Books: Leah Mordecai
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Mrs. Belle Kendrick Abbott >> Leah Mordecai
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"O mother," replied Mark, with a troubled look, "don't speak so. I
am compelled to be at Mr. Mordecai's a little while to night, and
also to call at Crispin's, and see that my boot is stretched, and
then I'll hasten back. Tight boots on a wedding day, mother, will
not do at all, you know," added Mark playfully, as he stroked the
soft hair that waved back from the oval Jewish face-a pale, gentle
face it was. "I'll be back very soon."
"Brother Mark, isn't you glad my arm is so well? Mother says I may
go to the synagogue, too, to-morrow, and see you married," said the
innocent little sister, whose lacerated arm still hung in the snowy
bandage around her neck.
"Yes, dovey, indeed I am," replied Mark, bending down beside the
fair child, and tenderly caressing her. "If my little Rachel could
not be there, brother Mark would not consider himself well married.
I am only sorry that I haven't had a peep at that vicious dog that
hurt my darling so. Never mind, I am still ready and waiting for his
reappearance, and then I'll have revenge.--Good-night, dear mother,
I must go; a sweet good-night to you and little Rachel-till I come
back." The young man stepped out into the cold, dark night, and
turned his face toward the elegant home of the Jewish banker.
"Umph! umph! dis is a hard night for old Peter-cold wind, and no
stars. People ought to 'preciate de old carrier," grunted out rather
than spoke, a rather short, slightly bent old negro, as he stood
peering curiously out of the window of the dimly lighted, misty old
printing-office of the "Queen City Courier." Then turning around he
shuffled toward the door, ejaculating, "Bad night on my rheumatiz;"
and continuing, as he descended the well-worn stairs, "de boss just
give me a little of de w'iskey bitters-w'iskey bitters mighty good
for de rheumatiz. Maybe when dey warm me up good, I won't feel so
stiff, and de cold won't pinch so dreadful. Umph! umph! umph! ward
number two comes fust," and clutching the bundle of papers more
tightly, and gathering again the folds of the well-worn gray blanket
around him, the old carrier struck out, as briskly as the cold and
his stiffened limbs would allow, on his accustomed beat.
It was three o'clock in the morning, and for an hour he trudged on
and on, past block and square, casting the welcome household
visitor, "The Courier," right and left as he went. Suddenly he
stopped a moment to listen. "Dere, it's four o'clock," he said, as
old St. Luke's rang out the hour. "I'll soon be through dis ward,
an' in time for the up-town gentry too, as dey takes breakfast late.
Old Peter has a long round, but he don't mind dat, so he gits de
money. Den all de quality knows old Peter, and how de hats come off
and de ladies smile when de New Year comes round again. Humph!
Jingo! How stiff dis knee! When old Peter dead and gone, nebber find
anodder carrier like him. Peter nebber stop for nuffin, de rain nor
de shine, de northers nor de anything-umph! not even de rheumatiz."
Here the old man cut short his soliloquy, stooping down to rub the
afflicted member that so retarded his progress, and whose pain was
an ever-present reminder that his agility and youth were gone
forever. Erecting himself, he began again, "Dis bin a putty hard
winter on mos' anybody, 'specially on de rheumatiz. But for de
w'iskey bitters of de boss, old Peter wouldn't be as spry is he is.
Boss says, 'W'iskey bitters mighty good for anything,' an' I believe
him. Here it's Jinnivery, an' the winter mos' gone, an' the
rheumatiz will work out of me by next winter, an' then I'll be as
good as new again." By this time the old carrier stood over against
the Citadel Square, and halting for a moment in his hobbling march,
he looked right and left, backward and forward, and then said,
"Guess I'll save a block in going to Vine street, by cutting through
the Citadel Square-so I will. The gates are always locked at this
hour, but I know where I can slip through under a loose plank,
papers and all." So saying, he hobbled across the street, found the
opening, and doubling himself up, went through it in a trice. Then
trudging on, he bethought himself again of the sovereign remedy for
all his ailments, "rheumatiz" especially, and he continued with
evident delight:
"Next winter w'iskey bitters will be good too, and de boss will be
shure to have 'nuff for us both. I 'spec' the boss teched wid de
rheumatiz. I'll-Hallo! w'at's dat? Jes' git out ob my way, ole
grunter. Dis ole Peter."
"Oh, God! help me! come here!" groaned a half audible voice. "Come
to me! help me! help me!"
"O Lordy!" exclaimed old Peter as he jumped back in sudden fright.
"Who's dat? What you want? W'at's de matter? I don't like spirits.
You can't trick me. I'm the carrier ob de Courier dese five an'
twenty year. What you want?"
