THE two friends walked side by side in silence the distance of a square, and then their paths divided.
As Lizzie Heartwell turned the corner that separated her from her companion, she drew her shawl more closely around her benumbed form and quickened the steps that were hurrying her onward to her uncle's home. Her mind was filled with sad and gloomy thoughts—thoughts of the life and character of her beloved friend. The misty twilight seemed deepened by the tears that bedimmed her vision, as she thought again and again of the life blighted by sorrow, and the character warped by treachery and deceit.
"Alas!" thought she, "had the forming hand of love but moulded that young life, how perfect would have been its symmetry! What a fountain of joy might now be welling in that heart's desert waste, where scarcely a rill of affection is flowing."
Filled with these and like thoughts, Lizzie reached the doorway of her uncle's house, and was soon admitted beneath its hospitable roof.
Leah Mordecai, when separated from Lizzie, plodded straight forward toward her father's elegant home. The street lamps shone brightly, but the departing daylight, that was spreading its gloom over the world, was not half so dark and desolate as her poor heart. Yet Leah seldom wept—her tears did not start, like watchful sentinels, at every approach of pain or joy. Only when the shrivelled fountain of her heart was deeply stirred, did this fair creature weep. Calm, placid, and beautiful in the lamp-light, the features of her young face betrayed no emotion, as she passed one and another, on beyond the din of the garrulous multitude.
At last she stood before her father's gate, and rang the bell.
"Is that you, Miss Leah?" said Mingo the porter, as he opened the door of the lodge.
"Yes, Mingo, I am late this evening. Has my father come home?"
"Has just passed in, miss."
"I am thankful for that," she murmured to herself. "Thank you,Mingo," she added aloud, as the faithful attendant closed the door.
Nervous from excitement and emotion, it was late that same night before Lizzie Heartwell could quiet herself to slumber. Leah's melancholy story still haunted her.
At length she slept and dreamed—slept with the tear-stains on her cheeks, and dreamed a strange, incongruous, haunting dream, reverberating with the deadly war of artillery, and flashing with blazing musketry. The sea, too, the quiet harbor, that she always loved to look upon, was agitated and dark with mad, surging waves.
The gray old fort also stood frowning in the distance, with strange dark smoke issuing from behind its worn battlements. And amid this confusion of dreams and distorted phantasms of the brain, ever and anon appeared the sweet, sad face of Leah Mordecai, looking with imploring gaze into the face of her sleeping friend.
But at length this disturbed and mysterious slumber was ended by the morning sun throwing its beams through the window pane and arousing the sleeper to consciousness. Once awakened, Lizzie sprang from her bed, and involuntarily drew aside the snowy curtain that draped the east window. Then she looked toward the blue sea that surrounded the fort, and exclaimed, "How funny! Defiance is standing grim and dark in its sea-girt place as usual, and all is quiet in the harbor. How funny people have such strange dreams. But I fear the vision of that smoking fortress and that angry harbor will not fade soon from my memory; perhaps I have a taint of superstition in my nature. But I must hasten, or I'll be late for the morning worship. I believe I'll tell my uncle of my dream."
THE month sped on. The end of Madam Truxton's year was rapidly advancing. School-friendships that had grown and matured within the seminary walls, now deepened and intensified as the day for final separation approached. All were studying, with a zeal commendable and necessary, too, for the final ordeal through which Madam Truxton's pupils must necessarily pass.
Since that dark, gloomy day when Leah Mordecai acquainted Lizzie Heartwell with some of the facts of her sad life, not a word further had been spoken on the subject. But they had seemed bound to each other by an indissoluble bond of love. No word harsher than a caress, and no look sterner than a smile, had Lizzie ever cast upon Leah; and as the thirsty, withered flowers drink up the dew of heaven, so this girl of misfortune received that tender, unalloyed love.
The inexorable duties of the school were pressing, forbidding long confidential talks and clandestine interviews. Each and all were impressed with the fact that they were approaching an important, and, to some, a dreaded epoch in their lives.
Leah had long since acquainted Lizzie with the consummation of her fears, informing her of the engagement between Mark Abrams and her sister Sarah. With this information—this avowal of her broken heart and hopes—Leah had enshrouded the subject with silence and laid it away, as we lay our treasures in the tomb. Lizzie, always compassionate and discreet, made no mention of it; and so the silence was unbroken as the days passed on.
In the Citadel Square, far above Madam Truxton's seminary, the drilling, drilling, drilling, was daily going on in these sunny days. Drilling, drilling, drilling—for the coming battle of life, or for the crimson strife of war that might desolate a land. Which was it? Only the veiled years could answer this inquiry. Meanwhile, the drilling still went on.
High hopes filled manly bosoms, and ambitious hearts throbbed wildly, as the approaching end of the military year drew nigh.
Emile Le Grande sat dozing in his private chamber late one evening, at the close of a severe day's duty, seated in a capacious arm-chair, with his head dropped upon his breast. The young man was dozing over the journal that he held in his unconscious grasp. Had one stolen beside him and looked down, he might have read the following entries, beginning many months previous to this evening.
