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Leah Mordecai: A Novel

by Belle K. Abbott · English · Gutenberg #4955 · 342,997 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Leah Mordecai: A Novel

Author: Belle K. Abbott


        
Release date: January 1, 2004 [eBook #4955]
                Most recently updated: September 18, 2025

Language: English

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Credits: This eBook was edited by Charles Aldarondo


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEAH MORDECAI: A NOVEL ***




LEAH MORDECAI. A NOVEL.

BY MRS. BELLE KENDRICK ABBOTT.

NEW YORK:

1856.

TO MY BELOVED UNCLE,
THE REV. J. RYLAND KENDRICK, D.D.,
WHOSE HOSPITABLE HOME I ONCE SPENT MANY HAPPY
DAYS--DAYS MADE FOR EVER BRIGHT BY THE LOVE
OF HIS GREAT HEART, LOVE THAT FLOWED LIKE
A PURE STREAM FROM A CRYSTAL FOUNTAIN,
ABOUND AND ABOUT MY YOUNG LIFE--
THIS BOOK IS MOST TENDERLY

INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR.

ATLANTA, GA, November, 1875.






LEAH MORDECAI.

CHAPTER I.





THE giant clock on the wall in the assembly-room of Madam Truxton's
fashionable school had marked the hour for dismission.

Groups of restless, anxious pupils stood about the apartment, or
were gathered at the windows, watching the rain that had been
falling in copious showers since morning. All were eager to go, yet
none dared brave the storm.

Under the stone archway of the entrance to the assembly-hall, a
group of four maidens stood chatting, apart from the rest, watching
the rain, and impatient for its cessation.

"I know my father will either send my brother, or come for me
himself," said Helen Le Grande, "so I need not fear the rain." Then,
turning to the soft-eyed Jewess who stood by her side, she added,
"When the carriage comes, Leah, you can take a seat with me. I'll
see that you are safely deposited at home."

"Thank you, Helen, but it won't hurt me to walk. Nothing hurts
me--Leah Mordecai the despised." Then, averting her face, the young
girl gazed abstractedly into the street, and began humming in a low
tone.

To these words of the young Jewess there was no reply. A certain
sort of emphasis in her utterance seemed to forbid any inquiry, and
silence any word of censure that might arise to the lips of her
companions.

"How mean of me, not to offer a seat in the carriage to Lizzie
Heartwell, too," thought Helen after a moment's reflection; "but I
dared not, on account of my brother, who has so repeatedly urged me
to make equals only of the rich. He little knows how I love Lizzie
Heartwell, and whether she be rich or poor I know not, neither do I
care."

"I say, girls," at length broke the silence, as the fourth member of
the group, Bertha Levy, a Jewess too, spoke out, "think how stupid I
am. Mamma has promised me a small tea-party to-morrow night, and
this wretched rain had well-nigh caused me to forget it; but, thank
fortune, it's giving way a little, and maybe we shall all get home
after awhile. I'm desperately hungry! Of course, you will all
promise me to come, and I shall expect you." Then, turning to Helen,
she said, "Won't you?"

Helen assented.

"And you, Leah?"

"I will if I can. I am never sure of my movements, however."

"And you, dear Lizzie?"

"With the permission of my uncle and aunt; at any rate, I thank you
for your kindness."

"Well, I shall expect you every one, and--"

"There comes the carriage," shouted Helen, as the liveried coach of
the wealthy judge rolled round the corner, and drove up in front of
the spacious school-building. "I knew my father would not forget
me--yes, there is my brother."

The horses, thoroughly wet, looked dark and sleek as greyhounds, as
they stood impatiently stamping the paving-stones, while a visible
cloud of vapor rose from each distended nostril.

The coach door opened, and Emile Le Grande, with handsome, manly
figure clad in a gray military suit, and equally handsome face,
stepped out, and approached the group so impatiently watching the
progress of the storm.

"Good morning, Miss Mordecai; I am happy that we meet again," said
the gentleman, politely bowing.

"Thank you, sir; but your presence rather surprises us," replied
Leah.

"I trust, though, I am not an unwelcome intruder upon this fair
group?"

"Allow me to remind you, my brother, that my friends, Miss Heartwell
and Miss Levy, are also present," said Helen rather reproachfully.

Emile acknowledged the reproof and the courtesy with an apology and
a smile, and then added, "To Miss Mordecai's charms I owe the breach
of politeness."

Leah's face flushed crimson, and her eye sparkled more brightly than
ever at these flattering words of the young cadet; but she made no
reply.

"Come, Helen, let's go," at length said the brother. "The horses are
impatient. C‘sar is wet, and I guess you are tired, too." Then,
turning to Leah, he continued, "Miss Mordecai, will you honor us
with your company till we reach your father's house, where I pledge
myself to deposit you safely?"

"Oh! yes, Leah will go; I have already asked her," said Helen. Then,
after a moment's preparation, the two young friends stepped into the
carriage.

"Good-by again, girls," said Bertha Levy gayly, as the coach door
closed; "riding is rather better than walking, such a day as this.
Remember to-morrow night." Then, with a dash, the carriage was out
of sight.

"Well, Lizzie," resumed Bertha, smiling significantly, for she could
not but observe Helen's manifest preference in offering Leah a seat
with her, "we need not stand here any longer. I see that the rain,
out of consideration for us, is about to cease, and I don't think
any coach is coming for me. Do you expect one?"

To this characteristic remark, Lizzie Heartwell replied smilingly,
"I guess, Bertha, with umbrellas, overshoes, and care, we can reach
home without serious damage."

"But care is not a coach, you know, my friend, no matter how we turn
it," said Bertha laughingly, as she donned the wrapping and
overshoes. "I am as hungry as a wolf, and I fear mamma will let that
young brother of mine eat all my dinner, if I am too slow in getting
there. Boys are perfect cormorants, anyhow. Come, let's go at once."

The two girls stepped out into the slippery street, and turned their
faces homeward. "I am glad, Lizzie," continued Bertha, as they
turned corner after corner, "that our paths run together so far;
having company is so much better than being alone this forlorn
afternoon. And remember, I desire to know the answer to my
invitation as early as possible. To-morrow is my brother Isaac's
confirmation day, and we must all be promptly at the synagogue at
nine o'clock."

"You shall know to-night, Bertha, and I will be with you, if
possible. But here, before we part, let's stop and buy some bananas
of old Maum Cinda. She is always so grateful for a fivepence dropped
by a school-girl."

By this time the two girls were standing in front of the well-known
fruit-stall of the old blind colored woman known far and near
through the Queen City as "Maum Cinda." For years, hers had been the
important market for supplying the school-children with luscious
fruits, unimpeachable taffy, and ground-pea candy.

"An' bless de Lord, is it Miss Lizzie?" said the good-natured woman,
as the sound of Lizzie Heartwell's voice fell upon her ear in the
kindly spoken salutation.

"An' w'at will you have to-day, chile?"

"Some bananas, Maum Cinda--two for me, and two for my friend here,
Miss Bertha Levy."

"Oh! yes, Miss Bertha," replied the woman, courtesying, "an' maybe I
have seen Miss Bertha, but it's the sweet voice of Miss Lizzie that
the old blind woman remembers"--handing the bananas across the wide
board that protected her tempting wares from public incursions.

"You flatter me, Maum Cinda; but I hope the rainy day has not
interfered much with your trade. Here"--and extending her slender
white hand, Lizzie dropped the jingling pennies into the aged,
wrinkled one that opened to receive them.

"God bless you, chile. You neber forget His poor ones, de blind. God
bless you!"

"Good morning, Maum Cinda."

"Good-by, young ladies, good-by." And the last glimpse the two
receding friends had of the old woman, she was still profoundly
bowing and courtesying in acknowledgment of their remembrance.

Then the friends parted for the day, each one taking the most direct
course to her home, and soon both were safely sheltered from the
drizzling rain and chilling wind.






CHAPTER II.





TWO pale lilies and two royal roses upon a stem, would scarcely form
a more beautiful or striking group than did the four maidens
standing together under the stone archway of the school-room, on
that gloomy day at Madam Truxton's.

The fair hair and blue eyes of Helen Le Grande and Lizzie Heartwell
distinctly contrasted with the jetty locks and eyes of Bertha Levy
and Leah Mordecai--the beauty of neither style being in any degree
marred by such close contact.

The blonde beauty of the first two maidens bespoke their
unmistakable Anglo-Norman blood and Christian descent, while the
opposite cast of the others testified to their Jewish origin.

A casual observer even, would have decided that these four maidens
were bound together by an unusual bond of friendship--an incongruous
friendship it might have seemed, and yet it was not such.

Helen Le Grande, the eldest of the group by a few months, was
scarcely eighteen years of age, as bright and gay a maiden as one
could find in all the land, and the only daughter of Judge Le
Grande, a lawyer of wealth and distinction.

Of immediate French descent, Judge Le Grande possessed in an eminent
degree the peculiarities of his gay, volatile ancestry. Proud of his
children, and ambitious for their future, in his lavish bounty he
withheld nothing he deemed necessary for their advancement in life.

Thus at eighteen, Helen Le Grande looked out upon life's opening sky
as thoughtlessly as she would look upon the bright waters of the
blue harbor that stretched before her father's mansion, where sky
and water blended in a peaceful, azure expanse, little heeding or
caring whether storms came, or sunshine rested on the deep. Bertha
Levy, the little darked-eyed Jewess who stood by her side under the
stone archway, was nothing more or less than a piquant little
maiden, just turned seventeen, of amiable disposition and
affectionate heart, but by no means partial to study, and always
ready to glean surreptitiously from her books, any scraps of the
lesson that might be useful, either to herself or her friends, in
the ordeal of recitation.

Bertha's mother was a widow, whose circumstances allowed her
children all the comforts and even many luxuries of life. She had
reared them most rigidly in Hebrew faith. Lizzie Girardeau
Heartwell, the next in the fair tableau, was the only member of the
group who was not a native of the Queen City. It is no misstatement
of fact to say that she was, indeed, the ruling spirit of Madam
Truxton's entire school.

Dr. Heartwell, Lizzie's father, had lived in a distant State, and
died when she was but a tender child. Her mother, a descendant of
the Huguenots, was herself a native of the Queen City. But far away
from her native home had Mrs. Heartwell's married life been spent,
and Lizzie's young days, too, had passed in their quiet uneventful
home at Melrose.

But at the age of fifteen, and three years prior to the opening of
this story, under the kindly guardianship of her uncle, Lizzie
Heartwell entered the popular finishing school of Madam Truxton.

Possessed of noble, heroic blood, and blessed with love that
instilled into her young mind the principles of a brave, devoted
ancestry, it was but natural that Lizzie Heartwell should exhibit an
unusual development of heart and mind at a very tender age, and give
early promise of a braver, nobler womanhood, when Time should set
his seal upon her brow.

Reluctantly the heart turns to read the half-written history in the
sad face of Leah Mordecai, the fourth maiden standing pictured
against the stone under the archway. She was of the unmistakable
Jewish type, possessing the contour of face, the lustrous eye, the
massive crown of hair, that so often distinguish and beautify the
Hebrew maiden, wheresoever the sun may rise and set.

In the sadness that rested upon this young girl's face, one might
dimly detect the half-extinguished flame of hope, that usually
burns so brilliantly in the hearts of most young girls. But why this
sadness no one could tell. Its cause was a mystery even to her
friends. Benjamin Mordecai was an opulent banker, who for many years
lived in solitary grandeur in his bachelor home. But in the process
of time, he wedded the gentle Sarah David, and brought her to share
with him his home and fortune.

Love had led to this marriage, and peace and happiness for a time,
like sweet angels, seemed to have come to dwell evermore within the
home. But time brought changes. After the lapse of a year and a
half, the cherished Leah was born, and from that day the mother's
health declined steadily for a twelvemonth, and then she was laid in
the grave.

As the mother faded, the infant Leah thrived and flourished, filling
the father's heart with anxious, tender love.

Among the inmates of the Mordecai home from the time of Mrs.
Mordecai's declining health, was a young woman, Rebecca Hartz, who
acted as house-keeper and general superintendent of domestic
affairs. She had been employed by Mr. Mordecai for this important
position, not so much on account of her competency to fill it, as to
bestow a charity upon her unfortunate father, who constantly
besought employment for his numerous children, among the more
favored of his people.

Isaac Hartz was a butcher, whose slender income was readily
exhausted by a burdensome family. Rebecca, his daughter, was a
good-looking young woman of twenty at the time she entered Mr.
Mordecai's family. Although coarse and ill-bred, she was also shrewd
and designing, often making pretence of friendship and affection to
gain her ends when in reality hatred and animosity were burning in
her bosom. Such was Rebecca Hartz. Such the woman to usurp the
household government, when the gentle Mrs. Mordecai had passed away.






CHAPTER III.





IN Mrs. Levy's attractive drawing-room, Bertha's guests were
assembled for the tea-party.

Lizzie Heartwell, the first to arrive, was ushered into the brightly
lighted room, to find Mrs. Levy the only occupant.

"I welcome you gladly, Miss Heartwell," said Mrs. Levy, rising and
taking Lizzie by the hand. "I have long desired your acquaintance,
knowing my daughter's friendship for you. Pray be seated."

"I thank you, Mrs. Levy," replied Lizzie, "I indeed esteem it an
honor to meet the mother of such a friend as Bertha."

"My daughter will be present by and by. I regret that necessity
compels her non-appearance as yet. Sit nearer the fire."

Lizzie drew closer to the glowing grate, and they continued a
pleasant conversation till Bertha appeared.

"What a handsome woman!" thought Lizzie, as she occasionally
surveyed Mrs. Levy from head to foot during the tˆte-…-tˆte.

And she was a handsome womam, dressed quietly but richly in black
satin, her head adorned only by the clustering curls she had worn
from her girlhood. There was little change even in their
arrangement, and only an occasional thread of silver here and there
bespoke the touch of time. Her eyes were still beautiful, but their
lustre had been dimmed by the tears of her widowhood.

Bertha bore the same cast of beauty that distinguished her mother,
yet time's developing, modelling work for her was not yet completed.
When the guests were duly assembled, Bertha approached her mother,
who was still entertaining Lizzie, appearing quite fascinated with
her daughter's friend, and said, "Mother, won't you release your
prisoner now? Helen Le Grande wishes her to join the group over
there by the window, in a game of euchre."

"Certainly, my dear. I trust Miss Heartwell will pardon me if I have
detained her too long."

"Come, Lizzie, come along," said Bertha; and then added, in an
undertone, "you know what I promised to show you, Lizzie. Come with
me; let them make up the game without you."

"Oh! yes, that album; show it to me," said Lizzie, following Bertha
to a well-filled ‚tagŠre, from which she took a handsomely bound
album, saying, "This is from Asher. Isn't it lovely?"

"Indeed it is," replied Lizzie.

"Mamma says I do not know who sent it to me, as there is no name
anywhere. She does not wish me to think it's from Asher, but I know
it is. It's just like him to do such nice things," and, bending her
head closer to Lizzie, Bertha continued, "you see, Lizzie, I am
awfully disappointed because mamma would not allow me to invite him
here to-night. I am just as vexed as I well can be."

"Won't some of these other gentlemen answer in his stead?" asked
Lizzie, smiling.

"Bosh! no; all of these, and forty more, are not equal to Asher
Bernhardt, in my estimation. I love Asher, I tell you, and I mean to
marry him, one of these days; do you hear me?"

"Marry! how you talk! A girl of your age presuming to say that you
will marry such and such a one," said Lizzie, laughing.

"Indeed! I consider myself woman enough to decide whom I like,
better than any one else, whether you call that old enough to marry,
or not. But let me tell you what mamma said to-day, when she caught
me kissing the album. 'Bertha Levy'--and oh! she looked so straight
and solemn at me that I almost trembled--'Bertha Levy, are you going
to make yourself ridiculous about that strolling player, Asher
Bernhardt? Tell me.' 'You know he plays the flute superbly, and
that's what I like.' Then I said meekly:

"'I know that he loves me.'

"'You know nothing of that sort, and you are a very silly girl. This
is the way you regard my teachings, is it, fancying strolling
players at private theatricals? What! could you promise yourself to
marry such a man--a man whose chief recomendation is, that he can
play the flute?'

"'Happiness,' I whispered.

"'Wretchedness, you mean! Well, I forbid you ever thinking of him
again. I shall never, never, consent to such a thing, never while I
am your mother. Remember my words now!'

