Books: Leah Mordecai
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Mrs. Belle Kendrick Abbott >> Leah Mordecai
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"Well, my husband, what arrangement can you make for Leah's going?
Of course you cannot accompany her."
"That's easily done," he replied. "Every week there are persons
going direct to Europe from this very city; and, by the way, my
friend Solomon Stettheimer expects to go soon to Wirtemberg, to look
after an estate of a deceased relative, and I could safely intrust
Leah to his care. I shall write at once to my cousin, the baron, and
have her placed under his care."
"That's a wise plan, my husband, and will give Leah great joy. Make
it known to her as though it was only a pleasant surprise you were
offering her, not mentioning the fact that I acquainted you with her
wishes."
"So I will, kind little heart, good little woman that you are,"
replied Mr. Mordecai affectionately, as he stroked Rebecca on the
arm.
Leah heard no more. Shocked and terrified at this treacherous
plotting, she stole softly from the balcony, passed through the side
garden, entered the house by the rear door, and hastened away to her
own chamber up stairs.
"Merciful Heaven! what a lie, to deprive me of my father's love, and
send me from my home, among unknown friends, so far away! I cannot,
cannot go; I cannot leave my father, even though it kill me to
remain," gasped the young girl, in tears and bitterness of heart, as
she sank helpless and hopeless upon the snowy bed that stood, a
monster ghost, in the moonlit chamber. For hours she lay in silence
and in sorrow, and when sleep came at length, the spoken words of
her slumber but revealed the burden of her heavy heart in the
oft-repeated words, "I cannot, cannot, will not go."
CHAPTER XX.
A WEEK passed. No word concerning the projected journey had been
spoken by her father, and the young girl was beginning to hope that
it might have been only the burden of an idle conversation, not a
project really determined upon by either parent. But early one
morning, as Mr. Mordecai caught the sound of music floating out from
the drawing-room-such tender music-he laid aside the paper he was
reading, and slipped softly toward the room whence came the sounds.
This sudden and unusual manifestation of musical skill, this morning
outburst of melody, astonished the father, and his approach to the
drawing-room was as much from surprise as for the pleasure of a
nearer enjoyment of his daughter's skilful performance. Unconscious
of any approaching footstep, Leah sat, pale and statuesque, at the
elegant instrument, and drew forth, at intervals, strains of
witching melody. The absorbed expression of her emotionless face
told plainly that music was the one channel through which the
pent-up feelings of her heart found an outlet. How often is this
divine art the unsyllabled expression of a miserable, or an
overjoyed heart.
"My daughter," at length said Mr. Mordecai tenderly, after standing
for some moments unobserved behind Leah.
"Is it you, father?" she replied, turning suddenly around, "I did
not hear you come in."
"No, my love, I came softly that I might not disturb you; came to
thank you for the sweet music that in this early morning sounds-so
heavenly, I will say. Play me something else, as sweet and tender as
the sonata you have just finished, and then come here and sit beside
me; I have something to tell you."
"With all my heart, father," Leah replied, rising and turning
through a mass of music. "Shall it be a song, father?"
"By all means, my dear."
And drawing forth the well-worn pages of Beethoven's "Adelaide," the
young girl reseated herself, and sang.
The tender words of her father, as well as the ominous ones, "I have
something to tell you," startled Leah, and caused the chords of love
and fear to vibrate wildly within her bosom. Yet she concealed her
deeper feelings, and sang-beautifully, bravely, sweetly-the tender,
ravishing love-ditty which she knew was her father's favorite. The
melody died away, the chords relaxed and hushed their sweetness, and
Leah turned toward her father, awaiting the words of commendation
that he always awarded to her performances. But he was silent.
Seated upon a divan near by, Mr. Mordecai presented a striking
appearance, which Leah at once observed. He was attired in his
crimson morning-gown, adorned with golden bordering, and wore a
becoming scarlet cap carelessly adjusted upon his head; a golden
tassel hung from the cap beside the thoughtful face, and the
half-snowy beard which spread like a silken fringe upon his bosom.
His head was half-averted, and the sharp black eyes seemed to rest
immovably upon some central figure on the luxurious tapestry. He was
so absorbed that he heeded not the cessation of the music, nor was
he aroused from his abstraction till Leah seated herself beside him
and said:
"Now, father, I am ready to hear you."
"Forgive me, daughter, if I seem unmindful of your charming song;
but thoughts for your welfare filled my reverie."
"What thoughts, father?" Leah asked fearfully.