"January.—I have seen the fair Leah but three times since Bertha Levy's tea-party, yet I have passed her house daily for that purpose ever since. Zounds! It's an ill fate, I swear! . . .
"February.—How my heart beat to-day, as I was walking arm-in-arm with George Marshall, and we suddenly confronted the beautiful Jewess as she was turning into Prince street.
"'What a magnificent face, Emile! What Hebrew maiden is that bowing to you?'
"'Miss Mordecai,' I proudly replied, 'the Jewish banker's daughter, of whom you have heard me speak before.'
"'Yes, certainly. Well, she is beautiful. You seem a little bewitched, boy,', he said. And I said—nothing.
"March.—I am more and more perplexed. The Jewess is at the bottom of it all. To-day I hinted to Helen something of my fancy for Leah Mordecai. She only laughed. I was irritated by her ridicule, and I told her I intended to marry Leah if I could. Her silly reply was, 'Well, suppose you can't?' School-girls are intolerably silly, at Helen's age! She thinks now of nothing and nobody but Henry Packard, and he's the stupidest cadet in the institute—everybody knows that. I wish I had a sister that could sympathize with me. Wh-e-e-w! I am altogether out of sorts. Maybe I'll be all right to-morrow.
"April.—Prof. Brown said to-day that I was not studying hard enough, and if I did not spur up I should come out shabbily at the end of the term.
"George Marshall, too, good fellow that he is, says I think too much about the girl. Maybe I do; but I should like him to tell me how a fellow is to help it. That Jewess bewilders me! If old Mordecai was not rich, I should love her for her dreamy eyes. I'll swear, ever since she spoke to me so sweetly a week ago, and gave me a clasp of her white, slender hand, I haven't cared whether I was prompt at parade, studies, or anything else—so I could always be prompt at meeting her. She looks doleful sometimes. She cannot be very happy. I wonder what my mother would think if she could read this journal. But, old book, you never tell any tales, do you?
"May.—The days are growing warmer—beautiful days, too. Everything is in bloom, and the old Queen City looks charming. The girls, too, Madam Truxton's and all others, swarm about the town like bees in a rose-garden. I meet them at every turn.
"My uniform is getting rather shabby; the buttons and lace are quite tarnished. I must have a new suit before long.
"I am a lucky fellow of late—have seen Leah M. many times. She came home with Helen twice, and I have walked with her many times. I have told her that I love her, but she does not seem inclined to trust me. Only to-day I sent her a magnolia leaf, upon which was written, 'Je vous aime, ma belle Juive.' Helen said she smiled as she took it and said, 'Thank him, if you please.' That was favorable, I think. Yes I consider myself a lucky fellow.
"June 1.—I am all out of sorts to-night. Things have not gone smoothly at the Citadel to-day. I was again reprimanded by that old bald-headed Brown. He must forget that I am a man, and not a mere boy. I don't care whether 'I pass,' or not, as the boys say.
"'Deficient in mathematics,' the professor said, gravely; and I suppose I am. I never could endure figures, and yet I must make my living by them.
"French I understand pretty well. I depend upon that to help me through.
"George Marshall will do all he can for me, I know; there's no better cadet in the institute; old Brown says that himself. I find that George was right when he told me long ago that I had too many thoughts in my head about the girls. Deuce take the thoughts! but they are there. My very proper and punctilious mother, too, has been scoring me lately. Somehow she found out my fancy. Whew! how she did scold me! Said she would like to know if I had forgotten the blood that flowed in the Le Grande veins! If I were lost to family pride and honor so far as to mingle my blood with that of the old pawnbroker, Mordecai! How she looked! How she stamped the floor with her dainty foot when I hinted at the fact that my maternal grandfather was neither duke nor lord! How she hushed my 'impertinence,' as she styled it, with such invectives as 'fool, idiot, plebeian'! Heigho! But I felt that it was unmanly in me to provoke mother so, and I begged her pardon.
"I did not promise her, though, to leave off loving Leah Mordecai. I did not tell her, either, that I had asked Leah to be my wife one of these days, when school-days were ended.
"June 5.—The closing exercises of the schools have been hurried up this year, as the weather is exceedingly warm, and the Board of Health fear a return of the terrible scourge, yellow fever, that so devastated this fair city five years ago. Next week, Madam Truxton's seminary closes, and that is one week before the institute does. Invitations to Madam's levee are already out. The graduating class of cadets are invited—lucky fellows!
"Helen seems really sad at the prospect of parting with her school-days and her friends. But then she is eighteen, and that's quite old enough for a girl to come out. She says, too, that of all the girls at school, Lizzie Heartwell will be the most regretted when she leaves the Queen City for her home in a distant State. She is quite a pretty girl, but too religious, I should judge, from what Helen says. Her mother is a widow. I guess they are poor.
"Mother is quite reconciled to me again, and spoke playfully to me last night about marrying Miss Belle Upton, who is to visit Helen next week and attend the closing of Madam Truxton's school. Well, 'we shall see what we shall see,' but I hardly think I will. She can hardly eclipse 'Leah Mordecai the beautiful,'—that's the way I write it now."
