THE ruddy beams of an October sun shone through the one window of the little rudely furnished room that Leah occupied in the inn. Weary from her long, toilsome journey, she still slept. Though tired nature for a time resisted the intrusion of the garish sunlight, the chirruping of her little child at length aroused Leah to consciousness. The tiny, dimpled hands were tangled in the long black hair that hung about the mother's shoulders in dishevelled grace, and the merry child laughed gleefully as the mother awoke.
"Is my bird always ready to sing?" said Leah tenderly, as she beheld the innocent, happy child by her side. "May you never know a note of sadness, my love; sing on, while you may." Then Leah sadly turned her eyes upward to the cracked, stained wall overhead, and faintly murmured, "Here I am at last, alone-alone in the Queen City, friendless and penniless-alone in the place where I once possessed thousands-alone in my search for the only being who loves me, in this wide world-alone, with nothing to cheer me but my own faithful, resolute heart. When that fails me I shall find rest. Poor, beloved Emile!"
Overcome by weariness, anxiety, and fear, Leah covered her face with the coarse brown coverlet of her bed, and wept and sobbed in very bitterness of heart. At length, astonished at the withdrawal of its mother's smile, the child cried; and ceasing to weep, Leah clasped the helpless creature to her bosom in a fond, impassioned embrace. "God keep you, blessed one!" she said with deepest pathos. "Heaven shield you, my angel, from such sorrow as now fills your mother's heart! But I must be up and doing. Weeping will not accomplish the end and object of my coming."
Arising resolutely, she hastily performed their simple toilets, and descended the narrow stairway to the breakfast-room.
The plain repast was soon over, the coarse, garrulous inmates of the inn departed, and Leah with her child sat alone in the ill-furnished reception-room. She had sent a wiry-looking little negro boy for the proprietor, and was awaiting his appearance. Suddenly a thump, thump, thump, sounded along the narrow entry, and a short, red-faced, bald-headed, pompous looking old man, with a wooden leg, stood before her.
"Madam," he said, bowing obsequiously, "is it yourself that desired my presence? Cricket told me-we call that limber-looking little nigger Cricket-that a lady desired to see me in the drawing-room."
"Whom have I the honor of addressing?" said Leah, with difficulty repressing a smile excited by the grotesque appearance of the man. "I desired to see the proprietor."
"Exactly so, madam, and my name is Michael Moran, the proprietor of the Good Cheer House these twenty years."
"And have you remained in the Queen City during all these dreadful months of shelling?" said Leah, whose heart was at once brightened by the hope that she might gather some desired information from him.
"Oh, yes, child-beg pardon, madam, but, really, you look like a child. Michael Moran is not the man to desert the post of duty in times of danger. You see, madam"—and he pointed to the wooden stump—"you see, I had the misfortune to lose a member in the Mexican war. That wooden stump speaks yet of Michael Moran's bravery, and I am the same brave man to-day that I was in 'forty-seven, always ready to serve my country."
"Yes," replied Leah, "but you are too old to do much for your country now."
"Yes; that is to say, I am not able to take up arms, but then I have done valiant service by furnishing a very comfortable, thoroughly respectable wayside home for my country's unfortunate children. You see, madam, the Good Cheer House is known far and near as the place to find good food and lodging, at very reasonable prices. The soldiers-alas! I know what a soldier's life is," and the old man laid his fat, plump hand on his heart, "the soldiers, I say, find out the house of Michael Moran, and enjoy the good cheer he dispenses."
The old man, once started, would have continued his remarks ad infinitum, had not Leah bravely interrupted him by asking:
"Can you tell me, sir, if any of the refugees have yet returned?"
"A good many, madam. You see this infernal old shelling, although it's pretty pesky business, hasn't done much harm, after all. It battered down a few fine houses, and killed some men, but then I don't believe the Queen City will never surrender; and by Erin I hope it never will. If the soldiers, to a man, possessed the heart of Michael Moran, they would stand out till—"
"Can you tell me anything of the Le Grande family-Judge Le Grande, I mean?" again interrupted Leah bravely.
"The judge? Oh, yes; I think they went to France some months ago," replied Michael, with an air of profound satisfaction at possessing some slight acquaintance with so distinguished a man as the judge; and patting his knee with his plump hand, he continued, "You see the judge was not particularly a war man, and—"
"Do you know anything of the Levys?" again cut short the old inn-keeper's volubility.
"The Levys? Oh, yes; they fled long ago, and are now roving the face of the earth. The bombs well-nigh tore down old Levy's house, and I guess that will about kill him, as he is as stingy as a man well can be. If he had stayed by his suffering city, as Michael Moran has—"
"But Mrs. Levy was a widow," interrupted Leah, seeing that the old man was coining his information as he went, for the purpose of his own exaltation. "Her husband has been dead these many years."
Determined not to be baffled in this quiet way, Michael replied, "Well, this was another man, madam," and fearing Leah might discredit his fabricated story, he added, "I swear by Erin it was another man."
"Well, sir, can you tell me anything of the Mordecai family-Mr.Benjamin Mordecai?" said Leah, with a slightly tremulous voice.
