IT was only two months after the kind matron of the Bellevue Home
had the invalid Mrs. Moses removed to its hospitable walls, before
she saw, with regret, that the life she sought to save was fast
passing away. The delicate frame was rapidly yielding to the
devastation of consumption. All the skill and attention of kind Dr.
Gibbs had proved unavailing. It was too evident that she must soon
die.
On the afternoon of a soft June day, succeeding a terrible night
with the invalid, Mrs. Marshall had withdrawn for a moment's rest
from the fatigue of watching and nursing. Her slumber was soon
broken, however, by Maum Isbel, who, unceremoniously thrusting her
head into her chamber, said in an excited tone:
"Miss Lizzie! Miss Lizzie! Mis' Moses says she would like to see you
at once. She seem werry bad to me, ma'am, werry bad indeed; she's so
weak!"
"Hasn't the doctor come yet, maum Isbel? I have been expecting him
this hour," replied Mrs. Marshall, arising and preparing to go at
once to her patient.
"Not yet, ma'am."
"If he comes, send him in at once; but I feel sure he can do the
poor woman no good now. Her life is nearly done." Maum Isbel sighed,
and dropped a tear at these ominous words; and then she shambled
along into ward number two, to inspect the washing that Mark Antony
Briggs, a colored man of her acquaintance, was doing there. There
she grew garrulous over the demerits of the work, and soon forgot
her emotion and her sympathy for the invalid. In the meantime, Mrs.
Marshall hastened to the sick-room, and softly entered.
By the bedside sat the pale-faced little child, holding her mother's
hand, and bestowing upon it kiss after kiss of fervent love.
"Mamma, here is good Mrs. Marshall come in again. Mamma! mamma! wake
up," said the little girl as Mrs. Marshall entered.
Startled by the sound, the sick woman roused from her uneasy
slumber, and turned her heavenly dark eyes, so lustrous and bright,
full upon the face of the matron. Her eyes for an instant flashed,
then filled with tears, and dropped again. There was a strange,
mysterious expression in that one gaze, that thrilled the heart of
Eliza, and filled it with sorrow. "What can I do for you now, dear
Mrs. Moses?" she said with feeling. "The doctor will be here soon."
Lifting her emaciated arms, her body shaking convulsively, the
invalid said, in a tone shrill with emotion, "Come here! Come near
to me, Lizzie Heartwell! Come to these dying arms of mine! I can
hold out no longer!" Confounded at these singular words, and the
more singular demonstration of an undemonstrative woman, Mrs.
Marshall shrank back, and the invalid continued, "Come to me;
nearer! nearer! I can hold out no longer. God knows how hard I've
struggled! Lizzie Heartwell, don't you know me? Have you never
suspected your long-lost Leah? Have my disgrace and degradation
wiped out my identity? In Heaven's name, is there not one trace of
resemblance left to the friend who loved you so much in our happy
school days? O Lizzie Heartwell, I am indeed your long-lost Leah!
Your unfortunate, heart-broken Leah! Your forsaken, despised Leah!
Your dying, dying Leah Mordecai! Is there no trace left, not one?
Here, see this-this hated scar. Do you know me now, dear Lizzie?"
Lizzie, who, terrified at these startling words, had stood like a
statue, sprang forward when the pale hand pushed back the hair and
revealed the scar, exclaiming:
"Is it you, my long-loved Leah, my own Leah Mordecai? In pity's
name, why this disguise? Why this cruel deception upon me, upon your
faithful Lizzie, whose heart, like your own, has been wounded and
bleeding so long? Tell me, dearest, tell me while you can; tell
Lizzie Heartwell again of your sorrows."
"Am I not dying, Lizzie?" inquired Leah with a shudder, "I fear I
cannot tell you all. My time is so short. But I could not die
without one uttered word of thankfulness, without one kiss of
recognition and love! This, Lizzie dear, is the end of my unhappy
life; this the end of the wrong-doing of others; this the end of
disobedience-the bitter, bitter end. It's been a hard, hard
struggle, Lizzie, between pride and love, for me to throw off my
disguise; but love has at length triumphed, love for this sweet
child," she said, laying her hand tenderly upon her little
daughter's head. "I could not die, and leave her entirely to
strangers. When I have told you all I can of my story, then I shall
hope for mercy from you for this child. It has seemed so dark and
fearful to me, this untried, unknown life into which I must so soon
enter! God knows how I tremble in His presence."
"Have you tried to pray, dear Leah?"
"Yes, dear; but still all was dark, dark, dark-is dark yet."
"Be calm, dear, and let me listen to the story of your life. Tell me
what steps have led you at last to this strange end. Be calm, and
tell me slowly. I would know it all."