THE examination-days at Madam Truxton's were over. The long-dreaded reviews had been passed with credit to both pupils and instructors. The certificates of scholarship, and the "rewards of merit," had been given to the fortunate competitors; the long-coveted diplomas awarded to the expectant "finishing class," and that memorable term of school life was closed forever. The hour for the event had come. The grand old drawing-rooms above the assembly hall in the spacious building were filled to repletion—filled with the patrons and select guests that were honored with the fastidious Madam's courtesy. It was an elegant assembly, one characteristic of the Queen City in her days of unostentatious aristocracy, of gentle-bred men and women.
Conspicuous among the famed guests were the three-score cadets, themselves just ready to emerge from college walls and step forth with triumphant tread upon life's broad opening field.
The "finishing class" numbered more than a score of girls—all young, some gifted, many beautiful—whose homes were scattered far and wide through the country; young girls who, for many months, and even years, had lived and studied and loved together, with all the ardor and strength of youth. Now they were to be sundered; sundered with no prospect of future reunion.
All felt this approaching separation with more or less sorrow, according to their varying natures; and some contemplated it with deep regret.
The greetings, congratulations, and presentations were over, and Madam Truxton, in all her stately elegance, had at last relaxed her rigid vigilance, and the "finishing class" were free—free to wander for the first time, and that first the last too, among the spacious halls and corridors of the old school building, as young ladies. Free to receive the smiles and addresses of the long-forbidden cadets without fear of madam's portentous frown.
At length the sound of music rose upon the air. Knotted groups here and there bespoke the preparation for the dance. Sets were forming in drawing-rooms and halls, and impatient feet were moving to the measure of the prelude.
"Miss Heartwell, may I claim your hand for the quadrille?" saidGeorge Marshall, bowing before Lizzie at the presentation of MadamTruxton herself.
"I thank you, I never dance, Mr. Marshall."
"Not dance! How's that?"
"Never learned, sir."
"That's stranger still. I supposed all of madam's young ladies danced."
"In general they do," replied Lizzie, "but from peculiar circumstances I am an exception to the general rule. If you desire a partner in the dance, allow ne to present you to my friend, Bertha Levy. She dances like a fay."
"Not just now, thank you, Miss Heartwell; if it is not impertinent,I would like to know why you do not dance."
"Well, it's a simple story, quickly told; and if you will listen a moment I'll inform you, if you desire."
"With pleasure. Go on."
"Melrose, my native home, in the State of —, is a quiet little town, with little social life and less gayety. My mother, too, is a widow, who has lived in great seclusion ever since my father's death, which occurred when I was a little child. I have been her only companion in all these years of bereavement and sorrow, and it has never been her desire that I should indulge in any of the pleasures and gayeties that young people are fond of. From these causes my life has assumed a sombre tone that may seem, and indeed is, unnatural in the young. Yet, as I have known nothing else all my life, it is no trial for me to forego the pleasures that are so alluring to you, perhaps, Mr. Marshall."
George Marshall made no reply, and for a time seemed absorbed in contemplation. He had listened attentively to this simple, half-told history of her life. And as he marked the gentle expression of her spirituelle face, she became in his eyes a model of beauty. The allusion to the death of her father had recalled to his mind the time and manner of his own father's death—a time when the terrible plague of yellow fever had swept over the Queen City with devastating wing. Observing George Marshall's silent, absorbed manner, Lizzie continued:
"You think me very uninteresting, I dare say. Young ladies who do not dance are generally so considered. Allow me to present you to some of my friends who will—"
"I beg pardon, Miss Heartwell, for my inattention. I was thinking of the past—the past recalled by your own story. Excuse my abstraction, I pray."
"But the young ladies?" said Lizzie.
"I do not care to dance now, if you will allow me the pleasure of a promenade," he replied.
"Certainly I will," replied Lizzie with a graceful bend of the shapely head; and clasping with her timid little hand the strong arm of the manly cadet, she passed with him from the lower drawing-room across the hall to the library.
"There's more room in the corridor than here," said Lizzie; "suppose we go there?"
"First let me ask a question, suggested by the musical instrument I see standing in the library. Do you sing? Do you sing with the harp?"
"I do."
"Will you not sing for me?"
"I will, with pleasure, if you will make room in the library," she replied with unaffected simplicity. The library was occupied by a number of matronly ladies and elderly gentlemen—all of the guests who were not participating in the dance. Lizzie bowed her head slightly, and passed to the harp, now silent in one corner. Without hesitation she seated herself before it, and the slender fingers grasped the strings of the instrument with a masterly touch, running through a soft, sweet prelude of tender chords. Her voice at last trilled forth in the charming strains of the old Scotch ballad, "Down the burn, Davy, love."
Concluding this old favorite air, she sang again, with sweetness, the witching song, "I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows."
Then rising from the harp, she said, with sweet accent and sweeter smile, "Now that I have bewitched you with my music, Mr. Marshall, I am ready for the promenade on the corridor."