The old man's eye brightened up, and he slapped his fat hand upon his knee with renewed force and rapidity, and replied, with an inquisitive squint in his face, "Are you a Jew?"
"I am a Jewess, sir," she said softly. "I feel an interest in my people. What can you tell me of the Mordecais."
"Well, child, then listen to me again. I say emphatically madam, now. Well, old Ben Mordecai he was a mighty rich man, had a bank many, many years, and lots and piles of gold. In fact, he was my banker at one time in my life, and to-day he can testify as to whether Michael Moran was or wasn't a thrifty man and the Good Cheer House a paying institution. Some years ago though, I moved my business to another bank, ahem!" Here the old man eyed Leah sharply, to see if these hints respecting his pecuniary status did not impress her profoundly. Then he continued, "Well, I was about stating-Well, where was I?" he said, with a puzzled look of regret, as though he had lost, or was about to lose, some cherished remark, so bewildering had been the thought in reference to his money matters, "where was I?"
"You were speaking of Mr. Mordecai's having left the Queen City," kindly suggested Leah, seeing the old man's embarrassment.
"Oh yes; my head gets a little muddy sometimes," said the inn-keeper apologetically, as he rubbed his rosy hand, this time briskly across the bald, sleek surface of his head. "Well, the Mordecais went away, and I am told a poor family moved into the old man's house to protect it. But the other week, a shell came whizzing into the city and tore off one corner of his fine house. I tell you, madam, the old man had a fine house, sure. And, madam, old Mordecai had a fine guirl once, and a few years ago she ran away and married some fellow, and it well-nigh broke the old man's heart. They ran away, and went somewhere; I think it was to the Island of Cuby. My banker told me this. You see, madam, my resources are yet such, that my banking business is quite burdensome to me. The Good Cheer House is a fine paying institution, sure, and—"
"But what of the unfortunate daughter?" inquired Leah faintly.
"Well, as I was about remarking, they went away to Cuby, and some months ago, perhaps a year or so, they caught the scamp out there, and smuggled him to this country, to be punished for a murder he committed some years ago, long before he was married."
Leah's heart throbbed wildly in her bosom, and every limb trembled like an aspen; but the old man did not detect her emotion, and continued:
"He will soon be tried here. I hear the friends of the dead man and the Mordecais are pushing up the trial. When the trial comes off, I guess the banker's family will come back."
"Is the unfortunate man confined in the old city prison here?" inquired Leah, with a faltering voice.
"Yes, madam. At one time a shell struck the old prison, and some of the inmates came nigh escaping, but they have had it repaired, and now it's pretty full, sure. If a bomb could strike it, and finish all the inmates at once, I guess that would suit them. I don't know why else they keep that jail full of thieves and murderers. I am too busy with my wayside house, giving cheer and comfort to my unfortunate countrymen, to bother much about the jail-birds. Yes, Michael Moran is too busy for that."
"What is my bill, sir?" said Leah faintly, oblivious of the wordy Michael's harangue, and thinking only of the prison-the dim, dark prison, where her husband was languishing. "I have no money but gold," she continued; "how much do I owe you for my food and lodging?"
"Gold!" repeated Michael with eager emphasis; and then, as if fearing to betray his characteristic love of the shining ore, he added with an air of indifference, "well, I guess, as you have nothing else, gold will do. you owe me—" and he named a certain sum. "Remarkable low price. Michael Moran hasn't the heart to be hard on a woman; and I know you'll be sorry, to your dyin' day, that you had to quit the Good Cheer House so soon."
Leah made no reply and evinced no regret, as she handed out, from her low supply of money, the amount demanded. Hurrying away from the inn, with the child in her arms, she hastened forward toward the dismal jail that, as she well remembered, was many streets away.
On the same bright October morning that opened the eyes of Leah in the Queen City, Emile Le Grande was pacing to and fro in his prison cell at an early hour. The confinement of so many long, weary months had left its impress on every feature; and pale and emaciated he scarcely resembled his former self. Before him, on a tin platter, was the coarse prison breakfast, as yet untasted. Restless and miserable, he trod backward and forward within the narrow limits of his cell, now glancing up at the sunlight that streamed through the narrow window so far above his head, then turning his ready ear to catch the sound of every human footstep that trod the corridors, or moved in the adjoining cells of this wretched place.
Despair had settled upon him, and death was a coveted visitor. "Is it myself," he muttered, as he convulsively ran his fingers through his hair, grown long from neglect, "or is it some other unfortunate wretch? Have I a wife and child on a far-off foreign shore, or is this thought a horrid, hideous nightmare, that comes to harrow my brain? O birds of the air, I envy you! O breezes that wander, I envy you! O sunlight, that streams through my window, give me my freedom, my freedom, I pray!"
Overpowered by these thoughts, the wretched man, enfeebled in mind as well as body, sank down upon the hard pallet, when the sound of footsteps was again heard along the corridor, coming nearer, nearer, nearer to his cell door. Startled, Emile heard the bolt draw back once more and the door open, and the jailer stood before him.
