TIME rolled on. Months had melted into months until they were calendared by years, since we bade adieu to Madam Truxton's finishing class on that departed June day 185-, and watched with regretful eye the last well-executed drill of the graduating cadets of the same year.
Sunny twelvemonths only had so far passed over these sundered friends, many of whom still clung to each other with the old love of school days, and maintained by frequent correspondence a thorough knowledge of each other's lives and doings. It is worth mentioning that these years had brought some changes to the lives and fortunes of three of the four firm friends at Madam Truxton's, and to others who were once sworn friends at the institute.
In her quiet home at Melrose, Lizzie Heartwell was confronting daily the stern duties of life amid a bevy of bright-eyed little scholars, wearing with easy grace the dignity of school-mistress.
Helen Le Grande, a bright fresh blonde in school days, had blossomed into a fair, beautiful, fashionable belle, as devoted to society as society was devoted to her.
Bertha Levy, roguish and merry-hearted as ever, had been sent abroad to complete her education in Berlin—"To sober her down, and try and break her spirit," as she wrote in a letter to Lizzie.
It was only the life of Leah Mordecai that apparently was marked by no change. She was older by a few years-that was all the world saw of change in her life. To strangers' eyes, she was still pursuing the even tenor of her life, still wearing the melancholy expression, and still envied by many for her wealth and beauty. The eyes of the world could not read the impoverished heart that throbbed within her bosom.
On first leaving college, Emile Le Grande intended to study law, and for months endeavored to concentrate his mind upon the prosaic, practical teachings of Blackstone. The effort proved unsuccessful, and then procuring employment in a well-established banking house, he applied himself to business with commendable assiduity. Yet alive in his heart was the passion so long nourished for the beautiful Jewess. He still lost no opportunity of assuring her again and again of his unchanging devotion, and constantly endeavored, by tenderest utterances of love, to gain the promise of her hand.
This persistent homage, though avoided long by Leah, became in time not unwelcome; and as month after month passed on, she often whispered to herself, "Struggle as I may against it, I do love him. Love wins love, always, I believe."
George Marshall, realizing the fulfilment of his long-cherished dream, was in the active service of his country, a captain in the regular army. Though he was removed from his native State, no one who knew him could doubt that he stood firmly, bravely at his post of duty, ready to do his country's work at her bidding.
"MY son," said Mrs. Abrams, in low, gentle tone to Mark one day, as she looked into the small library where he sat busily at work upon something half-concealed in his hand, "come here a mimute, won't you?"
"Are you in a hurry, mother?" he replied, lifting his black eyes, bright with an expression of determination, and resting them full upon his mother's face.
"No, not exactly, if you are busy; but what are you doing?"
"I'll tell you when I come in, and not keep you waiting long either."
Mrs. Abrams quietly withdrew, and returned to the bedside of her little daughter Rachel, who lay suffering from pain and burning with fever.
"What can mamma do for her darling now?" said the fond mother, as she bent her head over her child and smoothed back the fair hair from the heated brow; "does your arm still hurt, my lamb?" The child's moan was her only answer.
"What a pity! How cruel that your dear little arm should have been so torn by that savage dog!" continued Mrs. Abrams, as she wet the bandage again with the cooling lotion, and brushed away the tears that she could not repress at the sight of her little daughter's suffering.
The sound of footsteps, and Mark stood in the doorway, holding in his hand a small, dark object, and said:
"Mother, do you see this? Well, I've got it ready—"
"O Mark!" interrupted his mother in horror. "When did you get that deadly thing: I beg of you, put that pistol up at once; the very sight of it terrifies me."
Mark laughed and replied, "I'll fix old Dame Flannagan's dog, mother, and then I'll put it away. She hid the dog from the police, but she can't keep it hid always. I shall kill it on sight, and go prepared to do so. I have vowed I would."
"Let the dog alone, son, you may get into trouble if you do not," replied his mother.
"Indeed, I will not let the dog alone," replied Mark indignantly, as he drew nearer to the bed whereon the suffering little sister lay, with lacerated arm and burning brow. "To think of this dear child, as she was innocently trundling her hoop along the side-walk, being attacked by that savage brute, and her life so narrowly saved! Indeed, I'll not let it alone. I'll shoot it the first time I set eyes upon it, and the old hag had better not say anything to me after I have done it. Poor little darling!