These words so lightly spoken by the girl, were but the utterance of a truth of which she had no suspicion. George Marshall was indeed bewitched, and bowing a silent assent, he offered his arm to the enchantress, and soon Lizzie found herself among the dancers, who were seeking temporary relaxation from the exercise, scattered in groups here, there, and everywhere about the spacious building.
Out into the long balcony, where the silvery moonlight lay softly as dew upon the flowers, George Marshall led the way, with the young girl clinging timidly to the brave strong arm, that for months had known no tenderer touch than the cold, cruel steel of the musket, the constant companion of the cadet in the military course just closing.
They passed in silence through the corridor, and at last stood at the eastern end that overlooked the sea, stretching her arms around the child of her bosom, the devoted Queen City.
George Marshall, always taciturn, was now painfully silent. His brain, always quick and clear to comprehend a problem in Legendre, now seemed beclouded and sluggish. At length, embarrassed by the oppressive silence, Lizzie endeavored to arouse her companion by remarking,
"Are you fond of the sea, Mr. Marshall?"
Still gazing eastward over the deep, he replied abstractedly:
"Do you mean, am I fond of sea-life? If so, I answer most emphatically, No. There's but one life in this world that attracts me"—and here his manner grew constrained as he continued—"but one, and that's the life of a soldier. I love military life and service, and when my course is finished—which time is near at hand—if I am successful, as I hope to be, I shall offer myself to my country, and await impatiently her refusal or acceptance of my humble services. But I beg your pardon, if my enthusiasm has led me away from your inquiry. I only like to look upon the sea; its grandeur in a storm, and the peaceful repose that follows, excite my admiration, but that's all. It's something too treacherous to love."
"You fear the water, then," asked Lizzie smiling.
"Look to-night, if you please," was the answer, "at the soft silver sheen that covers its beautiful blue bosom, and imagine, if you can, such peaceful water engulfing a hapless bark within its silent depths! Oh no; I only admire the sea as a part of God's wonderful creation. But, Miss Heartwell, there's something just visible in the hazy distance that I do love; it's old Defiance. You see the lights of the old fort twinkling far off on the water? They stir within me the martial spirit, and seem to beckon me on to an unknown, but longed-for destiny. It may be fancy, yet there has been a peculiar feeling toward that old fort ever since I first became a cadet at the Citadel. Why do you frown? Do you object to my enthusiasm?"
"By no means," replied Lizzie quickly; "but, strangely as it seems to fascinate you, it has always repelled, and even terrified me. It's the only object of the beautiful harbor that has ever cast a shadow across the loveliness of the sea. I hate it; and I have often wished the sea would draw it silently into its hungry depths, and leave no trace of it behind."
George laughed.
"Your fancy amuses me," he said. "It would never do to obliterate old Defiance, for then the enemy, should they ever come, would find easy access to the Queen City, and ruin and destruction might follow."
"Well, I guess my wishes will be unavailing in the future, as they have been in the past; and as I leave the Queen City to-morrow, old Defiance will fade from my sight though not from my memory, for a long, long time. So for the present I wish it no ill."
"Indeed," replied George Marshall in surprise, "do you leave theQueen City to-morrow—so soon?"
"Yes, I go by steamer—by the Firefly, that leaves to-morrow for the port of —, in my native State, and from there to Melrose, where I live."
"At what hour does the steamer leave?" inquired the young man thoughtfully.
"At six P.M., uncle tells me."
"And you leave so soon—six P.M. to-morrow?" he asked. "Maybe I am selfish in monopolizing you so long, Miss Heartwell. I have two friends you must know before the evening closes—Edwin Calhoun and Emile Le Grande. Have you met them? The dancing has ceased again, and we'll look them up."
"Thank you."
"Before we leave this moonlit spot, however, Miss Heartwell, I beg that you make friends with old Defiance, for my sake, and recall that cruel wish concerning him," he said playfully, and with an arch smile.
Lizzie replied, "For your sake, I will, and for yours only;" and throwing a kiss across the silvery sea, she said, "Take that, old fort, as a peace-offering."
The winds sighed and the sea murmured as they turned to rejoin the revellers, and that sportive kiss was borne away on the wandering breeze.
The revelry must end. Madam's love-bound pupils must be separated. The adieus must be spoken, but there must be no tears; that were a weak and indecorous manifestation of feeling, in madam's estimation. Blandly bowing her stately head, and kindly congratulating each upon having "finished," and finished well, madam gracefully waved them out of her presence, into the future, with a gentle motion of her jewelled hand.
"I shall see you to morrow, Lizzie," whispered Leah Mordecai, as she passed from the seminary escorted by Emile Le Grande.
"Certainly, at any hour, and do not disappoint me. Remember it's the last day."
All were gone. The stars twinkled faintly in the sky. Every light in madam's great house was extinguished, and all sound of that evening's revel hushed forever.
THE morning sun threw its ruddy beams, warm almost to tropical heat, through the half-closed casement of Leah Mordecai's apartment, and the intrusive light opened the dark, dreamy eyes to consciousness. The hour was late. Toil-worn and languid from hard study and the relaxing climate, Leah rested in her bed reluctant to arise.
