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.