"Le Grande," he said, "there's a woman below says she must see you-a beggar; shall I bring her up?"
"Yes, man, in the name of mercy, bring her up. I'd see a dog that would come to me in this lonely place. Bring her up, beggar or not, though I have nothing to give her."
The jailer withdrew, and Emile's heart beat wildly from the strange announcement that even a beggar wished to see him in his wretchedness now.
Again the footsteps resounded in the corridor, coming nearer, nearer, nearer, to the cell.
Emile had risen from his pallet, and searching in his pocket said,"I haven't even so much as a fourpence for the poor old soul."
The cell door opened. Emile saw the jailer, and a woman with a child. His eye flashed bright, his heart leaped to his throat. The woman's face grew paler, and tottering forward she fell upon the prisoner's bosom, and gasped, "My husband!"
He said, "Thank God. My wife! my wife! my child!"
IT were impossible to chronicle the half that transpired in the eventful days of those eventful years. Days seemed months, and months seemed years, in their sad, slow progress. When the heart is happy, Time's wing is light, but as every soul was sorrowful in those dark days, so the progress of the years was slow and dreary.
To none was the time so dark, and hopeless, as to Emile while he languished in prison, and to Leah, as she waited for an uncertain reunion. But the hopeless days had passed, and in unutterable joy the husband and wife clasped each other again. Now, she was never to leave him till the stern fiat of the law should decide his guilt or innocence. In an obscure abode, within the very shadow of the jail, Leah obtained a temporary home. The inadequacy of her means would have forbidden her more comfortable accommodations. But she desired only to dwell in obscurity, and be near, and with her husband, in his loneliness and misfortune. Without comment or observation, she passed in and out of the jail as frequently as the stern prison-law would allow. The jailer was a man who had occupied a higher position in life, and had sought this place to evade the merciless grasp of conscription. Often had he wondered at the pale, lovely face of this unhappy wife, and marked her tenderness toward the child that never seemed to weary the faithful arms that bore it so constantly about. "That woman has a history," the jailer often said to himself.
But the days passed, and ere Leah had been a month within the Queen City, the trial was at hand. Pressing measures in these awfully chaotic times, Mr. Mordecai was about to bring his culprit to justice, from fear that delay would prove dangerous, if not disastrous, to his purposes.
"My darling," said Emile to his wife, the day before the proposed trial, "I desire that you shall not be present during the investigation of to-morrow. I fear you may be subjected to insult and indignity which I cannot resent, being in bonds. Besides, dear, you can do me no good."
"Will my father be there, Emile?"
"I suppose that he will."
"Then I cannot be present. I feel that I could never meet my father's eye, unless I knew I had his forgiveness and his love still. But how can I leave you?"
"Remain quietly, dear, at your boarding-place, and await, hopefully, the end. I trust it will all be right. I know I am innocent," said Emile, with a forced effort at cheerfulness.
"Heaven grant they may find you guiltless! But oh! Emile, I fear, I fear, I fear something-I cannot tell you how it is, but from the day you were taken from our happy Cuban home, not a ray of hope has illuminated my heart."
"You must be brave, Leah, your sadness will weigh me down, and I cannot, must not go into the presence of my accusers with aught but a look of defiant innocence. Be brave, be cheerful, for my sake, and the sake of our innocent child."
"Can I see you during the trial?"
"I suppose not; but as it will consume but a few days at most, you can remain quietly at your lodgings till the end."
"The twilight is gathering in your window, Emile," said Leah, after a thoughtful silence. "I should have gone an hour ago; your supper will be late to-night, dear; but oh! I fear to leave you! It seems as though you were going to your burial, to-morrow. What will become of me? What will become of our helpless darling?"
Distracted by the plaintive words and agonized look of his wife,Emile said:
"Would you madden me, Leah? Have I not asked you to be brave, even unto the end? If you falter now, I am lost. My health and my strength are already gone. Only the consciousness of innocence sustains me. Leave me now. Sheer me with the hope of acquittal, and be brave as only a woman can be."
"Forgive me, Emile; forgive my weakness; and when we meet again, may the sunshine of a brighter, happier day, dawn over us. Good-by, my own Emile, my own beloved husband," and the wretched wife laid her head upon the true, innocent heart of Emile, and wept her last burning tears of sorrow.
FROM the day that Leah first found her husband in the prison, and observed the coarse, uninviting fare that was served to the prisoners, she had daily prepared his food herself, and supplied it, too, from her scanty purse. By the permission of the jailer, this food was received twice a day from the hands of a trusty negro woman, known to many of the prison inmates as Aunt Dinah.
On this same evening when Leah parted so sadly from her husband, she went at once to her lodging place, and quickly prepared the tempting evening meal. After she had gone, Emile, once more alone, crouched down in a corner of his shadowy cell, and was lost in sorrowful revery, till the jailer, unheeded, opened the cell-door and handed in a basket, saying:
"Le Grande, here's a supper for a king. Cheer up, man, and eat it. Old Dinah brought it from your wife, and she says the bread is 'perticklar fine.'"