"It's all over now; school-days are ended, and I am acknowledged a young lady, I suppose," thought Leah half-consciously, as she aroused at length from slumber. Then the thought came that it was the last day of Lizzie Heartwell's sojourn in the Queen City; and Leah sprang from her repose with a new and powerful impulse. "I shall spend these last hours with her," she muttered articulately, as she hastily performed the morning's simple toilet. "Yes, I'll tell her my secret, too, though to no living soul have I breathed it yet," she continued audibly, as she adjusted a pin here and there among the dark braids of her hair. At last, smoothing the jetty bands across the fair, oval forehead, she glanced back again to see that the scar—the hated, dreadful scar—was hidden. Then placing a knot of scarlet ribbon amid the delicate lace-work of her snowy morning dress, she languidly descended the stairs and entered the library, where her father sat awaiting her appearance.
Mr. Mordecai was proud of Leah; proud of her attainments at school, gratified with her grade of deportment, and delighted that she had "finished," and with so much credit. As she entered the library, he arose, and clasping her in his arms, imprinted first a good-morning and then a congratulatory kiss upon her face.
"I am proud of my daughter," he said; "proud that no one at Madam Truxton's excelled my own Leah. I am proud of your example to your sisters, and trust they will strive to emulate it."
"Thank you, father. I hope I shall never cause you shame," she replied with tenderness.
During this brief dialogue, the evil-eyed mother had sat an attentive listener, her jealous nature stirred to its depths. Then she said:
"If you are so proud of Leah now, what will you feel when Sarah is through school?"
"Additional happiness, I trust; and following her sister's example, she cannot disappoint papa," said Mr. Mordecai, stroking Sarah upon the head softly, as he arose and led the way to the breakfast table.
The morning repast was finished with more than becoming haste, for Mr. Mordecai had waited to welcome his daughter, and would consequently be late at his bank.
"It's real late," said Leah, as she followed her father from the house. "I hear the Citadel clock striking ten. I must spend the morning with Lizzie." Then donning the light Leghorn hat that gave her a gypsy-like appearance, she started forth toward Rev. Dr. Heartwell's unpretentious house. As she passed block and square that marked the distance, her heart was heavy and her thoughts were sorrowful. She realized that it was perhaps her final leave—taking of her most cherished friend. Her path led past the walls of the dark, gray citadel, and as she cast a glance up toward its turreted heights, and its prison-like windows, she sighed a deep-drawn, heart-felt sigh. And why?
The gentle sea-breeze had arisen, and though it sported with the helpless ribbon upon her bosom, and kissed again and again the crimson cheeks, it could not cool the fires of anxiety and sorrow that burned within her heart. She felt that she was losing much in losing Lizzie Heartwell. And the fear was not an idle one.
Trembling with fatigue and deep-hidden emotion, Leah at length stood at the door of Dr. Heartwell's house, awaiting the answer of the porter.
The door opened. "M-m-miss L-l-lizzie s-s-says c-c-come right u-up stairs, M-m-iss M-m-ordecai," stuttered out the polished black Hannibal who attended the door, known throughout the large circle of Dr. Heartwell's friends and acquaintances as a most accomplished servant and a most miserable stammerer.
"Very well; please show me the way," replied Leah, repressing a smile.
Up two flights of stairs she followed the dark guide, and when they arrived at Lizzie's room, whose door stood ajar, he said, with a flourish of his right hand; "M-m-iss M-m-mordecai, M-m-iss L-l-lizzie."
"Well, Hannibal, why don't you tell me?" said Lizzie playfully; and Hannibal retreated below stairs, grinning and rubbing his head in confusion. The girls were left alone. Lizzie was busy packing trunks and arranging boxes, while every description of feminine paraphernalia was lying about the room in disorder.
"Now let me help you, dear," said Leah, "and then we can have a long talk."
"Thank you, so we will. I'll first tumble these things into that trunk quick as a flash, for Aunt Rose will not come up to inspect them, I guess; and when I get home my mother will give them a good overhauling. I am tired and worn out from hard study and excitement, and my good mother will excuse my disorder, this time. Cram them in. Here goes the shawl, now comes my dress, the muslin I wore last night. Don't let me crush that. I'll fold it carefully, for the sake of the compliment it secured me last night," said Lizzie, smiling as she turned the snowy garment about, folding it for the trunk.
"What was that?" said Leah.
"George Marshall said I looked like a pearl, my dress was so gauzy. How does that sound to-day? It sounded very well last night. I scarcely made him a reply. I don't know how to reply to such speeches, but I thought if I did look like a pearl in my gauzy robes, it was owing to my mother's good taste and skilful fingers, for no professional modiste touched or contrived my dress."
"It's as handsome as any Madame Aufait turns out, I think," saidLeah.
"Not as handsome as yours, Leah; but then my mother has to consider the cost in everything, and you do not."
These words of Lizzie's, this kind and loving allusion to her mother's tenderness and never-wearying care, fell upon the heart of Leah as the cold, cruel steel falls upon the unoffending dove. She looked out of the window and brushed a tear from the fringed eyelids, that Lizzie might not see it.
