little bundle, and handing it to Leah, said:
"Here, dear, is a scarlet silk scarf, fringed with gold, that I
desire to give you as a keepsake. It is something I prize, as it was
brought from Greece by an uncle of mine, some years ago. Its colors
will contrast beautifully with your sweet face; take it."
"Keep it yourself, Lizzie. I need nothing, I care for nothing, for
personal adornment. You tell me I am beautiful, but that does not
satisfy the heart that has suffered so from cruel wrong-doing. I
care only for that of which I receive so little--human sympathy and
love. Take it back."
"No; keep it as a memento of my love, if you never care to wear it,"
said Lizzie.
Leah laid her arms around Lizzie's neck at these words, and bending
her head kissed her again and again.
"Now I am done, let's sit here by the window that looks out toward
the sea, and have our chat."
CHAPTER XI.
"TO-DAY you leave me, Lizzie," Leah began; "leave poor Leah with no
one--" then she stopped.
"Why do you hesitate? Is there something that troubles you?" Lizzie
asked, observing Leah's hesitation.
"Yes," Leah said faintly, "there is something that troubles
me--something that I fear to tell even you, dear Lizzie."
"Can't you trust me?"
"Not that, Lizzie; but I am ashamed to tell you, and afraid too.
But," she continued, "you know what I suffered about Mark Abrams,
and how his love was taken from me and secured for another.
Well"--she hesitated again. "The secret I am about to disclose now,
does not concern Mark Abrams, or any other Hebrew under the sun."
"Is it some love-affair with a Gentile?"
"Yes," whispered Leah, "and it greatly perplexes me. It is something
that has been forced upon me, and tremblingly I come to you for
advice."
"Whom does it concern?"
"One that tells me he loves me, and swears eternal devotion--one
whose name I hardly dare to mention."
"I hope he is worthy of you, whoever it may be."
"Have you not suspected me, Lizzie? Has not my tell-tale face
betrayed me before? Can't you think who it is to whom I refer?"
"Can it be Emile Le Grande?" said Lizzie, after a moment's
reflection, with a look of astonishment.
"Yes," faltered Leah, "he is the one that tells me he loves me."
"And do you love him, Leah?" said Lizzie, with some hesitation. The
curtain that continued fluttering with renewed force was wafted full
into the face of the young Jewess, and veiled the crimson blushes
that overspread it. As gently as it came, the curtain floated back,
and Lizzie detected the traces of Leah's sudden emotion. Without
waiting for further inquiry, Leah continued:
"I determined I would tell you all, Lizzie, before we parted, and
ask your advice. Yes, I think I do love Emile--love him, because he
says he loves me. Last night he urged me again to become his wife. I
trembled like a frightened bird; I felt that I was listening to
dangerous words, yet I had not courage to break away from him."
"Did he say anything else--I mean about your being a Jewess?"
"Oh, yes; much. He said he cared nothing about that difference, if I
did not; but I told him I did. I assured him that I had been reared
a Hebrew of the straightest sect, and that my father would never
consent to my marrying a Christian. At my remarks he laughed, and
replied that he would take care of the opposition, if I would only
marry him. He urged and pleaded with me to promise him, but I
steadfastly refused. He is very fascinating though, and I think a
dangerous man to come in the way of a poor, irresolute, unhappy girl
like myself."
"Did he say much about the difference in religion, Leah?"
"He said something, not a great deal; said he was not religious
himself; that one faith was about as useful to him as another, as he
did not know positively which was the true one. He said he would as
soon marry a Jewess as a Christian, so he loved her, and the
religion might take care of itself."
"Did you ask if his parents knew of his love for you?"
"Yes. He replied that Helen knew of it, but he had not troubled
himself to tell his parents. I did not like that remark; and I
replied that they would doubtless object to my being a Jewess,
should he tell them. He laughed at the bare suggestion, and I
upbraided him a little for this apparent disregard of his parents."
"You might have referred him to the fifth commandment with
propriety, Leah, I think."
"So I might, but did not think of it. I have told you about all now,
Lizzie, and I want your opinion of such intermarrying. The subject
stirs me deeply, and I have no other friend to whom I would dare
confide it. I trust no one as I do you." Leah looked seriously and
steadily into her friend's face, and Lizzie began:
"What I say now, Leah, is not intended as advice to you in regard to
marrying Emile Le Grande, but only my opinion in general about
marriages where such material differences exist. In the first place,
a man who confesses that he has no religious faith, is to be pitied,
if not despised. And I think an unbelieving Christian far worse than
the most unbelieving Jew. It argues such an utter want of
consistency and fidelity. I should fear to trust a man that could
make such a confession. The Le Grandes are an irreligious family,
and Emile's education has necessarily been neglected in that most
important respect. In consequence of their want of religious
principles, they are notoriously proud, haughty, and vain--silly
even--of their family distinction. I imagine that Mrs. Le Grande
could scarcely receive a deeper wound to her family pride, than from
Emile's marrying a Jewess, no matter how lovely or high-born. All
she knows or remembers of the Mordecais is, that the banker was once
a poor, despised pawnbroker. No years of honest endeavor, or
successful attainment, could wipe this fact from her retentive
memory. It would be a misnomer, Leah, to call such a woman a
Christian. She is an utter stranger to the sweet principles of faith
and love embraced by true Christians, and practised by those who
believe that they have 'passed from death unto life.'
"Then, your people, too, are unrelenting in their views on such
unnatural marriages. Suppose you were to marry this man, in the face
of the unyielding opposition of the parents on both sides--there's
little hope that they could be reconciled. You see at once how you
might be considered an outcast from your people and his too. Your
children would be neither Jew nor Christian; for all the external
rites and ceremonies of the earth cannot transform a Christian into
a Jew, or a Jew into a Christian. Accursed be the nominal Christian
that would allow his children, by ceremony or rite, to be made
nominally Jews. Such a one is worse than an infidel; and has denied
the faith. God made the Hebrews a great and glorious people--his own
chosen children. But between Christians and Hebrew there is a wide,
wide difference; and God made that, too.
"No; Leah, if I were advising a Jewess to marry a Gentile, which I
am not doing, I would say, Select a man deeply rooted in religious
principle, and clinging humbly to his Christian faith. Such a man
would rarely, if ever, deceive or ill-use you."
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