Books: Leah Mordecai
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Mrs. Belle Kendrick Abbott >> Leah Mordecai
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"I see that you are right, Lizzie," interrupted Leah, apparently
aroused by her companion's words. "I'll heed your teaching, and
never listen to another word of love from the one who might lead me
into temptation, and perhaps into a fatal snare. Alas!" she
continued, with her dark eyes flashing, "but for a terrible lie, a
cruel deception, I should still be the affianced of Mark Abrams, and
happy in the hope of becoming his wife--not an unhappy, disappointed
girl, open to the flattery and fascinations of another man."
"Keep your resolve, Leah, if you can; and may the all-wise Father
give you strength," replied Lizzie.
"God helping me, I will; but you know I am a weak and helpless
creature, and when you are gone, my only bosom-comfort and faithful
friend will have departed. Promise me that you will never cease to
love me, and remember with pity the heart that loves you and will
ever yearn to be with you."
Lizzie made no reply; the swelling heart choked down the utterances
that struggled to escape her lips; and drawing Leah close to her
bosom, she embraced her in a silent, warm, and tender clasp. "Trust
me, even unto death," at length she whispered softly; and the reply
came:
"I will."
At the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs, Lizzie said, "There
comes Aunt Rose. You will be at the wharf this evening, Leah, to see
me off, and to bid me God-speed with one of your bright smiles, that
I may hope for a safe arrival at my destined port?"
"Well, we have had our talk without interruption, and so I'll leave
you," said Leah. "Your aunt will certainly want you to herself
awhile. I'll meet you at the wharf in time. Till then, good-by."
As Mrs. Heartwell entered Lizzie's room, Leah passed out; and a
sweeter, sadder face Mrs. Heartwell said she had rarely seen.
CHAPTER XII.
THE hours stole on, and the one for Lizzie's departure was at hand.
As the sun sank slowly down to rest, on that memorable sunny June
day, clouds of crimson, purple, and gold, blended in fantastic
shapes, overspread the broad horizon, and attracted the most casual
observer by their wondrous beauty. Toward the eastern horizon the
sky was blue and cloudless, blending with the water in a vast azure
immensity.
The cool, crisp sea-breeze had dissipated the intense heat of the
day, and crowds of gay pedestrians, and scores of liveried vehicles,
were passing and repassing upon the fashionable boulevard, where the
wealth and beauty of the Queen City daily gathered after the heat of
the day was over.
The Firefly, laden with her burden, was ready at the pier, awaiting
the signal to depart. Lizzie Heartwell's friends still lingered upon
the inviting deck, reluctant to speak the parting word that must so
surely come. Dr. and Mrs. Heartwell, her uncle and aunt, Judge Amity
and his daughter, her Sabbath-school teacher, Bertha, Helen, and
Leah, the remaining ones of the "indissoluble quartette," as the
school-girls termed these friends, were assembled on the deck, and
with them Emile Le Grande and her newly formed friend, George
Marshall. In compliance with his promise he had come to speed the
parting vessel with good wishes, and watch its receding form till it
was lost from view upon the trackless waters.
As the citadel gun fired its sunset signal, the planks were ordered
in, friends rushed on shore, and then the Firefly moved from her
moorings, to plough the deep again. As George Marshall spoke his
last adieu, he slipped a tiny billet-doux into the hand of the
departing girl, who half heeding the action, dropped it into her
pocket, and sat down in loneliness upon the deck, to watch the
slowly vanishing shore. Fainter and dimmer grew the speck upon the
deep to the friends who watched on shore, fainter and dimmer in the
gathering twilight, till the bark rounded old Defiance, and was
divided by distance and darkness from their vision.
When Lizzie Heartwell, attended by the kind captain, descended below
deck, she remembered the little missive, and drawing it from its
hiding-place, read:
"Miss HEARTWELL: What would you think, if my wanderings should lead
me, some day, to Melrose? "Regretfully, "G.M."
"Think I should like to see you," uttered the young girl, with a
smile, as she folded the note again out of sight.
As the last glimpse of the Firefly faded from the vision of the
sad-eyed watchers, they turned slowly from their lookout of sorrow,
and bent their steps homeward.
"It's growing late, Miss Leah," said Emile, who stood near the young
Jewess. "May I see you safely home?"
"Thank you, but it is not too late for me to go alone," she replied;
"besides, my walk will lead to my uncle Jacob's, where I may spend
the night; that's not very far, you know."
Determined not to be baffled in his purpose to escort Leah, he
replied:
"'The longer the walk, the shorter the way,' with you, Miss Leah.