Lizzie continued, "I must take care of this dress, Leah; I don't know when I shall have a new one again. Maybe, dear, the next time you hear from me, I'll be playing school—ma'am, and such robes will not be often brought into use. How would you like to be my pupil, Leah?" she said, with a forced attempt at pleasantry.
Leah looked seriously at her friend a moment, and said, "You haven't any idea of teaching, really, Lizzie?"
"Yes, dear, I may teach. My mother is a widow, you know, and by no means wealthy. I am the oldest child. She has educated me at great sacrifice, with my dear uncle's assistance, and it would be wrong in me not to show my gratitude by at least endeavoring to maintain myself, if nothing more. Oh yes, love, by and by I shall be an angular school—ma'am, unless"—and she laughed a roguish, merry laugh—"unless I get married."
"Dear me! how the wind blows!" said Leah, as the white muslin curtain flapped backward and forward in the playful breeze, ever and anon covering her beautiful head and face.
"Yes, Leah, this same sweet sea-breeze will soon waft me far from you, when to meet again, God only knows. I am about through this packing now, and we must have our talk—our last, long, confidential chat, for many, many days."—"Maybe years," Leah added sorrowfully.
"Here goes old trunk number one. Books, and everything pertaining to school-days, are tucked away in you;" and she turned the key. "This one, number two, I shall not close till Aunt Rose makes a little deposit in it of something for my mother—so she requested me." Then stooping down, Lizzie drew forth from its hiding-place a carefully wrapped little bundle, and handing it to Leah, said:
"Here, dear, is a scarlet silk scarf, fringed with gold, that I desire to give you as a keepsake. It is something I prize, as it was brought from Greece by an uncle of mine, some years ago. Its colors will contrast beautifully with your sweet face; take it."
"Keep it yourself, Lizzie. I need nothing, I care for nothing, for personal adornment. You tell me I am beautiful, but that does not satisfy the heart that has suffered so from cruel wrong-doing. I care only for that of which I receive so little—human sympathy and love. Take it back."
"No; keep it as a memento of my love, if you never care to wear it," said Lizzie.
Leah laid her arms around Lizzie's neck at these words, and bending her head kissed her again and again.
"Now I am done, let's sit here by the window that looks out toward the sea, and have our chat."
"TO-DAY you leave me, Lizzie," Leah began; "leave poor Leah with no one—" then she stopped.
"Why do you hesitate? Is there something that troubles you?" Lizzie asked, observing Leah's hesitation.
"Yes," Leah said faintly, "there is something that troubles me—something that I fear to tell even you, dear Lizzie."
"Can't you trust me?"
"Not that, Lizzie; but I am ashamed to tell you, and afraid too. But," she continued, "you know what I suffered about Mark Abrams, and how his love was taken from me and secured for another. Well"—she hesitated again. "The secret I am about to disclose now, does not concern Mark Abrams, or any other Hebrew under the sun."
"Is it some love-affair with a Gentile?"
"Yes," whispered Leah, "and it greatly perplexes me. It is something that has been forced upon me, and tremblingly I come to you for advice."
"Whom does it concern?"
"One that tells me he loves me, and swears eternal devotion—one whose name I hardly dare to mention."
"I hope he is worthy of you, whoever it may be."
"Have you not suspected me, Lizzie? Has not my tell-tale face betrayed me before? Can't you think who it is to whom I refer?"
"Can it be Emile Le Grande?" said Lizzie, after a moment's reflection, with a look of astonishment.
"Yes," faltered Leah, "he is the one that tells me he loves me."
"And do you love him, Leah?" said Lizzie, with some hesitation. The curtain that continued fluttering with renewed force was wafted full into the face of the young Jewess, and veiled the crimson blushes that overspread it. As gently as it came, the curtain floated back, and Lizzie detected the traces of Leah's sudden emotion. Without waiting for further inquiry, Leah continued:
"I determined I would tell you all, Lizzie, before we parted, and ask your advice. Yes, I think I do love Emile—love him, because he says he loves me. Last night he urged me again to become his wife. I trembled like a frightened bird; I felt that I was listening to dangerous words, yet I had not courage to break away from him."
"Did he say anything else—I mean about your being a Jewess?"
"Oh, yes; much. He said he cared nothing about that difference, if I did not; but I told him I did. I assured him that I had been reared a Hebrew of the straightest sect, and that my father would never consent to my marrying a Christian. At my remarks he laughed, and replied that he would take care of the opposition, if I would only marry him. He urged and pleaded with me to promise him, but I steadfastly refused. He is very fascinating though, and I think a dangerous man to come in the way of a poor, irresolute, unhappy girl like myself."
"Did he say much about the difference in religion, Leah?"
"He said something, not a great deal; said he was not religious himself; that one faith was about as useful to him as another, as he did not know positively which was the true one. He said he would as soon marry a Jewess as a Christian, so he loved her, and the religion might take care of itself."
"Did you ask if his parents knew of his love for you?"
"Yes. He replied that Helen knew of it, but he had not troubled himself to tell his parents. I did not like that remark; and I replied that they would doubtless object to my being a Jewess, should he tell them. He laughed at the bare suggestion, and I upbraided him a little for this apparent disregard of his parents."
