Books: Leah Mordecai
M >>
Mrs. Belle Kendrick Abbott >> Leah Mordecai
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 | 8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13
"And now again, and lastly, my father, I pray that the blessing of
the great God of Israel may ever rest upon your venerable head; and
will you not, too, invoke His blessing to descend upon the head of
your unworthy and unhappy child? Dear, dear, precious father, now
adieu, a long tearful adieu, till I receive your blessing.
"Sorrowfully, your own "LEAH."
Stupefied and amazed, Mr. Mordecai scarcely realized the import of
the words that his flashing eye devoured, till the familiar
signature was reached. Then, as if a flood of light had burst upon
his blinded vision, came the dreadful revelation; involuntarily he
exclaimed, "Eternal God! It cannot be! It is not possible, that my
child has fled from me! Gone with a Christian dog, to become his
wife; seduced by his honeyed words from the embrace of my love to
that of his faithless heart! Torn from my home to follow the
wanderings of a villain! Oh, God! Oh, heaven! It cannot be! It must
not be! I swear, by Israel, it shall not be! Oh my child! my
daughter, my own precious Leah? Where art thou? Where hast thou
fled, my daughter?"
In frenzy Mr. Mordecai smote his breast, tore his silvery locks, and
bowed in grief as the fatal letter fell from his trembling hand. The
depths of his sorrow were stirred, and the tears that flowed from
his burning heart left the fountain dry and shrivelled. Then, as the
calm succeeds the storm, so, when this fierce tempest of emotion was
passed, Mr. Mordecai regathered his strength, summoned the forces of
his pride, revenge, and hatred, dispelled all traces of his sorrow,
steeled himself for the duty before him, and with a heart of stone
in a bosom of adamant, took up the letter and descended the stairs
to the waiting family below. Untasted before them was the morning
meal. With wild look and emphatic step Mr. Mordecai entered the
breakfast-room, and stood before the family holding the letter aloft
in his trembling hand. "See here," said he, with a ringing voice,
"read here the story of a child, that sought to break an aged
father's heart. But hear me first. Hear this my oath. This heart
shall not break, I swear it shall not! Leah has gone-fled with a
Christian dog, to become his wife. Read it for yourselves when I am
gone; but hear me, you that remain. Sarah and Frederick. My blessing
shall never rest upon her, living or dying. As she has chosen to
bring sorrow upon the gray hairs of her father, so may God rain
trouble upon her disobedient head. May her children wander,
uncircumcised dogs, friendless, and neglected-as she has neglected
me-upon the face of the earth, ever seeking bread, yet feeling
constant hunger! Despised of her people, and rejected of her
people's God, may she ever feel the need of a friend, and yet find
none! Her disobedience is cursed forever, so I swear it by the God
of Israel! Mark my words, and remember my wrath!" he concluded,
looking fiercely into the eyes of the two children who sat silent
before him. "Read this for yourselves; and then burn it, and scatter
the ashes to the winds." No one made reply to that outburst of
implacable, burning rage, that so consumed the father's heart. They
had never seen him in such a frenzy before. Mr. Mordecai then
hurriedly left the house, and passing Mingo, at the porter's lodge,
went out without a nod of recognition. Urbanely bowing and smiling,
Mingo let his master pass, wondering at this singular breach of his
accustomed politeness.
As the lodge door closed after Mr. Mordecai had passed out, Mingo
bethought him of something, and hastily pursuing his master, said:
"Here, master, is this your yourn?"
"What?" asked the master morosely.
"This book, sir; I found it in the lodge."
Mechanically, Mr. Mordecai took it from the servant, and placed it
in the inner pocket of his coat, and then passed on without a word.
In the house, all were startled, all dismayed, at the disclosure in
the letter; all, save Rebecca, were filled with sadness. She felt no
regret. The brother and sister moved silently and sorrowfully about
the house, and in and out of the vacated chamber, hardly realizing
that their gentle sister had indeed gone.
CHAPTER XXV.
MR. MORDECAI had scarcely passed a square from his home, when
suddenly he retraced his steps, and stood again before the lodge.
"Mingo," he said sharply, "tell your mistress to send me that cursed
letter. Be quick."
With a dash the nimble slave obeyed the command, and in a moment
stood before his master, the letter in his hand, bowing and smiling
with his usual politeness.
Taking the letter, Mr. Mordecai crushed it in his hand, then placed
it in his breast pocket, as he again started forward toward his
banking-house. If he passed man, woman, child, friend, acquaintance,
or kinsman in that morning's walk, he knew it not; for the tumult of
passion that stirred his soul obliterated for the time every
recollection but that of the terrible sorrow that had befallen him.