"O Lord! help me! Come to me, Peter. I know you. I can do no harm.
Come, I implore! Come quickly! Reassured by the faint, but
importunate words, old Peter approached the dark object that lay
upon the ground, scarcely discernible in the dim twilight of
approaching day.
"Bend down close to me, Peter. I am dying. I am cold and faint, and
wish to say a few words to you."
"Good God!" and the old negro shuddered as he bent down over the
prostrate form before him.
"Don't you know me, Peter?"
Peter bent closer down.
"Mass' Mark Abrams, is dis you? What's de matter wid you? Who did
it? Who killed you? Tell me; tell me for God's sake."
"Listen to me, Peter; listen. I am dying-shot in the breast with a
pistol."
"Who did it? Who did it? For Heaven's sake, who did it?"
"No one, Peter; be calm; listen to me. It was accidental. I had in
the inside pocket of my coat a small pistol. In passing through here
about eleven o'clock, walking hastily homeward from Crispin's, I
stumbled by some chance, and as I fell the pistol was discharged and
has killed me. Here, take the pistol quick, and run for my father.
Be quick, man, quick, that I may, if possible, say farewell. Take
the pistol with you. I am not strong enough to reach it. Be quick."
Horrified, the old carrier groped on the ground for it, and
accidentally dipped his hand into the pool of blood near the wounded
man.
"The devil? I hate blood? Dis is bad, bad, bad! Mass' Mark! Mass'
Mark!" No reply.
"Mass' Mark! I b'lieve he's dead. I feared so. Mass' Mark!" Still no
reply.
"O Lordy! I'll get away from here. De poor child's dead, an' if I'm
seen 'bout here dey may 'cuse me of murder. I can't go an' tell
nuffin. Ole Peter's 'fraid. I must git away;" and gathering up his
papers and the blanket again, he left the scene of the tragedy as
rapidly as his disabled limbs would allow, feeling as if some
fearful ghost were in close pursuit. Unconsciously, he carried the
pistol with him, and was many squares away before he sufficiently
collected his bewildered and terrified faculties, to observe the
deadly weapon in his grasp. "What should he do with it?" at once
flashed through his brain, and as the brightening daylight prevented
his returning it to its place beside the victim, he resolved to keep
it. He dared not cast it from him.
As old Peter was too much frightened to reveal the truth concerning
the tragedy, he resolved at once to keep the secret forever within
his own breast, and as he was guilty of no crime, he had no fears of
the mystery being revealed. So he went on in the advancing morning,
on his long, tedious round of duty, and no single reader that day
missed the "Courier" or suspected the secret that lay hidden in the
carrier's breast. A few hours after the columns of the "Courier" had
been carefully scanned, on this January morning, an "Extra" flashed
from the press, and flooded the Queen City with consternation and
many hearts with woe and lamentation. It ran thus:
"Fearful tragedy! Mysterious assassination! Bridal day turned into a
day of mourning and bitter disappointment!
"This morning at an early hour the body of young Mark Abrams was
discovered, dead, and lying in a pool of blood near the centre of
the Citadel Square. How he came to his death is still a mystery, but
it was undoubtedly by the hand of an assassin. The most terrible
fact connected with this sad calamity, is, that the day of the
unfortunate man's death was to have been his wedding day. He was to
have married the second daughter of Benjamin Mordecai, Esq., banker.
His body has been removed to the house of his father, the worthy
rabbi of Maple Street Synagogue. The burial will take place this
afternoon, at the hour appointed for the wedding ceremony. Seldom
has the Queen City been so shocked; and many heavy hearts will
to-day join in the wail of woe that goes up from the stricken
family."
Thus the bulletin ran, and surmise, consternation, and sorrow, were
upon the lips of many men, women, and children in the Queen City.
CHAPTER XVII.
MELROSE, Lizzie Heartwell's home, was a manufacturing village in the
northern part of a Southern State. A more picturesque or inviting
spot is seldom found. It crowned the summit of one of a range of
long, sloping hills, that stretched back from a river, as a diadem
crowns the brow of a monarch. The snowy houses, nestled amid the
clustering foliage, and the carefully trimmed hedge-rows, imparted
to the place an English air of aristocratic seclusion. The clear
silver river, too, which turned the spindles of the far-famed
factories, encircled this romantic village as a mother the child of
her love. These factories, that had been in successful operation for
nearly a quarter of a century, gave employment to scores of honest,
industrious people, that otherwise might have gone scantily clad and
miserably fed, perhaps have perished.
