NIGHT gathered around the Queen City with dark and sombre fold,
after the chilly October day previous to the one appointed for Leah
Mordecai's departure for Europe-a night whose ominous gloom seemed
to pervade the innermost apartment of the banker's home. It was late
before Mr. Mordecai could spare his daughter from his presence, and
give the good-night kiss, his usual benediction before they
separated for slumber. Even the wily Rebecca said good night now in
a tender tone, and gave Leah a gracious smile as she ascended the
stairs for the last time. "It is the last," thought she, "for many a
long day, maybe forever, and I can smile in sincerity. Once gone,
I'll see to it that she never comes again. Aha! I am happy now, and
can smile in joy and truth."
Once more within her quiet chamber, Leah locked the door and stood a
moment with frightened face gazing furtively around the room. All
was silent. The beating of her own wild heart was all the sound she
heard. Then sinking down from actual weakness, she sat a moment as
if summoning the last spark of courage in her timid, fearful soul
and said, "Yes, it is a dreadful alternative, but I am driven to it.
If I obey my father, and go to Europe, I know I shall not return for
many years, if ever. If I am to be separated from my father, it
shall not be by that woman's scheming. She has devised this plan to
send me from my home, and she shall be disappointed. I am assured
that Emile loves me, yet I should never have married him had I not
been forced to do so-simply because he is not a Jew. But as it is, I
take the step deliberately, firmly resolved to abide the
consequences, be they good or evil. Yes, I am resolved to take this
first step in disobedience to my father's wishes. I cannot help it.
It has caused me terrible suffering to reach this decision, but
circumstances press me to it. Now, it is irrevocable. God forgive
me, if I cause my father sorrow! He knows how I love and serve him,
and Heaven knows how cruelly I have been dealt with. But time is
passing. I must write a last, fond letter to my dear Lizzie; tell
her of this final, desperate step in my life, and beg that her love,
so long tried, may follow me still through the untried life that
lies before me, be it a life of sunshine or of shadow.
"Oh! the thought is dreadful. Let me see. Now the hour is eleven.
Emile will come at twelve. I must hasten;" and rising from her
recumbent posture, Leah replaced the watch within her bosom, and
seating herself at the escritoire, wrote a last, loving letter to
the friend of her school-days. This she dropped into her pocket,
that she might post it at the lodge. Then she wrote, with trembling
hand and faltering heart, a farewell message to her beloved father;
and she was done. In a small portmanteau she had carefully packed
the few things requisite for her clandestine journey. The
well-filled trunks were safely locked, and the keys hanging idly
upon the ring in her work-basket. "These trunks," she murmured to
herself, as she glanced around the room preparatory to leaving it,
"will descend to my sister, or go to Europe, or, maybe, will be
destroyed. I shall never use their contents. Dear Aunt Barbara's
careful packing was all to no purpose, had she only known it. Kind
Aunt Barbara! Now, one thing more remains to be done. I must have my
mother's miniature before I quit my father's house, perhaps forever.
Aunt Barbara has secured the key of the cabinet for me, and it lies
secreted in one of the drawers. Yes, Rebecca has kept it from me for
nearly five years. How I burn with anger yet, to think of the cruel
lie that took from me the only gift I ever valued in my life! That
perfidious bosom shall never feel the pressure of that precious,
jewelled face again. No, in heaven's name, I will not leave without
it!"
"Hush! the citadel clock strikes the quarter to twelve! Dear old
room! Chair, bed, books, pictures-all, farewell!"
The house below was silent. The lights had been darkened for an
hour. With stealthy step along the upper hall, and silent footfall
on the stairway, the cloaked and hooded figure of Leah approached
the sleeping apartment of her father and his wife. The sound of
heavy breathing betokened heavy slumber, as she silently turned the
door-knob and stood within the chamber. Reassured by this sound, she
glided toward the cabinet, and noiselessly adjusting the key, turned
it gently in the lock. The white, delicate finger stole softly about
the first smoothly polished drawer, to find it empty. Then one and
another underwent, in quick succession, the same noiseless
inspection, till the fourth and last drawer was reached; and that
one yielded up the coveted treasure. Hastily placing it in her
bosom, she closed the drawer, and then glided out as softly as she
had glided into the room. On the threshold she cast back one fond,
lingering look at the dimly outlined figure of her father, as he lay
before her in unconscious slumber. "Heaven ever shield him," she
whispered softly; and passed on-on and out beyond the heavily-bolted
front door-out forever! In the starlight, chill and faint, she found
herself, with trembling limbs and trembling heart, and for a moment
sat down on the cold stone step to rally her failing strength and
courage before she sought the lodge. At the sound of approaching
wheels she arose, and walked with rapid step to the lodge, reaching
it just as a coach drew up before it.
"Is it you, Emile?" said Leah softly, as the lodge door opened and a
manly form appeared.
"Yes, darling. Thank fortune, your courage has not failed you. I
have been feverish with anxiety and impatience for hours. Are you
ready, dear?"
At these words Leah trembled, and faltered "Yes."
"Well, I thought it best to bring the minister with me, and so my
friend Bishop Leveret is in the carriage. Suppose we have the
ceremony performed here; then there can be no possible
disappointment or danger. Are you afraid?"
"What have I to fear now, when I have gone so far? I abide now by
your wishes in all matters, henceforth and forever. I am ready."
In a moment the bishop was summoned. By the light of a dimly burning
lantern, he drew forth the Prayer Book, and read the impressive
marriage ceremony of his church. The responses were solemnly
uttered, the benediction invoked, and at that midnight hour, in the
stillness of the porter's lodge, Emile Le Grande and the young
Jewess were pronounced "man and wife." Driving quickly to the vessel
that was ready to depart for the tropical port with the first
appearance of the morning sun, Emile soon safely ensconced his bride
in the comfortable cabin, and with a feeling of joy, tinged only
with a shadowy apprehension, he bade adieu to the kind bishop, who
had accompanied them thither.
As the morning sun rose, bright and ruddy, from its eastern bed, the
vessel's gun, giving the signal for departing, sounded beyond the
foaming bar, and the newly wedded lovers were adrift, alike upon the
ocean of life and upon the blue expanse that surrounded them-adrift
to suffer a dismal shipwreck, or to anchor safely within some remote
harbor of love and security.