Allow me to attend you, I pray." His pertinacity prevailed; and
falteringly she replied, "As you like, Mr. Le Grande," resolving in
her heart though, that this should be the last time. "Only this
morning," thought she, "what did I promise Lizzie? And before the
day is ended, I have broken that promise. What an irresolute
creature I am! But this shall be the last. I vow it again."
"You will miss Miss Heartwell, I judge," began Emile, as he walked
forward by her side. "From your sorrowful expression, one might
think she had died, instead of vanished from sight in a vessel. I
trust there are yet some friends in the Queen City; at least one,
who will be kindly remembered in the absence of Miss Heartwell."
"Yes, Mr. Le Grande, I have some friends, a few, I trust, left
behind; but no one, not a soul, that can supply her place in my
affections. She has been more than a school-friend to me; she has
been a counsellor, a sister; one who above all others comprehends my
nature and sympathizes with and appreciates my character," said
Leah, warmly.
"Indeed, Miss Heartwell is to be envied in possessing so much of
your affection, and yet I think you speak unjustly in attributing to
her alone the heart of love and sympathy you do. Have I not told you
of my attachment and devotion to you? And do you still require other
protestations to confirm the sincerity of my confession?"
At these words-unwelcome words to Leah-she colored deeply, and
turning her dark, burning eyes full upon Emile, said:
"Mr. Le Grande, I pray you never let me hear you utter such a
sentiment as that again. We are friends, and, if you choose, may
always be; but, in all truthfulness I say it, more than friends we
can never be. I confess frankly that your society is very agreeable
to me, your manner fascinating, your style attractive; but I am a
Jewess of the strictest sect, and you a Christian, and not a strict
one; and these facts alone form an insurmountable barrier in the way
of our being more than friends. A great gulf lies between us, over
which even love cannot securely go. You cannot come to me, and I
dare not cross to you. It is dishonor to God and disobedience to
parents, to think of such a step. Mr. Le Grande, I beg you, forget
this passion you profess; crush it out if it exists, and remember
Leah Mordecai, the Jewess, as only a friend. Do you promise?" she
said, trembling from head to to foot, for it had required all the
moral strength of her yielding nature to utter these words-words
that could instantly quench the only taper of hope that still burned
in her soul.
"Do I promise?" he replied with haughty emotion. "No! I swear I will
not! So long as you are free I will love you; and so long as your
maidenhood gives the opportunity, I shall tell you of that love.
Give you up? I, who love you with a mad and foolish devotion? I
promise not to love you? No! no! Never, never, never, while hope
lasts. What care I if you are a Jewess? It's the shrine of beauty
where I bow, and because a Jewess breathes therein, shall I withdraw
my homage? Never while I live. I swear it!"
Frightened at her desperate lover's words, Leah walked on in
silence, almost regretting that her courage had permitted her to
speak her mind so freely. After a time she said, "Do not be angry
with me, Mr. Le Grande, I did not mean to offend you."
"It's worse than offence, it is death," he replied.
Ascending the steps of her uncle's house, by this time reached, Leah
extended her hand and said, "Good-by. I'll tarry here to-night."
Clasping her soft hand, he said, "I shall see you soon. Good-night."
A week after Madam Truxton's school closed, the term of the military
academy ended. The drilling, drilling, drilling, was stopped, the
graduating class of cadets had either won or lost the honors for
which they contested; and the roll of candidates for military honors
was handed to the world. Conspicuous among the names crowned with
well-won distinction was that of George Marshall. A nobler, braver
spirit never stepped from college walls upon life's crowded highway,
or one with firmer, truer tread than he.
CHAPTER XIII.
TIME rolled on. Months had melted into months until they were
calendared by years, since we bade adieu to Madam Truxton's
finishing class on that departed June day 185-, and watched with
regretful eye the last well-executed drill of the graduating cadets
of the same year.
Sunny twelvemonths only had so far passed over these sundered
friends, many of whom still clung to each other with the old love of
school days, and maintained by frequent correspondence a thorough
knowledge of each other's lives and doings. It is worth mentioning
that these years had brought some changes to the lives and fortunes
of three of the four firm friends at Madam Truxton's, and to others
who were once sworn friends at the institute.
In her quiet home at Melrose, Lizzie Heartwell was confronting daily
the stern duties of life amid a bevy of bright-eyed little scholars,
wearing with easy grace the dignity of school-mistress.
Helen Le Grande, a bright fresh blonde in school days, had blossomed
into a fair, beautiful, fashionable belle, as devoted to society as
society was devoted to her.
