"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?