"I want no supper to-night, jailer. But I'll keep it, for my wife's sake."
"Old Dinah said you must eat, whether you craved food or not; said you must eat to be strong." The jailer deposited the small basket that contained the tempting brown buns and some cold slices of ham, and departed.
For a moment Emile still remained crouched in his corner, and listened to the dying footsteps of the retreating jailer; then rousing himself, he moved forward, and lifting up the basket, said:
"For love's sake, I'll taste the bread, not from hunger. Heaven knows when I shall feel hunger again." The daylight was nearly gone, but enough light penetrated the dismal cell to reveal the contents of the basket. Taking up a soft brown loaf, he turned it in his hand, then laid it down. Again he picked it up, and said, "It is so nice, for love's sake I'll taste it." Then he broke it gently, and there fell into his hand from it a small piece of brown paper. Astonished, he opened it, and read these words:
"An unknown friend wishes to help you. Meet me at midnight at the prison gate. I'll save you. Skeleton keys and wires will enable you to escape, Find them in the buns. As you value your life and liberty meet me."
"What means this?" said the terrified prisoner. "Is Heaven kind at last?" and then he curiously and cautiously opened the bread that, sure enough, yielded up the secreted appliances for effecting his escape. In astonishment, even terror, Emile held these unlawful little contrivances in his hand for a time, eyeing them curiously, and then half-fearfully tucked them away in his bosom.
"Who is this unknown friend, I wonder, that so desires my escape?" pondered Emile, as he watched the darkening twilight as it withdrew the last vestige of daylight from his cell. "Can it be Leah who has done this, my own desolate Leah? Can she save me at last? She upon whose heart I have innocently brought such sorrow and disappointment? Alas! alas! dear heart! But should it prove some one else, how can I leave my wife and child? What if it should prove to be an enemy trying to betray me into further trouble? And yet I do not fear. This dreary cell has made me tired of life, and death were welcome if it comes in the struggle for freedom! No, I cannot stay; I'll leave this cursed place, though I be betrayed again-leave it, though my escape may take me heaven knows where-leave it, and hope a brighter future is bringing me prosperity and a peaceful reunion with those who are so dear to me. Stay I cannot, I dare not. My tormentors are insatiable, my innocence disbelieved, my friends gone; money I have none. I shrink from the coming ordeal. The promise of freedom is offered me. I accept it.
"The clock is striking midnight. It is dark, very dark, little keys; but perhaps you will not fail me. Now I leave this cursed place; yes, leave it, I hope, to walk the earth again in freedom. Blast my accusers!" whispered the excited prisoner as he softly applied the mysterious, slender-looking key to the heavy lock. "Ha! how the lock yields to this delicate spring! Softly! softly! or I may disturb some sleeping inmate! God knows how many weary vigils are kept in this wretched abode. I'll tread this narrow corridor no more, I hope. Heavens! The outer bolt, too, withdraws, and God's blue dome and bright stars are above me! I am free from these cursed walls! Now the gate yields, too! I am free! free! Thank God, free once more!"
As Emile emerged from the prison-gate, and it swung noiselessly back to its place, he gazed anxiously about, and at once descried a dark, half-bent figure of a man approaching him. His heart trembled.
"Mars' Emile," said a low voice, as the unknown figure approached close to him, "Mars' Emile Le Grande, don't you know me? I am here as I promised."
Affrighted at this seeming apparition, Emile shrank back, saying, "Stand back, man or devil, whatever you may be! Who are you? What do you want?" he continued, as the unknown figure essayed to lay hold of his arm.
"Hush! hush! We may be overheard. Don't be afraid. I come to befriend you. Mars' Emile, don't you know me?" said the little old man, as he pushed back the slouched hat from his face, and peered into Emile's eyes. "Don't you know old Peter Martinet?"
"What! old Uncle Peter, who carried the 'Courier' so long ago?" saidEmile in astonishment.
"De very same, Mars' Emile. I'se de same old darkey now dat I was years ago, only not quite so spry. You see I'se crippled wid de rheumatiz a little. But come along wid me, man; don't wait here any longer; we may be found out."
"Is my wife with you?" whispered Emile eagerly.
"La, no, man; your wife knows nuffin ob dis plot. We must hurry."
And can I not see her, Peter?"
"No, man, if you wish to escape de bloodhounds dat are on your track. You had better be quick, too."
"I must see my wife."
"Be brave, man; be brave. Why did you leave de jail, if you didn't wish to 'scape? Come along faster."
"But where are you going?" replied Emile, as he mechanically followed the hobbling guide.
"Here, this way, follow me. I'll tell you by'mby;" and then halting within the shadow of a protecting building, the old man stooped to rub the afflicted limbs, and said softly, "You see, Mars' Emile, I'se kept my eye on you, eber since dey brought you here to jail. I'se nebber left the Queen City, and nebber will, an' I 'tended all de w'ile, dat you should git away, if you wanted to. I'se made plan after plan, and dey would not work, but at last I got help from inside, an' den I got de keys; den I knew you was safe, if you could only git 'em. So I hired ole Dinah to make some extry bread and slip into your basket after your wife had fixed your supper. Dat was all I could do. I heard de trial was to come off to-morrow, and but for de rheumatiz, de keys would have been ready a week ago. You know, Mars' Emile, old Peter part Affikin, and what he can't do, no udder nigger need try. He, he, he!"