"Oh! Lizzie, wasn't that awful, mamma is so hard on him! I--"

"Bertha, Bertha!" called a voice from the opposite side of the room,
which Bertha at once recognized as her mother's and immediately
turned toward Mrs. Levy, leaving Lizzie standing alone.

"For shame, my daughter!" said Mrs. Levy, in a low tone to Bertha,
"to keep Miss Heartwell standing talking all the evening about your
supposed present from Asher Bernhardt! I shall not allow you company
again until you improve in politeness, and I will destroy that
cherished book. Do you hear me? Go at once and see that Miss
Heartwell is seated."

Bertha bowed her head, in token of obedience, and as she turned back
to join Lizzie, Leah Mordecai was approaching the piano, accompanied
by Emile Le Grande.

Leah Mordecai was a superb singer, yet it was only at the request of
friends that her soul flowed forth in song. On this evening her
music was delicious, and Emile Le Grande, always fond of the divine
art, was bewitched with the beauty of her voice. When her singing
ceased, the sadness still rested upon her face, and in Emile's heart
there was a new-born sensation--that of pleasure mingled with fear.

The evening hours wore on. The hours that bore away the Jewish
Sabbath were rolling in the Christian day of rest, and Lizzie
Heartwell, in obedience to her uncle's request not to "tarry at her
pleasure too late," was the first to separate from the happy band.

An hour later, as the Citadel clock sounded the hour of midnight,
Judge Le Grande's carriage rolled rapidly toward the mansion of
Benjamin Mordecai, bearing home his beautiful daughter, escorted by
Emile Le Grande.

This night, as Lizzie Heartwell was slowly disrobing for the
remaining hours of slumber after her return home, she glanced into
the small mirror before her, and thought audibly--"Emile Le Grande
seemed quite charmed to-night with Leah; he hung around her like a
shadow, and part of the evening he seemed moody and almost
miserable. How strange if he should fall in love with her! She's a
grand girl. I don't think she could fancy Emile Le Grande. I wonder
why Leah called herself 'the despised' yesterday. Well, we shall
see."

Mrs. Levy's guests had departed, one by one, till the mother and
daughter were left alone in the deserted room.

"Mamma," Bertha said at length, shrugging her dainty figure, and
gazing thoughtfully into the fire, "I do believe that Emile Le
Grande is in love with Leah Mordecai, and she with him."

"Be ashamed, Bertha, to think of such a thing! I believe you are
insane on the subject of love. Have you forgotten that she is a
Mordecai."

"Oh! Love's love, mamma, Mordecai or not Mordecai! I think Emile Le
Grande a fine fellow."

"Would you be impudent, Bertha?" said her mother, eyeing her
sharply.

"Oh! not for the world, mamma. Do forgive me, if you think so, and
let us retire, for I have an awful task of study awaiting me
to-morrow."






CHAPTER IV.





EMILE LE GRANDE'S DIARY.

"SATURDAY night--by Jove! Sunday morning, I suppose I should write
it, to be strictly truthful. And I guess that orthodox people would
roll their pious eyes, and declare that I had better be in bed at
this hour, instead of writing in my journal. But it makes no
difference. I do not know whether it's the seventh or the first day
that I should observe as a day of rest. One suits me as well as the
other. So here goes for my journal.

"November 29, Saturday night. Yes, I'll write Saturday night, for
the looks of the thing. Just returned from Bertha Levy's
tea-party--went with my sister. Would not have gone but for the hope
of meeting Leah Mordecai. In the main, I hate Jews, but I must admit
here, Journal, that Mrs. Levy is as elegant a woman as I have ever
met; and Bertha, too, is a cunning creature, not beautiful and not
my fancy exactly, but withal a taking girl.

"But of all the beautiful women that I have seen in years, Jewish or
Christian, there's not one can compare with Leah Mordecai--such hair
and such eyes are seldom given to woman. Helen says that her hair
measures four feet in length! What a queenly poise to that elegant
head!

"But I swear there's a sadness about her face that I do not
comprehend. She certainly knows nothing of sorrow. It does not arise
from want; for she, of all maidens in this Queen City, is farthest
from that. Old Ben Mordecai has untold wealth, and there comes in
the 'marrow of the nut.' Of course, he is as stingy as a Jew can be;
but not with his daughter. Who has more elegant silks, velvets, and
diamonds than she? Rich! rich! Ha! what a glorious thing to be said
of one; but aside from old Mordecai's money, Leah is a superb woman;
one need never be ashamed of such a wife. I should not be.

"I must set myself to work to ascertain the trouble that must dwell
in her heart so constantly to becloud her face. I'll bribe Helen to
find out for me. It may be some unfortunate love affair--who knows?
I think I would like to put any fellow out of the way that might be
seeking her hand. I believe I would kill him, if necessary. Perhaps,
dear Journal, I should not have written that terrible monosyllable,
but as you tell no tales, I'll let it stand.

"Now, I must to bed, and sleep, if I can--sleep away some of the
tedious hours that lie between me and another sight of the fair
Leah.

"Already the clock strikes two."

"And Mark was not there to-night, as I had hoped and expected,"
sighed Leah, as she stood before the elegant dressing-case of her
bed-chamber, and laid aside the articles of her toilet, after the
revel was done. "Only another disappointment! And yet, I know that
Bertha invited him, and lie promised me to attend. I should not have
worn these ear-rings and this brooch, which were my mother's, had I
known Mark would have been absent. Oh, my angel mother!"

A tear stole slowly down her face, and fell upon the shining pearls
that she still clasped between her fingers. "Why did not the grave
cover us both? Why was I left alone and so desolate in the world?
Can it be that Mark has deceived me--Mark Abrams, the only friend in
the world that I implicitly trust? God only knows. I remember now,
how he looked at my mother--what mockery to call that woman
mother!--when I asked him if he would attend the tea-party. I
remember furthermore, that she followed him to the door after he
bade us adieu; and what words she may have let slip there, Heaven
only knows! I have had a lurking suspicion for some time, that she
was planning to win Mark's love from me, and secure it for my sister
Sarah. What if she should succeed. Oh! how wretched I should be! It
has been a year, nearly, since Mark and I secretly pledged our love,
and he promised then that we should be married soon after I finished
at Madam Truxton's. How fondly I have looked forward to that coming
day! It has been the one single hope of my miserable life; and now
that the time draws so near, is it possible that my dream must
vanish into nothingness? Must this heart taste the bitterness of
deception, among its other sorrows? Miserable girl that I am! Surely
some evil star shone over the hour and place of my birth. But I'll
hope on for the best, and still continue to look forward to the
coming day, when my life shall be separated from the wretched woman
who now so darkly overshadows my existence. I'll hope on, even
though disappointment come at last." The soliloquy ended, Leah laid
away the pearls in the velvet-lined case, and turned to slumber and
dreams.

Mark Abrams, the early friend and lover of Leah, was the oldest son
of a talented and highly-esteemed rabbi, who presided over the most
flourishing and wealthy Jewish congregation in the Queen City; and
Mark himself was highly esteemed, as a young man of unimpeachable
integrity and unusual brilliancy of intellect.






CHAPTER V.





MONDAY morning came again. The great bell in the cupola of Madam
Truxton's seminary had sounded, and all the pupils, large and small,
were gathered to join in the opening exercises. First, the
bright-eyed little girls, in tidy aprons, with hair smoothed back in
modest braids, or safely gathered under the faithful comb; then, the
more advanced scholars, each bearing the impress of healthful vigor
and hopeful heart; and last, the big girls, or "finishing class," as
Madam Truxton significantly styled them--all were assembled once more
on this bright Monday morning, to begin the duties of another week,
and share again the joys and sorrows of school life. It was a lovely
sight, this assembled school; for where is the heart that does not
see with unspeakable pleasure the dawning beauty of innocent,
careless maidenhood?

"Bertha, do you know the French lesson?" said Lizzie Heartwell, as
the class of young ladies was passing from the assembly hall to
Madam Cond‚'s room.

"Oh, just well enough, Lizzie, to keep me from a scolding, I guess.
Here, won't you please hold the book open at aimer, so I can get
that muss a little straight, in case madam calls upon me to
conjugate?"

Lizzie laughed.

"Oh, pshaw! of course you won't. Lizzie Heartwell, you are too
conscientious; but Helen, you will, won't you?"

"Yes, if you will hold it open for me, too. I am not at all prepared
in the lesson."

"Here, Leah," continued Bertha, laughing, and winking her roguish
eyes at Lizzie, "how much do you know of the verb aimer?"

"More than I wish I did," was the laconic reply of the beautiful
Jewess.

"I suppose so, judging from what I saw on last Saturday evening. But
here we are at the lion's den, and our levity had better subside."

"Bon jour, madame!"

"Bon jour, mesdemoiselles."

And the door was closed.

At this same hour, in the large, hollow square fronting the Citadel
Tower in the upper part of the Queen City, many platoons of young
men, dressed in the gray military suits of the cadets, were
drilling, drilling, drilling, according to custom, as a part of
their daily school routine.

A passer-by would have stopped for a moment, and watched with
interest this pleasing spectacle. The varied and intricate
evolutions made by these gray-clad figures, as they expanded into
broad platoons, and then, as if by magic, fell again into groups of
two, four, or six, was, to the unaccustomed beholder, a strange and
attractive performance.

The bristling bayonets shining in the bright morning sun, gave
evidence of the faithful care with with which their polish was
preserved. And these bright polished muskets spoke loudly too, to
the reflecting heart, of the wild work they might some day
accomplish, when carried into the conflict by these same skilful
hands that now so peacefully upheld them--demon-work, that might
clothe a land and people in sackcloth and desolation!

The drilling was ended, the last evolution made, the halt commanded,
and the order to disband spoken.

Like a fragile piece of potter's work, the magic ranks broke apart,
and each gun fell to the ground with a heavy "thud," like an iron
weight.

"I say, George, I am deuced tired of this turning and twisting, and
I'll be glad when the term ends, and I am set free from this place."

"Well, I can't say that I will, Le Grande," replied George Marshall,
as handsome a cadet as wore the uniform, and one highly ambitious
for promotion. "I came to this institute, because I was always
fascinated by military display, and I intend to make this my
lifelong profession."

"Whew! how tired I am! Well, you are welcome to it. As for me, it's
the last life I should choose. I like the uniform very well,
especially when I go where the girls are--they always give a cadet's
suit a second glance--but as for the 'profession of arms,' as you
call it, excuse me."

"What! would you like, Le Grande, always to be playing lady's man?"

"Oh! yes; and that reminds me, George, that I have a new lady-love;
she is at Madam Truxton's. To-day, at intermission, let's saunter
down to the seminary, and catch a glimpse of the girls. Maybe I'll
see her."

"I can't; at intermission I must study my Legendre. Look at the
clock now; it's late."

"Bother the Legendre! you are the strangest fellow I ever saw--care
no more for the girls than a 'cat does for holidays.' Won't you go?"

"Not to-day, Le Grande. I am very busy."

The clock struck nine, and George Marshall, with the other disbanded
cadets, hurried to the duties of the day--to the hard task of study
that awaited them within the grim walls of the citadel.

For a moment before turning to his books, George Marshall looked out
of the window, far away to the blue, misty harbor. There he saw
again old Fort Defiance, standing grim, stern, and dark against the
morning sky--the only object that marred the brightness of the blue
heaven and the blue water, melting together in the distance.

"How beautiful the harbor is to-day! And yet how sullen the fort
looks," said the young cadet as he surveyed the scene. "I see the
flag of my country floating, and all is peaceful and quiet in the
waters. Thank God for such a country! But I must hasten to my
duties."






CHAPTER VI.





"LEAH, dear, what troubles you this morning? Your melancholy look
distresses me. Is it any sorrow that you dare not unfold to your
loving

"LIZZIE?"

These lines Lizzie Heartwell slipped into the leaves of a book that
lay upon Leah's desk, while she was absent at a music recitation.

By and by the bell sounded for the half hour's release from study.
Then Leah stepped across the room, and gently taking Lizzie by the
arm, said, "Come, let's walk."

Lizzie put her arm around her friend, and the two girls walked out
into the court-yard, that formed a play-ground for the younger
scholars and a pleasant promenade for the older ones, and then
turned aside upon the brick walk that connected the kitchen and
servants' hall with the main building.

This brick walk, covered overhead by the piazza floor of the second
story of the wing of the building, was securely protected in all
kinds of weather. As Leah and Lizzie turned upon this promenade,
Bertha Levy came skipping up to them with a merry bound, saying:

"Come girls, let's have a game of graces. Helen is willing. Here she
is. What do you say?"

"Excuse me this morning, Bertha," Leah replied. "I do not feel well;
my head aches, and perhaps I can walk it away!"

"Oh! yes, certainly; but you are as solemn as an owl, of late, Leah;
what is the matter with you? Do you contemplate taking the veil? If
so, is it the white or the black veil?"

"Our people never take the veil, Bertha. Do you forget?" replied
Leah reproachfully.

"Forgive me, dear, I meant no harm. But I am in a hurry. Dame
Truxton will have that old bell sounded directly, and my game of
graces not even begun. I wish the old thing was still in its native
ore, and not always ready to call us into trouble;" and so saying,
Bertha skipped away, calling, "Here, Mag Lawton, Mary Pinckney, come
and play graces."

For a moment Lizzie and Leah stood watching the group as it formed,
and admiring the graceful movements of the hoops as they flew from
the fairylike wands of the girls. "That game is well called," said
Lizzie, as Leah caught her arm again and said:

"Come, let's walk on." Then, after a pause, she continued, "I found
your note, Lizzie, and I am sorry that I have such a telltale face;
but I am unhappy, Lizzie; yes, I am miserable, and I cannot conceal
it. I would not obtrude my sorrow upon others, but it is my face and
not my tongue that betrays me."

"Do not think, Leah, I beg you, that I would seek to pry into the
secret of your heart," responded Lizzie; "but I thought if you were
in trouble, maybe I might in some way comfort you."

"I thank you, dear, dear Lizzie, for your sympathy"--and a tear fell
from the lustrous lashes of the Jewess; "I thank you again and
again," she continued, "but nothing you can do can alleviate my
sorrow."

"Well, you can trust me for sympathy and love always, whether that
will comfort you or not, Leah; be your trouble what it may."

"Mine is no sudden grief, Lizzie; it is a long, sad story, one that
I have never felt at liberty to inflict upon any one's hearing, and
yet, I have always found you so tender and so true, that when any
additional sorrow comes to me my heart strangely turns to you for
sympathy. I know not why. Can you tell me?"

"We always turn to those who love us, I think, in hours of
darkness."

"Yes, Lizzie, but there is a peculiar yearning, in my heart for you,
at times. I imagine it's akin to the feeling I should have for my
mother, were she living. With this feeling at my heart, I long to
look upon my mother's miniature which I once had, but which is now
in my step-mother's possession, and to gaze upon the face that
speaks such love to me, though her voice has so long been silent."

Lizzie, touched at Leah's pathetic words, turned and looked at her
friend with a tender glance, and said, "Trust me, Leah, for that
sympathy which you from some cause need, and unburden your aching
heart to me, if you choose."

"But, there! the bell is ringing and we must go," said Leah
abruptly. "Let's meet after school in the upper corridor, that
overlooks the sea. I have something further to say to you."

"If you wish, dear Leah; and it's but a short two hours till
dismission. Let's go."

Cloaked and hooded, the school-girls were all ready for departure
after the three long, welcome strokes of the great clock; when Leah
said, "It's growing chilly, Lizzie. Wrap your shawl closely around
you, for it's cold out on the corridor. Come, let's go out at the
rear door before it is locked."

Ascending a spiral staircase, the two girls reached the upper
corridor that ran across the south side of the end wing of the
building.

"Suppose Madam Truxton should come upon us, Lizzie, what would she
think?" said Leah, as the two girls crouched down closer together at
the end of the corridor.

"Nothing wrong, I guess, as we have our books; and perhaps we had
better look over our French a minute. What do you say?"

"So we had, as it comes first in the morning," and bending their
heads together the girls were silent for a time, pretending to
study. At length Lizzie closed the book, and Leah began her story.
LEAH'S STORY.