"Well, listen to me. I have planned for you, my daughter, a most
delightful and profitable journey. Assured that you possess musical
talent of the highest order, I desire that talent to be most highly
cultivated. The culture you need cannot be obtained in this country;
so I have written to my cousin, Baron von Rosenberg, to have you
become a member of his distinguished family for a time. Under his
care and direction, your studies can be pursued to the greatest
advantage. What do you think of the arrangement?"
As Mr. Mordecai was unfolding what he supposed would be a pleasant
surprise to his daughter, he marked the serious, even pained
expression of her face, and wondered at it.
Leah was silent. Then, with an air of surprise and disappointment,
her father repeated the inquiry. "What do you think of my plan? You
cannot possibly dislike it, my daughter!"
"Saxony is a great way off from you, dear father-I believe the baron
lives in Saxony. I do not think I could be happy so far away from
you, the only living human being who loves me truly in this cold
world." The last words were spoken bitterly.
"Your words astonish me, my child; they savor of ingratitude, and
are strange words for your lips. What can you mean?"
Leah trembled that so much had escaped her hitherto silent lips,
betraying even faintly the true feeling of her heart; and repressing
the words that would have followed had her father not offered his
rebuke, she replied quickly:
"Forgive me, dear father, if I seem ungrateful; perhaps I do not
appreciate the love I enjoy; but I do not wish to go so far away
from you. And you will not send me, will you?"
"Never trouble about me, my daughter; go and stay a year, if no
longer; that's a short period of time, when it is past. Go for the
improvement you will get. Go and become distinguished, my child;"
and the ambitious parent's eye kindled with a new light at the
thought.
Leah made no reply, and the father, releasing the delicate hand he
had so tenderly held, said again and again, "Never mind me, child,
never mind me; a year's a short time. Go and become distinguished."
The banker went to his counting-house that day, elated with the
project for his daughter's pleasure and improvement, little dreaming
where, or for what purpose, this plan was conceived; and Leah spent
its lonely hours in sorrow and in tears.
CHAPTER XXI.
LE GRANDE'S DIARY.
"October 3.
"I HAVE been in such a maze of suspense and bewilderment for a
month, dear Journal, that I have neglected you; to-night I'll
recall, if I can, some of my lost days. No, I can't. It makes no
diference; they were only days of trouble. I am perplexed to death
to know the result of the baron's letter. He wrote, of course, and
urged that Mr. Mordecai send Leah at once to him. And the
preparations are going rapidly forward for her departure. Every day
I say, 'Darling, stay with me,' and her father says, 'Daughter, you
must go.' 'We shall see, in the end, what the end will be.'
"October 15.-To-night, dear Journal, I make the most triumphant
record of my life. Tell it not, breathe it not, to a mortal soul!
Leah, my darling, has promised to marry me, and not go to Europe, as
her father had determined. She told me last night, when I met her in
the park, that her mind was made up. She would not go. She did not
wish to go, and to marry me was her only alternative. She loves me,
though, and we shall be happy, I am sure. My parents are bitterly
opposed, and hers will be, to such a union, but we will be married,
for all that. Helen alone is in my confidence; she has none of that
pride that revolts at Leah's being a Jewess. To-morrow I leave for
Havana, where I go with papers from our banking house to a branch
house in that city. If I am successful in making my business
arrangements, as I feel assured I shall be, then all will be well. I
can only remain two days, as the day for Leah's embarkation is not a
fortnight off. My mother and father know nothing of the business
that takes me away, yet I have not deceived them. But, Journal, good
night.
"October 28.-Home again from Havana-home with bounding heart and
glowing hopes. I admire that fine City of the Antilles almost as
much as I do my beloved, native Queen City. I shall enjoy my new
home, I know. How could I do else than enjoy it? With a satisfactory
salary in our branch house, and a lovely young wife, a heathen might
well be happy. Now, old Mordecai can keep his gold, if he likes, and
ny father can do the same. The opposition has driven me to rely more
implicitly upon myself, thank the fates. I shall be able to 'paddle
my own canoe.' Leah looks something like those Spanish beauties,
only she's a trifle sadder in expression. I trust she'll be happy in
her new home, amid Cuban bloom and under azure skies. Heaven grant
her an unclouded life. I am delirious with joy; and for fear of
committing too much to your keeping, Journal, I'll stop writing.
Adieu."
CHAPTER XXII.