Bertha Levy, roguish and merry-hearted as ever, had been sent abroad
to complete her education in Berlin--"To sober her down, and try and
break her spirit," as she wrote in a letter to Lizzie.
It was only the life of Leah Mordecai that apparently was marked by
no change. She was older by a few years-that was all the world saw
of change in her life. To strangers' eyes, she was still pursuing
the even tenor of her life, still wearing the melancholy expression,
and still envied by many for her wealth and beauty. The eyes of the
world could not read the impoverished heart that throbbed within her
bosom.
On first leaving college, Emile Le Grande intended to study law, and
for months endeavored to concentrate his mind upon the prosaic,
practical teachings of Blackstone. The effort proved unsuccessful,
and then procuring employment in a well-established banking house,
he applied himself to business with commendable assiduity. Yet alive
in his heart was the passion so long nourished for the beautiful
Jewess. He still lost no opportunity of assuring her again and again
of his unchanging devotion, and constantly endeavored, by tenderest
utterances of love, to gain the promise of her hand.
This persistent homage, though avoided long by Leah, became in time
not unwelcome; and as month after month passed on, she often
whispered to herself, "Struggle as I may against it, I do love him.
Love wins love, always, I believe."
George Marshall, realizing the fulfilment of his long-cherished
dream, was in the active service of his country, a captain in the
regular army. Though he was removed from his native State, no one
who knew him could doubt that he stood firmly, bravely at his post
of duty, ready to do his country's work at her bidding.
CHAPTER XIV.
"MY son," said Mrs. Abrams, in low, gentle tone to Mark one day, as
she looked into the small library where he sat busily at work upon
something half-concealed in his hand, "come here a mimute, won't
you?"
"Are you in a hurry, mother?" he replied, lifting his black eyes,
bright with an expression of determination, and resting them full
upon his mother's face.
"No, not exactly, if you are busy; but what are you doing?"
"I'll tell you when I come in, and not keep you waiting long
either."
Mrs. Abrams quietly withdrew, and returned to the bedside of her
little daughter Rachel, who lay suffering from pain and burning with
fever.
"What can mamma do for her darling now?" said the fond mother, as
she bent her head over her child and smoothed back the fair hair
from the heated brow; "does your arm still hurt, my lamb?" The
child's moan was her only answer.
"What a pity! How cruel that your dear little arm should have been
so torn by that savage dog!" continued Mrs. Abrams, as she wet the
bandage again with the cooling lotion, and brushed away the tears
that she could not repress at the sight of her little daughter's
suffering.
The sound of footsteps, and Mark stood in the doorway, holding in
his hand a small, dark object, and said:
"Mother, do you see this? Well, I've got it ready--"
"O Mark!" interrupted his mother in horror. "When did you get that
deadly thing: I beg of you, put that pistol up at once; the very
sight of it terrifies me."
Mark laughed and replied, "I'll fix old Dame Flannagan's dog,
mother, and then I'll put it away. She hid the dog from the police,
but she can't keep it hid always. I shall kill it on sight, and go
prepared to do so. I have vowed I would."
"Let the dog alone, son, you may get into trouble if you do not,"
replied his mother.
"Indeed, I will not let the dog alone," replied Mark indignantly, as
he drew nearer to the bed whereon the suffering little sister lay,
with lacerated arm and burning brow. "To think of this dear child,
as she was innocently trundling her hoop along the side-walk, being
attacked by that savage brute, and her life so narrowly saved!
Indeed, I'll not let it alone. I'll shoot it the first time I set
eyes upon it, and the old hag had better not say anything to me
after I have done it. Poor little darling!
"What shall brother Mark bring his little sister today?" continued
the fond brother, stooping over and kissing the child again and
again, before leaving for the office of the shipping firm, of which
he had just been made a partner.
"Yes, mother," he continued, slipping the weapon of death into the
inner pocket of his coat, "I am not a warlike man, as you know, but
I'll carry this," pointing to the pistol, "till I kill that dog,
sure;" and adjusting his coat and hat he passed out of the house.