"I shudder, Lizzie, when I think of unfolding the sad story of my
life to you; and yet, I am impelled to do so by this hunger for
sympathy that is so constantly gnawing at my heart. As I have told
you before, my heart strangely turns to you in sorrow. In the three
years that I have known you, and we have seen each other daily, I
have never known you guilty of a single act or word that was
unworthy--"

"Oh! Leah--"

"Do not interrupt me, Lizzie. You must hear my story now, though it
shall be briefly told; and I have one request to make, my dear. It
is, that you have charity for my faults, and pity for me in my many
temptations." She continued:

"As you have known before, my mother died when I was a very little
child, scarcely three years old. I remember her but very
indistinctly. The woman who is now my father's wife, was his
housekeeper in my mother's life-time. She, of course, came from the
common walks of life, her father being a very poor butcher. How she
ever became my father's wife, I do not know; but my old nurse used
to intimate to me that it was by no honorable means. Be that as it
may, he married her when I was four years of age; and from that date
my miserable story begins. The first incident of my life after this
second marriage which I remember most vividly was this. A year after
my father's marriage to Rebecca, business of importance called him
to England, and a long-cherished desire to see his aged parents took
him to Bohemia, where they lived, after the business in Liverpool
was transacted. How I fared while he was gone, I dimly remember; but
well enough, I suppose, as I was still partially under the care and
control of my faithful nurse, a colored woman of kind and tender
heart.

"Poor, dear old woman, she is dead long ago!

"This visit of my father to his parents proved to be the last, as
they died a year or two afterward. Among my father's relatives in
the old country, was a cousin who lived in wealth and luxury
somewhere in Saxony. This cousin had been as a brother to him in his
young days, and on my father's return from Bohemia, he passed
through Saxony and paid this cousin a visit; He still speaks
occasionally of that delightful event. I must not forget to tell you
that this cousin was a baron--Baron von Rosenberg. He was not born to
the title; it was conferred on him for some heroic act, the
circumstance of which I do not now remember, during an insurrection.

"At parting with my father at the close of his visit, the Baron made
him many costly gifts; among others, one of an elegant pipe of rare
and exquisite workmanship. How distinctly I recall it now! It was in
the shape of an elk's head, with spreading, delicately wrought
antlers. The eyes were formed of some kind of precious stones, and
on the face of the elk were the Baron's initials inlaid in gold.

"The stem, I remember well, was of ebony, richly ornamented with
gold. I suppose it was a magnificent thing of its kind, and prized
beyond measure by my father. He used it only on rare occasions, and
for the gratification of our guests. But at length an event occurred
that called forth the treasured pipe from its casket, never to be
returned. It was on the occasion of the third anniversary of my
father's marriage to Rebecca Hartz--an occasion that richly deserved
sackcloth and ashes instead of feasting and merriment. But the day
was one of grand demonstration, and many guests and friends were in
attendance. All the articles of value and luxury belonging to the
family were brought into requisition, and among the number, the
treasured but ill-fated pipe. The guests ate, drank, and were merry,
I suppose, till all were sated, and at a late and lonely hour they
left my father's house deserted, with disorder reigning supreme in
every apartment.

"'Forget not my elk's head, Rebecca,' was my father's last
admonition, as he retired to his bed-chamber, after the revel was
over.

"But Rebecca did not heed his command, and being fatigued herself,
hurriedly retired, saying, 'I'll wait till morning.'

"Morning came, and unfortunately for me, I was the first to awaken.
Hastily dressing, I thought I would explore the scene of the late
festivity; and so I descended the stairs and entered the silent,
deserted drawing-room. In a few moments, Rebecca herself entered the
drawing-room, but partially dressed and wrapped in a crimson shawl.
She had come to remove the pipe.

"'Why are you up so early, Leah?' she said confusedly, seeing that I
was also in the room. And then, as she passed hurriedly around the
table where the pipe lay, the treacherous fringe of her shawl caught
in the delicate antlers of the elk's head and dragged it from its
place upon the table. It fell to the floor with a crash, and we both
looked down in dismay on the wreck at her feet. A footstep sounded
in the hall at that moment, and fearing it was my father, Rebecca
said boldly, and with gleaming eye:

"'What did you do that for, you wretched child?'

"'Do what?' I whispered, overawed.

"'Deny it, if you dare, and I'll break every bone in your body, you
lynx! What will your father say?' she continued. 'Pick up every
piece, and go and show it to him. Say you broke it, and ask his
forgiveness! Do you hear me?'

"I hesitated and trembled.

"'Dare you disobey me?' she angrily exclaimed, with menacing
gesture.

"'I am afraid of my father,' I whispered again, scarcely knowing
whether I really did the mischief or not.

"'And well you may be," she continued fearlessly, seeing that she
was gaining the mastery over me; 'but the sooner you seek his
forgiveness, the sooner you will obtain it. Go at once, I tell you.'

"Oh! pity me, Lizzie! pity me, for from that fatal moment, I have
been the slave, the serf, of a stronger will--a will that has
withered and crushed out, by slow degrees, the last trace of moral
courage that might have beautified and strengthened my character;
crushed it out, and left me a cowardly, miserable, helpless girl!
But to return.

"Involuntarily I stooped down, and began to pick up the pieces of
the fragile horns, and the eyes of the elk's head, that lay
scattered around upon the soft carpet, really wondering if, indeed,
I did break it.

"'Now you have gathered up the pieces, go at once to your father;
and mind you tell him you broke it. Do you hear me?'

"I glided out of the room, away from the presence of the woman who
had so cruelly imposed upon my helplessness. Trembling with fear,
and a sense of my supposed guilt, I approached my father, who was by
this time comfortably seated in the family sitting-room, reading the
morning paper.

"I crept to him and held out the fragments.

"'The d--l to pay! Who broke this?' he almost shouted in anger.

"'I did,' I murmured; and the rest of my story unspoken, my father
struck me a blow for the first and last time in his life. It sent me
reeling against a table; the sharp corner struck my forehead and cut
a terrible gash. Here, I will show it to you. It is plainly visible,
and always will be."

Leah lifted the glossy dark hair from her smooth pale forehead, and
displayed the long, hard scar, that was so carefully concealed by
the ebon folds. "I always wear my hair combed to hide it."

"Oh! Leah, Leah," sighed Lizzie, "how dreadful!"

"At sight of the blood that flowed freely from the wound, my father
caught me in his arms, and kissing my blood-stained face, exclaimed
again and again:

"'Fool, wretch, devil, that I am! Not for all the world would I have
shed a drop of this precious blood. I beg your forgiveness, my
darling--a thousand times, my child!' My cries, though suppressed,
brought my mother to the room. With a well-assumed air of innocence
and tenderness, she sought to wipe away the blood from my face, and
bind up the gash upon my forehead. I all the while abstractedly
wondering if I really did break the pipe; such was my weakness, such
the power that was over and around my young life, and is yet, even
to this very hour.

"My father gathered up the scattered fragments of the broken
treasure and cast them into the fire; and from that day to this, he
has never alluded in any manner to that occurrence. Always kind and
tender to me, he seems to be ever endeavoring to atone for some
wrong, and his long-continued silence assures me how vividly and
regretfully he remembers his violence toward me."

"Shocking!" ejaculated Lizzie with emotion.

"Yes, it is shocking, dear Lizzie; for the horrible truth is ever
before me, and this hated scar is the seal of the first lie of my
tender young life. I never comb my hair away from my face, so
morbidly am I impressed with the fear that those who see it will
read the cause of its existence. Oh! Lizzie, that falsehood, and
that cruel deception imposed upon a helpless child, were terrible
indeed, too terrible to be borne.

"But I must proceed. I have dwelt thus minutely upon this first
unhappy incident of my childhood, because it is a sort of guide-post
to a long and dreary waste of years. It forms the headstone of my
departed freedom, for, as I have said, in that evil moment when I
yielded to her wicked, imperious will, I lost all moral power, and
to this day, am worse than her vassal. Try as I may, I cannot shake
off the habit; it has become second nature, and her influence now is
so withering that I dare not make resistance; and yet, I despise
myself for my weakness. Pity me, Lizzie, do not blame me! There's a
moral want about me somewhere, Heaven knows, that no human agency
can supply.

"My mother's assumed fondness for me led my father to believe that
she loved me truly, and was tender and kind as she should be. He
never dreamed of her deception. And to this day, he knows nothing of
it, for I have never told him any of my trials and sorrows, since
the day he struck me that undeserved blow. I love my father
tenderly, and yet I cannot, dare not, unfold to his blinded vision
the facts that have so long been concealed from him. No, Lizzie, I
would rather suffer on as I must do, than darken his life by such a
discovery.

"Thus you see something of how the years passed on. I, a helpless,
ill-used orphan, growing older and and stronger day by day, and yet
morally weaker and weaker, with no will or power of resistance, till
I wonder sometimes that I am not an imbecile indeed.

"I thank the great God for my school-days. They have been days of
pleasure and benefit to me. They have taken me from that home where
I withered as the dew withers before the glaring sun, and cast me
among pleasant friends, who seem to love me, and at least are true
and kind. True and kind! Dear Lizzie, you cannot comprehend the
significance of that expression. To my starved, wretched heart,
these words are the fulness of all speech. I comprehend their
meaning, and regard them as I do the burning stars afar, shining
dimly upon a darkened world.

"Yes; again I say, I thank the great God for these school-days, that
led me to know you, Lizzie--you, to whom my heart has learned to turn
as a wounded, helpless bird would turn to its mother's sheltering
wing for safety and protection."

Touched by Leah's story, and her protestations of love, Lizzie bowed
her head in her hands, and a few tears fell through the slender
fingers. Observing these tears, Leah bent forward and kissed them
away, saying, "These are the first tears I ever saw fall for me."
Then she continued:

"It is not necessary to dwell on the innumerable instances of
cruelty and wrong that have marked my life, from the period just
mentioned, on to the present. It is enough to say that many events
in my home-life have left their searing impress on my heart and
brain; and many, I thank God, have faded from my memory. But when I
was fifteen, about the time you and I entered this seminary, an
event took place, that has deeply wounded my heart, and will leave
it sore forever. It was this:

"Very early on the morning of my fifteenth birthday, my father came
to my chamber and congratulated me with many kisses, giving me his
blessing. Then he said:

"'My daughter, I have here the miniature of your mother, taken
before your birth. I had it set in diamonds then, for you, my child,
little dreaming she would so soon be taken from us both. I have kept
it securely locked away, waiting till you were old enough properly
to appreciate its value. Now to-day, on your fifteenth birth-day, I
have called forth the treasure, and give it to you forever. Take it;
keep it carefully, my child, for the sake of the living as well as
the dead.' My father laid the miniature in my hand, and turned away
with ill-disguised emotion. Softly, and with trembling hand, I
opened the casket that contained the treasure, and for the first
time since her death, my eyes rested upon the dimly remembered
features of my angel mother.

"O Lizzie Heartwell! At the first glimpse of that sweet, but
half-forgotten face, I fell, like a helpless thing that I was, to
the floor, prostrate with emotion. How long I remained thus overcome
by sorrow and weeping, I know not. I knew nothing till the old
familiar voice, harsh, cold, and cruel, fell upon my ear as the door
opened.

"'Leah Mordecai, why are you lying there crying like a booby? What's
the matter with you?' said my mother.

"Involuntarily I hushed my sobs, dried my tears, and arose to my
feet.

"'What have you there, baby?' she continued.

"Without a word I handed her the casket, and as she regarded the
sweet, mild face with cruel scorn, she said:

"'What's this you are blubbering over? Didn't you ever see a
painted-faced doll before? Who gave you this?'

"'My father,' I replied fearfully; 'and it's the picture of my
mother, my own dear mother that's dead.'

"My reply seemed to enrage her, and she said, 'The diamonds are
beautiful, but I can't say as much for the face. I suppose you
consider that you have no mother now; from all this whimpering. See
here, Leah,' she added as a sudden thought seemed to strike her,
'You are too young to keep such a costly gift as this. I'll take it,
and keep it myself till you have sense enough to know what diamonds
are.'

"'Give it back to me,' I said excitedly, daring to hold out my
trembling hand.

"'Indeed I shall not,' she angrily replied, pushing back the
importunate hand.

"'Your father is a fool, to have given a child like you such a
valuable thing as this. I'll see if he gives my Sarah this many
diamonds when she is but a child of fifteen. And now, mind you, Leah
Mordecai,' she continued, with a triumphant smile upon her wicked
face, 'if you dare tell your father I took this from you, you'll
repent it sorely. Mark my warning; say nothing about it unless
asked, and then say you gave it to me for safe keeping.' She dropped
the casket into her dress pocket, and swept coldly out of the room.

"The door closed behind her, and I was alone in my misery and my
wrath. In my bitterness I cursed the woman who thus dared to crush a
helpless little worm beneath her wicked foot, and, falling on my
face again, I implored the great God to let me die, to take me to
that mother whom I so deeply mourned.

"It's growing chilly out here, Lizzie," continued Leah after a
pause; "suppose we leave the corridor, and find shelter in the hall
of the wing. We can sit in the great window at the end of the hall,
overlooking the sea. There we shall be secure from intrusion."

Lizzie bowed assent, and after the two girls were snugly seated in
the great window, Leah continued her story:

"She has kept the miniature to this day, and for three long years,
no matter how my eyes have longed for a glimpse of that sweet face,
I have never dared to ask for it. Many times she has worn it, in
great state, in her treacherous bosom, my father always supposing
that I loaned it as a special token of affection,--such, at least,
was the story she told him, and I have never dared contradict her."
As Leah finished this incident, her dark eye seem to kindle with a
new light and a quiver ran through her frame. She added, with
strange emphasis:

"One thing I would say, Lizzie, before passing from this subject,
and mark my words; my spirit is not so broken nor my sense of
justice so blunted but that one day I shall have that miniature
again. I have sworn it, and as I live, I'll keep my vow. But I must
hasten on; it is already growing late. I come now to the last and
sorest trouble of my life.

"For many years I have known Mark Abrams, the son of our rabbi. We
have been children and friends together, almost from the time my
mother died. He was always so gentle and kind to me in his boyhood,
that I often wondered what the world would be without Mark Abrams in
it. He was always the object of my childish admiration, and, indeed,
the only friend I ever had who dared, or cared to show me any
kindness. A year ago now; a little more than a year, he whispered to
me a tender tale of love, and my poor heart thrilled with ecstasy at
his words. Yes, he asked me to become his wife, when my school days
should be ended, and I promised him that I would.

"No one knew at that sweet time, of his love for me. I did not dream
of it myself, till he told me--surprised me, with the unexpected
revelation. I begged that our happiness be kept a secret until my
school days were finished. This was my fatal mistake. You know our
people have few secret engagements, and if I had only allowed Mark
to speak to my father at first, then all would have been well. But
the enemy has at last overtaken me, and I fear I am conquered and
ruined forever. For some months I have thought that my step-mother
suspected my secret, and have imagined that I could detect her
intention to break the attachment if she found her suspicion to be
correct. Her every action has betrayed this intention. I have at
times vaguely hinted my trials and sorrows to Mark, but of the
extent of that woman's evil designing, he has had no conception. I
was ashamed to acquaint him fully with her true character. Would
that I had, dear Lizzie! would that I had, long ago! My fears that
Mark was being led into the subtle web of that evil woman's weaving,
and would surely be taken from me, were confirmed by his absence
from Bertha Levy's tea-party. He promised me to attend, and my
step-mother offered some inducement that kept him away. To resist
her will, one must have the strength of a Hercules.

"Lizzie! Lizzie! I cannot tell you more; the sequel of my fears is
too dreadful to unfold! Even yet, my poor heart struggles to
disbelieve it." Leah dropped her head for a moment, while a sigh
escaped her tremulous lips, and was silent.

"Go on, dear Leah. Tell me all," said Lizzie.

And Leah continued. "For a long time I have been perplexed to know
where my step-mother kept the key to a small cabinet drawer that I
believed contained my long-hidden miniature. By diligent search, I
found it the day after Bertha's party, and, feeling unusually
unhappy, I determined, if possible, to see my mother's face once
more. It was Sunday, and that night we were invited to some private
theatricals at Mr. Israel Bachman's, whose daughter had just
returned from school. You may remember his house on Vine street. I
declined to attend. By remaining at home, I thought I could
accomplish my purpose of discovering the hidden treasure.

"The cabinet was placed in the large closet attached to the
sitting-room. To explore it, I must conceal myself in the closet.
After the family departed, leaving me sole occupant of the house, a
friend called. When her visit ended, I was interrupted again by the
servant, so that it was late before I could begin my secret work. At
last all was quiet, and my explorations began. First one key, and
then another, was applied to the lock, but without success. I worked
away hopefully, knowing the right one would come in turn if I were
not interrupted. Drawer after drawer was opened and when the right
keys were at last found, not one yielded up the coveted prize. I
trembled with fear of disappointment. Only one remained to be
opened; what if that were empty, too? Slowly and with trembling hand
I applied the key to this last delicate lock. Just then I heard a
sound in the hall, and footsteps approaching. What should I do?
Without stopping to reflect, I closed the closet-door. As I did so,
the sitting-room door was opened, and my step-mother entered,
accompanied by Mark Abrams.