"What shall brother Mark bring his little sister today?" continued the fond brother, stooping over and kissing the child again and again, before leaving for the office of the shipping firm, of which he had just been made a partner.
"Yes, mother," he continued, slipping the weapon of death into the inner pocket of his coat, "I am not a warlike man, as you know, but I'll carry this," pointing to the pistol, "till I kill that dog, sure;" and adjusting his coat and hat he passed out of the house.
Rabbi Abrams did not reside among the palatial residences of the Queen City. A rather restricted income compelled him to find a more unpretentious home than was perhaps in keeping with his avocation and position in life. Yet, carrying into practice the teaching he set forth, to "owe no man anything," and never live beyond one's income, he established his home in a portion of the city that was rather characterized by low rents than aristocratic abodes. However, they were respectable, and comfortably situated withal. Immediately adjoining the rabbi's house lived a garrulous old Irish woman, at once the aversion and dread of the neighborhood. Old Margery O'Flannagan needed no protection against the incursions of depredators, beyond the use of her own venomous tongue; still, she further strengthened her ramparts by the aid of a dog of most savage and ferocious propensities, that she dignified by the ominous name of "Danger." Between her and Danger there existed the strongest bond of friendship, if not affection. In an unexpected manner, this savage dog had assaulted the little daughter of the rabbi, and when the father demanded the life of the dog at the hands of the police, she hid him away out of reach, and swearing like a pirate, threatened to kill any man that dared molest Danger.
LEAH MORDECAI sat alone in her bed chamber. A bright fire glowed within the grate, and the gas-light overhead added its mellow brightness to the apartment. Arrayed in a comfortable crimson silk wrapper, the girl sat before the fire, with her slippered foot upon the fender, and gazed steadily and thoughtfully into the fantastic coals. Without, the world was cold and bright, for a pale, tremulous moon filled the world with its beauty. The wind came in across the sea, and mingling with the murmur of the waters, produced a weird and ghost-like sound, as it swept through half-deserted streets, penetrating rudely the abodes of poverty, and whistling around the mansions of the rich. This sound Leah heard faintly, as it sought ingress at her windows, and down the half-closed chimney. She shuddered; yet it was not an unusual or a frightful sound, and not half so saddening as the sound that floated up the stairs: the sound of low, sweet singing-Mark Abrams singing with flute-like voice to her sister Sarah, who was soon, very soon, expected to become his wife. Leah had heard that voice before, had listened to its melody, attuned to other words, and as she recalled the vanished time, she trembled, shuddered, with an indefinable terror.
As the sound of the music ceased, she arose and walked to the window. With both hands pressed closely beside her face, so as to exclude every gleam of light from within, she looked steadily out of the window. All without was bright, and cold, and beautiful. White fleecy clouds drifted about the heavens, like so many phantom barks upon the deep blue sea.
"It's cold without and cold within," she muttered, and then, as if startled by some sudden resolve, she turned from the window back to a small escritoire, saying:
"Yes, I'll delay no longer. I must answer Lizzie's letter and tell her all. My duties for the coming week will be pressing, allowing me no opportunity for writing, equal to that of the present."
Then she wrote: "QUEEN CITY, January 20, 185-.
"MY OWN CHERISHED FRIEND: To-night from my casement I looked out upon the cold, bright world, wrapped in moonlight, and as I gazed at the far-off misty horizon, the distance called to mind my far-off friend at Melrose—recalled to mind, too, the fact that your last welcome letter has for an unwonted length of time remained unanswered. Your letter that came on the new year, came as the flowers of spring, always fresh and beautiful. It has been neglected from the inevitable press of circumstances by which I have been surrounded, which neglect, I feel assured, you will appreciate and forgive, when I have detailed the following facts.
"My sister Sarah is to be married in a week. This approaching event has been the cause of my restricted time, pressing out of sight, and even out of memory, all letter-writing.
"Yes, dear Lizzie, the long-expected nuptials are actually about to be celebrated, and all our household, except myself, are in a fever of excitement and delight.
"My step-mother is ecstatic over the success of her scheming, and even condescends to be kind to me,-to me, Lizzie, whom she has so long and so faithfully despised.
