the days passed on, and the night before the wedding hung its cold, starless gloom over the queen city-hung as the sable pall above the dead.
"my dear," said mrs. abrams, as mark on this evening was preparing to leave his house for that of his affianced, to make the last necessary arrangements for the coming ceremony, "i wish you could be with me to-night. a mother's heart calls for the last evening of her son's free life, claims the last moments of the time when she can call him exclusively her own. to-morrow, dear boy, you are no longer mine. i shall have only a secondary claim upon your love and companionship, and must in the future console myself with the knowledge, that in losing a mother my son has gained a wife."
"o mother," replied mark, with a troubled look, "don't speak so. i am compelled to be at mr. mordecai's a little while to night, and also to call at crispin's, and see that my boot is stretched, and then i'll hasten back. tight boots on a wedding day, mother, will not do at all, you know," added mark playfully, as he stroked the soft hair that waved back from the oval jewish face-a pale, gentle face it was. "i'll be back very soon."
"brother mark, isn't you glad my arm is so well? mother says i may go to the synagogue, too, to-morrow, and see you married," said the innocent little sister, whose lacerated arm still hung in the snowy bandage around her neck.
"yes, dovey, indeed i am," replied mark, bending down beside the fair child, and tenderly caressing her. "if my little rachel could not be there, brother mark would not consider himself well married. i am only sorry that i haven't had a peep at that vicious dog that hurt my darling so. never mind, i am still ready and waiting for his reappearance, and then i'll have revenge.--good-night, dear mother, i must go; a sweet good-night to you and little rachel-till i come back." the young man stepped out into the cold, dark night, and turned his face toward the elegant home of the jewish banker.
"umph! umph! dis is a hard night for old peter-cold wind, and no stars. people ought to 'preciate de old carrier," grunted out rather than spoke, a rather short, slightly bent old negro, as he stood peering curiously out of the window of the dimly lighted, misty old printing-office of the "queen city courier." then turning around he shuffled toward the door, ejaculating, "bad night on my rheumatiz;" and continuing, as he descended the well-worn stairs, "de boss just give me a little of de w'iskey bitters-w'iskey bitters mighty good for de rheumatiz. maybe when dey warm me up good, i won't feel so stiff, and de cold won't pinch so dreadful. umph! umph! umph! ward number two comes fust," and clutching the bundle of papers more tightly, and gathering again the folds of the well-worn gray blanket around him, the old carrier struck out, as briskly as the cold and his stiffened limbs would allow, on his accustomed beat.
it was three o'clock in the morning, and for an hour he trudged on and on, past block and square, casting the welcome household visitor, "the courier," right and left as he went. suddenly he stopped a moment to listen. "dere, it's four o'clock," he said, as old st. luke's rang out the hour. "i'll soon be through dis ward, an' in time for the up-town gentry too, as dey takes breakfast late. old peter has a long round, but he don't mind dat, so he gits de money. den all de quality knows old peter, and how de hats come off and de ladies smile when de new year comes round again. humph! jingo! how stiff dis knee! when old peter dead and gone, nebber find anodder carrier like him. peter nebber stop for nuffin, de rain nor de shine, de northers nor de anything-umph! not even de rheumatiz." here the old man cut short his soliloquy, stooping down to rub the afflicted member that so retarded his progress, and whose pain was an ever-present reminder that his agility and youth were gone forever. erecting himself, he began again, "dis bin a putty hard winter on mos' anybody, 'specially on de rheumatiz. but for de w'iskey bitters of de boss, old peter wouldn't be as spry is he is. boss says, 'w'iskey bitters mighty good for anything,' an' i believe him. here it's jinnivery, an' the winter mos' gone, an' the rheumatiz will work out of me by next winter, an' then i'll be as good as new again." by this time the old carrier stood over against the citadel square, and halting for a moment in his hobbling march, he looked right and left, backward and forward, and then said, "guess i'll save a block in going to vine street, by cutting through the citadel square-so i will. the gates are always locked at this hour, but i know where i can slip through under a loose plank, papers and all." so saying, he hobbled across the street, found the opening, and doubling himself up, went through it in a trice. then trudging on, he bethought himself again of the sovereign remedy for all his ailments, "rheumatiz" especially, and he continued with evident delight:
"next winter w'iskey bitters will be good too, and de boss will be shure to have 'nuff for us both. i 'spec' the boss teched wid de rheumatiz. i'll-hallo! w'at's dat? jes' git out ob my way, ole grunter. dis ole peter."
