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.