"But where are you going?" interrupted Emile.
"Well, Mars' Emile, der's a blockader lying off de Bar. I'se gwine to take you to it." Emile shuddered.
"Nebber fear. If you stays on land, dey'll git you, shure, an' I knows ebry foot ob de harbor as well as I do de city. Ain't Peter Martinet been here eber since the Revolution War? No man here knows de harbor better dan me, tripedoes or no tripedoes. Dey can't blow me up, dat's shure. Come, let's go, be quick, and be sly too."
Emile followed as one in a dream. Not daring, or caring, to question his guide, until they were safely on the edge of a pier that was several feet above the sea.
"What now?" he said.
"All right. I have a bateau tied down da, waitin' for us. Her's de rope to slide down. But as you'se afeerd, mebbe I'd better go down fust. Here goes! I'se afeerd of nuffin, 'specially in de harbor." Emile peered over the edge of the pier, and shuddered, as he saw the dark figure disappear below.
"All right agin, safe and sound. Come on. Mind yer hold. Be brave, man, don't lose yer courage now, or you may be a jail-bird de rest of yer days. He, he, he!"
Stimulated to action by this stinging remark of old Peter, Emile seized the rope, glided slowly down the wall, and landed safely in the boat below.
"Now I guess we's safe; no one can git us now," chuckled old Peter, as he grasped the oars and rowed away.
Emile made no reply, and for a time the plash of the oars was the only sound that broke the stillness.
"Do you know that they'll receive me?" at length said Emile, as he saw the shore receding.
"Oh, yes; more'n once have I carried men to the blockaders-some who didn't want to fight, and some who had friends on the udder side. Dey allus paid ole Peter well, and he nebber fail to git 'em away safe. He, he, he."
"Why did you do this for me, Peter? For me who had scarcely a friend in the world; for me, who can repay you in nothing but gratitude?" asked Emile with emotion.
"Oh, old Peter don't always work for money; sometime he do for love.It's for love this time, Mars' Emile."
"How far is the vessel away, Peter?"
"Five mile from de pier; you see de lights ob de vessel yonder, sir."
Emile was silent, thinking of the desolate wife and unfortunate child whom he was leaving farther behind at every stroke of the oars.
"I must send a letter back by you, Peter; promise me that my wife shall get it."
"I promise, Mars' Emile. But be brave, man, be brave; remember you'se a free man now; freedom mighty sweet, Mars' Emile. I'se ben free dese twenty years, eber sence old Marster Martinet died. He gin me freedom. Ship ahoy, here we are," said the old negro, as he came alongside of the grim iron-clad, that stood like a huge rock in mid-ocean. Then the old man blew a shrill whistle through his hands that penetrated to the inmost recess of the man-of-war.
"Halloo! Is it you, Peter?" screamed back the mate, as he swung a huge lantern over the side of the vessel and looked down into the water below. "What brings you now, old humpback?"
"A friend, a man, a recruit to your sarvice, if ye wish. Take him, an' do as you please."
"Won't you come aboard, old Peter?" added the jolly tar, aroused to receive the escaping prisoner. "It's been so long since we saw you, we did not know but a shell had picked you up. Come aboard, General, we'll show you some more bombs."
"Not this time, cap'n, my rheumatiz is rather bad for so much climbin.' I'll jes' wait down here for a letter. Ole Peter Martinet ain't feered of fishes. He, he, he!"
Emile's letter was written and handed to old Peter, who was soon again steering landward. When the sun shone again in the Queen City, old Peter was hobbling along his daily round of duty, singing occasionally in his own peculiar way, and wearing an expression as innocent as though the night-time had been an undisturbed season of peaceful repose and beautiful dreams.
A letter found upon the door-way of Leah's lodgings, addressed to her, was picked up and handed to her about the hour that the jail was thrown into a tumult of consternation over the discovery that Emile Le Grande had escaped.
How and whence this letter came was ever a mystery. "U. S. BLOCKADER"THUNDERBOLT." "Two o'clock A. M.
"BELOVED LEAH: The die is cast, that divides us again. Fate, that has so long seemed cruel, has again been kind. Unlooked-for, unhoped-for aid reached me in my prison-cell, and enabled me to escape. I know I am innocent of crime; Heaven knows it; but I feared my tormentors. Those who sought me on a foreign shore, would certainly move earth and sky to prove my guilt. I hope for a brighter day, when we shall be reunited in peace and happiness. I could do nothing for you, were I to stay and brave the storm that awaits me. It might engulf me. I go, with the hope of a bright future yet. Whither I shall go I know not. Maybe to France, where my father has gone. I have nothing to remain in this country for but yourself; and I cannot, and dare not stay near you. Heaven shield and keep you and my child till I can send you succor! If I live, it will come, though it cost my life to obtain it. I dare not look ahead; but be hopeful and brave, faithful, loving Leah, and patiently await a brighter day. When this wretched war is ended, if I cannot come to you, you shall come to me. Living, longing, hoping, for that coming time, with a thousand embraces I am, and shall ever be,
"Your devoted EMILE.