In due time he reached the dingy brown banking-house, and stood
irresolutely for a moment upon the well-worn stone steps. He placed
the ponderous key within the lock, but the hand seemed powerless to
turn its massive bolt; and for a moment he stood with thoughtful,
determined eye resting upon the pavement. A moment more, and then he
quickly withdrew the key, dropped it into his pocket, and briskly
retraced his steps for square after square, and then abruptly turned
into the well-known street where stood the office of the
distinguished Le Grande.
It happened that Mr. Mordecai approached the office from one
direction, as Judge Le Grande himself approached it from another,
riding in the light single phaeton in which he usually drove to and
from his office.
"Good-morning, Mr. Mordecai. How goes it with you, my friend, this
fine morning?" said the judge pleasantly, as he alighted and threw
the lines to Cato, the driver.--"Tell your mistress she need not send
for me till five o'clock. I shall be very busy to-day." Then turning
to the banker he looked for a reply.
"It's no good-morning to me," replied the banker fiercely. "The
night has brought devilish work to my home."
"What do you mean, my friend?" was the judge's quiet reply. "What
has the night done?"
"Played the devil! Don't you try to trifle with my sorrow. That son
of yours has already wrought me injury enough. Don't you attempt to
mock me. I warn you, Le Grande, I warn you!"
Astonished by these mysterious words of the Hebrew, Judge Le Grande
gravely assured Mr. Mordecai that he knew nothing of the trouble
that had befallen him, and repeatedly asked, "What has my son done?"
"Done? Alas! he has done that which would to God I could undo!" was
the reply, uttered angrily and savagely. "But as I cannot undo it, I
shall curse it-curse it from the depths of my soul! He has married
my daughter? Stolen her-taken her away in secret from my house, and
they have wisely fled from my presence!"
"Married your daughter!" ejaculated the judge, the truth faintly
dawning on him. "Surely that's a mistake."
"Indeed it is a wild mistake; I would to God it were otherwise."
"By what authority do you make this assertion?" continued Judge Le
Grande, evidently aroused by the dawning truth.
"By the confession of my daughter, left in her room, and written a
short time before her flight."
"Where is that confession? Let me see it."
"Here," replied the banker, drawing the crumpled missive from his
pocket. "There, read the mischief for yourself."
With trembling hand Judge Le Grande smoothed out the crushed paper,
and eagerly, fearfully, scanned the contents that were to crush his
hopes, as they had crushed those of the banker. Silently, carefully,
he read it, read it till the story was told, and then, brushing away
a tear from his eye he said, with emotion:
"Mordecai, forgive her! Forgive her, as I shall forgive him; and now
that it is done, let us make the best of it."
"Forgive!" hissed the banker; "forgive such an act of disobedience
as that? Such disgrace to my name and people? Never, while there is
a drop of Hebrew blood in Benjamin Mordecai's veins, will I forgive
it!"
"It's no more a disgrace to your name and people than it is to mine;
but I consider that people are fools, who make disgrace of family
troubles, by obstinately parading them before the world."
"Then I shall delight in being a fool, if so you deem it," replied
Mr. Mordecai, with kindling emotion.
"Alas! I had great plans for Emile," said Judge Le Grande sadly, as
he turned away from Mr. Mordecai; "and his mother too; she had
fondly hoped he would marry Belle Upton. Now, all is disappointment.
I do not know how she will bear it. As for myself, I shall make the
best of it. I hope they may be happy.-I say, Mordecai," looking
steadily at the banker, "they have my forgiveness and my blessing
too. You may do as you please."
"Well, I curse them," the banker answered bitterly; "and I swear
they shall never see my face again, living or dying. Not one dollar
from my purse shall they ever receive, even though want and beggary
come upon them. Think not I can ever change, Judge Le Grande. As my
people and my people's God, the Eternal Father, are unchangeable, so
is my purpose concerning these disobedient children. Good morning."
Mr. Mordecai then turned slowly from the office, and as the judge
beheld the receding form, and remembered the fierce flash of his
dark eye, he unhesitatingly exclaimed, "Poor old man! I pity you.
And," he added after a moment's pause, "Heaven pity us both!"