Rabbi Abrams did not reside among the palatial residences of the
Queen City. A rather restricted income compelled him to find a more
unpretentious home than was perhaps in keeping with his avocation
and position in life. Yet, carrying into practice the teaching he
set forth, to "owe no man anything," and never live beyond one's
income, he established his home in a portion of the city that was
rather characterized by low rents than aristocratic abodes. However,
they were respectable, and comfortably situated withal. Immediately
adjoining the rabbi's house lived a garrulous old Irish woman, at
once the aversion and dread of the neighborhood. Old Margery
O'Flannagan needed no protection against the incursions of
depredators, beyond the use of her own venomous tongue; still, she
further strengthened her ramparts by the aid of a dog of most savage
and ferocious propensities, that she dignified by the ominous name
of "Danger." Between her and Danger there existed the strongest bond
of friendship, if not affection. In an unexpected manner, this
savage dog had assaulted the little daughter of the rabbi, and when
the father demanded the life of the dog at the hands of the police,
she hid him away out of reach, and swearing like a pirate,
threatened to kill any man that dared molest Danger.
CHAPTER XV.
LEAH MORDECAI sat alone in her bed chamber. A bright fire glowed
within the grate, and the gas-light overhead added its mellow
brightness to the apartment. Arrayed in a comfortable crimson silk
wrapper, the girl sat before the fire, with her slippered foot upon
the fender, and gazed steadily and thoughtfully into the fantastic
coals. Without, the world was cold and bright, for a pale, tremulous
moon filled the world with its beauty. The wind came in across the
sea, and mingling with the murmur of the waters, produced a weird
and ghost-like sound, as it swept through half-deserted streets,
penetrating rudely the abodes of poverty, and whistling around the
mansions of the rich. This sound Leah heard faintly, as it sought
ingress at her windows, and down the half-closed chimney. She
shuddered; yet it was not an unusual or a frightful sound, and not
half so saddening as the sound that floated up the stairs: the sound
of low, sweet singing-Mark Abrams singing with flute-like voice to
her sister Sarah, who was soon, very soon, expected to become his
wife. Leah had heard that voice before, had listened to its melody,
attuned to other words, and as she recalled the vanished time, she
trembled, shuddered, with an indefinable terror.
As the sound of the music ceased, she arose and walked to the
window. With both hands pressed closely beside her face, so as to
exclude every gleam of light from within, she looked steadily out of
the window. All without was bright, and cold, and beautiful. White
fleecy clouds drifted about the heavens, like so many phantom barks
upon the deep blue sea.
"It's cold without and cold within," she muttered, and then, as if
startled by some sudden resolve, she turned from the window back to
a small escritoire, saying:
"Yes, I'll delay no longer. I must answer Lizzie's letter and tell
her all. My duties for the coming week will be pressing, allowing me
no opportunity for writing, equal to that of the present."
Then she wrote: "QUEEN CITY, January 20, 185-.
"MY OWN CHERISHED FRIEND: To-night from my casement I looked out
upon the cold, bright world, wrapped in moonlight, and as I gazed at
the far-off misty horizon, the distance called to mind my far-off
friend at Melrose--recalled to mind, too, the fact that your last
welcome letter has for an unwonted length of time remained
unanswered. Your letter that came on the new year, came as the
flowers of spring, always fresh and beautiful. It has been neglected
from the inevitable press of circumstances by which I have been
surrounded, which neglect, I feel assured, you will appreciate and
forgive, when I have detailed the following facts.
"My sister Sarah is to be married in a week. This approaching event
has been the cause of my restricted time, pressing out of sight, and
even out of memory, all letter-writing.
"Yes, dear Lizzie, the long-expected nuptials are actually about to
be celebrated, and all our household, except myself, are in a fever
of excitement and delight.
"My step-mother is ecstatic over the success of her scheming, and
even condescends to be kind to me,-to me, Lizzie, whom she has so
long and so faithfully despised.
"My father, too, seems happy over this alliance, knowing Mark's
excellent character and business qualifications, and appreciating
the connection with the rabbi's family. Mark himself appears happy
in the hope of securing Sarah for his wife. But as to Sarah, I can
scarcely divine her feelings; she is too young and light-hearted
fully to comprehend the step before her. She seems delighted with
the occasion that bestows upon her so many handsome presents; and
beyond this I think she scarcely casts a thought. The marriage will
be solemnized at the synagogue, and the reception held here at home.
Mark has given Sarah some elegant gifts, gifts that should be mine.
Is it wrong to write those words--words that contain so much
meaning? It may be; but as you know all, dear Lizzie, I shall not
erase them. And this reminds me of something I must tell you, of
another piece of double-dealing and treachery imposed upon me by
Rebecca. Some weeks ago, my father's cousin, Baron von Rosenberg,
hearing of Sarah's approaching marriage-I have told you of this
cousin before-sent over a box of valuable presents for the children,
all of us, including Sarah, of course. Among the articles sent, were
an elegant crimson velvet mantle, and a diamond brooch. 'These,'
wrote the baron, 'are for your eldest daughter-Leah I believe.'