Mr. Caleb Schuyler, the superintendent and proprietor of these
factories, was a large-hearted New Englander, who had brought to
this Southern State his native thrift and enterprise, and had spent
a useful and comparatively long life in the work of building up and
improving Melrose. Enough intelligence and wealth had gathered there
to make the religious and educational advantages desirable, if not
superior. The houses were all well kept and attractive, and Melrose
was a charming place to live in, although remote from railways or
steamboats.
In the eastern part of the village, where the winding road began its
gentle descent to the river, stood a plain, but comfortable and
commodious school-room. It was erected years ago for a "Yankee
school teacher"; now it was occupied by Lizzie Heartwell, who had
been a favorite scholar of that same teacher years before, when she
was a very little girl. Consumption had long since laid that teacher
to rest, and time had brought that fair-haired little girl to fill
her place.
Over the bevy of factory-children, and those gathered from the
wealthier families too, Lizzie Heartwell now presided with great
dignity and grace, as school-mistress. In this sphere of life, her
faculties of mind, soul, and body, found full scope for perfect
development. Fond of children, loving study, happy always to help
those desiring knowledge, glad to enlighten the ignorant, Lizzie
Heartwell was happy, and useful too, in the work in which she was
employed. It was now more than three years since Lizzie left Madam
Truxton's, and she was now ending the second year of her teaching.
It was September. The woods were dying earlier than usual, in the
golden Indian summer. The days were sweet and delicious, and Melrose
was as attractive in its autumn loveliness as it had been in the
freshness of spring. It was toward the close of one of those
charming September days, when Lizzie Heartwell stepped to the door
of her school-room to watch the descending sun, and to see if she
were detaining the children too long. Instantly her attention was
arrested by the rumbling of the tri-weekly stage-coach, toiling up
the hill before her. For a moment she stood watching its slow
approach, apparently unmindful of the class that was already "in
line" upon the floor, eagerly awaiting the last recitation, which
would set them free. And yet the school-mistress gazed at the
stage-coach, which had at last reached the top of the hill, and the
horses, as if under new inspiration, were jogging along in a brisk
trot, and were rapidly approaching the school-house. Suddenly the
face of the young school-mistress grew pale, and then crimson, as
she caught a glimpse of a face that leaned wearily beside the
coach-door and looked out-a face not unfamiliar, and yet not well-
remembered; a handsome, manly face, overshadowed by a military
cap-and like a sudden flash came the thought that she had seen that
face before. Regaining her self-possession, Lizzie turned from the
door, examined the spelling-class as calmly as ever, commended all
for their perfection in recitation, and with a blessing dismissed
the eager little band for the day.
"Who was it?" she muttered, as she slowly donned the jaunty hat and
her mantle, and mechanically drew on her kid gauntlets, preparatory
to starting homeward. "I have seen that face before, I think, and
yet I am not sure. Can it possibly be George Marshall?" she said
slowly. "If so, time has changed him, yet only to improve, I think.
How the thought of ever seeing George Marshall again startles me!
But I am foolish, very foolish, to imagine such an absurd thing. Oh,
no, he will never come to Melrose. I wish he would," and she began
singing a low love-ditty half-unconsciously, half-fearfully, as she
trudged homeward.
An hour later, and a perfumed billet-doux bore to the widow's
cottage the compliments of Captain George H. Marshall, U. S. A. He
had, indeed, come to Melrose at last.
Obtaining a limited leave of absence from the army, he had come home
to visit his kindred, and his friend at Melrose. The time was
necessarily short. Only one week could he spend at Melrose-one short
seven days-days crowned with a golden halo in the after years. To
the young school-mistress these were days bright with hope and
happiness, bright as the effulgent sun that ushered them in, one by
one. Days, too, that she parted with regretfully, as each one's sun
went down. Six of these golden days were passed-passed in pleasant
converse, in singing, in reading, in hoping, and the seventh was
drawing nigh.
"Mr. Marshall," said Lizzie, on the evening of the sixth day, "will
you leave Melrose without seeing my school, and telling me what you
think of my avocation?"
"Certainly not, if you will allow me the pleasure, and to-morrow is
the only time I have left," he replied.
"Well, then, come to-morrow if you like, and see me enthroned in my
kingdom. My school opens at eight o'clock, for in this country we
teach a long, honest day. Our people know nothing of the five-hour
system," she replied merrily.
"Then, Miss Heartwell, if you will grant me the pleasure, I'll call
early in the morning, and we'll stroll by the river-side. I must
tell you further of my coming to Melrose, and then I'll see you in
your field of labor. Will you grant me this last request?" the young
man demanded nervously.