"'Be seated,' my mother said blandly; and in my covert I wondered
what could be coming. Mark obeyed, and drawing his chair nearer the
fire waited till she had laid aside her wrappings and seated herself
in front of him. Then she said:

"'It's too bad, Mark, that your love for Leah is so misplaced; but,
as I have told you before as mildly as possible, there are reasons
why her father would never consent--reasons that are unalterable.
Aside from poor Leah's unfortunate deformity, there--'

"'Deformity!' ejaculated Mark, in utter surprise, 'I would like to
know how she is deformed? She, the most perfect model that was ever
cast in mortal mould.'

"'Still, my friend, I feel that it is but just and proper that I
acquaint you with a painful fact; dear Leah is deformed.'

"'And how?' Mark uttered hoarsely.

"'She suffers from a spinal affection, that will in time render her
a hideous deformity, and perhaps a helpless, hopeless invalid.'

"'Merciful Heavens!' uttered Mark, with shocked and incredulous
expression, as he sat gazing into the fire. At length he said:

"'God knows how sorry I am to hear that, for I love her, love her
fondly!'

"Quickly discerning the effect of her story, my step-mother with
well-feigned feeling continued:

"'After Leah's school-term is ended, her father contemplates taking
her to Europe for medical advice and skill, and in case of
improvement, which is scarcely supposable or to be hoped for, he has
long ago promised her hand to the son of a wealthy cousin somewhere
in that country--Baron von something--I can't remember hard names.'

"At length Mark looked up again and said:

"'Mrs. Mordecai, do not distress me farther. How can I credit your
story? How can I believe that Miss Leah is aught but what she
seems--the embodiment of health and beauty? Alas! for my broken,
vanished hopes! Alas! for my golden dreams of the future!'

"'Oh! don't take things too much to heart, my boy. Leah does not
care for you very much anyway. It will be but a small disappointment
to her, if indeed she ever thought seriously of marrying you; and I
remember to have heard her say that she never intended to marry--
conscious of her affliction, I suppose.'

"Mark winced under these words, and replied, 'She need not have
deceived me.'

"'Oh! girls will be girls, you know; and after you get over this
trouble, if you still like the name, remember, here is Leah's sister
Sarah, as fine a girl as you'll find anywhere, if she is my
daughter.'

"'I could love her for her sister's sake, if nothing more,' said
Mark with feeling; and then he bowed his head upon the marble mantel
and looked steadily into the fire without a word.

"'Then if you desire,' continued my step-mother, with a little
assumed hesitation, 'after reflection, you may speak to her father
on the subject. Sarah will make a fine wife.'

"Think of me, Lizzie! Think of me, in that miniature dungeon,
silently listening to the death sentence of my earthly happiness!
Think of my weakness, in mutely listening to the lie that was,
perhaps, to wreck my whole life! Think of me, and pity me!" Leah
brushed away a tear, the first that had fallen from her stony eyes
since the beginning of her story; and then she continued:

"If Mark heeded these last words of my step-mother, he gave no
evidence of it, for he continued to stare blindly at the glowing
grate, apparently oblivious of every surrounding object. At length
he aroused, and said:

"'I must be going. Mrs. Mordecai, I bid you good night.'

"'Stay longer, I pray,' rejoined my step-mother; and he replied:

"'Not to-night; it's late now, and I must be alone. Alone!' he
reiterated sorrowfully, and then was gone in a moment.
All this time, Lizzie, I had stood shivering in my hiding-place,
with my trembling hand almost benumbed by the cold granite knob, by
which I held the door. I scarcely dared to breathe, for fear my
presence would be revealed. The ordeal was terrible, I assure you! I
thanked Heaven when I heard the library door open and close again,
this time upon the receding figure of my step-mother, for then I was
free again--free to breathe, and to move, and to sigh, if I chose,
without betraying my hiding-place, or the cause of my concealment. I
need not, could not if I chose, tell you of my feelings on that
occasion. I remember them but dimly, even now. But this much I do
remember, and so it shall be. I resolved that Mark Abrams should be
free, rather than be undeceived by any word of mine. My pride, the
little that is left in my soul, and my resentment, the shadow of it
that yet lingers about me, struggled for a time in a fierce contest,
and as usual, I yielded up my rights, and succumbed again to a cruel
fate. My heart has given up its treasure, and he will never know
aught of the bitter | sacrifice. I feel that I am ill-fated and
despised, Lizzie; and feeling so, I do not desire to overshadow the
life of Mark Abrams. I love him too much, too dearly, ever to
becloud his future with my miserable life. I would rather live on
and suffer in silence, as I have done for years, unloved and
unloving to the end."

Here the beautiful girl ceased her story. Both friends for a time
were silent. In Lizzie's soft blue eyes the tears glistened, and she
looked with surprise into the cold, hard face of Leah, which had
lost its gentle expression, and seemed petrified by this recital of
her woes. Then she said:

"Would I could help you, Leah, by sharing your sorrow."

"No mortal being can help me, Lizzie. I am ill-starred and
ill-fated, I fear."

Filled with sympathy, and with a heavy heart, Lizzie bent her head,
and laid it in Leah's lap; and her silent prayer, though unheard by
mortal ear, ascended to the throne of the Eternal Father, and was
answered in the far-off future.

"It's late, and we must go," said Leah; "already the street lamps
are being lighted, and I shall have to render some good excuse for
being out so late."

"So we must; it is growing late," Lizzie replied.

"Remember now, I trust you, Lizzie," said Leah.

"Never fear; I shall never betray your confidence."

Then the two girls left the window, walked hastily through the hall
and corridor, down the spiral staircase, out into the street, and
turned homeward.






CHAPTER VII.





THE two friends walked side by side in silence the distance of a
square, and then their paths divided.

As Lizzie Heartwell turned the corner that separated her from her
companion, she drew her shawl more closely around her benumbed form
and quickened the steps that were hurrying her onward to her uncle's
home. Her mind was filled with sad and gloomy thoughts--thoughts of
the life and character of her beloved friend. The misty twilight
seemed deepened by the tears that bedimmed her vision, as she
thought again and again of the life blighted by sorrow, and the
character warped by treachery and deceit.

"Alas!" thought she, "had the forming hand of love but moulded that
young life, how perfect would have been its symmetry! What a
fountain of joy might now be welling in that heart's desert waste,
where scarcely a rill of affection is flowing."

Filled with these and like thoughts, Lizzie reached the doorway of
her uncle's house, and was soon admitted beneath its hospitable
roof.

Leah Mordecai, when separated from Lizzie, plodded straight forward
toward her father's elegant home. The street lamps shone brightly,
but the departing daylight, that was spreading its gloom over the
world, was not half so dark and desolate as her poor heart. Yet Leah
seldom wept--her tears did not start, like watchful sentinels, at
every approach of pain or joy. Only when the shrivelled fountain of
her heart was deeply stirred, did this fair creature weep. Calm,
placid, and beautiful in the lamp-light, the features of her young
face betrayed no emotion, as she passed one and another, on beyond
the din of the garrulous multitude.

At last she stood before her father's gate, and rang the bell.

"Is that you, Miss Leah?" said Mingo the porter, as he opened the
door of the lodge.

"Yes, Mingo, I am late this evening. Has my father come home?"

"Has just passed in, miss."

"I am thankful for that," she murmured to herself. "Thank you,
Mingo," she added aloud, as the faithful attendant closed the door.

Nervous from excitement and emotion, it was late that same night
before Lizzie Heartwell could quiet herself to slumber. Leah's
melancholy story still haunted her.

At length she slept and dreamed--slept with the tear-stains on her
cheeks, and dreamed a strange, incongruous, haunting dream,
reverberating with the deadly war of artillery, and flashing with
blazing musketry. The sea, too, the quiet harbor, that she always
loved to look upon, was agitated and dark with mad, surging waves.

The gray old fort also stood frowning in the distance, with strange
dark smoke issuing from behind its worn battlements. And amid this
confusion of dreams and distorted phantasms of the brain, ever and
anon appeared the sweet, sad face of Leah Mordecai, looking with
imploring gaze into the face of her sleeping friend.

But at length this disturbed and mysterious slumber was ended by the
morning sun throwing its beams through the window pane and arousing
the sleeper to consciousness. Once awakened, Lizzie sprang from her
bed, and involuntarily drew aside the snowy curtain that draped the
east window. Then she looked toward the blue sea that surrounded the
fort, and exclaimed, "How funny! Defiance is standing grim and dark
in its sea-girt place as usual, and all is quiet in the harbor. How
funny people have such strange dreams. But I fear the vision of that
smoking fortress and that angry harbor will not fade soon from my
memory; perhaps I have a taint of superstition in my nature. But I
must hasten, or I'll be late for the morning worship. I believe I'll
tell my uncle of my dream."






CHAPTER VIII.





THE month sped on. The end of Madam Truxton's year was rapidly
advancing. School-friendships that had grown and matured within the
seminary walls, now deepened and intensified as the day for final
separation approached. All were studying, with a zeal commendable
and necessary, too, for the final ordeal through which Madam
Truxton's pupils must necessarily pass.

Since that dark, gloomy day when Leah Mordecai acquainted Lizzie
Heartwell with some of the facts of her sad life, not a word further
had been spoken on the subject. But they had seemed bound to each
other by an indissoluble bond of love. No word harsher than a
caress, and no look sterner than a smile, had Lizzie ever cast upon
Leah; and as the thirsty, withered flowers drink up the dew of
heaven, so this girl of misfortune received that tender, unalloyed
love.

The inexorable duties of the school were pressing, forbidding long
confidential talks and clandestine interviews. Each and all were
impressed with the fact that they were approaching an important,
and, to some, a dreaded epoch in their lives.

Leah had long since acquainted Lizzie with the consummation of her
fears, informing her of the engagement between Mark Abrams and her
sister Sarah. With this information--this avowal of her broken heart
and hopes--Leah had enshrouded the subject with silence and laid it
away, as we lay our treasures in the tomb. Lizzie, always
compassionate and discreet, made no mention of it; and so the
silence was unbroken as the days passed on.

In the Citadel Square, far above Madam Truxton's seminary, the
drilling, drilling, drilling, was daily going on in these sunny
days. Drilling, drilling, drilling--for the coming battle of life, or
for the crimson strife of war that might desolate a land. Which was
it? Only the veiled years could answer this inquiry. Meanwhile, the
drilling still went on.

High hopes filled manly bosoms, and ambitious hearts throbbed
wildly, as the approaching end of the military year drew nigh.

Emile Le Grande sat dozing in his private chamber late one evening,
at the close of a severe day's duty, seated in a capacious
arm-chair, with his head dropped upon his breast. The young man was
dozing over the journal that he held in his unconscious grasp. Had
one stolen beside him and looked down, he might have read the
following entries, beginning many months previous to this evening.

"January.--I have seen the fair Leah but three times since Bertha
Levy's tea-party, yet I have passed her house daily for that purpose
ever since. Zounds! It's an ill fate, I swear! . . .

"February.--How my heart beat to-day, as I was walking arm-in-arm
with George Marshall, and we suddenly confronted the beautiful
Jewess as she was turning into Prince street.

"'What a magnificent face, Emile! What Hebrew maiden is that bowing
to you?'

"'Miss Mordecai,' I proudly replied, 'the Jewish banker's daughter,
of whom you have heard me speak before.'

"'Yes, certainly. Well, she is beautiful. You seem a little
bewitched, boy,', he said. And I said--nothing.

"March.--I am more and more perplexed. The Jewess is at the bottom of
it all. To-day I hinted to Helen something of my fancy for Leah
Mordecai. She only laughed. I was irritated by her ridicule, and I
told her I intended to marry Leah if I could. Her silly reply was,
'Well, suppose you can't?' School-girls are intolerably silly, at
Helen's age! She thinks now of nothing and nobody but Henry Packard,
and he's the stupidest cadet in the institute--everybody knows that.
I wish I had a sister that could sympathize with me. Wh-e-e-w! I am
altogether out of sorts. Maybe I'll be all right to-morrow.

"April.--Prof. Brown said to-day that I was not studying hard enough,
and if I did not spur up I should come out shabbily at the end of
the term.

"George Marshall, too, good fellow that he is, says I think too much
about the girl. Maybe I do; but I should like him to tell me how a
fellow is to help it. That Jewess bewilders me! If old Mordecai was
not rich, I should love her for her dreamy eyes. I'll swear, ever
since she spoke to me so sweetly a week ago, and gave me a clasp of
her white, slender hand, I haven't cared whether I was prompt at
parade, studies, or anything else--so I could always be prompt at
meeting her. She looks doleful sometimes. She cannot be very happy.
I wonder what my mother would think if she could read this journal.
But, old book, you never tell any tales, do you?

"May.--The days are growing warmer--beautiful days, too. Everything is
in bloom, and the old Queen City looks charming. The girls, too,
Madam Truxton's and all others, swarm about the town like bees in a
rose-garden. I meet them at every turn.

"My uniform is getting rather shabby; the buttons and lace are quite
tarnished. I must have a new suit before long.

"I am a lucky fellow of late--have seen Leah M. many times. She came
home with Helen twice, and I have walked with her many times. I have
told her that I love her, but she does not seem inclined to trust
me. Only to-day I sent her a magnolia leaf, upon which was written,
'Je vous aime, ma belle Juive.' Helen said she smiled as she took it
and said, 'Thank him, if you please.' That was favorable, I think.
Yes I consider myself a lucky fellow.

"June 1.--I am all out of sorts to-night. Things have not gone
smoothly at the Citadel to-day. I was again reprimanded by that old
bald-headed Brown. He must forget that I am a man, and not a mere
boy. I don't care whether 'I pass,' or not, as the boys say.

"'Deficient in mathematics,' the professor said, gravely; and I
suppose I am. I never could endure figures, and yet I must make my
living by them.

"French I understand pretty well. I depend upon that to help me
through.

"George Marshall will do all he can for me, I know; there's no
better cadet in the institute; old Brown says that himself. I find
that George was right when he told me long ago that I had too many
thoughts in my head about the girls. Deuce take the thoughts! but
they are there. My very proper and punctilious mother, too, has been
scoring me lately. Somehow she found out my fancy. Whew! how she did
scold me! Said she would like to know if I had forgotten the blood
that flowed in the Le Grande veins! If I were lost to family pride
and honor so far as to mingle my blood with that of the old
pawnbroker, Mordecai! How she looked! How she stamped the floor with
her dainty foot when I hinted at the fact that my maternal
grandfather was neither duke nor lord! How she hushed my
'impertinence,' as she styled it, with such invectives as 'fool,
idiot, plebeian'! Heigho! But I felt that it was unmanly in me to
provoke mother so, and I begged her pardon.

"I did not promise her, though, to leave off loving Leah Mordecai. I
did not tell her, either, that I had asked Leah to be my wife one of
these days, when school-days were ended.

"June 5.--The closing exercises of the schools have been hurried up
this year, as the weather is exceedingly warm, and the Board of
Health fear a return of the terrible scourge, yellow fever, that so
devastated this fair city five years ago. Next week, Madam Truxton's
seminary closes, and that is one week before the institute does.
Invitations to Madam's levee are already out. The graduating class
of cadets are invited--lucky fellows!

"Helen seems really sad at the prospect of parting with her
school-days and her friends. But then she is eighteen, and that's
quite old enough for a girl to come out. She says, too, that of all
the girls at school, Lizzie Heartwell will be the most regretted
when she leaves the Queen City for her home in a distant State. She
is quite a pretty girl, but too religious, I should judge, from what
Helen says. Her mother is a widow. I guess they are poor.

"Mother is quite reconciled to me again, and spoke playfully to me
last night about marrying Miss Belle Upton, who is to visit Helen
next week and attend the closing of Madam Truxton's school. Well,
'we shall see what we shall see,' but I hardly think I will. She can
hardly eclipse 'Leah Mordecai the beautiful,'--that's the way I write
it now."






CHAPTER IX.