"You might have referred him to the fifth commandment with propriety, Leah, I think."
"So I might, but did not think of it. I have told you about all now, Lizzie, and I want your opinion of such intermarrying. The subject stirs me deeply, and I have no other friend to whom I would dare confide it. I trust no one as I do you." Leah looked seriously and steadily into her friend's face, and Lizzie began:
"What I say now, Leah, is not intended as advice to you in regard to marrying Emile Le Grande, but only my opinion in general about marriages where such material differences exist. In the first place, a man who confesses that he has no religious faith, is to be pitied, if not despised. And I think an unbelieving Christian far worse than the most unbelieving Jew. It argues such an utter want of consistency and fidelity. I should fear to trust a man that could make such a confession. The Le Grandes are an irreligious family, and Emile's education has necessarily been neglected in that most important respect. In consequence of their want of religious principles, they are notoriously proud, haughty, and vain—silly even—of their family distinction. I imagine that Mrs. Le Grande could scarcely receive a deeper wound to her family pride, than from Emile's marrying a Jewess, no matter how lovely or high-born. All she knows or remembers of the Mordecais is, that the banker was once a poor, despised pawnbroker. No years of honest endeavor, or successful attainment, could wipe this fact from her retentive memory. It would be a misnomer, Leah, to call such a woman a Christian. She is an utter stranger to the sweet principles of faith and love embraced by true Christians, and practised by those who believe that they have 'passed from death unto life.'
"Then, your people, too, are unrelenting in their views on such unnatural marriages. Suppose you were to marry this man, in the face of the unyielding opposition of the parents on both sides—there's little hope that they could be reconciled. You see at once how you might be considered an outcast from your people and his too. Your children would be neither Jew nor Christian; for all the external rites and ceremonies of the earth cannot transform a Christian into a Jew, or a Jew into a Christian. Accursed be the nominal Christian that would allow his children, by ceremony or rite, to be made nominally Jews. Such a one is worse than an infidel; and has denied the faith. God made the Hebrews a great and glorious people—his own chosen children. But between Christians and Hebrew there is a wide, wide difference; and God made that, too.
"No; Leah, if I were advising a Jewess to marry a Gentile, which I am not doing, I would say, Select a man deeply rooted in religious principle, and clinging humbly to his Christian faith. Such a man would rarely, if ever, deceive or ill-use you."
"I see that you are right, Lizzie," interrupted Leah, apparently aroused by her companion's words. "I'll heed your teaching, and never listen to another word of love from the one who might lead me into temptation, and perhaps into a fatal snare. Alas!" she continued, with her dark eyes flashing, "but for a terrible lie, a cruel deception, I should still be the affianced of Mark Abrams, and happy in the hope of becoming his wife—not an unhappy, disappointed girl, open to the flattery and fascinations of another man."
"Keep your resolve, Leah, if you can; and may the all-wise Father give you strength," replied Lizzie.
"God helping me, I will; but you know I am a weak and helpless creature, and when you are gone, my only bosom-comfort and faithful friend will have departed. Promise me that you will never cease to love me, and remember with pity the heart that loves you and will ever yearn to be with you."
Lizzie made no reply; the swelling heart choked down the utterances that struggled to escape her lips; and drawing Leah close to her bosom, she embraced her in a silent, warm, and tender clasp. "Trust me, even unto death," at length she whispered softly; and the reply came:
"I will."
At the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs, Lizzie said, "There comes Aunt Rose. You will be at the wharf this evening, Leah, to see me off, and to bid me God-speed with one of your bright smiles, that I may hope for a safe arrival at my destined port?"
"Well, we have had our talk without interruption, and so I'll leave you," said Leah. "Your aunt will certainly want you to herself awhile. I'll meet you at the wharf in time. Till then, good-by."
As Mrs. Heartwell entered Lizzie's room, Leah passed out; and a sweeter, sadder face Mrs. Heartwell said she had rarely seen.
THE hours stole on, and the one for Lizzie's departure was at hand. As the sun sank slowly down to rest, on that memorable sunny June day, clouds of crimson, purple, and gold, blended in fantastic shapes, overspread the broad horizon, and attracted the most casual observer by their wondrous beauty. Toward the eastern horizon the sky was blue and cloudless, blending with the water in a vast azure immensity.
The cool, crisp sea-breeze had dissipated the intense heat of the day, and crowds of gay pedestrians, and scores of liveried vehicles, were passing and repassing upon the fashionable boulevard, where the wealth and beauty of the Queen City daily gathered after the heat of the day was over.
The Firefly, laden with her burden, was ready at the pier, awaiting the signal to depart. Lizzie Heartwell's friends still lingered upon the inviting deck, reluctant to speak the parting word that must so surely come. Dr. and Mrs. Heartwell, her uncle and aunt, Judge Amity and his daughter, her Sabbath-school teacher, Bertha, Helen, and Leah, the remaining ones of the "indissoluble quartette," as the school-girls termed these friends, were assembled on the deck, and with them Emile Le Grande and her newly formed friend, George Marshall. In compliance with his promise he had come to speed the parting vessel with good wishes, and watch its receding form till it was lost from view upon the trackless waters.