"My father, too, seems happy over this alliance, knowing Mark's excellent character and business qualifications, and appreciating the connection with the rabbi's family. Mark himself appears happy in the hope of securing Sarah for his wife. But as to Sarah, I can scarcely divine her feelings; she is too young and light-hearted fully to comprehend the step before her. She seems delighted with the occasion that bestows upon her so many handsome presents; and beyond this I think she scarcely casts a thought. The marriage will be solemnized at the synagogue, and the reception held here at home. Mark has given Sarah some elegant gifts, gifts that should be mine. Is it wrong to write those words—words that contain so much meaning? It may be; but as you know all, dear Lizzie, I shall not erase them. And this reminds me of something I must tell you, of another piece of double-dealing and treachery imposed upon me by Rebecca. Some weeks ago, my father's cousin, Baron von Rosenberg, hearing of Sarah's approaching marriage-I have told you of this cousin before-sent over a box of valuable presents for the children, all of us, including Sarah, of course. Among the articles sent, were an elegant crimson velvet mantle, and a diamond brooch. 'These,' wrote the baron, 'are for your eldest daughter-Leah I believe.'
"My father gave the letter to his wife, supposing, of course, that I would be allowed a perusal of it. But instead she secreted the letter, and in disposing of the gifts, said to me 'Here, Leah, is a handsome necklace, sent to you by the baron, and this elegant velvet mantle and diamond brooch are for your sister Sarah-wedding presents. How kind of the baron to remember her so substantially!' 'Yes,' said I, 'it was kind, and thoughtful too. I am glad that he has been so generous. I certainly thank him for his remembrance of me.' I had no dream but that she was telling me the truth, nor should I have suspected the deception, but, unfortunately, I overheard my father one day say, 'Rebecca, how did Leah like the mantle and brooch the baron sent her?'
"'Oh, she thought them beautiful, as they are,' was the quick reply; 'but like a generous girl-there are few such-she begged her sister to keep them, as suitable bridal gifts from her, as well as tokens of her love.'
"'She's a dear unselfish creature,' replied my father, with the credulity of a child; 'I never saw another young person just like her. She's so deep and hidden in her nature, one cannot easily read her thoughts. I wish sometimes she was more open and confiding; but she is a darling, for all her reticence.'
"'Yes, and loves Sarah to idolatry,' was the smooth, well-put rejoinder.
"This much I heard, dear Lizzie, of the conversation, and then, with a horrified, sickening sensation, I flew away-flew away to solitude, and communion with myself.
"I dared not undeceive my father; and as to the gifts my heart cried out, 'Go, vain baubles, go? What are diamonds and velvet to a desolate soul? Go, as Mark Abrams, and many other things rightfully mine, have gone from me—through treachery and fraud.'
"At this dreadful discovery, dear Lizzie, I longed for your true heart, so warm with sympathy, but it was far, far away, and no medium of communication between us but the soulless, tearless pen. That was inadequate then; now, the feeling has passed.
"But I crave your pardon for consuming so much time and space upon myself and my woes. Forgive me.
"When the wedding is over I'll write you a full and detailed account of it all.
"Did I tell you in my last of Bertha Levy? She is cultivating her voice in Berlin, and promises to become a marvellous singer, they say. Would you ever have thought she could be sober long enough to sing even a short ballad? What a girl Bertha was!-real good and kind though, despite her witchery.
"Oh, me! do you ever wish, Lizzie, you were a school-girl again at Madam Truxton's? I do. I often recall the song: "'Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,' and am always sorrowful that my cry is unheeded by this swift-footed monarch.
"I see Madam Truxton occasionally. She is always engrossed, as you know, and the pressing duties to the new pupils exclude from her mind all remembrance of the old ones. Yet I love her, and always shall.
"I think I hear you asking, 'What of Emile?' and in a few brief words I can reply. I still see him occasionally, and he still professes his unchanging love for me. Forgive me, Lizzie; pardon what may seem in me a weakness, but I must confess it, I believe I love Emile. Firmly as I once promised you to shut my heart against his overtures of love, I have slowly but surely yielded my resolution, and now I can but frankly confess it. I do not think I shall ever marry him. I have told him so again and again, and I believe I shall never surrender this resolve. I have never told my father of Emile's devotion to me. I have not deemed it necessary, as I do not intend to marry him; and, then, I have been afraid to tell him. I only meet Emile by chance, and but rarely. I know you would advise me not to see him at all, and maybe I will not in the future. Nous verrons.
"Since I wrote to you last, Kitty Legare has died. She has been fading, as you know, for a long time with consumption. Dear girl, now she is at rest; and, I think, to be envied.
