"'Merciful Heavens!' uttered Mark, with shocked and incredulous expression, as he sat gazing into the fire. At length he said:
"'God knows how sorry I am to hear that, for I love her, love her fondly!'
"Quickly discerning the effect of her story, my step-mother with well-feigned feeling continued:
"'After Leah's school-term is ended, her father contemplates taking her to Europe for medical advice and skill, and in case of improvement, which is scarcely supposable or to be hoped for, he has long ago promised her hand to the son of a wealthy cousin somewhere in that country-Baron von something-I can't remember hard names.'
"At length Mark looked up again and said:
"'Mrs. Mordecai, do not distress me farther. How can I credit your story? How can I believe that Miss Leah is aught but what she seems-the embodiment of health and beauty? Alas! for my broken, vanished hopes! Alas! for my golden dreams of the future!'
"'Oh! don't take things too much to heart, my boy. Leah does not care for you very much anyway. It will be but a small disappointment to her, if indeed she ever thought seriously of marrying you; and I remember to have heard her say that she never intended to marry- conscious of her affliction, I suppose.'
"Mark winced under these words, and replied, 'She need not have deceived me.'
"'Oh! girls will be girls, you know; and after you get over this trouble, if you still like the name, remember, here is Leah's sister Sarah, as fine a girl as you'll find anywhere, if she is my daughter.'
"'I could love her for her sister's sake, if nothing more,' said Mark with feeling; and then he bowed his head upon the marble mantel and looked steadily into the fire without a word.
"'Then if you desire,' continued my step-mother, with a little assumed hesitation, 'after reflection, you may speak to her father on the subject. Sarah will make a fine wife.'
"Think of me, Lizzie! Think of me, in that miniature dungeon, silently listening to the death sentence of my earthly happiness! Think of my weakness, in mutely listening to the lie that was, perhaps, to wreck my whole life! Think of me, and pity me!" Leah brushed away a tear, the first that had fallen from her stony eyes since the beginning of her story; and then she continued:
"If Mark heeded these last words of my step-mother, he gave no evidence of it, for he continued to stare blindly at the glowing grate, apparently oblivious of every surrounding object. At length he aroused, and said:
"'I must be going. Mrs. Mordecai, I bid you good night.'
"'Stay longer, I pray,' rejoined my step-mother; and he replied:
"'Not to-night; it's late now, and I must be alone. Alone!' he reiterated sorrowfully, and then was gone in a moment. All this time, Lizzie, I had stood shivering in my hiding-place, with my trembling hand almost benumbed by the cold granite knob, by which I held the door. I scarcely dared to breathe, for fear my presence would be revealed. The ordeal was terrible, I assure you! I thanked Heaven when I heard the library door open and close again, this time upon the receding figure of my step-mother, for then I was free again-free to breathe, and to move, and to sigh, if I chose, without betraying my hiding-place, or the cause of my concealment. I need not, could not if I chose, tell you of my feelings on that occasion. I remember them but dimly, even now. But this much I do remember, and so it shall be. I resolved that Mark Abrams should be free, rather than be undeceived by any word of mine. My pride, the little that is left in my soul, and my resentment, the shadow of it that yet lingers about me, struggled for a time in a fierce contest, and as usual, I yielded up my rights, and succumbed again to a cruel fate. My heart has given up its treasure, and he will never know aught of the bitter | sacrifice. I feel that I am ill-fated and despised, Lizzie; and feeling so, I do not desire to overshadow the life of Mark Abrams. I love him too much, too dearly, ever to becloud his future with my miserable life. I would rather live on and suffer in silence, as I have done for years, unloved and unloving to the end."
Here the beautiful girl ceased her story. Both friends for a time were silent. In Lizzie's soft blue eyes the tears glistened, and she looked with surprise into the cold, hard face of Leah, which had lost its gentle expression, and seemed petrified by this recital of her woes. Then she said:
"Would I could help you, Leah, by sharing your sorrow."
"No mortal being can help me, Lizzie. I am ill-starred and ill-fated, I fear."
Filled with sympathy, and with a heavy heart, Lizzie bent her head, and laid it in Leah's lap; and her silent prayer, though unheard by mortal ear, ascended to the throne of the Eternal Father, and was answered in the far-off future.
"It's late, and we must go," said Leah; "already the street lamps are being lighted, and I shall have to render some good excuse for being out so late."
"So we must; it is growing late," Lizzie replied.
"Remember now, I trust you, Lizzie," said Leah.
"Never fear; I shall never betray your confidence."
Then the two girls left the window, walked hastily through the hall and corridor, down the spiral staircase, out into the street, and turned homeward.
CHAPTER VII.
THE two friends walked side by side in silence the distance of a square, and then their paths divided.
As Lizzie Heartwell turned the corner that separated her from her companion, she drew her shawl more closely around her benumbed form and quickened the steps that were hurrying her onward to her uncle's home. Her mind was filled with sad and gloomy thoughts-thoughts of the life and character of her beloved friend. The misty twilight seemed deepened by the tears that bedimmed her vision, as she thought again and again of the life blighted by sorrow, and the character warped by treachery and deceit.
"Alas!" thought she, "had the forming hand of love but moulded that young life, how perfect would have been its symmetry! What a fountain of joy might now be welling in that heart's desert waste, where scarcely a rill of affection is flowing."
Filled with these and like thoughts, Lizzie reached the doorway of her uncle's house, and was soon admitted beneath its hospitable roof.
Leah Mordecai, when separated from Lizzie, plodded straight forward toward her father's elegant home. The street lamps shone brightly, but the departing daylight, that was spreading its gloom over the world, was not half so dark and desolate as her poor heart. Yet Leah seldom wept-her tears did not start, like watchful sentinels, at every approach of pain or joy. Only when the shrivelled fountain of her heart was deeply stirred, did this fair creature weep. Calm, placid, and beautiful in the lamp-light, the features of her young face betrayed no emotion, as she passed one and another, on beyond the din of the garrulous multitude.
At last she stood before her father's gate, and rang the bell.
"Is that you, Miss Leah?" said Mingo the porter, as he opened the door of the lodge.
"Yes, Mingo, I am late this evening. Has my father come home?"
"Has just passed in, miss."
"I am thankful for that," she murmured to herself. "Thank you, Mingo," she added aloud, as the faithful attendant closed the door.
Nervous from excitement and emotion, it was late that same night before Lizzie Heartwell could quiet herself to slumber. Leah's melancholy story still haunted her.
At length she slept and dreamed-slept with the tear-stains on her cheeks, and dreamed a strange, incongruous, haunting dream, reverberating with the deadly war of artillery, and flashing with blazing musketry. The sea, too, the quiet harbor, that she always loved to look upon, was agitated and dark with mad, surging waves.
The gray old fort also stood frowning in the distance, with strange dark smoke issuing from behind its worn battlements. And amid this confusion of dreams and distorted phantasms of the brain, ever and anon appeared the sweet, sad face of Leah Mordecai, looking with imploring gaze into the face of her sleeping friend.