THE ruddy beams of an October sun shone through the one window of
the little rudely furnished room that Leah occupied in the inn.
Weary from her long, toilsome journey, she still slept. Though tired
nature for a time resisted the intrusion of the garish sunlight, the
chirruping of her little child at length aroused Leah to
consciousness. The tiny, dimpled hands were tangled in the long
black hair that hung about the mother's shoulders in dishevelled
grace, and the merry child laughed gleefully as the mother awoke.
"Is my bird always ready to sing?" said Leah tenderly, as she beheld
the innocent, happy child by her side. "May you never know a note of
sadness, my love; sing on, while you may." Then Leah sadly turned
her eyes upward to the cracked, stained wall overhead, and faintly
murmured, "Here I am at last, alone-alone in the Queen City,
friendless and penniless-alone in the place where I once possessed
thousands-alone in my search for the only being who loves me, in
this wide world-alone, with nothing to cheer me but my own faithful,
resolute heart. When that fails me I shall find rest. Poor, beloved
Emile!"
Overcome by weariness, anxiety, and fear, Leah covered her face with
the coarse brown coverlet of her bed, and wept and sobbed in very
bitterness of heart. At length, astonished at the withdrawal of its
mother's smile, the child cried; and ceasing to weep, Leah clasped
the helpless creature to her bosom in a fond, impassioned embrace.
"God keep you, blessed one!" she said with deepest pathos. "Heaven
shield you, my angel, from such sorrow as now fills your mother's
heart! But I must be up and doing. Weeping will not accomplish the
end and object of my coming."
Arising resolutely, she hastily performed their simple toilets, and
descended the narrow stairway to the breakfast-room.
The plain repast was soon over, the coarse, garrulous inmates of the
inn departed, and Leah with her child sat alone in the ill-furnished
reception-room. She had sent a wiry-looking little negro boy for the
proprietor, and was awaiting his appearance. Suddenly a thump,
thump, thump, sounded along the narrow entry, and a short,
red-faced, bald-headed, pompous looking old man, with a wooden leg,
stood before her.
"Madam," he said, bowing obsequiously, "is it yourself that desired
my presence? Cricket told me-we call that limber-looking little
nigger Cricket-that a lady desired to see me in the drawing-room."
"Whom have I the honor of addressing?" said Leah, with difficulty
repressing a smile excited by the grotesque appearance of the man.
"I desired to see the proprietor."
"Exactly so, madam, and my name is Michael Moran, the proprietor of
the Good Cheer House these twenty years."
"And have you remained in the Queen City during all these dreadful
months of shelling?" said Leah, whose heart was at once brightened
by the hope that she might gather some desired information from him.
"Oh, yes, child-beg pardon, madam, but, really, you look like a
child. Michael Moran is not the man to desert the post of duty in
times of danger. You see, madam"--and he pointed to the wooden
stump--"you see, I had the misfortune to lose a member in the Mexican
war. That wooden stump speaks yet of Michael Moran's bravery, and I
am the same brave man to-day that I was in 'forty-seven, always
ready to serve my country."
"Yes," replied Leah, "but you are too old to do much for your
country now."
"Yes; that is to say, I am not able to take up arms, but then I have
done valiant service by furnishing a very comfortable, thoroughly
respectable wayside home for my country's unfortunate children. You
see, madam, the Good Cheer House is known far and near as the place
to find good food and lodging, at very reasonable prices. The
soldiers-alas! I know what a soldier's life is," and the old man
laid his fat, plump hand on his heart, "the soldiers, I say, find
out the house of Michael Moran, and enjoy the good cheer he
dispenses."
The old man, once started, would have continued his remarks ad
infinitum, had not Leah bravely interrupted him by asking:
"Can you tell me, sir, if any of the refugees have yet returned?"
"A good many, madam. You see this infernal old shelling, although
it's pretty pesky business, hasn't done much harm, after all. It
battered down a few fine houses, and killed some men, but then I
don't believe the Queen City will never surrender; and by Erin I
hope it never will. If the soldiers, to a man, possessed the heart
of Michael Moran, they would stand out till--"
"Can you tell me anything of the Le Grande family-Judge Le Grande, I
mean?" again interrupted Leah bravely.
"The judge? Oh, yes; I think they went to France some months ago,"
replied Michael, with an air of profound satisfaction at possessing
some slight acquaintance with so distinguished a man as the judge;
and patting his knee with his plump hand, he continued, "You see the
judge was not particularly a war man, and--"
"Do you know anything of the Levys?" again cut short the old
inn-keeper's volubility.
"The Levys? Oh, yes; they fled long ago, and are now roving the face
of the earth. The bombs well-nigh tore down old Levy's house, and I
guess that will about kill him, as he is as stingy as a man well can
be. If he had stayed by his suffering city, as Michael Moran has--"
"But Mrs. Levy was a widow," interrupted Leah, seeing that the old
man was coining his information as he went, for the purpose of his
own exaltation. "Her husband has been dead these many years."
Determined not to be baffled in this quiet way, Michael replied,
"Well, this was another man, madam," and fearing Leah might
discredit his fabricated story, he added, "I swear by Erin it was
another man."
"Well, sir, can you tell me anything of the Mordecai family-Mr.
Benjamin Mordecai?" said Leah, with a slightly tremulous voice.
The old man's eye brightened up, and he slapped his fat hand upon
his knee with renewed force and rapidity, and replied, with an
inquisitive squint in his face, "Are you a Jew?"
"I am a Jewess, sir," she said softly. "I feel an interest in my
people. What can you tell me of the Mordecais."