"But dear friend, I am drawing my letter to a tedious length. The stillness of the hour admonishes me to seek repose. So, hastily and with everlasting love, I bid you good night. "Your own "LEAH."
THE days passed on, and the night before the wedding hung its cold, starless gloom over the Queen City-hung as the sable pall above the dead.
"My dear," said Mrs. Abrams, as Mark on this evening was preparing to leave his house for that of his affianced, to make the last necessary arrangements for the coming ceremony, "I wish you could be with me to-night. A mother's heart calls for the last evening of her son's free life, claims the last moments of the time when she can call him exclusively her own. To-morrow, dear boy, you are no longer mine. I shall have only a secondary claim upon your love and companionship, and must in the future console myself with the knowledge, that in losing a mother my son has gained a wife."
"O mother," replied Mark, with a troubled look, "don't speak so. I am compelled to be at Mr. Mordecai's a little while to night, and also to call at Crispin's, and see that my boot is stretched, and then I'll hasten back. Tight boots on a wedding day, mother, will not do at all, you know," added Mark playfully, as he stroked the soft hair that waved back from the oval Jewish face-a pale, gentle face it was. "I'll be back very soon."
"Brother Mark, isn't you glad my arm is so well? Mother says I may go to the synagogue, too, to-morrow, and see you married," said the innocent little sister, whose lacerated arm still hung in the snowy bandage around her neck.
"Yes, dovey, indeed I am," replied Mark, bending down beside the fair child, and tenderly caressing her. "If my little Rachel could not be there, brother Mark would not consider himself well married. I am only sorry that I haven't had a peep at that vicious dog that hurt my darling so. Never mind, I am still ready and waiting for his reappearance, and then I'll have revenge.—Good-night, dear mother, I must go; a sweet good-night to you and little Rachel-till I come back." The young man stepped out into the cold, dark night, and turned his face toward the elegant home of the Jewish banker.
"Umph! umph! dis is a hard night for old Peter-cold wind, and no stars. People ought to 'preciate de old carrier," grunted out rather than spoke, a rather short, slightly bent old negro, as he stood peering curiously out of the window of the dimly lighted, misty old printing-office of the "Queen City Courier." Then turning around he shuffled toward the door, ejaculating, "Bad night on my rheumatiz;" and continuing, as he descended the well-worn stairs, "de boss just give me a little of de w'iskey bitters-w'iskey bitters mighty good for de rheumatiz. Maybe when dey warm me up good, I won't feel so stiff, and de cold won't pinch so dreadful. Umph! umph! umph! ward number two comes fust," and clutching the bundle of papers more tightly, and gathering again the folds of the well-worn gray blanket around him, the old carrier struck out, as briskly as the cold and his stiffened limbs would allow, on his accustomed beat.
It was three o'clock in the morning, and for an hour he trudged on and on, past block and square, casting the welcome household visitor, "The Courier," right and left as he went. Suddenly he stopped a moment to listen. "Dere, it's four o'clock," he said, as old St. Luke's rang out the hour. "I'll soon be through dis ward, an' in time for the up-town gentry too, as dey takes breakfast late. Old Peter has a long round, but he don't mind dat, so he gits de money. Den all de quality knows old Peter, and how de hats come off and de ladies smile when de New Year comes round again. Humph! Jingo! How stiff dis knee! When old Peter dead and gone, nebber find anodder carrier like him. Peter nebber stop for nuffin, de rain nor de shine, de northers nor de anything-umph! not even de rheumatiz." Here the old man cut short his soliloquy, stooping down to rub the afflicted member that so retarded his progress, and whose pain was an ever-present reminder that his agility and youth were gone forever. Erecting himself, he began again, "Dis bin a putty hard winter on mos' anybody, 'specially on de rheumatiz. But for de w'iskey bitters of de boss, old Peter wouldn't be as spry is he is. Boss says, 'W'iskey bitters mighty good for anything,' an' I believe him. Here it's Jinnivery, an' the winter mos' gone, an' the rheumatiz will work out of me by next winter, an' then I'll be as good as new again." By this time the old carrier stood over against the Citadel Square, and halting for a moment in his hobbling march, he looked right and left, backward and forward, and then said, "Guess I'll save a block in going to Vine street, by cutting through the Citadel Square-so I will. The gates are always locked at this hour, but I know where I can slip through under a loose plank, papers and all." So saying, he hobbled across the street, found the opening, and doubling himself up, went through it in a trice. Then trudging on, he bethought himself again of the sovereign remedy for all his ailments, "rheumatiz" especially, and he continued with evident delight:
"Next winter w'iskey bitters will be good too, and de boss will be shure to have 'nuff for us both. I 'spec' the boss teched wid de rheumatiz. I'll-Hallo! w'at's dat? Jes' git out ob my way, ole grunter. Dis ole Peter."
