the first spring of peace gave place to summer, a summer memorable for its intense heat. one afternoon, toward the latter part of july, clouds dark and angry overcast the sky, and peals of thunder and flashes of lightning threatened a terrific storm. pedestrians hurried homeward, and man and beast sought safety under shelter. the waters of the quiet harbor, tossed by rude winds, grew angry and rose in white-capped breakers, that broke against the wharves, piers, and fortresses, as far as the eye could see. sea-gulls screamed and flew wildly about at this ominous appearance of the heavens, while the songsters of the woods, and the pigeons of the barn-yard, sought shelter from the approaching tempest. at night-fall the rain descended in torrents.
safely sheltered in his comfortable home, mr. mordecai sat for an hour or more, watching, from his library window, the fury of the storm. the tall, graceful cedars and olive trees that adorned the front and side gardens of his home, were swaying in the wind which rudely snatched from their trellises the delicate jessamine and honeysuckle vines that lent such delicious odor to the evening winds. it tore the flowers from their stems, and the rain pelted them into the earth in its fury. leaves were whisked from their branches, and blown out of sight in a twinkle. a weak-hinged window-shutter of the attic was ruthlessly torn away and pitched headlong into the street. all this mr. mordecai watched in amazement, and then, as if some sudden apparition of thought or of sight had appeared before him, he turned from the window with a shudder, and said:
"this is a devilish wild night. i'll drop the curtain."
seating himself then, by a brightly-shining lamp-the queen city gas works had been destroyed by the shelling guns-he clasped his arms across his breast, and looked steadily up toward the ticking clock upon the mantel. thus absorbed in reverie, he sat for an hour; and was only disturbed then by a loud rapping at the front door.
"by jerusalem! who can be out this wild night?"
the rapping sounded again, louder than before.
"mingo!" he exclaimed involuntarily. "ah! the dog is free now, and only answers my summons at his will. good boy, though."
the rapping was repeated.
"i must go myself. who can be so importunate, on this dark, wretched night? no robber would be so bold!" and grasping the lamp, he glided softly toward the front door. he turned the bolt cautiously, and opening the door a little, peered out.
"come, mordecai, open the door," said a friendly voice without. "do you suspect thieves this foul night? no wonder."
mr. mordecai opened the door wider and saw rabbi abrams, and a man so disguised that he could not tell whether it was any one he knew.
"what do you want, my friend?" he said kindly.
"want you to go with us, mordecai," replied the rabbi, drawing closer his cloak, which the wind was trying to tear away.
"go where?" asked mr. mordecai in consternation. "only the devils themselves could stand, such a night as this."
"come, be quiet, my friend. i am summoned by this unknown friend, to go with him to see a certain person who must see me, must see you, too. that's all i know. come along."
"don't wait, my friend, time is precious," said the muffled voice of the unknown man.
mr. mordecai frowned and shrugged his shoulders dubiously.
"fear no evil, my friend, but come with me," continued the stranger in a reassuring tone.
"the storm will not destroy us, mordecai; i have tried its fury so far," said the rabbi. "come on."
reluctantly mr. mordecai obeyed, and hastily preparing himself for the weather, turned out into the darkness and the storm, with the rabbi and the guide.
onward they went, struggling against the wild wind and rain, and few words were uttered by either as they proceeded on their unknown way. at length the guide stopped suddenly, at the corner of a lonely, obscure street, and said:
"there, gentlemen; in that low tenement opposite, where a light gleams from the window, you will find the person who desires to see you. hasten to him. i shall be back before you leave. ascend the stairway and turn to the left. open the door yourself; there will be no one inside to admit you." having uttered these words, the guide disappeared in the darkness, and mr. mordecai and the rabbi were left alone.
"what can this mean, rabbi abrams?" said mr. mordecai in a low voice, greatly excited; "suppose it should prove some plot to decoy us into trouble? i shall not go a step farther; we may be robbed or even murdered in that miserable place. you know this is dogg's alley, and it never was a very respectable locality. what say you?"
"i feel no fear, friend mordecai, though i admit the summons is mysterious. if you will follow, i will lead the way. my curiosity impels me onward."
"but there's no watchman on this lonely beat, on this wild night, that we could summon in a moment of necessity; no street-lamp either, you see. it's dark, fearfully dark! had we not better wait till to-morrow?"
"no, come on. i am fond of adventure. let's see a little farther into this mystery;" and so saying, the rabbi boldly crossed the slippery street, mr. mordecai following timidly behind. they were soon standing in the narrow door-way that led up the stairs. they ascended slowly, and turning to the left, they discerned through the crevice beneath the door, a faint light. to this chamber they softly groped their way, and tapped gently on the door. no reply.
"shall we go in?" whispered the banker. "this is an awfully suspicious place."
"yes, come on; i do not feel afraid."
gently turning the bolt, they opened the door; the lamp upon the table by the window revealed the contents of the apartment.
in a corner, upon a rude bed, lay a man, a negro, evidently sick, whose widely glaring eyes were turned upon the door, as if in expectation of their coming. slowly lifting his hand as they entered, the sick man beckoned the gentlemen toward him. they drew near.
"sir," he said, and so faintly that his voice did not rise above a whisper, "i'm glad you come. i was 'feerd the rain would keep you away." then he grasped the hand of the rabbi with his cold, clammy fingers, and with an intense gaze of the wild eyes, said again, "do you know me, marster abrams? tell me, do you know me?"
the rabbi looked earnestly at him and after a moment's pause said dubiously:
"is it old uncle peter martinet, the carrier of the 'courier'?"