"I will, with pleasure," she replied. "I'll be ready by seven
o'clock, and I'll show you the place where tradition says an Indian
maiden jumped from the bluff into her lover's waiting skiff below,
to elude her angry father's pursuit, and lost her life on the
rocks."
"That was sad! 'Love's sacrifice' indeed, at a terrible cost!"
replied the young man thoughtfully. "I trust I'll be more successful
some day than the Indian lover was."
Lizzie trembled, and turning her eyes upon a vase of wild-flowers
that adorned the simple table, replied confusedly, "Poor Wenona!
hers was a sad fate."
"To-morrow, at ten o'clock, the stage-coach leaves. I can see you a
while in the morning, can I? So I'll bid you good night," and George
Marshall arose and extended his hand.
"Good night!" murmured Lizzie, with a sinking sensation at her
heart, and a dimness of vision that almost betrayed tears.
Night passed, and morning came-bright, clear, fresh morning; and the
young girl was awake with the dawn.
"Ah me!" she sighed, as she arranged the shining curls before her
simple mirror, "this is the last day. I am almost sorry he ever came
to Melrose. I was so interested in my school before; now, I fear
I'll be always thinking of the army. Yes, I'll put on this blue
ribbon-he likes blue, he admired the blue 'forget-me-not' I wore at
Madam Truxton's the first night I ever met him. And these violets
I'll pin on my bosom, they are blue too. I am a silly girl, I fear;
and yet there is a strange aching at my heart. Can it be--Alas! I
cannot speak it. Seven o'clock! He's coming! yes, he is here! I hear
him on the step."
George Marshall looked pale and troubled, as he bade adieu to Mrs.
Heartwell and stepped forth from her neat white cottage on this cool
September morning, accompanied by the young school-mistress. His
thoughtful face bore the impress of a sleepless night, and he was
taciturn and abstracted. By his side Lizzie chatted away, as though
bribed to dispel the gloom and silence that threatened to surround
them-chatted as though no other feeling than gayety filled her own
fearful heart-chatted till a curve in the white sandy road brought
them in view of the river, and under a cluster of wide-spreading
water-oaks that overshadowed a broken mass of stone.
"Miss Heartwell," said George abruptly, "sit here beside me, on
these moss-covered rocks, before we go any farther, and let me tell
you something I've kept unspoken long enough. Will you?"
Lizzie made no reply, but timidly followed where he led, and sat
beside him on the lichen-covered stones. As George Marshall looked
up, a tear stole from her true blue eyes, and moved by this evidence
of emotion, he said with deep-toned pathos:
"Miss Heartwell, I love you, and you know it. If it were not a sin
against the great God, I would say I adore you. May I not hope that
those crystal tears betray the existence of a kindred love for me?
Nothing but love, unalloyed and pure, love for yourself, ever
brought me to Melrose. May I go away with the assurance that my love
is returned, and bearing in my heart the hope to come again some
day, and claim you as my wife? May I?"
The tears still flowed from the pure fountain of Lizzie's innocent,
tender heart, and her head bowed as gently as a lily in the gale,
but she answered firmly, sweetly, truly, "Yes, I love you too, and I
promise, with God's blessing, one day to become your wife."
"Wipe away those tears then, and let me see, in the depth of your
innocent eyes, that your promise is solemn and unchanging."
"As my soul is undying, I am in earnest; and as Heaven is true, I
shall be faithful to your love. Never doubt me. Here, take these
innocent flowers, modest children of the wild-wood-these violets, as
a pledge of my unfeigned love;" and unclasping the golden brooch,
she let the delicate flowers fall into the open hand of her lover.
Gathering up the offerings of affection, George Marshall clasped the
slender hand that gave them, and imprinting a fervent kiss upon it,
said, "God bless you, my darling, and take this as the seal of my
benediction."
When the tri-weekly coach rolled out of Melrose on that charming
autumn day, and passed the schoolhouse of the maiden, the sigh she
cast after it was not without hope, and the one the lover wafted
back breathed a promise to come again some day, not far off, and
take her away from that school-room forever.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE terrible tragedy that had filled so many hearts with
consternation, the untimely and mysterious death of Mark Abrams, had
long since been numbered with the events of the past. In the Hebrew
burial ground, in a suburb of the Queen City, his mortal remains
were at rest. Months ago, the grass had sprung, and the flowers of
affection blossomed above his pulseless bosom. Upon the seventh day
of every week since that dreadful January, the unhappy father and
mother had turned their faces devoutly toward the city of their
fathers, and offered their fervent prayers. Yet no abatement of
sorrow had time brought to the mother's wounded, bleeding heart.
Wearily, and often despairingly, she longed for that untried,
unknown life beyond, where she dimly hoped for a reunion with her
lost son.