"Oh, God! help me! come here!" groaned a half audible voice. "Come to me! help me! help me!"
"O Lordy!" exclaimed old Peter as he jumped back in sudden fright."Who's dat? What you want? W'at's de matter? I don't like spirits.You can't trick me. I'm the carrier ob de Courier dese five an'twenty year. What you want?"
"O Lord! help me! Come to me, Peter. I know you. I can do no harm. Come, I implore! Come quickly! Reassured by the faint, but importunate words, old Peter approached the dark object that lay upon the ground, scarcely discernible in the dim twilight of approaching day.
"Bend down close to me, Peter. I am dying. I am cold and faint, and wish to say a few words to you."
"Good God!" and the old negro shuddered as he bent down over the prostrate form before him.
"Don't you know me, Peter?"
Peter bent closer down.
"Mass' Mark Abrams, is dis you? What's de matter wid you? Who did it? Who killed you? Tell me; tell me for God's sake."
"Listen to me, Peter; listen. I am dying-shot in the breast with a pistol."
"Who did it? Who did it? For Heaven's sake, who did it?"
"No one, Peter; be calm; listen to me. It was accidental. I had in the inside pocket of my coat a small pistol. In passing through here about eleven o'clock, walking hastily homeward from Crispin's, I stumbled by some chance, and as I fell the pistol was discharged and has killed me. Here, take the pistol quick, and run for my father. Be quick, man, quick, that I may, if possible, say farewell. Take the pistol with you. I am not strong enough to reach it. Be quick."
Horrified, the old carrier groped on the ground for it, and accidentally dipped his hand into the pool of blood near the wounded man.
"The devil? I hate blood? Dis is bad, bad, bad! Mass' Mark! Mass'Mark!" No reply.
"Mass' Mark! I b'lieve he's dead. I feared so. Mass' Mark!" Still no reply.
"O Lordy! I'll get away from here. De poor child's dead, an' if I'm seen 'bout here dey may 'cuse me of murder. I can't go an' tell nuffin. Ole Peter's 'fraid. I must git away;" and gathering up his papers and the blanket again, he left the scene of the tragedy as rapidly as his disabled limbs would allow, feeling as if some fearful ghost were in close pursuit. Unconsciously, he carried the pistol with him, and was many squares away before he sufficiently collected his bewildered and terrified faculties, to observe the deadly weapon in his grasp. "What should he do with it?" at once flashed through his brain, and as the brightening daylight prevented his returning it to its place beside the victim, he resolved to keep it. He dared not cast it from him.
As old Peter was too much frightened to reveal the truth concerning the tragedy, he resolved at once to keep the secret forever within his own breast, and as he was guilty of no crime, he had no fears of the mystery being revealed. So he went on in the advancing morning, on his long, tedious round of duty, and no single reader that day missed the "Courier" or suspected the secret that lay hidden in the carrier's breast. A few hours after the columns of the "Courier" had been carefully scanned, on this January morning, an "Extra" flashed from the press, and flooded the Queen City with consternation and many hearts with woe and lamentation. It ran thus:
"Fearful tragedy! Mysterious assassination! Bridal day turned into a day of mourning and bitter disappointment!
"This morning at an early hour the body of young Mark Abrams was discovered, dead, and lying in a pool of blood near the centre of the Citadel Square. How he came to his death is still a mystery, but it was undoubtedly by the hand of an assassin. The most terrible fact connected with this sad calamity, is, that the day of the unfortunate man's death was to have been his wedding day. He was to have married the second daughter of Benjamin Mordecai, Esq., banker. His body has been removed to the house of his father, the worthy rabbi of Maple Street Synagogue. The burial will take place this afternoon, at the hour appointed for the wedding ceremony. Seldom has the Queen City been so shocked; and many heavy hearts will to-day join in the wail of woe that goes up from the stricken family."
Thus the bulletin ran, and surmise, consternation, and sorrow, were upon the lips of many men, women, and children in the Queen City.
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.