"oh, god! help me! come here!" groaned a half audible voice. "come to me! help me! help me!"
"o lordy!" exclaimed old peter as he jumped back in sudden fright. "who's dat? what you want? w'at's de matter? i don't like spirits. you can't trick me. i'm the carrier ob de courier dese five an' twenty year. what you want?"
"o lord! help me! come to me, peter. i know you. i can do no harm. come, i implore! come quickly! reassured by the faint, but importunate words, old peter approached the dark object that lay upon the ground, scarcely discernible in the dim twilight of approaching day.
"bend down close to me, peter. i am dying. i am cold and faint, and wish to say a few words to you."
"good god!" and the old negro shuddered as he bent down over the prostrate form before him.
"don't you know me, peter?"
peter bent closer down.
"mass' mark abrams, is dis you? what's de matter wid you? who did it? who killed you? tell me; tell me for god's sake."
"listen to me, peter; listen. i am dying-shot in the breast with a pistol."
"who did it? who did it? for heaven's sake, who did it?"
"no one, peter; be calm; listen to me. it was accidental. i had in the inside pocket of my coat a small pistol. in passing through here about eleven o'clock, walking hastily homeward from crispin's, i stumbled by some chance, and as i fell the pistol was discharged and has killed me. here, take the pistol quick, and run for my father. be quick, man, quick, that i may, if possible, say farewell. take the pistol with you. i am not strong enough to reach it. be quick."
horrified, the old carrier groped on the ground for it, and accidentally dipped his hand into the pool of blood near the wounded man.
"the devil? i hate blood? dis is bad, bad, bad! mass' mark! mass' mark!" no reply.
"mass' mark! i b'lieve he's dead. i feared so. mass' mark!" still no reply.
"o lordy! i'll get away from here. de poor child's dead, an' if i'm seen 'bout here dey may 'cuse me of murder. i can't go an' tell nuffin. ole peter's 'fraid. i must git away;" and gathering up his papers and the blanket again, he left the scene of the tragedy as rapidly as his disabled limbs would allow, feeling as if some fearful ghost were in close pursuit. unconsciously, he carried the pistol with him, and was many squares away before he sufficiently collected his bewildered and terrified faculties, to observe the deadly weapon in his grasp. "what should he do with it?" at once flashed through his brain, and as the brightening daylight prevented his returning it to its place beside the victim, he resolved to keep it. he dared not cast it from him.
as old peter was too much frightened to reveal the truth concerning the tragedy, he resolved at once to keep the secret forever within his own breast, and as he was guilty of no crime, he had no fears of the mystery being revealed. so he went on in the advancing morning, on his long, tedious round of duty, and no single reader that day missed the "courier" or suspected the secret that lay hidden in the carrier's breast. a few hours after the columns of the "courier" had been carefully scanned, on this january morning, an "extra" flashed from the press, and flooded the queen city with consternation and many hearts with woe and lamentation. it ran thus:
"fearful tragedy! mysterious assassination! bridal day turned into a day of mourning and bitter disappointment!
"this morning at an early hour the body of young mark abrams was discovered, dead, and lying in a pool of blood near the centre of the citadel square. how he came to his death is still a mystery, but it was undoubtedly by the hand of an assassin. the most terrible fact connected with this sad calamity, is, that the day of the unfortunate man's death was to have been his wedding day. he was to have married the second daughter of benjamin mordecai, esq., banker. his body has been removed to the house of his father, the worthy rabbi of maple street synagogue. the burial will take place this afternoon, at the hour appointed for the wedding ceremony. seldom has the queen city been so shocked; and many heavy hearts will to-day join in the wail of woe that goes up from the stricken family."
thus the bulletin ran, and surmise, consternation, and sorrow, were upon the lips of many men, women, and children in the queen city.