"My time is short, I can write no more."
Bravely, calmly, Leah read this fatal letter; and then, with a fortitude and heroism peculiar to her own glorious people, she folded it, and placed it upon her heart, so torn by sorrow and suspense. After the first shock of disappointment was over, she turned her thoughts to the formidable question, how she should earn bread for herself and her child; and when once her plans were made, she carried them out resolutely, in poverty, weakness, and obscurity. Of the days, months, and years that passed over her heroic head, with their trials, struggles, disappointments, tears, heart-aches, and agonies, before death brought relief, this record, in pity, is silent.
THE war-cloud rolled away. The dark, wild, sanguinary cloud, that had swept with such devastating fury over a land where war was deemed impossible, was passed. The roar of cannon ceased, the rattle of musketry was no more heard in the land. Again the nation was at peace, undismembered, triumphant. Once more its proud flag floated, unmolested and gay, from every rampart and flag-staff in the wide domain. On the one hand, there were bonfires and pealing bells, huzzahs, greetings, congratulations, rejoicings over the termination of the conflict, while on the other, sorrow and mourning, lamentation and despair, filled the homes of a people, whose hearts were bleeding, and whose hopes were crushed. All, all was gone. Only the cypress wreath was left, to remind of loved ones slain, and beggary, want, and famine to point with ghastly fingers to the past. The sweet sunshine fell lovingly again upon that worn section of the land, to find its fertile fields deserted, its homes destroyed, and its people cast down. Here and there, everywhere, far and wide, in many States, where the tread of the monster War was heaviest, only the silent chimneys and the neglected gardens gave token that the spot was once the homestead of a happy, happy family. Deem this no sensational record to elicit sympathy from stranger hearts. Only the sympathy of heaven avails in man's extremity; and that sympathy, thank God, his war-worn people have had.
This same memorable time that brought peace to the nation with such unexpected suddenness, found hundreds, even thousands of people, still refugees. Then many, regathering their shattered hopes and courage, sought their former homes. Many, alas! dispirited by loss of friends and fortune, dared not turn their sorrowful eyes backward, but chose rather to remain quietly where the final crash had found them. Refugee! O reader, kind or careless reader, think not lightly or scornfully of the word.
So far as possible, the scattered denizens of the Queen City had returned to their scarred homes. Many who at the time of their departure counted their thousands, and even millions, came back in comparative beggary. Yet back, back, back, they came, who could, to this mutilated Mecca of their hearts.
Mr. Mordecai again occupied his palatial home, which had survived the wreck of bombardment, and, unlike hundreds of his unfortunate fellow-citizens, he was unimpoverished. Aside from the good fortune that had attended his financial arrangements in this country during the period of conflict, he had also a banking connection in England, that would alone have made him a rich man.
So back to his home Mr. Mordecai came, not in poverty and want, not in sackcloth and mourning for the slain, and yet not in joy or contentment. From the fearful day when he lost his beautiful daughter, his heart had been darkened and his hopes destroyed, and through the eventful years that had slipped on since he last beheld her face, a feeling of unrelenting bitterness had possessed his soul. Always angry with Leah and with the man who had led her into disobedience, he now felt still more bitter toward him, as he deemed him a felon, a murderer, unpunished and unforgiven. The change of place and scene, the rushing and hurrying of events during the years of refugee life, had tended somewhat to crowd from his mind the thoughts of his lost daughter; but now that he was back again, back in the old home, where every niche and corner, flower and shrub, were associated with her memory, the father was miserable indeed-miserable because he well knew that somewhere upon the broad earth, Leah, if living at all, was living in loneliness and dreariness, in poverty and sorrow.
THE first spring of peace gave place to summer, a summer memorable for its intense heat. One afternoon, toward the latter part of July, clouds dark and angry overcast the sky, and peals of thunder and flashes of lightning threatened a terrific storm. Pedestrians hurried homeward, and man and beast sought safety under shelter. The waters of the quiet harbor, tossed by rude winds, grew angry and rose in white-capped breakers, that broke against the wharves, piers, and fortresses, as far as the eye could see. Sea-gulls screamed and flew wildly about at this ominous appearance of the heavens, while the songsters of the woods, and the pigeons of the barn-yard, sought shelter from the approaching tempest. At night-fall the rain descended in torrents.
Safely sheltered in his comfortable home, Mr. Mordecai sat for an hour or more, watching, from his library window, the fury of the storm. The tall, graceful cedars and olive trees that adorned the front and side gardens of his home, were swaying in the wind which rudely snatched from their trellises the delicate jessamine and honeysuckle vines that lent such delicious odor to the evening winds. It tore the flowers from their stems, and the rain pelted them into the earth in its fury. Leaves were whisked from their branches, and blown out of sight in a twinkle. A weak-hinged window-shutter of the attic was ruthlessly torn away and pitched headlong into the street. All this Mr. Mordecai watched in amazement, and then, as if some sudden apparition of thought or of sight had appeared before him, he turned from the window with a shudder, and said:
"This is a devilish wild night. I'll drop the curtain."