"de-same-marster, de-werry-same. but-de-end-ob-ole-peter-is-nigh- at-hand, marster-wery nigh-at-hand! las'-winter-was hard-an'-w'en de-work-ob de-curyer-stop-it-went-mighty-hard-on-ole-peter. de-rheumatiz-marster! de rheumatiz? bref-so-short! doctor-say-it's-de-rheumatiz on-de-heart now. mebbe so-marster-but-ole-peter-mos'-done-now."
"can i do anything for you, peter?" asked the rabbi kindly. "what will you have?"
at these words, the dying man, for he was dying, extended his other hand to mr. mordecai, and clasping his, said:
"yes, marster-i want-somethin'. i-want-you-and-mr. mordecai-to-listen-to me; listen-to-me-a-moment. i-have- something-to-to-tell-you."
"certainly we will," they replied gently, observing with pain the difficulty of the dying man's utterance. "what do you wish to say?"
"you-see, marster-abrams, i-am-dying. ole-peter-mos-done. i-can-not- go-before god with-the-sin-upon-my-soul-that-now-distresses-me. i must tell it-for-i die."
here the old man strangled, from the effort made to communicate his story, and the rabbi, gently raising his head, administered a spoonful of water. then, after a moment's pause, he continued:
"ise-been-a-great-sinner, to keep my-mouf-shut-so long; but-i could not-help it. ole peter-was feered-but now-i'se feered-no more. soon-i'll be wid-de great god-who has-know'd my secret too-an' i feel-he will-forgive me-if-i-'fess it-'fore-i die. i know-he-will, marster-de spirit has-tole'-me so."
"confess what?" inquired the rabbi softly, supposing that the old man's utterances were but the ravings of delirium.
"a secret-marster; a secret-dat-i have-kep'-so long-it has become-a sin-an awful sin-dat has burnt-me in here," placing his feeble hand on his heart, "like coals-of-fire. listen to me."
"i knows-how-mars'-mark-abrams got-killed, an'-has-known it-ever since-dat-dark-jinnewary-night-w'en he-was-shot--"
"merciful--"
"hush! listen-to-me-my-bref-werry-short," he said, motioning the rabbi to silence, who had turned pale with consternation at the mere mention of his son's name.
"hush! mars'-mark-was not-murdered-as-everybody-thought-but-was- killed-by-de pistol-he-carried-in his-pocket. it-was-werry dark dat-night-as you-may-remember. he-was-passin'-tru'-de-citadel square-to cut-off de walk-comin'-from crispin's-he said, an'-in-de dark-he-stumble-an' fall-an' de-pistol-go-off-an' kill him. in de-early-morning-jus'-'for-day-as-i was-hurryin'-aroun' wid-my-paper, i was-carryin' de curyer den-bless-de-lord, i came-upon-him-an' 'fore god-he was-mos' dead. he call-me-and tell me-how he-was-hurt, an' beg-me to run-for his-father, for-you, marster-abrams. he ask-me-to pick up-de-pistol-an' run for-you-quick. w'en i foun'-de pistol-i ask-him-another question. he-said-nothin'. i knew-he-was-dead. i was-skeered- awful-skeered-an'-somethin'-tole me-to-run-away. i did run-as-fast as-i-could-an' w'en-i was-many-squars-off, i foun' de-pistol-in my-hand. dat-skeered me-agin. i stop-a minit-to think. i-was-awful skeered-marster-an' den i 'cluded i jus' keep-de secret, an' de-pistol-too-for-fear-people-might-'cuse-me ob de-murder. an'-so i has-kept both-till now. see-here's de pistol-an' i'se-told you-der truth;" and the old man felt about under his pillow for the weapon.
with difficulty he drew it out, and handing it to the rabbi, said:
"take it-it's-haunted-me long-enough. it's jes' as i found-it-dat-night-only-it's-mighty rusty. i'se had-it-buried-a long time-for-safe-keepin'.
w'en-mars'-emile-le grande-was-here in-prison-'cused of-dis-crime,-i often-wanted to tell-my-secret den-but-was-still-afeerd. i-knew he-was-not guilty-an' i determined-he should-not be-punished. so i helped-him-to 'scape-jail. i-set-him-free. i take-him-in de night time-to one-of de-blockade-wessels-off de bar. w'ere-he go from dere, god knows-ole peter-don't. now, marster abrams, i'se done. before-god-dis is-de truf. i'se told-it-at-las'. tole all-an' now-i die-happy.
"a-little-more-water-marster abrams-if you-please, an' den ole-peter-will-soon-be-at-rest."
silently granting this last request, the rabbi turned suddenly to observe the entrance of the guide, who by this time returned.
not a word was spoken a he entered.
by the side of the table, where lay the pistol, the rabbi and mr. mordecai both sat down, each in turn eyeing the deadly weapon with unuttered horror.
the dying negro's confession had filled them both with sorrow and amazement. the earnestness of his labored story impressed them at once with its undeniable truth; and with hearts distressed and agitated, they sat in silence by the bed-side, till a struggle arrested their attention. looking up once more they both caught the voiceless gaze of the earnest eye, which seemed unmistakably to say, "i have told the truth. believe my story. farewell." then the old carrier's earthly struggles were forever ended.
