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.