Seating himself then, by a brightly-shining lamp-the Queen City gas works had been destroyed by the shelling guns-he clasped his arms across his breast, and looked steadily up toward the ticking clock upon the mantel. Thus absorbed in reverie, he sat for an hour; and was only disturbed then by a loud rapping at the front door.
"By Jerusalem! who can be out this wild night?"
The rapping sounded again, louder than before.
"Mingo!" he exclaimed involuntarily. "Ah! the dog is free now, and only answers my summons at his will. Good boy, though."
The rapping was repeated.
"I must go myself. Who can be so importunate, on this dark, wretched night? No robber would be so bold!" and grasping the lamp, he glided softly toward the front door. He turned the bolt cautiously, and opening the door a little, peered out.
"Come, Mordecai, open the door," said a friendly voice without. "Do you suspect thieves this foul night? No wonder."
Mr. Mordecai opened the door wider and saw Rabbi Abrams, and a man so disguised that he could not tell whether it was any one he knew.
"What do you want, my friend?" he said kindly.
"Want you to go with us, Mordecai," replied the rabbi, drawing closer his cloak, which the wind was trying to tear away.
"Go where?" asked Mr. Mordecai in consternation. "Only the devils themselves could stand, such a night as this."
"Come, be quiet, my friend. I am summoned by this unknown friend, to go with him to see a certain person who must see me, must see you, too. That's all I know. Come along."
"Don't wait, my friend, time is precious," said the muffled voice of the unknown man.
Mr. Mordecai frowned and shrugged his shoulders dubiously.
"Fear no evil, my friend, but come with me," continued the stranger in a reassuring tone.
"The storm will not destroy us, Mordecai; I have tried its fury so far," said the rabbi. "Come on."
Reluctantly Mr. Mordecai obeyed, and hastily preparing himself for the weather, turned out into the darkness and the storm, with the rabbi and the guide.
Onward they went, struggling against the wild wind and rain, and few words were uttered by either as they proceeded on their unknown way. At length the guide stopped suddenly, at the corner of a lonely, obscure street, and said:
"There, gentlemen; in that low tenement opposite, where a light gleams from the window, you will find the person who desires to see you. Hasten to him. I shall be back before you leave. Ascend the stairway and turn to the left. Open the door yourself; there will be no one inside to admit you." Having uttered these words, the guide disappeared in the darkness, and Mr. Mordecai and the rabbi were left alone.
"What can this mean, Rabbi Abrams?" said Mr. Mordecai in a low voice, greatly excited; "suppose it should prove some plot to decoy us into trouble? I shall not go a step farther; we may be robbed or even murdered in that miserable place. You know this is Dogg's Alley, and it never was a very respectable locality. What say you?"
"I feel no fear, Friend Mordecai, though I admit the summons is mysterious. If you will follow, I will lead the way. My curiosity impels me onward."
"But there's no watchman on this lonely beat, on this wild night, that we could summon in a moment of necessity; no street-lamp either, you see. It's dark, fearfully dark! Had we not better wait till to-morrow?"
"No, come on. I am fond of adventure. Let's see a little farther into this mystery;" and so saying, the rabbi boldly crossed the slippery street, Mr. Mordecai following timidly behind. They were soon standing in the narrow door-way that led up the stairs. They ascended slowly, and turning to the left, they discerned through the crevice beneath the door, a faint light. To this chamber they softly groped their way, and tapped gently on the door. No reply.
"Shall we go in?" whispered the banker. "This is an awfully suspicious place."
"Yes, come on; I do not feel afraid."
Gently turning the bolt, they opened the door; the lamp upon the table by the window revealed the contents of the apartment.
In a corner, upon a rude bed, lay a man, a negro, evidently sick, whose widely glaring eyes were turned upon the door, as if in expectation of their coming. Slowly lifting his hand as they entered, the sick man beckoned the gentlemen toward him. They drew near.
"Sir," he said, and so faintly that his voice did not rise above a whisper, "I'm glad you come. I was 'feerd the rain would keep you away." Then he grasped the hand of the rabbi with his cold, clammy fingers, and with an intense gaze of the wild eyes, said again, "Do you know me, Marster Abrams? Tell me, do you know me?"
The rabbi looked earnestly at him and after a moment's pause said dubiously:
"Is it old Uncle Peter Martinet, the carrier of the 'Courier'?"
"De-same-marster, de-werry-same. But-de-end-ob-ole-Peter-is-nigh- at-hand, marster-wery nigh-at-hand! Las'-winter-was hard-an'-w'en de-work-ob de-Curyer-stop-it-went-mighty-hard-on-ole-Peter. De-rheumatiz-marster! De rheumatiz? Bref-so-short! Doctor-say-it's-de-rheumatiz on-de-heart now. Mebbe so-marster-but-ole-Peter-mos'-done-now."