THE examination-days at Madam Truxton's were over. The long-dreaded
reviews had been passed with credit to both pupils and instructors.
The certificates of scholarship, and the "rewards of merit," had
been given to the fortunate competitors; the long-coveted diplomas
awarded to the expectant "finishing class," and that memorable term
of school life was closed forever. The hour for the event had come.
The grand old drawing-rooms above the assembly hall in the spacious
building were filled to repletion--filled with the patrons and
select guests that were honored with the fastidious Madam's
courtesy. It was an elegant assembly, one characteristic of the
Queen City in her days of unostentatious aristocracy, of gentle-bred
men and women.

Conspicuous among the famed guests were the three-score cadets,
themselves just ready to emerge from college walls and step forth
with triumphant tread upon life's broad opening field.

The "finishing class" numbered more than a score of girls--all young,
some gifted, many beautiful--whose homes were scattered far and wide
through the country; young girls who, for many months, and even
years, had lived and studied and loved together, with all the ardor
and strength of youth. Now they were to be sundered; sundered with
no prospect of future reunion.

All felt this approaching separation with more or less sorrow,
according to their varying natures; and some contemplated it with
deep regret.

The greetings, congratulations, and presentations were over, and
Madam Truxton, in all her stately elegance, had at last relaxed her
rigid vigilance, and the "finishing class" were free--free to wander
for the first time, and that first the last too, among the spacious
halls and corridors of the old school building, as young ladies.
Free to receive the smiles and addresses of the long-forbidden
cadets without fear of madam's portentous frown.

At length the sound of music rose upon the air. Knotted groups here
and there bespoke the preparation for the dance. Sets were forming
in drawing-rooms and halls, and impatient feet were moving to the
measure of the prelude.

"Miss Heartwell, may I claim your hand for the quadrille?" said
George Marshall, bowing before Lizzie at the presentation of Madam
Truxton herself.

"I thank you, I never dance, Mr. Marshall."

"Not dance! How's that?"

"Never learned, sir."

"That's stranger still. I supposed all of madam's young ladies
danced."

"In general they do," replied Lizzie, "but from peculiar
circumstances I am an exception to the general rule. If you desire a
partner in the dance, allow ne to present you to my friend, Bertha
Levy. She dances like a fay."

"Not just now, thank you, Miss Heartwell; if it is not impertinent,
I would like to know why you do not dance."

"Well, it's a simple story, quickly told; and if you will listen a
moment I'll inform you, if you desire."

"With pleasure. Go on."

"Melrose, my native home, in the State of --, is a quiet little
town, with little social life and less gayety. My mother, too, is a
widow, who has lived in great seclusion ever since my father's
death, which occurred when I was a little child. I have been her
only companion in all these years of bereavement and sorrow, and it
has never been her desire that I should indulge in any of the
pleasures and gayeties that young people are fond of. From these
causes my life has assumed a sombre tone that may seem, and indeed
is, unnatural in the young. Yet, as I have known nothing else all my
life, it is no trial for me to forego the pleasures that are so
alluring to you, perhaps, Mr. Marshall."

George Marshall made no reply, and for a time seemed absorbed in
contemplation. He had listened attentively to this simple, half-told
history of her life. And as he marked the gentle expression of her
spirituelle face, she became in his eyes a model of beauty. The
allusion to the death of her father had recalled to his mind the
time and manner of his own father's death--a time when the terrible
plague of yellow fever had swept over the Queen City with
devastating wing. Observing George Marshall's silent, absorbed
manner, Lizzie continued:

"You think me very uninteresting, I dare say. Young ladies who do
not dance are generally so considered. Allow me to present you to
some of my friends who will--"

"I beg pardon, Miss Heartwell, for my inattention. I was thinking of
the past--the past recalled by your own story. Excuse my abstraction,
I pray."

"But the young ladies?" said Lizzie.

"I do not care to dance now, if you will allow me the pleasure of a
promenade," he replied.

"Certainly I will," replied Lizzie with a graceful bend of the
shapely head; and clasping with her timid little hand the strong arm
of the manly cadet, she passed with him from the lower drawing-room
across the hall to the library.

"There's more room in the corridor than here," said Lizzie; "suppose
we go there?"

"First let me ask a question, suggested by the musical instrument I
see standing in the library. Do you sing? Do you sing with the
harp?"

"I do."

"Will you not sing for me?"

"I will, with pleasure, if you will make room in the library," she
replied with unaffected simplicity. The library was occupied by a
number of matronly ladies and elderly gentlemen--all of the guests
who were not participating in the dance. Lizzie bowed her head
slightly, and passed to the harp, now silent in one corner. Without
hesitation she seated herself before it, and the slender fingers
grasped the strings of the instrument with a masterly touch, running
through a soft, sweet prelude of tender chords. Her voice at last
trilled forth in the charming strains of the old Scotch ballad,
"Down the burn, Davy, love."

Concluding this old favorite air, she sang again, with sweetness,
the witching song, "I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows."

Then rising from the harp, she said, with sweet accent and sweeter
smile, "Now that I have bewitched you with my music, Mr. Marshall, I
am ready for the promenade on the corridor."

These words so lightly spoken by the girl, were but the utterance of
a truth of which she had no suspicion. George Marshall was indeed
bewitched, and bowing a silent assent, he offered his arm to the
enchantress, and soon Lizzie found herself among the dancers, who
were seeking temporary relaxation from the exercise, scattered in
groups here, there, and everywhere about the spacious building.

Out into the long balcony, where the silvery moonlight lay softly as
dew upon the flowers, George Marshall led the way, with the young
girl clinging timidly to the brave strong arm, that for months had
known no tenderer touch than the cold, cruel steel of the musket,
the constant companion of the cadet in the military course just
closing.

They passed in silence through the corridor, and at last stood at
the eastern end that overlooked the sea, stretching her arms around
the child of her bosom, the devoted Queen City.

George Marshall, always taciturn, was now painfully silent. His
brain, always quick and clear to comprehend a problem in Legendre,
now seemed beclouded and sluggish. At length, embarrassed by the
oppressive silence, Lizzie endeavored to arouse her companion by
remarking,

"Are you fond of the sea, Mr. Marshall?"

Still gazing eastward over the deep, he replied abstractedly:

"Do you mean, am I fond of sea-life? If so, I answer most
emphatically, No. There's but one life in this world that attracts
me"--and here his manner grew constrained as he continued--"but one,
and that's the life of a soldier. I love military life and service,
and when my course is finished--which time is near at hand--if I am
successful, as I hope to be, I shall offer myself to my country, and
await impatiently her refusal or acceptance of my humble services.
But I beg your pardon, if my enthusiasm has led me away from your
inquiry. I only like to look upon the sea; its grandeur in a storm,
and the peaceful repose that follows, excite my admiration, but
that's all. It's something too treacherous to love."

"You fear the water, then," asked Lizzie smiling.

"Look to-night, if you please," was the answer, "at the soft silver
sheen that covers its beautiful blue bosom, and imagine, if you can,
such peaceful water engulfing a hapless bark within its silent
depths! Oh no; I only admire the sea as a part of God's wonderful
creation. But, Miss Heartwell, there's something just visible in the
hazy distance that I do love; it's old Defiance. You see the lights
of the old fort twinkling far off on the water? They stir within me
the martial spirit, and seem to beckon me on to an unknown, but
longed-for destiny. It may be fancy, yet there has been a peculiar
feeling toward that old fort ever since I first became a cadet at
the Citadel. Why do you frown? Do you object to my enthusiasm?"

"By no means," replied Lizzie quickly; "but, strangely as it seems
to fascinate you, it has always repelled, and even terrified me.
It's the only object of the beautiful harbor that has ever cast a
shadow across the loveliness of the sea. I hate it; and I have often
wished the sea would draw it silently into its hungry depths, and
leave no trace of it behind."

George laughed.

"Your fancy amuses me," he said. "It would never do to obliterate
old Defiance, for then the enemy, should they ever come, would find
easy access to the Queen City, and ruin and destruction might
follow."

"Well, I guess my wishes will be unavailing in the future, as they
have been in the past; and as I leave the Queen City to-morrow, old
Defiance will fade from my sight though not from my memory, for a
long, long time. So for the present I wish it no ill."

"Indeed," replied George Marshall in surprise, "do you leave the
Queen City to-morrow--so soon?"

"Yes, I go by steamer--by the Firefly, that leaves to-morrow for the
port of --, in my native State, and from there to Melrose, where I
live."

"At what hour does the steamer leave?" inquired the young man
thoughtfully.

"At six P.M., uncle tells me."

"And you leave so soon--six P.M. to-morrow?" he asked. "Maybe I am
selfish in monopolizing you so long, Miss Heartwell. I have two
friends you must know before the evening closes--Edwin Calhoun and
Emile Le Grande. Have you met them? The dancing has ceased again,
and we'll look them up."

"Thank you."

"Before we leave this moonlit spot, however, Miss Heartwell, I beg
that you make friends with old Defiance, for my sake, and recall
that cruel wish concerning him," he said playfully, and with an arch
smile.

Lizzie replied, "For your sake, I will, and for yours only;" and
throwing a kiss across the silvery sea, she said, "Take that, old
fort, as a peace-offering."

The winds sighed and the sea murmured as they turned to rejoin the
revellers, and that sportive kiss was borne away on the wandering
breeze.

The revelry must end. Madam's love-bound pupils must be separated.
The adieus must be spoken, but there must be no tears; that were a
weak and indecorous manifestation of feeling, in madam's estimation.
Blandly bowing her stately head, and kindly congratulating each upon
having "finished," and finished well, madam gracefully waved them
out of her presence, into the future, with a gentle motion of her
jewelled hand.

"I shall see you to morrow, Lizzie," whispered Leah Mordecai, as she
passed from the seminary escorted by Emile Le Grande.

"Certainly, at any hour, and do not disappoint me. Remember it's the
last day."

All were gone. The stars twinkled faintly in the sky. Every light in
madam's great house was extinguished, and all sound of that
evening's revel hushed forever.






CHAPTER X.





THE morning sun threw its ruddy beams, warm almost to tropical heat,
through the half-closed casement of Leah Mordecai's apartment, and
the intrusive light opened the dark, dreamy eyes to consciousness.
The hour was late. Toil-worn and languid from hard study and the
relaxing climate, Leah rested in her bed reluctant to arise.

"It's all over now; school-days are ended, and I am acknowledged a
young lady, I suppose," thought Leah half-consciously, as she
aroused at length from slumber. Then the thought came that it was
the last day of Lizzie Heartwell's sojourn in the Queen City; and
Leah sprang from her repose with a new and powerful impulse. "I
shall spend these last hours with her," she muttered articulately,
as she hastily performed the morning's simple toilet. "Yes, I'll
tell her my secret, too, though to no living soul have I breathed it
yet," she continued audibly, as she adjusted a pin here and there
among the dark braids of her hair. At last, smoothing the jetty
bands across the fair, oval forehead, she glanced back again to see
that the scar--the hated, dreadful scar--was hidden. Then placing a
knot of scarlet ribbon amid the delicate lace-work of her snowy
morning dress, she languidly descended the stairs and entered the
library, where her father sat awaiting her appearance.

Mr. Mordecai was proud of Leah; proud of her attainments at school,
gratified with her grade of deportment, and delighted that she had
"finished," and with so much credit. As she entered the library, he
arose, and clasping her in his arms, imprinted first a good-morning
and then a congratulatory kiss upon her face.

"I am proud of my daughter," he said; "proud that no one at Madam
Truxton's excelled my own Leah. I am proud of your example to your
sisters, and trust they will strive to emulate it."

"Thank you, father. I hope I shall never cause you shame," she
replied with tenderness.

During this brief dialogue, the evil-eyed mother had sat an
attentive listener, her jealous nature stirred to its depths. Then
she said:

"If you are so proud of Leah now, what will you feel when Sarah is
through school?"

"Additional happiness, I trust; and following her sister's example,
she cannot disappoint papa," said Mr. Mordecai, stroking Sarah upon
the head softly, as he arose and led the way to the breakfast table.

The morning repast was finished with more than becoming haste, for
Mr. Mordecai had waited to welcome his daughter, and would
consequently be late at his bank.

"It's real late," said Leah, as she followed her father from the
house. "I hear the Citadel clock striking ten. I must spend the
morning with Lizzie." Then donning the light Leghorn hat that gave
her a gypsy-like appearance, she started forth toward Rev. Dr.
Heartwell's unpretentious house. As she passed block and square that
marked the distance, her heart was heavy and her thoughts were
sorrowful. She realized that it was perhaps her final leave--taking
of her most cherished friend. Her path led past the walls of the
dark, gray citadel, and as she cast a glance up toward its turreted
heights, and its prison-like windows, she sighed a deep-drawn,
heart-felt sigh. And why?

The gentle sea-breeze had arisen, and though it sported with the
helpless ribbon upon her bosom, and kissed again and again the
crimson cheeks, it could not cool the fires of anxiety and sorrow
that burned within her heart. She felt that she was losing much in
losing Lizzie Heartwell. And the fear was not an idle one.

Trembling with fatigue and deep-hidden emotion, Leah at length stood
at the door of Dr. Heartwell's house, awaiting the answer of the
porter.

The door opened. "M-m-miss L-l-lizzie s-s-says c-c-come right u-up
stairs, M-m-iss M-m-ordecai," stuttered out the polished black
Hannibal who attended the door, known throughout the large circle of
Dr. Heartwell's friends and acquaintances as a most accomplished
servant and a most miserable stammerer.

"Very well; please show me the way," replied Leah, repressing a
smile.

Up two flights of stairs she followed the dark guide, and when they
arrived at Lizzie's room, whose door stood ajar, he said, with a
flourish of his right hand; "M-m-iss M-m-mordecai, M-m-iss
L-l-lizzie."

"Well, Hannibal, why don't you tell me?" said Lizzie playfully; and
Hannibal retreated below stairs, grinning and rubbing his head in
confusion. The girls were left alone. Lizzie was busy packing trunks
and arranging boxes, while every description of feminine
paraphernalia was lying about the room in disorder.

"Now let me help you, dear," said Leah, "and then we can have a long
talk."

"Thank you, so we will. I'll first tumble these things into that
trunk quick as a flash, for Aunt Rose will not come up to inspect
them, I guess; and when I get home my mother will give them a good
overhauling. I am tired and worn out from hard study and excitement,
and my good mother will excuse my disorder, this time. Cram them in.
Here goes the shawl, now comes my dress, the muslin I wore last
night. Don't let me crush that. I'll fold it carefully, for the sake
of the compliment it secured me last night," said Lizzie, smiling as
she turned the snowy garment about, folding it for the trunk.

"What was that?" said Leah.

"George Marshall said I looked like a pearl, my dress was so gauzy.
How does that sound to-day? It sounded very well last night. I
scarcely made him a reply. I don't know how to reply to such
speeches, but I thought if I did look like a pearl in my gauzy
robes, it was owing to my mother's good taste and skilful fingers,
for no professional modiste touched or contrived my dress."

"It's as handsome as any Madame Aufait turns out, I think," said
Leah.

"Not as handsome as yours, Leah; but then my mother has to consider
the cost in everything, and you do not."

These words of Lizzie's, this kind and loving allusion to her
mother's tenderness and never-wearying care, fell upon the heart of
Leah as the cold, cruel steel falls upon the unoffending dove. She
looked out of the window and brushed a tear from the fringed
eyelids, that Lizzie might not see it.

Lizzie continued, "I must take care of this dress, Leah; I don't
know when I shall have a new one again. Maybe, dear, the next time
you hear from me, I'll be playing school--ma'am, and such robes will
not be often brought into use. How would you like to be my pupil,
Leah?" she said, with a forced attempt at pleasantry.

Leah looked seriously at her friend a moment, and said, "You haven't
any idea of teaching, really, Lizzie?"

"Yes, dear, I may teach. My mother is a widow, you know, and by no
means wealthy. I am the oldest child. She has educated me at great
sacrifice, with my dear uncle's assistance, and it would be wrong in
me not to show my gratitude by at least endeavoring to maintain
myself, if nothing more. Oh yes, love, by and by I shall be an
angular school--ma'am, unless"--and she laughed a roguish, merry
laugh--"unless I get married."

"Dear me! how the wind blows!" said Leah, as the white muslin
curtain flapped backward and forward in the playful breeze, ever and
anon covering her beautiful head and face.

"Yes, Leah, this same sweet sea-breeze will soon waft me far from
you, when to meet again, God only knows. I am about through this
packing now, and we must have our talk--our last, long, confidential
chat, for many, many days."--"Maybe years," Leah added sorrowfully.