"AUNT BARBARA," said Leah, the day before the proposed departure of
the vessel that was to bear her away, "will you tell Mingo to leave
the key of the lodge hanging just inside the inner door to-night. I
may be coming in, or going out late, and he need not be disturbed,
if he will do that." These words were addressed to a middle-aged
colored woman, who, with high-turbaned head, moved busily about
Leah's apartment, folding garments and packing trunks, and sighing,
ever and anon, as though enduring heart-felt grief at the prospect
of the approaching parting.
"Yes, dear chile, I'll tell him, if you wish. Dere is not many more
times for your dear feet to pass in and out of de lodge;" and
accompanying these simple, pathetic words was an outburst of honest
tears, that fell upon the tidy white apron which the kind soul held
to her eyes.
"Will you miss me, Aunt Barbara, when I am gone?" said Leah, deeply
moved by the old colored woman's manifestation of sorrow.
"Law, chile, God only knows how ole Aunt Barbara will miss you. But
I'll pray de good Lord to keep you safe from harm, when you are so
far away, and bring you back to us again, one day."
"Suppose I never come back, Aunt Barbara; will you ever forget me?"
The old woman made no reply, but her ponderous frame shook
convulsively, with excessive emotion. Leah then approached this
faithful friend, and laying her arm around her neck, said tenderly,
"Don't cry so, Aunt Barbara, but cheer me with the hope that some
day I'll come back to you." The sound of approaching footsteps in
the hall dried Aunt Barbara's tears, and when she opened the door in
response to a gentle tap, her face was as placid as a summer lake.
"Is it you, father? Come in," said Leah, looking up to meet her
father's eye.
"Yes, my daughter. Are you ready? Are the trunks packed? Can I do
anything more for you?" replied Mr. Mordecai, almost in one breath.
"Nearly ready, father. Aunt Barbara has about finished the last one,
and I am ready to leave you."
These words, so full of feeling, so sorrowfully spoken, too, struck
deep into the father's heart, and filled him with unspeakable
regret.
"Ready to leave me, daughter," he reiterated, half petulantly, "I
fear that you do not appreciate, or rather that you misinterpret my
motive in sending you on so grand a journey. How many girls there
are who vainly wish, from day to day, for such advantages as I am
offering you!"
To these words Leah made no reply. And Mr. Mordecai, walking
backward and forward with restless step across his daughter's
bed-chamber, secretly regretted that he had ever considered the
project for a moment. Then he said, half apologetically, "You shall
only stay a year, my daughter; that is not such a very long time."
"Maybe I shall never come back, father. But you will love me always,
won't you?"
"Hush! hush! child. I do not like your words. They distress me! A
year is a short time, you know; so don't be foolish. Come, braid up
your hair, arrange your dress, and come down at once into the
drawing-room. I must have some music to-night."
"With pleasure, dear father," answered Leah, as cheerfully as the
swelling emotion at her heart would allow. Then, in an undertone to
herself, she added, "It may be the last time I shall have the
privilege of playing for him in my life. If I were to go to Europe,
that wretched woman would devise some plan to keep me there, and so
I'll stay with--" the last word she uttered was spoken in a whisper,
and scarce escaped her lips. Hastily obeying her father's summous,
after arranging a becoming toilet, Leah descended to the
drawing-room, where Mr. Mordecai awaited her. "Father," said Leah
abruptly, as she was turning to her music, "to-day, in looking over
a package of papers, I came across the cards of cousin Hannah
Stuyvesant; I had not thought of her for ever so long. Who was it
she married?"
"Oh! A Christian dog! A renegade. Somebody named Bliss, I believe."
"Did they prosper, father?"
"I'll venture to say not, but I do not know positively. I've known
nothing of her since she so far renounced her people as to marry a
Christian. Neither have I desired to know anything of her."
At these words of Mr. Mordecai-significant words-Leah stationed
herself at the instrument, and, with mind absorbed, and thoughts far
away from the music, she performed mechanically piece after piece,
as her father would request. The tea-bell at last summoned the
family to the evening meal, and encircling his daughter with his
arm, Mr. Mordecai led the way to the waiting repast. This was the
last evening meal of the banker's family, unbroken. Yet who could
have said so on that memorable evening in the long ago?
CHAPTER XXIII.
NIGHT gathered around the Queen City with dark and sombre fold,
after the chilly October day previous to the one appointed for Leah
Mordecai's departure for Europe-a night whose ominous gloom seemed
to pervade the innermost apartment of the banker's home. It was late
before Mr. Mordecai could spare his daughter from his presence, and
give the good-night kiss, his usual benediction before they
separated for slumber. Even the wily Rebecca said good night now in
a tender tone, and gave Leah a gracious smile as she ascended the
stairs for the last time. "It is the last," thought she, "for many a
long day, maybe forever, and I can smile in sincerity. Once gone,
I'll see to it that she never comes again. Aha! I am happy now, and
can smile in joy and truth."