As a bird floats safely upon the bosom of the blue sky and finds at
last her leafy home, so the little vessel that bore the fugitive
lovers, found safe and speedy anchorage in the quiet harbor of the
sea-girt isle that was to be their future home. The young, ardent
husband, and the fair, gentle wife, gazed with delight upon the
cloudless skies and bright waters, and thought hopefully of the
future. Only one shadow darkened their horizon. It was a fearful
thought, to Leah, that her father's anathema might ever rest upon
her. But the future was veiled, and the voice of Hope whispered,
"his blessing may come by and by. Wait."
CHAPTER XXVI.
TWO years rolled away-two short, bright years of individual and
national prosperity, and then came a change. To use the words of the
immortal Dickens, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of
times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it
was the season of light, it was the season of darkness; it was the
spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything
before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going direct to
heaven, we were all going direct the other way." These utterances of
inspiration so fittingly describing the period that ushered in the
bloody French Revolution, may be applied with equal truth and force
to the years that inaugurated the war between the States in fair
America.
Did not prosperity bud and blossom in every vale and hamlet of this
fair domain? And yet were a people ever more unmindful of, or more
ungrateful for their blessings? Bickering and strife, dissension and
hatred, grew fiercer with the growth of the nation's grandeur.
Slavery, on one hand said, "I will," and Freedom, on the other, "You
shall not." So the war-cloud, "the size of a man's hand" only at
first, appeared upon the dim horizon of the future. Wisdom sought to
devise plans for averting war, but Folly shook her locks tauntingly,
and said mockingly, "Ha! ha! War is pleasant pastime." So the
culmination was reached, and a misguided people, clamorous for war,
sounded the tocsin that caused rivers of blood to flow from
brothers' hearts, and enshrouded a grand and happy people in
desolation and disgrace.
At the time when the war-cloud of fratricidal conflict was rolling
dark and broad over the land, a treacherous enemy on the border were
menacing and even destroying many of our country's peaceful
citizens. Upon the broad frontier at the Far West it became the duty
of the government to hold these wily foes in check by a strong and
reliable armed force. To this north-western outpost of service
Captain Marshall had been ordered by the voice of his country. Not
ordered there as to a holiday excursion, but ordered into actual
bloody conflict, and to an ordeal that would have tried the bravery
and courage of a veteran. At the head of his command, Company A, 3d
Regiment U. S. Regulars, Captain Marshall reached this post of
danger in the hour of its most imminent peril. But for this timely
arrival of troops, the peaceful little town of Minneopoli might have
been laid waste, and its defenceless inhabitants cruelly butchered
or carried away captive. But the premeditated destruction of the
town was averted, the treacherous "red-skins" disappointed, and
Captain Marshall's bravery demonstrated beyond a peradventure.
It was the night after the attack of the Indians, and the bloody
repulse. All was quiet. The troops were reassembled in camp. The
usual garrulity of the soldiers was checked by the recollection of
their dead comrades, so recently laid to rest in soldiers' graves.
All, too, remembered the danger through which they had passed, and
many were moody and silent. At length a bright-faced, light-headed
young recruit spoke out, seeing the silence and sadness around the
camp-fire. "I say, captain, that was a wretched red-skin of a chief
that you hauled in yesterday. He looked more like the Prince of
Darkness than the chief of a tribe. I thought once, cap'n, he had
you; and I was just ready to pick him off, when I saw you were
safe."
"Yes, Carlos, that was a close place, and but for a kind fate, I
should be sleeping with those brave fellows who have left us. Peace
to their resting-places."
"I was sorry you did not kill him; he deserved death. But how quick
he did surrender, when he saw you close in on him with your sword!
Ha! ha!"
"Yes, Mico is a bad, bad Indian, and has caused more trouble to this
settlement than all the other Indians combined. I guess he will
enjoy his freedom, when he gets it again. Confinement and chains are
worse than death to him."
"I tell you, cap'n, they are cowardly devils. They can't stand
gunpowder. At the very smell of it they run out from their
hiding-places, like so many rats from a burning building. I hated to
see one of them taken alive. It's not like fighting civilized
people; is it, cap'n? I am in favor of the black flag in a fight
with these red devils."
"War is war, Carlos, and brutalizes the most intelligent people on
earth, if they indulge in it. I trust our troubles are ended here,
for a long time, if not forever, now that Mico is our prisoner. At
any rate, I hope all will remain peaceful and tranquil till I go
home and return. For a month I have a leave of absence, to visit my
native State."
"Going home, captain, to see your mother?" spoke up a fair-haired
young boy, scarcely eighteen, who had sat a silent listener to the
conversation between Carlos and his commander.
"Ah! Franco, I have no mother; she died long ago," replied the
captain; "but I am going back to my native State. My father and a
brother and sister live there."