Sarah Mordecai, young, thoughtless, volatile, in the death of her
lover was disappointed, but not heartbroken. Recovering from the
shock of her sorrow with the buoyancy and elasticity of youth, her
repinings scarcely reached beyond the period that brought blossoms
to the resting-place of the dead. Let no one censure this young
heart that, by reason of its nature, could not sit enshrouded in
gloom and sorrow, nor shudder at the thought that when the summer
came, with warmth and brightness, she was as light of heart as the
birds that carolled in the garden around her spacious home.
Not such the mourning of her disappointed mother. From day to day,
since the failure of her cherished hope, regret and disappointment
had rankled in her bosom with consuming force. She despised the fate
that foiled her plans and purposes, and left the object of her
hatred still uncrushed. Leah, with her beauty and unaffected grace,
was again to be triumphed over. Again she might not be so
successful. Rebecca was cold, cruel, and false-Leah fearful,
dispirited, and miserable. Alas! poor Leah Mordecai. EMILE LE
GRANDE'S DIARY.
"August 15.-So sure as my name is Emile, I believe I shall succeed
in my endeavor to marry the Jewess. She is beautiful! She receives
my attentions more kindly now than she ever did before, and she
confesses that she loves me truly. That's 'half the battle.' She
seems very unhappy at times, yet only once did she ever hint to me
that her life was aught but a summer's day for brightness. I once
thought she loved Mark Abrams, and I hated him for it; but that's of
no use now. 'Dead men tell no tales.'
"August 20.-Whew! how mother did rave to-day when I intimated that I
might possibly marry Leah Mordecai! She asked indignantly what I
'designed to do with Belle Upton, a girl of eminent respectability
and an equal of the Le Grande family?' I mildly suggested that I
could not love such a 'scrap of a woman as Belle Upton was; and if
she was in love with me, it was without a cause.' I have paid her
some attention, but only to please mother and Helen. She's too
effeminate, if she is so very aristocratic-not half so handsome as
'ma belle Juive.' Oh! those dreamy eyes! They haunt me day and
night. I believe I am sick with love!"
"August 30.-This has been a memorable month to me. Last night, in the
starlight, as I walked home with Leah from the Battery, she promised
to marry me; yes, actually to marry me! Said she was unhappy at
home-I wonder why-and would marry me in self-defence, if from no
other cause. A tear stood in her dark eyes as she said, with stern,
hoarse voice, 'If you love me, Emile, truly love me, and will be
faithful to me, I will forsake all others and marry you.' Then she
made me swear it--swear it there, in the face of the blue heavens and
the glittering stars. I tremble when I think of my parents'
displeasure, but then I love the girl, and shall fulfil my vow, even
unto death. In a month I shall be twenty-five years old, and before
another birth-day rolls around, after this one, I shall be a married
man-married to the girl I love, Leah Mordecai, the Jewess. I wonder
what the world will say. But I don't care; love knows no barriers.
When my plans are a little more defined, I shall mention the matter
seriously to my father. Mother will not hear to it, I know. And
then; if he is willing, all well; if he is not willing, all well
still. I shall marry her."
CHAPTER XIX.
LEAH MORDECAI sat alone in the southern balcony of her father's
house one night in this same memorable August, the events of which
were so fully recorded in Emile's diary-sat alone enjoying the warm
silver moonlight that flooded all the world about her-sat alone,
thinking, dreaming, fearing, vaguely hoping. Suddenly the sound of
her mother's voice reached her from an adjoining room, and arrested
her attention. Involuntarily she listened. "Yes, dear husband, Leah
is anxious to go-unhappy even, at the fear of being denied."
"You surprise me, Rebecca," replied the fond husband and father; "I
never dreamed that Leah desired to visit Europe. She has never
mentioned it to me."
"No, nor will she ever. She fears your displeasure, shrinks from
betraying a desire to be separated from you, even for a short period
of time; but still she longs to go. Ever since Bertha Levy went to
Berlin, she has cherished a secret desire to go, too. You well know
that music is the passion of her soul, and Leah longs for culture
which she cannot obtain in this country."
"Dear child!" exclaimed the father, "she shall be gratified in her
desires, and study in the fatherland as long as she chooses. She has
always been a good, obedient, loving daughter, and deserves to be
rewarded." Then he added, after a moment's pause, and with
ill-concealed emotion, "Yes, my daughter is always obedient and
kind, yet a shade too sober for one so young; but her mother was
always thoughtful, dear woman, and I suppose it's the child's
inheritance." Mr. Mordecai sighed. And Rebecca, discerning the drift
of his thought, recurred quickly to the subject, saying:
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