"My father gave the letter to his wife, supposing, of course, that I
would be allowed a perusal of it. But instead she secreted the
letter, and in disposing of the gifts, said to me 'Here, Leah, is a
handsome necklace, sent to you by the baron, and this elegant velvet
mantle and diamond brooch are for your sister Sarah-wedding
presents. How kind of the baron to remember her so substantially!'
'Yes,' said I, 'it was kind, and thoughtful too. I am glad that he
has been so generous. I certainly thank him for his remembrance of
me.' I had no dream but that she was telling me the truth, nor
should I have suspected the deception, but, unfortunately, I
overheard my father one day say, 'Rebecca, how did Leah like the
mantle and brooch the baron sent her?'
"'Oh, she thought them beautiful, as they are,' was the quick reply;
'but like a generous girl-there are few such-she begged her sister
to keep them, as suitable bridal gifts from her, as well as tokens
of her love.'
"'She's a dear unselfish creature,' replied my father, with the
credulity of a child; 'I never saw another young person just like
her. She's so deep and hidden in her nature, one cannot easily read
her thoughts. I wish sometimes she was more open and confiding; but
she is a darling, for all her reticence.'
"'Yes, and loves Sarah to idolatry,' was the smooth, well-put
rejoinder.
"This much I heard, dear Lizzie, of the conversation, and then,
with a horrified, sickening sensation, I flew away-flew away to
solitude, and communion with myself.
"I dared not undeceive my father; and as to the gifts my heart cried
out, 'Go, vain baubles, go? What are diamonds and velvet to a
desolate soul? Go, as Mark Abrams, and many other things rightfully
mine, have gone from me--through treachery and fraud.'
"At this dreadful discovery, dear Lizzie, I longed for your true
heart, so warm with sympathy, but it was far, far away, and no
medium of communication between us but the soulless, tearless pen.
That was inadequate then; now, the feeling has passed.
"But I crave your pardon for consuming so much time and space upon
myself and my woes. Forgive me.
"When the wedding is over I'll write you a full and detailed account
of it all.
"Did I tell you in my last of Bertha Levy? She is cultivating her
voice in Berlin, and promises to become a marvellous singer, they
say. Would you ever have thought she could be sober long enough to
sing even a short ballad? What a girl Bertha was!-real good and kind
though, despite her witchery.
"Oh, me! do you ever wish, Lizzie, you were a school-girl again at
Madam Truxton's? I do. I often recall the song: "'Backward, turn
backward, O Time, in your flight,' and am always sorrowful that my
cry is unheeded by this swift-footed monarch.
"I see Madam Truxton occasionally. She is always engrossed, as you
know, and the pressing duties to the new pupils exclude from her
mind all remembrance of the old ones. Yet I love her, and always
shall.
"I think I hear you asking, 'What of Emile?' and in a few brief
words I can reply. I still see him occasionally, and he still
professes his unchanging love for me. Forgive me, Lizzie; pardon
what may seem in me a weakness, but I must confess it, I believe I
love Emile. Firmly as I once promised you to shut my heart against
his overtures of love, I have slowly but surely yielded my
resolution, and now I can but frankly confess it. I do not think I
shall ever marry him. I have told him so again and again, and I
believe I shall never surrender this resolve. I have never told my
father of Emile's devotion to me. I have not deemed it necessary, as
I do not intend to marry him; and, then, I have been afraid to tell
him. I only meet Emile by chance, and but rarely. I know you would
advise me not to see him at all, and maybe I will not in the future.
Nous verrons.
"Since I wrote to you last, Kitty Legare has died. She has been
fading, as you know, for a long time with consumption. Dear girl,
now she is at rest; and, I think, to be envied.
"But dear friend, I am drawing my letter to a tedious length. The
stillness of the hour admonishes me to seek repose. So, hastily and
with everlasting love, I bid you good night. "Your own "LEAH."
CHAPTER XVI.
THE days passed on, and the night before the wedding hung its cold,
starless gloom over the Queen City-hung as the sable pall above the
dead.
"My dear," said Mrs. Abrams, as Mark on this evening was preparing
to leave his house for that of his affianced, to make the last
necessary arrangements for the coming ceremony, "I wish you could be
with me to-night. A mother's heart calls for the last evening of her
son's free life, claims the last moments of the time when she can
call him exclusively her own. To-morrow, dear boy, you are no longer
mine. I shall have only a secondary claim upon your love and
companionship, and must in the future console myself with the
knowledge, that in losing a mother my son has gained a wife."
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