"It has been many a long day," said Franco, "since I saw my native
hills, and heard my mother's gentle voice, as she went singing about
our humble home. I often wonder how she could sing so, with so much
poverty and care constantly about her. Maybe I shall never see her
again ;" and a shade of sorrow crept over the fair young face of the
French recruit.
The captain replied, "I trust that you may, Franco, though you are
now so many leagues away. What brought you away from her, Franco?"
"Poverty, captain, poverty; and unless I can lighten the burden of
my mother's life by returning, I shall never go back!"
Silence at length settled upon the camp, and one by one the groups
of comrades disbanded. The campfires were extinguished, and at an
early hour sleep tenderly enfolded these guardians of their
country's peace and security.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE spring had come again, and a little more than its first month
had elapsed when, early one morning, as the sun was stealing up
softly from the east, and before it had brought the hour for the
slumbering troops to be aroused by another r‚veille, or had gilded
the hills and valleys with its light, Captain Marshall, accompanied
by his faithful orderly, Franco, entered the half-slumbering town
of Minneopoli and turned toward the inn, whence the coach was soon
to leave for the nearest railway station.
"Lieutenant Styles will be in command, Franco, till I return, you
know, and I fear he will form a dangerous substitute, with his
affable nature," said the captain, as the hour of parting drew near.
"Well, never mind that, captain; no matter how affable, we boys do
not wish a new commander just now," returned the true-hearted boy.
"Take care of your scalps, Franco. Don't let the 'red-skins'
surprise you while I am gone. There, I see the coach is ready. I
must soon bid you adieu."
"If I remember the bravery of my captain, the red devils won't get
my scalp, I'll wager. But I hope they are settled for a time. Come
back as soon as you can, captain, and in your absence think
occasionally of Franco, will you? There comes the coach. The horses
are fine and gay."
"Rest assured, Franco, I will think of you, and often too. How I
would like to take you with me! But take care of yourself. A month's
absence is not such a long time, after all. Good-by, my dear fellow,
good-by;" and seating himself in the waiting coach, Captain Marshall
waved an adieu to his sorrowful young companion, and at the same
moment the coach driver hallooed, "All ready!" and gave a sharp
crack of the whip; the horses dashed forward, and recruit and
captain were soon separated-separated forever. In less time than a
fortnight, Captain Marshall had accomplished his long and
troublesome journey, and was safe once more within his native State.
"I tell you, Fred," said the captain, one day when he was visiting a
friend in the Queen City, "the agitated, portentous state of affairs
in this section distresses and alarms me. I had no dream of the
warlike aspect of this quiet Queen City of the Sea. I fancied we had
all the trouble with us, in the north-west, among those wretched
savages. I came home for a month of recreation and pleasure, and--"
he uttered with slight hesitation--"for the fulfilment of my plighted
troth; for the realization of the bright dream of a love that has
brightened my heart for nearly two years. Yes, Fred, and if it were
not for the business that takes me to fair Melrose, I should regret
that my coming home had been just at this time. I tell you, my good
fellow, the future portends evil, if not bloodshed."
"Well, Marshall, bloodshed is inevitable, unless as a section we are
allowed our constitutional rights; and I, for one, say, if it must,
let it come, even with the fury of a storm. I am for State rights,
and the Palmetto State forever!"
"Not bloodshed, Fred, if we can avert it," replied the young officer
to the enthusiastic outburst of the impetuous young Pinckney, the
beloved friend of his boyhood. "I am just from the gory field, where
I saw my brave men fall beneath the treacherous blows of the
Indians. I have seen bloodshed, and desire to see no more of it. I
have always loved military life, you know, Fred; but I tell you it
tries the heart of a man to see his men shot down like dogs."
"Oh, yes; you are for the Union, I see," replied young Pinckney with
impatient gesture. "Your service in the regular army has weaned your
heart from your native State, I fear."
"Oh! yes; I am for the Union just now-the union of hearts, at least;
and as you go with me to Melrose, you shall see that the union is
maintained."
"O bother! Marshall; you can think of nothing now but matrimony. I
am for the union of hearts myself; but the union of States as it has
existed, I detest. Peaceable secession, you see, we cannot have; and
if it must come in bloodshed, why, in the name of mankind, let it
come! I am ready for the issue of my State's action."
"I pray your blood may never be required as the price of forcible
secession, my dear Fred. But the condition of the country appals me!
I-whom duty calls to one place, and whom ties of affection bind to
another-I am placed in no enviable position. Yet I still hope the
trouble will soon clear up, and all will yet be bright."