"Here goes old trunk number one. Books, and everything pertaining to
school-days, are tucked away in you;" and she turned the key. "This
one, number two, I shall not close till Aunt Rose makes a little
deposit in it of something for my mother--so she requested me." Then
stooping down, Lizzie drew forth from its hiding-place a carefully
wrapped little bundle, and handing it to Leah, said:

"Here, dear, is a scarlet silk scarf, fringed with gold, that I
desire to give you as a keepsake. It is something I prize, as it was
brought from Greece by an uncle of mine, some years ago. Its colors
will contrast beautifully with your sweet face; take it."

"Keep it yourself, Lizzie. I need nothing, I care for nothing, for
personal adornment. You tell me I am beautiful, but that does not
satisfy the heart that has suffered so from cruel wrong-doing. I
care only for that of which I receive so little--human sympathy and
love. Take it back."

"No; keep it as a memento of my love, if you never care to wear it,"
said Lizzie.

Leah laid her arms around Lizzie's neck at these words, and bending
her head kissed her again and again.

"Now I am done, let's sit here by the window that looks out toward
the sea, and have our chat."






CHAPTER XI.





"TO-DAY you leave me, Lizzie," Leah began; "leave poor Leah with no
one--" then she stopped.

"Why do you hesitate? Is there something that troubles you?" Lizzie
asked, observing Leah's hesitation.

"Yes," Leah said faintly, "there is something that troubles
me--something that I fear to tell even you, dear Lizzie."

"Can't you trust me?"

"Not that, Lizzie; but I am ashamed to tell you, and afraid too.
But," she continued, "you know what I suffered about Mark Abrams,
and how his love was taken from me and secured for another.
Well"--she hesitated again. "The secret I am about to disclose now,
does not concern Mark Abrams, or any other Hebrew under the sun."

"Is it some love-affair with a Gentile?"

"Yes," whispered Leah, "and it greatly perplexes me. It is something
that has been forced upon me, and tremblingly I come to you for
advice."

"Whom does it concern?"

"One that tells me he loves me, and swears eternal devotion--one
whose name I hardly dare to mention."

"I hope he is worthy of you, whoever it may be."

"Have you not suspected me, Lizzie? Has not my tell-tale face
betrayed me before? Can't you think who it is to whom I refer?"

"Can it be Emile Le Grande?" said Lizzie, after a moment's
reflection, with a look of astonishment.

"Yes," faltered Leah, "he is the one that tells me he loves me."

"And do you love him, Leah?" said Lizzie, with some hesitation. The
curtain that continued fluttering with renewed force was wafted full
into the face of the young Jewess, and veiled the crimson blushes
that overspread it. As gently as it came, the curtain floated back,
and Lizzie detected the traces of Leah's sudden emotion. Without
waiting for further inquiry, Leah continued:

"I determined I would tell you all, Lizzie, before we parted, and
ask your advice. Yes, I think I do love Emile--love him, because he
says he loves me. Last night he urged me again to become his wife. I
trembled like a frightened bird; I felt that I was listening to
dangerous words, yet I had not courage to break away from him."

"Did he say anything else--I mean about your being a Jewess?"

"Oh, yes; much. He said he cared nothing about that difference, if I
did not; but I told him I did. I assured him that I had been reared
a Hebrew of the straightest sect, and that my father would never
consent to my marrying a Christian. At my remarks he laughed, and
replied that he would take care of the opposition, if I would only
marry him. He urged and pleaded with me to promise him, but I
steadfastly refused. He is very fascinating though, and I think a
dangerous man to come in the way of a poor, irresolute, unhappy girl
like myself."

"Did he say much about the difference in religion, Leah?"

"He said something, not a great deal; said he was not religious
himself; that one faith was about as useful to him as another, as he
did not know positively which was the true one. He said he would as
soon marry a Jewess as a Christian, so he loved her, and the
religion might take care of itself."

"Did you ask if his parents knew of his love for you?"

"Yes. He replied that Helen knew of it, but he had not troubled
himself to tell his parents. I did not like that remark; and I
replied that they would doubtless object to my being a Jewess,
should he tell them. He laughed at the bare suggestion, and I
upbraided him a little for this apparent disregard of his parents."

"You might have referred him to the fifth commandment with
propriety, Leah, I think."

"So I might, but did not think of it. I have told you about all now,
Lizzie, and I want your opinion of such intermarrying. The subject
stirs me deeply, and I have no other friend to whom I would dare
confide it. I trust no one as I do you." Leah looked seriously and
steadily into her friend's face, and Lizzie began:

"What I say now, Leah, is not intended as advice to you in regard to
marrying Emile Le Grande, but only my opinion in general about
marriages where such material differences exist. In the first place,
a man who confesses that he has no religious faith, is to be pitied,
if not despised. And I think an unbelieving Christian far worse than
the most unbelieving Jew. It argues such an utter want of
consistency and fidelity. I should fear to trust a man that could
make such a confession. The Le Grandes are an irreligious family,
and Emile's education has necessarily been neglected in that most
important respect. In consequence of their want of religious
principles, they are notoriously proud, haughty, and vain--silly
even--of their family distinction. I imagine that Mrs. Le Grande
could scarcely receive a deeper wound to her family pride, than from
Emile's marrying a Jewess, no matter how lovely or high-born. All
she knows or remembers of the Mordecais is, that the banker was once
a poor, despised pawnbroker. No years of honest endeavor, or
successful attainment, could wipe this fact from her retentive
memory. It would be a misnomer, Leah, to call such a woman a
Christian. She is an utter stranger to the sweet principles of faith
and love embraced by true Christians, and practised by those who
believe that they have 'passed from death unto life.'

"Then, your people, too, are unrelenting in their views on such
unnatural marriages. Suppose you were to marry this man, in the face
of the unyielding opposition of the parents on both sides--there's
little hope that they could be reconciled. You see at once how you
might be considered an outcast from your people and his too. Your
children would be neither Jew nor Christian; for all the external
rites and ceremonies of the earth cannot transform a Christian into
a Jew, or a Jew into a Christian. Accursed be the nominal Christian
that would allow his children, by ceremony or rite, to be made
nominally Jews. Such a one is worse than an infidel; and has denied
the faith. God made the Hebrews a great and glorious people--his own
chosen children. But between Christians and Hebrew there is a wide,
wide difference; and God made that, too.

"No; Leah, if I were advising a Jewess to marry a Gentile, which I
am not doing, I would say, Select a man deeply rooted in religious
principle, and clinging humbly to his Christian faith. Such a man
would rarely, if ever, deceive or ill-use you."

"I see that you are right, Lizzie," interrupted Leah, apparently
aroused by her companion's words. "I'll heed your teaching, and
never listen to another word of love from the one who might lead me
into temptation, and perhaps into a fatal snare. Alas!" she
continued, with her dark eyes flashing, "but for a terrible lie, a
cruel deception, I should still be the affianced of Mark Abrams, and
happy in the hope of becoming his wife--not an unhappy, disappointed
girl, open to the flattery and fascinations of another man."

"Keep your resolve, Leah, if you can; and may the all-wise Father
give you strength," replied Lizzie.

"God helping me, I will; but you know I am a weak and helpless
creature, and when you are gone, my only bosom-comfort and faithful
friend will have departed. Promise me that you will never cease to
love me, and remember with pity the heart that loves you and will
ever yearn to be with you."

Lizzie made no reply; the swelling heart choked down the utterances
that struggled to escape her lips; and drawing Leah close to her
bosom, she embraced her in a silent, warm, and tender clasp. "Trust
me, even unto death," at length she whispered softly; and the reply
came:

"I will."

At the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs, Lizzie said, "There
comes Aunt Rose. You will be at the wharf this evening, Leah, to see
me off, and to bid me God-speed with one of your bright smiles, that
I may hope for a safe arrival at my destined port?"

"Well, we have had our talk without interruption, and so I'll leave
you," said Leah. "Your aunt will certainly want you to herself
awhile. I'll meet you at the wharf in time. Till then, good-by."

As Mrs. Heartwell entered Lizzie's room, Leah passed out; and a
sweeter, sadder face Mrs. Heartwell said she had rarely seen.






CHAPTER XII.





THE hours stole on, and the one for Lizzie's departure was at hand.
As the sun sank slowly down to rest, on that memorable sunny June
day, clouds of crimson, purple, and gold, blended in fantastic
shapes, overspread the broad horizon, and attracted the most casual
observer by their wondrous beauty. Toward the eastern horizon the
sky was blue and cloudless, blending with the water in a vast azure
immensity.

The cool, crisp sea-breeze had dissipated the intense heat of the
day, and crowds of gay pedestrians, and scores of liveried vehicles,
were passing and repassing upon the fashionable boulevard, where the
wealth and beauty of the Queen City daily gathered after the heat of
the day was over.

The Firefly, laden with her burden, was ready at the pier, awaiting
the signal to depart. Lizzie Heartwell's friends still lingered upon
the inviting deck, reluctant to speak the parting word that must so
surely come. Dr. and Mrs. Heartwell, her uncle and aunt, Judge Amity
and his daughter, her Sabbath-school teacher, Bertha, Helen, and
Leah, the remaining ones of the "indissoluble quartette," as the
school-girls termed these friends, were assembled on the deck, and
with them Emile Le Grande and her newly formed friend, George
Marshall. In compliance with his promise he had come to speed the
parting vessel with good wishes, and watch its receding form till it
was lost from view upon the trackless waters.

As the citadel gun fired its sunset signal, the planks were ordered
in, friends rushed on shore, and then the Firefly moved from her
moorings, to plough the deep again. As George Marshall spoke his
last adieu, he slipped a tiny billet-doux into the hand of the
departing girl, who half heeding the action, dropped it into her
pocket, and sat down in loneliness upon the deck, to watch the
slowly vanishing shore. Fainter and dimmer grew the speck upon the
deep to the friends who watched on shore, fainter and dimmer in the
gathering twilight, till the bark rounded old Defiance, and was
divided by distance and darkness from their vision.

When Lizzie Heartwell, attended by the kind captain, descended below
deck, she remembered the little missive, and drawing it from its
hiding-place, read:

"Miss HEARTWELL: What would you think, if my wanderings should lead
me, some day, to Melrose? "Regretfully, "G.M."

"Think I should like to see you," uttered the young girl, with a
smile, as she folded the note again out of sight.

As the last glimpse of the Firefly faded from the vision of the
sad-eyed watchers, they turned slowly from their lookout of sorrow,
and bent their steps homeward.

"It's growing late, Miss Leah," said Emile, who stood near the young
Jewess. "May I see you safely home?"

"Thank you, but it is not too late for me to go alone," she replied;
"besides, my walk will lead to my uncle Jacob's, where I may spend
the night; that's not very far, you know."

Determined not to be baffled in his purpose to escort Leah, he
replied:

"'The longer the walk, the shorter the way,' with you, Miss Leah.
Allow me to attend you, I pray." His pertinacity prevailed; and
falteringly she replied, "As you like, Mr. Le Grande," resolving in
her heart though, that this should be the last time. "Only this
morning," thought she, "what did I promise Lizzie? And before the
day is ended, I have broken that promise. What an irresolute
creature I am! But this shall be the last. I vow it again."

"You will miss Miss Heartwell, I judge," began Emile, as he walked
forward by her side. "From your sorrowful expression, one might
think she had died, instead of vanished from sight in a vessel. I
trust there are yet some friends in the Queen City; at least one,
who will be kindly remembered in the absence of Miss Heartwell."

"Yes, Mr. Le Grande, I have some friends, a few, I trust, left
behind; but no one, not a soul, that can supply her place in my
affections. She has been more than a school-friend to me; she has
been a counsellor, a sister; one who above all others comprehends my
nature and sympathizes with and appreciates my character," said
Leah, warmly.

"Indeed, Miss Heartwell is to be envied in possessing so much of
your affection, and yet I think you speak unjustly in attributing to
her alone the heart of love and sympathy you do. Have I not told you
of my attachment and devotion to you? And do you still require other
protestations to confirm the sincerity of my confession?"

At these words-unwelcome words to Leah-she colored deeply, and
turning her dark, burning eyes full upon Emile, said:

"Mr. Le Grande, I pray you never let me hear you utter such a
sentiment as that again. We are friends, and, if you choose, may
always be; but, in all truthfulness I say it, more than friends we
can never be. I confess frankly that your society is very agreeable
to me, your manner fascinating, your style attractive; but I am a
Jewess of the strictest sect, and you a Christian, and not a strict
one; and these facts alone form an insurmountable barrier in the way
of our being more than friends. A great gulf lies between us, over
which even love cannot securely go. You cannot come to me, and I
dare not cross to you. It is dishonor to God and disobedience to
parents, to think of such a step. Mr. Le Grande, I beg you, forget
this passion you profess; crush it out if it exists, and remember
Leah Mordecai, the Jewess, as only a friend. Do you promise?" she
said, trembling from head to to foot, for it had required all the
moral strength of her yielding nature to utter these words-words
that could instantly quench the only taper of hope that still burned
in her soul.

"Do I promise?" he replied with haughty emotion. "No! I swear I will
not! So long as you are free I will love you; and so long as your
maidenhood gives the opportunity, I shall tell you of that love.
Give you up? I, who love you with a mad and foolish devotion? I
promise not to love you? No! no! Never, never, never, while hope
lasts. What care I if you are a Jewess? It's the shrine of beauty
where I bow, and because a Jewess breathes therein, shall I withdraw
my homage? Never while I live. I swear it!"

Frightened at her desperate lover's words, Leah walked on in
silence, almost regretting that her courage had permitted her to
speak her mind so freely. After a time she said, "Do not be angry
with me, Mr. Le Grande, I did not mean to offend you."

"It's worse than offence, it is death," he replied.

Ascending the steps of her uncle's house, by this time reached, Leah
extended her hand and said, "Good-by. I'll tarry here to-night."
Clasping her soft hand, he said, "I shall see you soon. Good-night."

A week after Madam Truxton's school closed, the term of the military
academy ended. The drilling, drilling, drilling, was stopped, the
graduating class of cadets had either won or lost the honors for
which they contested; and the roll of candidates for military honors
was handed to the world. Conspicuous among the names crowned with
well-won distinction was that of George Marshall. A nobler, braver
spirit never stepped from college walls upon life's crowded highway,
or one with firmer, truer tread than he.






CHAPTER XIII.





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.






CHAPTER XIV.





"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.






CHAPTER XV.





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."






CHAPTER XVI.





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.






CHAPTER XVII.





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.






CHAPTER XVIII.





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."






CHAPTER XIX.





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."






CHAPTER XX.





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.






CHAPTER XXI.





LE GRANDE'S DIARY.

"October 3.

"I HAVE been in such a maze of suspense and bewilderment for a
month, dear Journal, that I have neglected you; to-night I'll
recall, if I can, some of my lost days. No, I can't. It makes no
diference; they were only days of trouble. I am perplexed to death
to know the result of the baron's letter. He wrote, of course, and
urged that Mr. Mordecai send Leah at once to him. And the
preparations are going rapidly forward for her departure. Every day
I say, 'Darling, stay with me,' and her father says, 'Daughter, you
must go.' 'We shall see, in the end, what the end will be.'

"October 15.-To-night, dear Journal, I make the most triumphant
record of my life. Tell it not, breathe it not, to a mortal soul!
Leah, my darling, has promised to marry me, and not go to Europe, as
her father had determined. She told me last night, when I met her in
the park, that her mind was made up. She would not go. She did not
wish to go, and to marry me was her only alternative. She loves me,
though, and we shall be happy, I am sure. My parents are bitterly
opposed, and hers will be, to such a union, but we will be married,
for all that. Helen alone is in my confidence; she has none of that
pride that revolts at Leah's being a Jewess. To-morrow I leave for
Havana, where I go with papers from our banking house to a branch
house in that city. If I am successful in making my business
arrangements, as I feel assured I shall be, then all will be well. I
can only remain two days, as the day for Leah's embarkation is not a
fortnight off. My mother and father know nothing of the business
that takes me away, yet I have not deceived them. But, Journal, good
night.

"October 28.-Home again from Havana-home with bounding heart and
glowing hopes. I admire that fine City of the Antilles almost as
much as I do my beloved, native Queen City. I shall enjoy my new
home, I know. How could I do else than enjoy it? With a satisfactory
salary in our branch house, and a lovely young wife, a heathen might
well be happy. Now, old Mordecai can keep his gold, if he likes, and
ny father can do the same. The opposition has driven me to rely more
implicitly upon myself, thank the fates. I shall be able to 'paddle
my own canoe.' Leah looks something like those Spanish beauties,
only she's a trifle sadder in expression. I trust she'll be happy in
her new home, amid Cuban bloom and under azure skies. Heaven grant
her an unclouded life. I am delirious with joy; and for fear of
committing too much to your keeping, Journal, I'll stop writing.
Adieu."