"Be patient then, and listen. I'll keep nothing back. If God gives
me strength to tell it, I'll tell you all." Then faintly she began
her sad narrative, and unreservedly unfolded the story of her life,
from the unfortunate day of her marriage, on through each succeeding
year of sorrow, till she came at last, tremulously, to its sad
close. Calmly she told how her father had discarded her; of the
removal of her husband's father to France, where his family still
remained; of Emile's misfortune, persecution, and forced desertion,
of his innocence; of her hopeless longing to see him; of her despair
as the conviction settled upon her that she could not hope to hear
from him again; of the harrowing suspense that had slowly eaten out
her life; of her penury and want--"and now, thank God," she said,
"you will see the end."
Lizzie wept at the story, and when it was ended, she said lovingly,
"Leah, dear, let me send for your father? I know he would come."
"Alas! the chillness of death is upon me, and the thought of dying
without his forgiveness is terrible! Would not his blessing dispel
this awful gloom, dear Lizzie? Ah! a soul in the presence of its God
is a helpless, pitiable thing!"
"Our Father is a God of love and mercy, Leah; trust His goodness."
"I prayed last night from my prayer-book, but still all was dark.
Won't you pray, dear Lizzie? Pray for my father to come, with
forgiveness, and that his blessing may banish this gloom-this
mysterious gloom. Pray for me, Lizzie, pray for me now; and then you
may send for him. But stop! My child! Lizzie, my child! What will
become of her? Will you not take her? Will you not keep her? Will
you not love her for my sake? I could not give her to another. Tell
me, dear. It's growing-oh! so chilly!"
Eliza softly murmured, "Before Heaven, Leah, I solemnly promise to
deal with your child as I would have others deal with mine. Give
yourself no further sorrow for her, Leah."
"Thank God! and now, you may pray for me; pray that the gloom may be
dispelled, and this death-chamber brightened by my father's
forgiveness. Here, clasp my hands. Kneel close to me. I would catch
every word. A shadow seems to hang upon everything! Now."
Thrilled with emotion, Eliza sank upon her knees, and with one arm
embracing the sobbing child, the other hand clasping the dying
woman's, she prayed:
"Eternal God, our Heavenly Father, in weakness, in darkness, and yet
in confidence, we appeal unto Thee for succor. In life, as in death,
we are dependent upon Thy mercy and love, and yet, ever unmindful of
Thy goodness, we must constantly implore Thy forgiveness.
"Grant now, dear Father-now, in this dark hour of dissolving
nature-a clear and sustaining view of Thy goodness and mercy.
"Draw very near, compassionate God, with assurances of Thy full and
free pardon. Dispel with Thy brightness the darkness of death that
now enshrouds a helpless soul; and take it, in Thy boundless love,
into everlasting rest. Manifest Thy forgiveness, O God, for the
deeds done in the body, and sanctify this soul for the habitation of
Thy Saints. As earth has been dark and sorrowful, may heaven be
bright and blessed; and may faith be given now, in this hour of
awful extremity-faith to dispel the gloom that now veils Thy
goodness, mercy, and power.
"Give light, light, O God, for darkness and terror, and peace and
joy for apprehension and mourning. Eternal, ever-blessed,
unchangeable God, send now Thy Spirit and manifest Thy forgiveness.
O Father, let Thy sacrifice avail! Pity, too, the helpless orphan,
compassionate Father, and like a mantle wrap Thy love about it.
Guide its footsteps with wisdom, direct its way with love, and may
it live to Thy honor and glory. Hear us in our weakness,
helplessness, and sinfulness, and to Thy eternal Being be
everlasting honor and glory. Amen."
Releasing the little child, and unclasping the dying hand, Eliza
rose and said:
"Now, Leah, I'll send for your father."
"Well. Be quick!" and as a seraphic smile overspread her face, she
added, "Leave me alone till he comes, Lizzie, but be quick. I would
see him now, now; all is light, light, light! Joy, love, peace-at
last."
An hour later, Mr. Mordecai-in answer to a message saying that his
daughter was dying at the Bellevue Home, and wished to see him-came
tottering into the hall-way, his face expressive of the deepest
sorrow; his head had grown venerable and gray, his form was bent
beneath a weight of grief that might have crushed a heart of stone.
Not a word was spoken, as he silently took the hand of Mrs.
Marshall, who met him at the threshold, and led the way to Leah's
chamber. The expression of his face told the anguish of his heart.
Noiselessly entering the room, they found that the little child had
fallen asleep on the foot of its mother's bed, exhausted with
weeping. The coverlet was drawn carelessly over Leah's face,
concealing her features. Softly approaching her, Lizzie tremblingly
turned the coverlet back. Alas! she was dead.
On the bosom of the dead, as she was being prepared for burial, was
found the miniature of her mother, the birth-day gift of years ago.
The jewels were gone. One by one they had been removed from their
places, to answer the imperative demands of hunger and want. But the
face, the beloved face of the mother, had ever been pressed to the
heart of the unhappy daughter. And now, it was not to be removed,
even by death itself; for the agonized father, beholding the
evidence of Leah's devotion, said, "As she kept it in life, so shall
she keep it in death. Place it again on her bosom. Thank God, I
shall soon sleep beside her in the quiet burying-ground of my
people; and may the eternal God forgive my sin toward her."
THE END.