"Well, child, then listen to me again. I say emphatically madam,
now. Well, old Ben Mordecai he was a mighty rich man, had a bank
many, many years, and lots and piles of gold. In fact, he was my
banker at one time in my life, and to-day he can testify as to
whether Michael Moran was or wasn't a thrifty man and the Good Cheer
House a paying institution. Some years ago though, I moved my
business to another bank, ahem!" Here the old man eyed Leah sharply,
to see if these hints respecting his pecuniary status did not
impress her profoundly. Then he continued, "Well, I was about
stating-Well, where was I?" he said, with a puzzled look of regret,
as though he had lost, or was about to lose, some cherished remark,
so bewildering had been the thought in reference to his money
matters, "where was I?"
"You were speaking of Mr. Mordecai's having left the Queen City,"
kindly suggested Leah, seeing the old man's embarrassment.
"Oh yes; my head gets a little muddy sometimes," said the inn-keeper
apologetically, as he rubbed his rosy hand, this time briskly across
the bald, sleek surface of his head. "Well, the Mordecais went
away, and I am told a poor family moved into the old man's house to
protect it. But the other week, a shell came whizzing into the city
and tore off one corner of his fine house. I tell you, madam, the
old man had a fine house, sure. And, madam, old Mordecai had a fine
guirl once, and a few years ago she ran away and married some
fellow, and it well-nigh broke the old man's heart. They ran away,
and went somewhere; I think it was to the Island of Cuby. My banker
told me this. You see, madam, my resources are yet such, that my
banking business is quite burdensome to me. The Good Cheer House is
a fine paying institution, sure, and--"
"But what of the unfortunate daughter?" inquired Leah faintly.
"Well, as I was about remarking, they went away to Cuby, and some
months ago, perhaps a year or so, they caught the scamp out there,
and smuggled him to this country, to be punished for a murder he
committed some years ago, long before he was married."
Leah's heart throbbed wildly in her bosom, and every limb trembled
like an aspen; but the old man did not detect her emotion, and
continued:
"He will soon be tried here. I hear the friends of the dead man and
the Mordecais are pushing up the trial. When the trial comes off, I
guess the banker's family will come back."
"Is the unfortunate man confined in the old city prison here?"
inquired Leah, with a faltering voice.
"Yes, madam. At one time a shell struck the old prison, and some of
the inmates came nigh escaping, but they have had it repaired, and
now it's pretty full, sure. If a bomb could strike it, and finish
all the inmates at once, I guess that would suit them. I don't know
why else they keep that jail full of thieves and murderers. I am too
busy with my wayside house, giving cheer and comfort to my
unfortunate countrymen, to bother much about the jail-birds. Yes,
Michael Moran is too busy for that."
"What is my bill, sir?" said Leah faintly, oblivious of the wordy
Michael's harangue, and thinking only of the prison-the dim, dark
prison, where her husband was languishing. "I have no money but
gold," she continued; "how much do I owe you for my food and
lodging?"
"Gold!" repeated Michael with eager emphasis; and then, as if
fearing to betray his characteristic love of the shining ore, he
added with an air of indifference, "well, I guess, as you have
nothing else, gold will do. you owe me--" and he named a certain sum.
"Remarkable low price. Michael Moran hasn't the heart to be hard on
a woman; and I know you'll be sorry, to your dyin' day, that you had
to quit the Good Cheer House so soon."
Leah made no reply and evinced no regret, as she handed out, from
her low supply of money, the amount demanded. Hurrying away from the
inn, with the child in her arms, she hastened forward toward the
dismal jail that, as she well remembered, was many streets away.
On the same bright October morning that opened the eyes of Leah in
the Queen City, Emile Le Grande was pacing to and fro in his prison
cell at an early hour. The confinement of so many long, weary months
had left its impress on every feature; and pale and emaciated he
scarcely resembled his former self. Before him, on a tin platter,
was the coarse prison breakfast, as yet untasted. Restless and
miserable, he trod backward and forward within the narrow limits of
his cell, now glancing up at the sunlight that streamed through the
narrow window so far above his head, then turning his ready ear to
catch the sound of every human footstep that trod the corridors, or
moved in the adjoining cells of this wretched place.
Despair had settled upon him, and death was a coveted visitor. "Is
it myself," he muttered, as he convulsively ran his fingers through
his hair, grown long from neglect, "or is it some other unfortunate
wretch? Have I a wife and child on a far-off foreign shore, or is
this thought a horrid, hideous nightmare, that comes to harrow my
brain? O birds of the air, I envy you! O breezes that wander, I envy
you! O sunlight, that streams through my window, give me my freedom,
my freedom, I pray!"
Overpowered by these thoughts, the wretched man, enfeebled in mind
as well as body, sank down upon the hard pallet, when the sound of
footsteps was again heard along the corridor, coming nearer, nearer,
nearer to his cell door. Startled, Emile heard the bolt draw back
once more and the door open, and the jailer stood before him.
"Le Grande," he said, "there's a woman below says she must see you-a
beggar; shall I bring her up?"
"Yes, man, in the name of mercy, bring her up. I'd see a dog that
would come to me in this lonely place. Bring her up, beggar or not,
though I have nothing to give her."
The jailer withdrew, and Emile's heart beat wildly from the strange
announcement that even a beggar wished to see him in his
wretchedness now.
Again the footsteps resounded in the corridor, coming nearer,
nearer, nearer, to the cell.
Emile had risen from his pallet, and searching in his pocket said,
"I haven't even so much as a fourpence for the poor old soul."
The cell door opened. Emile saw the jailer, and a woman with a
child. His eye flashed bright, his heart leaped to his throat. The
woman's face grew paler, and tottering forward she fell upon the
prisoner's bosom, and gasped, "My husband!"
He said, "Thank God. My wife! my wife! my child!"