CHAPTER XXII.





"AUNT BARBARA," said Leah, the day before the proposed departure of
the vessel that was to bear her away, "will you tell Mingo to leave
the key of the lodge hanging just inside the inner door to-night. I
may be coming in, or going out late, and he need not be disturbed,
if he will do that." These words were addressed to a middle-aged
colored woman, who, with high-turbaned head, moved busily about
Leah's apartment, folding garments and packing trunks, and sighing,
ever and anon, as though enduring heart-felt grief at the prospect
of the approaching parting.

"Yes, dear chile, I'll tell him, if you wish. Dere is not many more
times for your dear feet to pass in and out of de lodge;" and
accompanying these simple, pathetic words was an outburst of honest
tears, that fell upon the tidy white apron which the kind soul held
to her eyes.

"Will you miss me, Aunt Barbara, when I am gone?" said Leah, deeply
moved by the old colored woman's manifestation of sorrow.

"Law, chile, God only knows how ole Aunt Barbara will miss you. But
I'll pray de good Lord to keep you safe from harm, when you are so
far away, and bring you back to us again, one day."

"Suppose I never come back, Aunt Barbara; will you ever forget me?"

The old woman made no reply, but her ponderous frame shook
convulsively, with excessive emotion. Leah then approached this
faithful friend, and laying her arm around her neck, said tenderly,
"Don't cry so, Aunt Barbara, but cheer me with the hope that some
day I'll come back to you." The sound of approaching footsteps in
the hall dried Aunt Barbara's tears, and when she opened the door in
response to a gentle tap, her face was as placid as a summer lake.

"Is it you, father? Come in," said Leah, looking up to meet her
father's eye.

"Yes, my daughter. Are you ready? Are the trunks packed? Can I do
anything more for you?" replied Mr. Mordecai, almost in one breath.

"Nearly ready, father. Aunt Barbara has about finished the last one,
and I am ready to leave you."

These words, so full of feeling, so sorrowfully spoken, too, struck
deep into the father's heart, and filled him with unspeakable
regret.

"Ready to leave me, daughter," he reiterated, half petulantly, "I
fear that you do not appreciate, or rather that you misinterpret my
motive in sending you on so grand a journey. How many girls there
are who vainly wish, from day to day, for such advantages as I am
offering you!"

To these words Leah made no reply. And Mr. Mordecai, walking
backward and forward with restless step across his daughter's
bed-chamber, secretly regretted that he had ever considered the
project for a moment. Then he said, half apologetically, "You shall
only stay a year, my daughter; that is not such a very long time."

"Maybe I shall never come back, father. But you will love me always,
won't you?"

"Hush! hush! child. I do not like your words. They distress me! A
year is a short time, you know; so don't be foolish. Come, braid up
your hair, arrange your dress, and come down at once into the
drawing-room. I must have some music to-night."

"With pleasure, dear father," answered Leah, as cheerfully as the
swelling emotion at her heart would allow. Then, in an undertone to
herself, she added, "It may be the last time I shall have the
privilege of playing for him in my life. If I were to go to Europe,
that wretched woman would devise some plan to keep me there, and so
I'll stay with--" the last word she uttered was spoken in a whisper,
and scarce escaped her lips. Hastily obeying her father's summous,
after arranging a becoming toilet, Leah descended to the
drawing-room, where Mr. Mordecai awaited her. "Father," said Leah
abruptly, as she was turning to her music, "to-day, in looking over
a package of papers, I came across the cards of cousin Hannah
Stuyvesant; I had not thought of her for ever so long. Who was it
she married?"

"Oh! A Christian dog! A renegade. Somebody named Bliss, I believe."

"Did they prosper, father?"

"I'll venture to say not, but I do not know positively. I've known
nothing of her since she so far renounced her people as to marry a
Christian. Neither have I desired to know anything of her."

At these words of Mr. Mordecai-significant words-Leah stationed
herself at the instrument, and, with mind absorbed, and thoughts far
away from the music, she performed mechanically piece after piece,
as her father would request. The tea-bell at last summoned the
family to the evening meal, and encircling his daughter with his
arm, Mr. Mordecai led the way to the waiting repast. This was the
last evening meal of the banker's family, unbroken. Yet who could
have said so on that memorable evening in the long ago?






CHAPTER XXIII.





NIGHT gathered around the Queen City with dark and sombre fold,
after the chilly October day previous to the one appointed for Leah
Mordecai's departure for Europe-a night whose ominous gloom seemed
to pervade the innermost apartment of the banker's home. It was late
before Mr. Mordecai could spare his daughter from his presence, and
give the good-night kiss, his usual benediction before they
separated for slumber. Even the wily Rebecca said good night now in
a tender tone, and gave Leah a gracious smile as she ascended the
stairs for the last time. "It is the last," thought she, "for many a
long day, maybe forever, and I can smile in sincerity. Once gone,
I'll see to it that she never comes again. Aha! I am happy now, and
can smile in joy and truth."

Once more within her quiet chamber, Leah locked the door and stood a
moment with frightened face gazing furtively around the room. All
was silent. The beating of her own wild heart was all the sound she
heard. Then sinking down from actual weakness, she sat a moment as
if summoning the last spark of courage in her timid, fearful soul
and said, "Yes, it is a dreadful alternative, but I am driven to it.
If I obey my father, and go to Europe, I know I shall not return for
many years, if ever. If I am to be separated from my father, it
shall not be by that woman's scheming. She has devised this plan to
send me from my home, and she shall be disappointed. I am assured
that Emile loves me, yet I should never have married him had I not
been forced to do so-simply because he is not a Jew. But as it is, I
take the step deliberately, firmly resolved to abide the
consequences, be they good or evil. Yes, I am resolved to take this
first step in disobedience to my father's wishes. I cannot help it.
It has caused me terrible suffering to reach this decision, but
circumstances press me to it. Now, it is irrevocable. God forgive
me, if I cause my father sorrow! He knows how I love and serve him,
and Heaven knows how cruelly I have been dealt with. But time is
passing. I must write a last, fond letter to my dear Lizzie; tell
her of this final, desperate step in my life, and beg that her love,
so long tried, may follow me still through the untried life that
lies before me, be it a life of sunshine or of shadow.

"Oh! the thought is dreadful. Let me see. Now the hour is eleven.
Emile will come at twelve. I must hasten;" and rising from her
recumbent posture, Leah replaced the watch within her bosom, and
seating herself at the escritoire, wrote a last, loving letter to
the friend of her school-days. This she dropped into her pocket,
that she might post it at the lodge. Then she wrote, with trembling
hand and faltering heart, a farewell message to her beloved father;
and she was done. In a small portmanteau she had carefully packed
the few things requisite for her clandestine journey. The
well-filled trunks were safely locked, and the keys hanging idly
upon the ring in her work-basket. "These trunks," she murmured to
herself, as she glanced around the room preparatory to leaving it,
"will descend to my sister, or go to Europe, or, maybe, will be
destroyed. I shall never use their contents. Dear Aunt Barbara's
careful packing was all to no purpose, had she only known it. Kind
Aunt Barbara! Now, one thing more remains to be done. I must have my
mother's miniature before I quit my father's house, perhaps forever.
Aunt Barbara has secured the key of the cabinet for me, and it lies
secreted in one of the drawers. Yes, Rebecca has kept it from me for
nearly five years. How I burn with anger yet, to think of the cruel
lie that took from me the only gift I ever valued in my life! That
perfidious bosom shall never feel the pressure of that precious,
jewelled face again. No, in heaven's name, I will not leave without
it!"

"Hush! the citadel clock strikes the quarter to twelve! Dear old
room! Chair, bed, books, pictures-all, farewell!"

The house below was silent. The lights had been darkened for an
hour. With stealthy step along the upper hall, and silent footfall
on the stairway, the cloaked and hooded figure of Leah approached
the sleeping apartment of her father and his wife. The sound of
heavy breathing betokened heavy slumber, as she silently turned the
door-knob and stood within the chamber. Reassured by this sound, she
glided toward the cabinet, and noiselessly adjusting the key, turned
it gently in the lock. The white, delicate finger stole softly about
the first smoothly polished drawer, to find it empty. Then one and
another underwent, in quick succession, the same noiseless
inspection, till the fourth and last drawer was reached; and that
one yielded up the coveted treasure. Hastily placing it in her
bosom, she closed the drawer, and then glided out as softly as she
had glided into the room. On the threshold she cast back one fond,
lingering look at the dimly outlined figure of her father, as he lay
before her in unconscious slumber. "Heaven ever shield him," she
whispered softly; and passed on-on and out beyond the heavily-bolted
front door-out forever! In the starlight, chill and faint, she found
herself, with trembling limbs and trembling heart, and for a moment
sat down on the cold stone step to rally her failing strength and
courage before she sought the lodge. At the sound of approaching
wheels she arose, and walked with rapid step to the lodge, reaching
it just as a coach drew up before it.

"Is it you, Emile?" said Leah softly, as the lodge door opened and a
manly form appeared.

"Yes, darling. Thank fortune, your courage has not failed you. I
have been feverish with anxiety and impatience for hours. Are you
ready, dear?"

At these words Leah trembled, and faltered "Yes."

"Well, I thought it best to bring the minister with me, and so my
friend Bishop Leveret is in the carriage. Suppose we have the
ceremony performed here; then there can be no possible
disappointment or danger. Are you afraid?"

"What have I to fear now, when I have gone so far? I abide now by
your wishes in all matters, henceforth and forever. I am ready."

In a moment the bishop was summoned. By the light of a dimly burning
lantern, he drew forth the Prayer Book, and read the impressive
marriage ceremony of his church. The responses were solemnly
uttered, the benediction invoked, and at that midnight hour, in the
stillness of the porter's lodge, Emile Le Grande and the young
Jewess were pronounced "man and wife." Driving quickly to the vessel
that was ready to depart for the tropical port with the first
appearance of the morning sun, Emile soon safely ensconced his bride
in the comfortable cabin, and with a feeling of joy, tinged only
with a shadowy apprehension, he bade adieu to the kind bishop, who
had accompanied them thither.

As the morning sun rose, bright and ruddy, from its eastern bed, the
vessel's gun, giving the signal for departing, sounded beyond the
foaming bar, and the newly wedded lovers were adrift, alike upon the
ocean of life and upon the blue expanse that surrounded them-adrift
to suffer a dismal shipwreck, or to anchor safely within some remote
harbor of love and security.






CHAPTER XXIV.





ANXIOUS and nervous from the expected sorrow of the coming day, Mr.
Mordecai rose early from his couch of restless slumber. Restlessly
he walked the library floor backward and forward, awaiting the
appearance of his daughter Leah. At length he said to his wife, as
she summoned him to the morning meal, "It's very late. I wonder why
Leah does not come down. I'll just step to her room, and see if she
is ready; fatigue and anxiety may have caused her to sleep later
than usual this morning. I'll join you in the breakfast-room in a
moment."

After a moment had elapsed, Mr. Mordecai stood gently tapping at his
daughter's chamber door. There was no response. He gently opened it.
The room was vacant. Not a sound or a voice greeted his entrance.
Stiff and well-arranged, the elegant furniture stood mutely against
the cold, cheerless walls. The ominous tidiness of the deserted
bed-chamber bespoke a fearful story. The father stood for a moment
in amazement, silently surveying the apartment, his heart half
trembling with a vague fear; then he said, in a hoarse, frightened
tone, "Leah, my daughter, where are you?" There came no reply, but
the faint echo of his whispered words, "Where are you?"

Stepping forward softly into the room, he paused again, and then
with slow, uncertain step approached the casement that looked out
upon the front garden. There was nothing without but the sunshine
and the breeze, and the passing crowd already beginning to throng
the streets. Again he turned, with anxious heart, away from the
crowd without, to the deserted room within. "Where's my daughter?
Leah, dear Leah, where are you?" A folded scrap of paper upon the
escritoire caught his eye, and springing forward he seized it, half
hopefully, half fearfully, and tremblingly unfolded it. These are
the words it contained:

"OWN DEAREST FATHER: Can you, will you ever forgive your disobedient
Leah? I shudder when I think of you, reading these lines in the
morning, when I shall be far away from your loving embrace! But,
dear father, you know I did not desire to go to Saxony, so far away
from you; fearing, yes, even knowing that circumstances would arise
to prevent my return. I cannot explain my meaning, dear father, for
fear of imperilling your happiness. I prefer to live on, as I have
done for years, with the secret of my sorrow-the secret that impels
me to this act of disobedience-hidden in my heart. I fear your
wrath, and yet, dear father, I cannot go. I prefer to remain and
marry the one whom, next to yourself, I love above all mankind-Emile
Le Grande. Yes, dear father, when your eyes peruse these lines, I
shall be his wife, and far away on my journey to our distant home.
He loves me, and I love him, yet more than once have I refused his
love, in deference to your teachings, that 'to deny my people and my
faith, by marriage with a Christian, was worse than death, and an
everlasting disgrace.' Can I hope, then, for your forgiveness, even
though I seek it on bended knees, dear father? Had I been allowed to
remain at home, I never should have married him, certainly not in
the clandestine manner I propose. I flee to the love and protection
of Emile, as an alternative to a dreadful fate. Oh! pity and forgive
me, father; love me, even though I bring sorrow to your tender,
loving heart. In my new home, I shall watch and wait for some
tidings, some missive like a white-winged dove, bearing me a single
word of love and remembrance from my beloved father. If it comes
not, alas! ah me! you may always know there's a sorrow in my heart
that no amount of happiness or prosperity can ever eradicate-a
darkness that no sunshine can ever dispel.

"And now again, and lastly, my father, I pray that the blessing of
the great God of Israel may ever rest upon your venerable head; and
will you not, too, invoke His blessing to descend upon the head of
your unworthy and unhappy child? Dear, dear, precious father, now
adieu, a long tearful adieu, till I receive your blessing.
"Sorrowfully, your own "LEAH."

Stupefied and amazed, Mr. Mordecai scarcely realized the import of
the words that his flashing eye devoured, till the familiar
signature was reached. Then, as if a flood of light had burst upon
his blinded vision, came the dreadful revelation; involuntarily he
exclaimed, "Eternal God! It cannot be! It is not possible, that my
child has fled from me! Gone with a Christian dog, to become his
wife; seduced by his honeyed words from the embrace of my love to
that of his faithless heart! Torn from my home to follow the
wanderings of a villain! Oh, God! Oh, heaven! It cannot be! It must
not be! I swear, by Israel, it shall not be! Oh my child! my
daughter, my own precious Leah? Where art thou? Where hast thou
fled, my daughter?"

In frenzy Mr. Mordecai smote his breast, tore his silvery locks, and
bowed in grief as the fatal letter fell from his trembling hand. The
depths of his sorrow were stirred, and the tears that flowed from
his burning heart left the fountain dry and shrivelled. Then, as the
calm succeeds the storm, so, when this fierce tempest of emotion was
passed, Mr. Mordecai regathered his strength, summoned the forces of
his pride, revenge, and hatred, dispelled all traces of his sorrow,
steeled himself for the duty before him, and with a heart of stone
in a bosom of adamant, took up the letter and descended the stairs
to the waiting family below. Untasted before them was the morning
meal. With wild look and emphatic step Mr. Mordecai entered the
breakfast-room, and stood before the family holding the letter aloft
in his trembling hand. "See here," said he, with a ringing voice,
"read here the story of a child, that sought to break an aged
father's heart. But hear me first. Hear this my oath. This heart
shall not break, I swear it shall not! Leah has gone-fled with a
Christian dog, to become his wife. Read it for yourselves when I am
gone; but hear me, you that remain. Sarah and Frederick. My blessing
shall never rest upon her, living or dying. As she has chosen to
bring sorrow upon the gray hairs of her father, so may God rain
trouble upon her disobedient head. May her children wander,
uncircumcised dogs, friendless, and neglected-as she has neglected
me-upon the face of the earth, ever seeking bread, yet feeling
constant hunger! Despised of her people, and rejected of her
people's God, may she ever feel the need of a friend, and yet find
none! Her disobedience is cursed forever, so I swear it by the God
of Israel! Mark my words, and remember my wrath!" he concluded,
looking fiercely into the eyes of the two children who sat silent
before him. "Read this for yourselves; and then burn it, and scatter
the ashes to the winds." No one made reply to that outburst of
implacable, burning rage, that so consumed the father's heart. They
had never seen him in such a frenzy before. Mr. Mordecai then
hurriedly left the house, and passing Mingo, at the porter's lodge,
went out without a nod of recognition. Urbanely bowing and smiling,
Mingo let his master pass, wondering at this singular breach of his
accustomed politeness.