Once more within her quiet chamber, Leah locked the door and stood a
moment with frightened face gazing furtively around the room. All
was silent. The beating of her own wild heart was all the sound she
heard. Then sinking down from actual weakness, she sat a moment as
if summoning the last spark of courage in her timid, fearful soul
and said, "Yes, it is a dreadful alternative, but I am driven to it.
If I obey my father, and go to Europe, I know I shall not return for
many years, if ever. If I am to be separated from my father, it
shall not be by that woman's scheming. She has devised this plan to
send me from my home, and she shall be disappointed. I am assured
that Emile loves me, yet I should never have married him had I not
been forced to do so-simply because he is not a Jew. But as it is, I
take the step deliberately, firmly resolved to abide the
consequences, be they good or evil. Yes, I am resolved to take this
first step in disobedience to my father's wishes. I cannot help it.
It has caused me terrible suffering to reach this decision, but
circumstances press me to it. Now, it is irrevocable. God forgive
me, if I cause my father sorrow! He knows how I love and serve him,
and Heaven knows how cruelly I have been dealt with. But time is
passing. I must write a last, fond letter to my dear Lizzie; tell
her of this final, desperate step in my life, and beg that her love,
so long tried, may follow me still through the untried life that
lies before me, be it a life of sunshine or of shadow.
"Oh! the thought is dreadful. Let me see. Now the hour is eleven.
Emile will come at twelve. I must hasten;" and rising from her
recumbent posture, Leah replaced the watch within her bosom, and
seating herself at the escritoire, wrote a last, loving letter to
the friend of her school-days. This she dropped into her pocket,
that she might post it at the lodge. Then she wrote, with trembling
hand and faltering heart, a farewell message to her beloved father;
and she was done. In a small portmanteau she had carefully packed
the few things requisite for her clandestine journey. The
well-filled trunks were safely locked, and the keys hanging idly
upon the ring in her work-basket. "These trunks," she murmured to
herself, as she glanced around the room preparatory to leaving it,
"will descend to my sister, or go to Europe, or, maybe, will be
destroyed. I shall never use their contents. Dear Aunt Barbara's
careful packing was all to no purpose, had she only known it. Kind
Aunt Barbara! Now, one thing more remains to be done. I must have my
mother's miniature before I quit my father's house, perhaps forever.
Aunt Barbara has secured the key of the cabinet for me, and it lies
secreted in one of the drawers. Yes, Rebecca has kept it from me for
nearly five years. How I burn with anger yet, to think of the cruel
lie that took from me the only gift I ever valued in my life! That
perfidious bosom shall never feel the pressure of that precious,
jewelled face again. No, in heaven's name, I will not leave without
it!"
"Hush! the citadel clock strikes the quarter to twelve! Dear old
room! Chair, bed, books, pictures-all, farewell!"
The house below was silent. The lights had been darkened for an
hour. With stealthy step along the upper hall, and silent footfall
on the stairway, the cloaked and hooded figure of Leah approached
the sleeping apartment of her father and his wife. The sound of
heavy breathing betokened heavy slumber, as she silently turned the
door-knob and stood within the chamber. Reassured by this sound, she
glided toward the cabinet, and noiselessly adjusting the key, turned
it gently in the lock. The white, delicate finger stole softly about
the first smoothly polished drawer, to find it empty. Then one and
another underwent, in quick succession, the same noiseless
inspection, till the fourth and last drawer was reached; and that
one yielded up the coveted treasure. Hastily placing it in her
bosom, she closed the drawer, and then glided out as softly as she
had glided into the room. On the threshold she cast back one fond,
lingering look at the dimly outlined figure of her father, as he lay
before her in unconscious slumber. "Heaven ever shield him," she
whispered softly; and passed on-on and out beyond the heavily-bolted
front door-out forever! In the starlight, chill and faint, she found
herself, with trembling limbs and trembling heart, and for a moment
sat down on the cold stone step to rally her failing strength and
courage before she sought the lodge. At the sound of approaching
wheels she arose, and walked with rapid step to the lodge, reaching
it just as a coach drew up before it.
"Is it you, Emile?" said Leah softly, as the lodge door opened and a
manly form appeared.
"Yes, darling. Thank fortune, your courage has not failed you. I
have been feverish with anxiety and impatience for hours. Are you
ready, dear?"
At these words Leah trembled, and faltered "Yes."
