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."