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.
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.
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:
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."
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.
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.""
"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?
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.
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. 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.