"Well, I thought it best to bring the minister with me, and so my
friend Bishop Leveret is in the carriage. Suppose we have the
ceremony performed here; then there can be no possible
disappointment or danger. Are you afraid?"
"What have I to fear now, when I have gone so far? I abide now by
your wishes in all matters, henceforth and forever. I am ready."
In a moment the bishop was summoned. By the light of a dimly burning
lantern, he drew forth the Prayer Book, and read the impressive
marriage ceremony of his church. The responses were solemnly
uttered, the benediction invoked, and at that midnight hour, in the
stillness of the porter's lodge, Emile Le Grande and the young
Jewess were pronounced "man and wife." Driving quickly to the vessel
that was ready to depart for the tropical port with the first
appearance of the morning sun, Emile soon safely ensconced his bride
in the comfortable cabin, and with a feeling of joy, tinged only
with a shadowy apprehension, he bade adieu to the kind bishop, who
had accompanied them thither.
As the morning sun rose, bright and ruddy, from its eastern bed, the
vessel's gun, giving the signal for departing, sounded beyond the
foaming bar, and the newly wedded lovers were adrift, alike upon the
ocean of life and upon the blue expanse that surrounded them-adrift
to suffer a dismal shipwreck, or to anchor safely within some remote
harbor of love and security.
CHAPTER XXIV.
ANXIOUS and nervous from the expected sorrow of the coming day, Mr.
Mordecai rose early from his couch of restless slumber. Restlessly
he walked the library floor backward and forward, awaiting the
appearance of his daughter Leah. At length he said to his wife, as
she summoned him to the morning meal, "It's very late. I wonder why
Leah does not come down. I'll just step to her room, and see if she
is ready; fatigue and anxiety may have caused her to sleep later
than usual this morning. I'll join you in the breakfast-room in a
moment."
After a moment had elapsed, Mr. Mordecai stood gently tapping at his
daughter's chamber door. There was no response. He gently opened it.
The room was vacant. Not a sound or a voice greeted his entrance.
Stiff and well-arranged, the elegant furniture stood mutely against
the cold, cheerless walls. The ominous tidiness of the deserted
bed-chamber bespoke a fearful story. The father stood for a moment
in amazement, silently surveying the apartment, his heart half
trembling with a vague fear; then he said, in a hoarse, frightened
tone, "Leah, my daughter, where are you?" There came no reply, but
the faint echo of his whispered words, "Where are you?"
Stepping forward softly into the room, he paused again, and then
with slow, uncertain step approached the casement that looked out
upon the front garden. There was nothing without but the sunshine
and the breeze, and the passing crowd already beginning to throng
the streets. Again he turned, with anxious heart, away from the
crowd without, to the deserted room within. "Where's my daughter?
Leah, dear Leah, where are you?" A folded scrap of paper upon the
escritoire caught his eye, and springing forward he seized it, half
hopefully, half fearfully, and tremblingly unfolded it. These are
the words it contained:
"OWN DEAREST FATHER: Can you, will you ever forgive your disobedient
Leah? I shudder when I think of you, reading these lines in the
morning, when I shall be far away from your loving embrace! But,
dear father, you know I did not desire to go to Saxony, so far away
from you; fearing, yes, even knowing that circumstances would arise
to prevent my return. I cannot explain my meaning, dear father, for
fear of imperilling your happiness. I prefer to live on, as I have
done for years, with the secret of my sorrow-the secret that impels
me to this act of disobedience-hidden in my heart. I fear your
wrath, and yet, dear father, I cannot go. I prefer to remain and
marry the one whom, next to yourself, I love above all mankind-Emile
Le Grande. Yes, dear father, when your eyes peruse these lines, I
shall be his wife, and far away on my journey to our distant home.
He loves me, and I love him, yet more than once have I refused his
love, in deference to your teachings, that 'to deny my people and my
faith, by marriage with a Christian, was worse than death, and an
everlasting disgrace.' Can I hope, then, for your forgiveness, even
though I seek it on bended knees, dear father? Had I been allowed to
remain at home, I never should have married him, certainly not in
the clandestine manner I propose. I flee to the love and protection
of Emile, as an alternative to a dreadful fate. Oh! pity and forgive
me, father; love me, even though I bring sorrow to your tender,
loving heart. In my new home, I shall watch and wait for some
tidings, some missive like a white-winged dove, bearing me a single
word of love and remembrance from my beloved father. If it comes
not, alas! ah me! you may always know there's a sorrow in my heart
that no amount of happiness or prosperity can ever eradicate-a
darkness that no sunshine can ever dispel.
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