As the lodge door closed after Mr. Mordecai had passed out, Mingo
bethought him of something, and hastily pursuing his master, said:

"Here, master, is this your yourn?"

"What?" asked the master morosely.

"This book, sir; I found it in the lodge."

Mechanically, Mr. Mordecai took it from the servant, and placed it
in the inner pocket of his coat, and then passed on without a word.
In the house, all were startled, all dismayed, at the disclosure in
the letter; all, save Rebecca, were filled with sadness. She felt no
regret. The brother and sister moved silently and sorrowfully about
the house, and in and out of the vacated chamber, hardly realizing
that their gentle sister had indeed gone.






CHAPTER XXV.





MR. MORDECAI had scarcely passed a square from his home, when
suddenly he retraced his steps, and stood again before the lodge.

"Mingo," he said sharply, "tell your mistress to send me that cursed
letter. Be quick."

With a dash the nimble slave obeyed the command, and in a moment
stood before his master, the letter in his hand, bowing and smiling
with his usual politeness.

Taking the letter, Mr. Mordecai crushed it in his hand, then placed
it in his breast pocket, as he again started forward toward his
banking-house. If he passed man, woman, child, friend, acquaintance,
or kinsman in that morning's walk, he knew it not; for the tumult of
passion that stirred his soul obliterated for the time every
recollection but that of the terrible sorrow that had befallen him.
In due time he reached the dingy brown banking-house, and stood
irresolutely for a moment upon the well-worn stone steps. He placed
the ponderous key within the lock, but the hand seemed powerless to
turn its massive bolt; and for a moment he stood with thoughtful,
determined eye resting upon the pavement. A moment more, and then he
quickly withdrew the key, dropped it into his pocket, and briskly
retraced his steps for square after square, and then abruptly turned
into the well-known street where stood the office of the
distinguished Le Grande.

It happened that Mr. Mordecai approached the office from one
direction, as Judge Le Grande himself approached it from another,
riding in the light single phaeton in which he usually drove to and
from his office.

"Good-morning, Mr. Mordecai. How goes it with you, my friend, this
fine morning?" said the judge pleasantly, as he alighted and threw
the lines to Cato, the driver.--"Tell your mistress she need not send
for me till five o'clock. I shall be very busy to-day." Then turning
to the banker he looked for a reply.

"It's no good-morning to me," replied the banker fiercely. "The
night has brought devilish work to my home."

"What do you mean, my friend?" was the judge's quiet reply. "What
has the night done?"

"Played the devil! Don't you try to trifle with my sorrow. That son
of yours has already wrought me injury enough. Don't you attempt to
mock me. I warn you, Le Grande, I warn you!"

Astonished by these mysterious words of the Hebrew, Judge Le Grande
gravely assured Mr. Mordecai that he knew nothing of the trouble
that had befallen him, and repeatedly asked, "What has my son done?"

"Done? Alas! he has done that which would to God I could undo!" was
the reply, uttered angrily and savagely. "But as I cannot undo it, I
shall curse it-curse it from the depths of my soul! He has married
my daughter? Stolen her-taken her away in secret from my house, and
they have wisely fled from my presence!"

"Married your daughter!" ejaculated the judge, the truth faintly
dawning on him. "Surely that's a mistake."

"Indeed it is a wild mistake; I would to God it were otherwise."

"By what authority do you make this assertion?" continued Judge Le
Grande, evidently aroused by the dawning truth.

"By the confession of my daughter, left in her room, and written a
short time before her flight."

"Where is that confession? Let me see it."

"Here," replied the banker, drawing the crumpled missive from his
pocket. "There, read the mischief for yourself."

With trembling hand Judge Le Grande smoothed out the crushed paper,
and eagerly, fearfully, scanned the contents that were to crush his
hopes, as they had crushed those of the banker. Silently, carefully,
he read it, read it till the story was told, and then, brushing away
a tear from his eye he said, with emotion:

"Mordecai, forgive her! Forgive her, as I shall forgive him; and now
that it is done, let us make the best of it."

"Forgive!" hissed the banker; "forgive such an act of disobedience
as that? Such disgrace to my name and people? Never, while there is
a drop of Hebrew blood in Benjamin Mordecai's veins, will I forgive
it!"

"It's no more a disgrace to your name and people than it is to mine;
but I consider that people are fools, who make disgrace of family
troubles, by obstinately parading them before the world."

"Then I shall delight in being a fool, if so you deem it," replied
Mr. Mordecai, with kindling emotion.

"Alas! I had great plans for Emile," said Judge Le Grande sadly, as
he turned away from Mr. Mordecai; "and his mother too; she had
fondly hoped he would marry Belle Upton. Now, all is disappointment.
I do not know how she will bear it. As for myself, I shall make the
best of it. I hope they may be happy.-I say, Mordecai," looking
steadily at the banker, "they have my forgiveness and my blessing
too. You may do as you please."

"Well, I curse them," the banker answered bitterly; "and I swear
they shall never see my face again, living or dying. Not one dollar
from my purse shall they ever receive, even though want and beggary
come upon them. Think not I can ever change, Judge Le Grande. As my
people and my people's God, the Eternal Father, are unchangeable, so
is my purpose concerning these disobedient children. Good morning."
Mr. Mordecai then turned slowly from the office, and as the judge
beheld the receding form, and remembered the fierce flash of his
dark eye, he unhesitatingly exclaimed, "Poor old man! I pity you.
And," he added after a moment's pause, "Heaven pity us both!"

As a bird floats safely upon the bosom of the blue sky and finds at
last her leafy home, so the little vessel that bore the fugitive
lovers, found safe and speedy anchorage in the quiet harbor of the
sea-girt isle that was to be their future home. The young, ardent
husband, and the fair, gentle wife, gazed with delight upon the
cloudless skies and bright waters, and thought hopefully of the
future. Only one shadow darkened their horizon. It was a fearful
thought, to Leah, that her father's anathema might ever rest upon
her. But the future was veiled, and the voice of Hope whispered,
"his blessing may come by and by. Wait."






CHAPTER XXVI.





TWO years rolled away-two short, bright years of individual and
national prosperity, and then came a change. To use the words of the
immortal Dickens, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of
times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it
was the season of light, it was the season of darkness; it was the
spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything
before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going direct to
heaven, we were all going direct the other way." These utterances of
inspiration so fittingly describing the period that ushered in the
bloody French Revolution, may be applied with equal truth and force
to the years that inaugurated the war between the States in fair
America.

Did not prosperity bud and blossom in every vale and hamlet of this
fair domain? And yet were a people ever more unmindful of, or more
ungrateful for their blessings? Bickering and strife, dissension and
hatred, grew fiercer with the growth of the nation's grandeur.
Slavery, on one hand said, "I will," and Freedom, on the other, "You
shall not." So the war-cloud, "the size of a man's hand" only at
first, appeared upon the dim horizon of the future. Wisdom sought to
devise plans for averting war, but Folly shook her locks tauntingly,
and said mockingly, "Ha! ha! War is pleasant pastime." So the
culmination was reached, and a misguided people, clamorous for war,
sounded the tocsin that caused rivers of blood to flow from
brothers' hearts, and enshrouded a grand and happy people in
desolation and disgrace.

At the time when the war-cloud of fratricidal conflict was rolling
dark and broad over the land, a treacherous enemy on the border were
menacing and even destroying many of our country's peaceful
citizens. Upon the broad frontier at the Far West it became the duty
of the government to hold these wily foes in check by a strong and
reliable armed force. To this north-western outpost of service
Captain Marshall had been ordered by the voice of his country. Not
ordered there as to a holiday excursion, but ordered into actual
bloody conflict, and to an ordeal that would have tried the bravery
and courage of a veteran. At the head of his command, Company A, 3d
Regiment U. S. Regulars, Captain Marshall reached this post of
danger in the hour of its most imminent peril. But for this timely
arrival of troops, the peaceful little town of Minneopoli might have
been laid waste, and its defenceless inhabitants cruelly butchered
or carried away captive. But the premeditated destruction of the
town was averted, the treacherous "red-skins" disappointed, and
Captain Marshall's bravery demonstrated beyond a peradventure.

It was the night after the attack of the Indians, and the bloody
repulse. All was quiet. The troops were reassembled in camp. The
usual garrulity of the soldiers was checked by the recollection of
their dead comrades, so recently laid to rest in soldiers' graves.
All, too, remembered the danger through which they had passed, and
many were moody and silent. At length a bright-faced, light-headed
young recruit spoke out, seeing the silence and sadness around the
camp-fire. "I say, captain, that was a wretched red-skin of a chief
that you hauled in yesterday. He looked more like the Prince of
Darkness than the chief of a tribe. I thought once, cap'n, he had
you; and I was just ready to pick him off, when I saw you were
safe."

"Yes, Carlos, that was a close place, and but for a kind fate, I
should be sleeping with those brave fellows who have left us. Peace
to their resting-places."

"I was sorry you did not kill him; he deserved death. But how quick
he did surrender, when he saw you close in on him with your sword!
Ha! ha!"

"Yes, Mico is a bad, bad Indian, and has caused more trouble to this
settlement than all the other Indians combined. I guess he will
enjoy his freedom, when he gets it again. Confinement and chains are
worse than death to him."

"I tell you, cap'n, they are cowardly devils. They can't stand
gunpowder. At the very smell of it they run out from their
hiding-places, like so many rats from a burning building. I hated to
see one of them taken alive. It's not like fighting civilized
people; is it, cap'n? I am in favor of the black flag in a fight
with these red devils."

"War is war, Carlos, and brutalizes the most intelligent people on
earth, if they indulge in it. I trust our troubles are ended here,
for a long time, if not forever, now that Mico is our prisoner. At
any rate, I hope all will remain peaceful and tranquil till I go
home and return. For a month I have a leave of absence, to visit my
native State."

"Going home, captain, to see your mother?" spoke up a fair-haired
young boy, scarcely eighteen, who had sat a silent listener to the
conversation between Carlos and his commander.

"Ah! Franco, I have no mother; she died long ago," replied the
captain; "but I am going back to my native State. My father and a
brother and sister live there."

"It has been many a long day," said Franco, "since I saw my native
hills, and heard my mother's gentle voice, as she went singing about
our humble home. I often wonder how she could sing so, with so much
poverty and care constantly about her. Maybe I shall never see her
again ;" and a shade of sorrow crept over the fair young face of the
French recruit.

The captain replied, "I trust that you may, Franco, though you are
now so many leagues away. What brought you away from her, Franco?"

"Poverty, captain, poverty; and unless I can lighten the burden of
my mother's life by returning, I shall never go back!"

Silence at length settled upon the camp, and one by one the groups
of comrades disbanded. The campfires were extinguished, and at an
early hour sleep tenderly enfolded these guardians of their
country's peace and security.






CHAPTER XXVII.





THE spring had come again, and a little more than its first month
had elapsed when, early one morning, as the sun was stealing up
softly from the east, and before it had brought the hour for the
slumbering troops to be aroused by another r‚veille, or had gilded
the hills and valleys with its light, Captain Marshall, accompanied
by his faithful orderly, Franco, entered the half-slumbering town
of Minneopoli and turned toward the inn, whence the coach was soon
to leave for the nearest railway station.

"Lieutenant Styles will be in command, Franco, till I return, you
know, and I fear he will form a dangerous substitute, with his
affable nature," said the captain, as the hour of parting drew near.

"Well, never mind that, captain; no matter how affable, we boys do
not wish a new commander just now," returned the true-hearted boy.

"Take care of your scalps, Franco. Don't let the 'red-skins'
surprise you while I am gone. There, I see the coach is ready. I
must soon bid you adieu."

"If I remember the bravery of my captain, the red devils won't get
my scalp, I'll wager. But I hope they are settled for a time. Come
back as soon as you can, captain, and in your absence think
occasionally of Franco, will you? There comes the coach. The horses
are fine and gay."

"Rest assured, Franco, I will think of you, and often too. How I
would like to take you with me! But take care of yourself. A month's
absence is not such a long time, after all. Good-by, my dear fellow,
good-by;" and seating himself in the waiting coach, Captain Marshall
waved an adieu to his sorrowful young companion, and at the same
moment the coach driver hallooed, "All ready!" and gave a sharp
crack of the whip; the horses dashed forward, and recruit and
captain were soon separated-separated forever. In less time than a
fortnight, Captain Marshall had accomplished his long and
troublesome journey, and was safe once more within his native State.

"I tell you, Fred," said the captain, one day when he was visiting a
friend in the Queen City, "the agitated, portentous state of affairs
in this section distresses and alarms me. I had no dream of the
warlike aspect of this quiet Queen City of the Sea. I fancied we had
all the trouble with us, in the north-west, among those wretched
savages. I came home for a month of recreation and pleasure, and--"
he uttered with slight hesitation--"for the fulfilment of my plighted
troth; for the realization of the bright dream of a love that has
brightened my heart for nearly two years. Yes, Fred, and if it were
not for the business that takes me to fair Melrose, I should regret
that my coming home had been just at this time. I tell you, my good
fellow, the future portends evil, if not bloodshed."

"Well, Marshall, bloodshed is inevitable, unless as a section we are
allowed our constitutional rights; and I, for one, say, if it must,
let it come, even with the fury of a storm. I am for State rights,
and the Palmetto State forever!"

"Not bloodshed, Fred, if we can avert it," replied the young officer
to the enthusiastic outburst of the impetuous young Pinckney, the
beloved friend of his boyhood. "I am just from the gory field, where
I saw my brave men fall beneath the treacherous blows of the
Indians. I have seen bloodshed, and desire to see no more of it. I
have always loved military life, you know, Fred; but I tell you it
tries the heart of a man to see his men shot down like dogs."

"Oh, yes; you are for the Union, I see," replied young Pinckney with
impatient gesture. "Your service in the regular army has weaned your
heart from your native State, I fear."

"Oh! yes; I am for the Union just now-the union of hearts, at least;
and as you go with me to Melrose, you shall see that the union is
maintained."

"O bother! Marshall; you can think of nothing now but matrimony. I
am for the union of hearts myself; but the union of States as it has
existed, I detest. Peaceable secession, you see, we cannot have; and
if it must come in bloodshed, why, in the name of mankind, let it
come! I am ready for the issue of my State's action."

"I pray your blood may never be required as the price of forcible
secession, my dear Fred. But the condition of the country appals me!
I-whom duty calls to one place, and whom ties of affection bind to
another-I am placed in no enviable position. Yet I still hope the
trouble will soon clear up, and all will yet be bright."

"Your duty is plain before you, Marshall. It's for or against us
now, and no equivocation."

"Well, we'll not fall out about our country's troubles. They may be
better and they may be worse than we anticipate. I'll hope for the
best, though evil come. Let's talk of Melrose, and the fair flower
that blooms there. Eh, Fred?"

Fred replied smiling, "So we will, dear boy; here, take this cigar.
Let's have a smoke, and if you like we'll stroll down to the Battery
and see the encampment."






CHAPTER XXVIII.





THE rosy month of May succeeded the chilly April in that memorable
year when the war-cloud of civil contest overshadowed the land so
darkly. It came with unwonted verdure, freshness, and beauty,
filling the hearts of the despondent with hope, and the hopeful with
rejoicing. It was scarcely a month from the time the coach dashed
out of the half-aroused town of Minneopoli in the chilly April
morning, when a similar vehicle, one evening, toiled slowly up the
long hill whose summit was crowned by picturesque Melrose. Among the
passengers were Captain Marshall and his friend Fred Pinckney. The
former had come to Melrose to claim the hand of his affianced, Eliza
Heartwell, and to take her away as his wife. In that sweet May-time,
no heart was happier than George Marshall's, and no voice gladder,
as it rang out in unrestrained laughter at the droll jokes and
facetious comments of his witty friend Fred.

"I say, George, this is undoubtedly the beautifulest country I ever
saw. Do see. Such honeysuckles and such dog-wood blossoms never grew
before. Maybe if the fates are propitious, I'll come back here to
this picturesque country to get me a wife, after the war is over.
Who knows? Then I'll be a laurel-crowned hero, having whaled out the
Yankees to a frizzle, and all the fair ones will be sighing for my
hand and heart! Umph! I am impatient for the conflict. George, 

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