"Your duty is plain before you, Marshall. It's for or against us
now, and no equivocation."
"Well, we'll not fall out about our country's troubles. They may be
better and they may be worse than we anticipate. I'll hope for the
best, though evil come. Let's talk of Melrose, and the fair flower
that blooms there. Eh, Fred?"
Fred replied smiling, "So we will, dear boy; here, take this cigar.
Let's have a smoke, and if you like we'll stroll down to the Battery
and see the encampment."
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE rosy month of May succeeded the chilly April in that memorable
year when the war-cloud of civil contest overshadowed the land so
darkly. It came with unwonted verdure, freshness, and beauty,
filling the hearts of the despondent with hope, and the hopeful with
rejoicing. It was scarcely a month from the time the coach dashed
out of the half-aroused town of Minneopoli in the chilly April
morning, when a similar vehicle, one evening, toiled slowly up the
long hill whose summit was crowned by picturesque Melrose. Among the
passengers were Captain Marshall and his friend Fred Pinckney. The
former had come to Melrose to claim the hand of his affianced, Eliza
Heartwell, and to take her away as his wife. In that sweet May-time,
no heart was happier than George Marshall's, and no voice gladder,
as it rang out in unrestrained laughter at the droll jokes and
facetious comments of his witty friend Fred.
"I say, George, this is undoubtedly the beautifulest country I ever
saw. Do see. Such honeysuckles and such dog-wood blossoms never grew
before. Maybe if the fates are propitious, I'll come back here to
this picturesque country to get me a wife, after the war is over.
Who knows? Then I'll be a laurel-crowned hero, having whaled out the
Yankees to a frizzle, and all the fair ones will be sighing for my
hand and heart! Umph! I am impatient for the conflict. George, you
know the Yankees won't fight!"
"Well, we will see. At any rate, from my acquaintance with them, I
shall not go to battle against them armed only with a broom-stick.
But here we are in Melrose. Don't, for love's sake, talk of war. My
heart's in a flutter. Cupid's conflict is worse than the Indians,
Fred."
"Yes, I see you have surrended unconditionally; yet your captivity
is by no means galling, I observe. Well, you are a lucky fellow,
George. Prosperity attend you."
Fatigued from the long journey, so much of it accomplished by
tiresome, lumbering stage-coaches, these two travelling companions
gladly alighted at the Melrose Tavern, and eagerly sought the
refreshments its simple hospitality afforded.
CHAPTER XXIX.
IN the quiet little parlor of Widow Heartwell, in the early May
morning, the tender breeze stole in and out of the window,
fluttering the muslin curtain and filling the apartment with
delicious perfume. In the same parlor a few chosen friends were
assembled, to witness the solemn ceremony that was to deprive them
of the pride and favorite of the village. As the dial upon the
delicate face of the little bronze clock on the mantel marked the
hour of eight, the flutter of robes and the rustling of footsteps
ushered in the expectant pair, and at once all the guests arose.
Pale and trembling, Mrs. Heartwell took her place beside her
daughter, as she stood before the venerable minister. For years the
Rev. Mr. Pratt had been their pastor and spiritual adviser, and his
heart was filled with deep emotion as he pronounced the solemn words
that bound this child of his love and watchful care to her husband,
to be "His servitor for aye." Amid smothered sobs, he invoked
Heaven's benediction upon their wedded hearts, praying that, as love
had directed this union, so love might attend them, even unto death.
Amid sighs and tears, the congratulations were received, and when at
length Fred Pinckney found a moment to whisper in George Marshall's
ear, he said, with characteristic drollery, "By Jupiter? I'll be
glad when the coach comes. I can't stand so much crying; it's more
like a funeral than a wedding. If they are obliged to blubber this
way when a fellow marries, I think I shall back out."
Another hour and the bridal party had departed. The fair flower of
Melrose was gone, changed from a lonely maiden to a happy, hopeful
bride; gone to follow the footsteps of a true, brave-hearted
husband,-gone from Melrose, leaving many aching hearts behind;
leaving, too, a vacancy that no succession of years could ever quite
fill.
A fortnight after the quiet wedding in Melrose, late one afternoon,
George Marshall and his wife were walking slowly along the
ever-thronged battery of the Queen City, whither they had come on a
visit to Captain Marshall's uncle, Dr. Thornwell. A serious
expression rested upon the young captain's face, as he surveyed the
long lines of tents that dotted the open square and bordered the
broad street-so serious indeed, that he scarcely heeded the
passers-by who were bowing salutations to him and his fair bride.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 | 8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13