in their quiet little sea-girt home, where the skies were bright and blue, and the breezes balmy and soft, emile le grande and his young wife had dwelt in peace and happiness for nearly five years. not a line had ever come, amid all leah's hopeless longing and vain expectation, to assure her of her father's forgiveness and continued love. so, weary from this continued disappointment, she had settled down into the confident assurance, that his blessing now would never come, and she must find happiness alone in her husband's love. long, long ago, emile's parents had written, expressing kindest wishes for their welfare, and tendering to leah a daughter's welcome. mrs. le grande, although disappointed and chagrined that belle upton was not the choice of her son's love, soon quieted down, and accepted the alternative with astonishing and commendable resignation. so, despite leah's bitter disappointment, she was happy; for, aside from emile's love, she soon drew hope and happiness from the life of the dark-eyed little daughter that had come to bless her home. emile had yielded to leah's wishes, and, following the custom of her people, she had called her little daughter, sarah, in memory of her mother, whose death she had so long and deeply mourned.
the event of this little grandchild's birth had never reached mr. mordecai's ears, for he had regarded leah as dead, ever since that dreadful morning when he discovered that she had clandestinely married a "christian dog." he desired to know naught of her welfare; he avoided knowing anything.
in the interior of the state, about two hundred miles distant from the queen city, was a cosy, sequestered little settlement, called inglewood. to this little shelter of peace and security, many refugees had found their way, and taken temporary homes. many hebrew families from the queen city had fled thither, and among them those of rabbi abrams and mr. mordecai.
it was some weeks after mr. mordecai's removal to inglewood, when one day rebecca requested her husband to accompany her to the house of the rabbi. mr. mordecai gladly assented. they found the rabbi, as usual, engrossed with his books in the temporary library that was a necessary feature of his home. mrs. abrams still bore on her pale, calm face the marks of sorrow that had rested there since the terrible and mysterious death of her son. without delay, and by dint of that skilful management which was characteristic of rebecca, she approached the dreadful subject of mark's death. then, after a pause, looking straight at the rabbi, she said suddenly, with terrible emphasis, "i know the guilty man-the one who did the dreadful deed." the rabbi, his wife, and mr. mordecai looked aghast.
"what do you mean," at length spoke out the rabbi, in fearful bewilderment.
"i mean that i know who assassinated mark," she replied, with flashing eye and ringing voice.
"know who killed my son!" he ejaculated hoarsely, "for heaven's sake, who was it?"
"you know the dark villain, rebecca, who did that bloody deed! by israel, who was it?" said her husband, almost in the same breath.
"it was emile-le-grande!" she replied slowly. "he and none other."
"that's a dreadful accusation," said the rabbi; "by what authority do you make such a statement?"
"by the authority of his own words," she replied triumphantly. "here, you can read the confession for yourself." she drew forth the little journal and pointed to the records.
"there, read first: 'if i thought mark abrams loved her, i would kill him."
"great god!" gasped the rabbi, looking again at the record as though he thought his eyes had deceived him.
"here again, see here," said rebecca, pointing to one other record: "'dead men tell no tales.' was that not some deed of his foul doing that he did not wish discovered?" she continued, as she turned onward through the book.
"he shall die!" exclaimed mr. mordecai, quivering with rage and astonishment, while the stricken father turned and walked sadly across the floor, exclaiming, "ah me! ah me! alas! my poor boy?" while the mother's wounded heart bled afresh.
"see here again," said rebecca, pointing with her finger to another record that bore upon the mystery.
"enough! enough!" exclaimed the father, averting his head and waving her to silence with his hand. "i have seen enough; the mystery is plain, the truth at last revealed. o god, the dreadful truth!"
mr. mordecai stamped his foot, clenched his hands, and muttering half audibly, "this villain has ruined you, has broken my heart, and destroyed the hopes of my child; and he shall die!"
"but, poor leah, my husband," said rebecca, half timidly, and with a semblance of deep feeling.
"leah!" he angrily repeated, "dare you even, now, speak that name to me? would to god she were dead! never insult me again with the utterance of that name?"
"forgive me, dear husband; in the excitement of this sad discovery i forgot your commands. i'll obey you in future." and turning again to the subject, in order to appease her husband's displeasure, she added, "by what means can you hope to reach emile now, dear husband? you know he's far away, and the guns of a blockading fleet intervene."
"though the guns of a dozen fleets intervened, i should bring him to justice," he replied sharply.
"think what my dear sarah has suffered-is suffering still, from the work of his bloody hand, dear husband," said rebecca, affecting to weep, as she covered her face with her hand.
well-nigh aroused to frenzy, mr. mordecai said fiercely, "promise me, rabbi abrams, promise me, rebecca, that you will lend me your aid in bringing this fugitive to justice; and i swear by jerusalem, he shall be punished. i have gold, and that will insure me success. yes, i have gold he coveted, but-aha! that he has never received. pledge me, promise me, both of you, that good allies you will be!" and they pledged him.
"but, tell me, rebecca," said the rabbi, suddenly stopping in his agitated walk. "how did you come into possession of that book?"
"indeed, rabbi abrams, that is a mystery. in packing and unpacking, preparatory to leaving the queen city, i accidentally found this journal in an old portmanteau that my husband sent up from his bank one day, among a lot of rubbish. it had lain there a long time, i judge. can you clear up the mystery, my husband?" she said, turning to mr. mordecai.
"let me see it," he replied; and taking the journal from her hands, he held it in his grasp as though it were a deadly thing, while he eyed it strangely from side to side.
"i think, i think," he said slowly, as though abstracted and confused; "i think this is the book mingo gave me the morning after--" then he was silent. "well, he found it in the lodge, i guess," he continued. "i remember his giving me a small book that morning, and i laid it away somewhere, to look at when my mind was less agitated. i had forgotten it."
"a kind fate has preserved it, husband, so that we might be avenged," said rebecca.
"keep it securely then, as it will be needed in the future. you are a wise, good woman, a wise little wife," added the husband, with all trace of displeasure toward her banished from his face.
her mission accomplished, rebecca, leaving the distressed family to find solace for their sorrow as best they could, returned home to gloat on the perfection of a scheme that would bring sorrow and desolation to the happy cuban home.
