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."