"Can I do anything for you, Peter?" asked the rabbi kindly. "What will you have?"
At these words, the dying man, for he was dying, extended his other hand to Mr. Mordecai, and clasping his, said:
"Yes, marster-I want-somethin'. I-want-you-and-Mr. Mordecai-to-listen-to me; listen-to-me-a-moment. I-have- something-to-to-tell-you."
"Certainly we will," they replied gently, observing with pain the difficulty of the dying man's utterance. "What do you wish to say?"
"You-see, Marster-Abrams, I-am-dying. Ole-Peter-mos-done. I-can-not- go-before God with-the-sin-upon-my-soul-that-now-distresses-me. I must tell it-for-I die."
Here the old man strangled, from the effort made to communicate his story, and the rabbi, gently raising his head, administered a spoonful of water. Then, after a moment's pause, he continued:
"Ise-been-a-great-sinner, to keep my-mouf-shut-so long; but-I could not-help it. Ole Peter-was feered-but now-I'se feered-no more. Soon-I'll be wid-de great God-who has-know'd my secret too-an' I feel-He will-forgive me-if-I-'fess it-'fore-I die. I know-he-will, marster-de Spirit has-tole'-me so."
"Confess what?" inquired the rabbi softly, supposing that the old man's utterances were but the ravings of delirium.
"A secret-marster; a secret-dat-I have-kep'-so long-it has become-a sin-an awful sin-dat has burnt-me in here," placing his feeble hand on his heart, "like coals-of-fire. Listen to me."
"I knows-how-Mars'-Mark-Abrams got-killed, an'-has-known it-ever since-dat-dark-Jinnewary-night-w'en he-was-shot—"
"Merciful—"
"Hush! listen-to-me-my-bref-werry-short," he said, motioning the rabbi to silence, who had turned pale with consternation at the mere mention of his son's name.
"Hush! Mars'-Mark-was not-murdered-as-everybody-thought-but-was- killed-by-de pistol-he-carried-in his-pocket. It-was-werry dark dat-night-as you-may-remember. He-was-passin'-tru'-de-Citadel Square-to cut-off de walk-comin'-from Crispin's-he said, an'-in-de dark-he-stumble-an' fall-an' de-pistol-go-off-an' kill him. In de-early-morning-jus'-'for-day-as-I was-hurryin'-aroun' wid-my-paper, I was-carryin' de Curyer den-bless-de-Lord, I came-upon-him-an' 'fore God-he was-mos' dead. He call-me-and tell me-how he-was-hurt, an' beg-me to run-for his-father, for-you, Marster-Abrams. He ask-me-to pick up-de-pistol-an' run for-you-quick. W'en I foun'-de pistol-I ask-him-another question. He-said-nothin'. I knew-he-was-dead. I was-skeered- awful-skeered-an'-somethin'-tole me-to-run-away. I did run-as-fast as-I-could-an' w'en-I was-many-squars-off, I foun' de-pistol-in my-hand. Dat-skeered me-agin. I stop-a minit-to think. I-was-awful skeered-marster-an' den I 'cluded I jus' keep-de secret, an' de-pistol-too-for-fear-people-might-'cuse-me ob de-murder. An'-so I has-kept both-till now. See-here's de pistol-an' I'se-told you-der truth;" and the old man felt about under his pillow for the weapon.
With difficulty he drew it out, and handing it to the rabbi, said:
"Take it-it's-haunted-me long-enough. It's jes' as I found-it-dat-night-only-it's-mighty rusty. I'se had-it-buried-a long time-for-safe-keepin'.
W'en-Mars'-Emile-Le Grande-was-here in-prison-'cused of-dis-crime,-I often-wanted to tell-my-secret den-but-was-still-afeerd. I-knew he-was-not guilty-an' I determined-he should-not be-punished. So I helped-him-to 'scape-jail. I-set-him-free. I take-him-in de night time-to one-of de-blockade-wessels-off de Bar. W'ere-he go from dere, God knows-Ole Peter-don't. Now, Marster Abrams, I'se done. Before-God-dis is-de truf. I'se told-it-at-las'. Tole all-an' now-I die-happy.
"A-little-more-water-Marster Abrams-if you-please, an' denOle-Peter-will-soon-be-at-rest."
Silently granting this last request, the rabbi turned suddenly to observe the entrance of the guide, who by this time returned.
Not a word was spoken a he entered.
By the side of the table, where lay the pistol, the rabbi and Mr. Mordecai both sat down, each in turn eyeing the deadly weapon with unuttered horror.
The dying negro's confession had filled them both with sorrow and amazement. The earnestness of his labored story impressed them at once with its undeniable truth; and with hearts distressed and agitated, they sat in silence by the bed-side, till a struggle arrested their attention. Looking up once more they both caught the voiceless gaze of the earnest eye, which seemed unmistakably to say, "I have told the truth. Believe my story. Farewell." Then the old carrier's earthly struggles were forever ended.