As the citadel gun fired its sunset signal, the planks were ordered in, friends rushed on shore, and then the Firefly moved from her moorings, to plough the deep again. As George Marshall spoke his last adieu, he slipped a tiny billet-doux into the hand of the departing girl, who half heeding the action, dropped it into her pocket, and sat down in loneliness upon the deck, to watch the slowly vanishing shore. Fainter and dimmer grew the speck upon the deep to the friends who watched on shore, fainter and dimmer in the gathering twilight, till the bark rounded old Defiance, and was divided by distance and darkness from their vision.
When Lizzie Heartwell, attended by the kind captain, descended below deck, she remembered the little missive, and drawing it from its hiding-place, read:
"Miss HEARTWELL: What would you think, if my wanderings should lead me, some day, to Melrose? "Regretfully, "G.M."
"Think I should like to see you," uttered the young girl, with a smile, as she folded the note again out of sight.
As the last glimpse of the Firefly faded from the vision of the sad-eyed watchers, they turned slowly from their lookout of sorrow, and bent their steps homeward.
"It's growing late, Miss Leah," said Emile, who stood near the youngJewess. "May I see you safely home?"
"Thank you, but it is not too late for me to go alone," she replied; "besides, my walk will lead to my uncle Jacob's, where I may spend the night; that's not very far, you know."
Determined not to be baffled in his purpose to escort Leah, he replied:
"'The longer the walk, the shorter the way,' with you, Miss Leah. Allow me to attend you, I pray." His pertinacity prevailed; and falteringly she replied, "As you like, Mr. Le Grande," resolving in her heart though, that this should be the last time. "Only this morning," thought she, "what did I promise Lizzie? And before the day is ended, I have broken that promise. What an irresolute creature I am! But this shall be the last. I vow it again."
"You will miss Miss Heartwell, I judge," began Emile, as he walked forward by her side. "From your sorrowful expression, one might think she had died, instead of vanished from sight in a vessel. I trust there are yet some friends in the Queen City; at least one, who will be kindly remembered in the absence of Miss Heartwell."
"Yes, Mr. Le Grande, I have some friends, a few, I trust, left behind; but no one, not a soul, that can supply her place in my affections. She has been more than a school-friend to me; she has been a counsellor, a sister; one who above all others comprehends my nature and sympathizes with and appreciates my character," said Leah, warmly.
"Indeed, Miss Heartwell is to be envied in possessing so much of your affection, and yet I think you speak unjustly in attributing to her alone the heart of love and sympathy you do. Have I not told you of my attachment and devotion to you? And do you still require other protestations to confirm the sincerity of my confession?"
At these words-unwelcome words to Leah-she colored deeply, and turning her dark, burning eyes full upon Emile, said:
"Mr. Le Grande, I pray you never let me hear you utter such a sentiment as that again. We are friends, and, if you choose, may always be; but, in all truthfulness I say it, more than friends we can never be. I confess frankly that your society is very agreeable to me, your manner fascinating, your style attractive; but I am a Jewess of the strictest sect, and you a Christian, and not a strict one; and these facts alone form an insurmountable barrier in the way of our being more than friends. A great gulf lies between us, over which even love cannot securely go. You cannot come to me, and I dare not cross to you. It is dishonor to God and disobedience to parents, to think of such a step. Mr. Le Grande, I beg you, forget this passion you profess; crush it out if it exists, and remember Leah Mordecai, the Jewess, as only a friend. Do you promise?" she said, trembling from head to to foot, for it had required all the moral strength of her yielding nature to utter these words-words that could instantly quench the only taper of hope that still burned in her soul.
"Do I promise?" he replied with haughty emotion. "No! I swear I will not! So long as you are free I will love you; and so long as your maidenhood gives the opportunity, I shall tell you of that love. Give you up? I, who love you with a mad and foolish devotion? I promise not to love you? No! no! Never, never, never, while hope lasts. What care I if you are a Jewess? It's the shrine of beauty where I bow, and because a Jewess breathes therein, shall I withdraw my homage? Never while I live. I swear it!"
Frightened at her desperate lover's words, Leah walked on in silence, almost regretting that her courage had permitted her to speak her mind so freely. After a time she said, "Do not be angry with me, Mr. Le Grande, I did not mean to offend you."
"It's worse than offence, it is death," he replied.
Ascending the steps of her uncle's house, by this time reached, Leah extended her hand and said, "Good-by. I'll tarry here to-night." Clasping her soft hand, he said, "I shall see you soon. Good-night."
A week after Madam Truxton's school closed, the term of the military academy ended. The drilling, drilling, drilling, was stopped, the graduating class of cadets had either won or lost the honors for which they contested; and the roll of candidates for military honors was handed to the world. Conspicuous among the names crowned with well-won distinction was that of George Marshall. A nobler, braver spirit never stepped from college walls upon life's crowded highway, or one with firmer, truer tread than he.