



Produced by David Widger from page images generously
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THE YOKE OF THE THORAH

By Sidney Luska

Author Of “As It Was Written” “Mrs. Peixada,” Etc.

The Cassell Publishing Co.

1896

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TO

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN,

EXCEPT FOR WHOSE COUNSEL AND ENCOURAGEMENT THIS BOOK WOULD NEVER HAVE
BEEN WRITTEN, IT IS NOW GRATEFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.




THE YOKE OF THE THORAH.




I

IT was the last day of November, 1882. The sun had not shone at all
that day. The wind, sharp-edged, had blown steadily from the northeast.
The clouds, leaden of hue and woolly of texture, had hung very close to
the earth. Weather-wise people had predicted snow--the first snow of
the season; but none had fallen. Rheumatic people had had their tempers
whetted. Impressionable people, among them Elias Bacharach, had been
beset by the blues.

Elias had tried hard to absorb himself in his work; but without success.
His colors would not blend. His brushes had lost their cunning. His
touch was uncertain. His eye was false. At two o'clock he had given up
in despair, and sent his model home. Then he sat down at the big window
of his studio, and looked off across the tree-tops into the lowering
north. A foolish thing to do. It was a cheerless prospect. In the clouds
he could trace a hundred sullen faces. The tree-tops shivered. The
whistling wind, the noises of the street, the drone of a distant
hand-organ, mingled in dreary, enervating counterpoint. His own mood
darkened. Though he had every reason to be contented--though he had
youth, art, independence, excellent health, sufficient wealth, and not
a care in the world--he was nervous and restless and depressed. The
elements were to blame. Under gray skies, which of us has not had pretty
much the same experience?

By and by Elias got up.

“I'll go out,” he said, “and walk it off.”

He went out. For a while he walked aimlessly hither and thither. But
walking did not bring the hoped-for relief. He and the world were out
of tune. The men and women whom he passed were one and all either
commonplace or ugly. The sounds that smote his ears were inharmonious.
The wind sent a chill to his bones; besides, it bore a disagreeable odor
of petroleum from the refineries across the river. “I might as
well--I might better--have remained within-doors,” was his reflection.
Presently, however, he found himself in Union Square. This reminded
him that there was a little matter about which he wanted to see Matthew
Redwood, the costumer. Elias had lately read Mistral's “Mirèio.” The
poem had fired his enthusiasm. He was bent upon making Mirèio the
subject of a picture. But, he had asked himself, what style of costume
do the Provençal peasant women wear? He had determined to consult
Redwood. Now, being in Redwood's neighborhood, he would call upon the
old man, and state the question.

Redwood's place was just below Fourteenth Street, on Fourth Avenue.
The house had formerly been a dwelling-house. In the process of its
degeneracy, it had most likely passed through the boarding-house stage.
At present it was given over without reserve to commerce. A German
drinking-shop occupied the basement, impregnating the air round about
with a smell of stale lager beer. Redwood used the parlors--large, lofty
apartments, with paneled walls and frescoed ceilings--and the floors
above. The frescoes, of course, dated from the dwelling-house epoch.
Their hues were sadly faded. Here and there, in patches, the paint had
peeled off. Three pallid cupids, wretchedly out of drawing, floated
around the plaster medallion from which the gas fixture depended. Elias
never entered here without thinking of the curious secrets those cupids
might have whispered, if they had been empowered to open their painted
lips. What scenes of joy and sorrow had they not looked down upon in the
past? Merry-makers had danced beneath them; women had wept beneath them;
lovers had wooed their mistresses beneath them; what else? The intimate
inner life of a family, of a home, had gone on beneath them. How
many domestic quarrels had they watched? How many weddings? How many
funerals? What strange stories had they not overheard? Of what strange
doings had they not been mute witnesses? Between the windows stood a
tall pier-glass. Its gilt frame was chipped and tarnished. A milky film,
like that which obscures the eyes of an aged man, had gathered over its
surface. The quicksilver was veined, like a leaf. It had a very knowing
look, this ancient mirror, as though, if it had chosen, it could have
startled you with ghostly effigies of the forms and faces that it had
reflected in by-gone years. Elias Bacharach, who enjoyed having his
fancy stirred, was always glad of an excuse to drop in at Redwood's.

Elias climbed Redwood's stoop, and opened the door. It had been dark
enough outside. Inside it was darker still. It took a little while for
Elias's eyesight to accommodate itself to the change. Then the first
object of which it became conscious was the sere and yellow pier-glass
between the windows. Far in its mottled depths--down, that is to say,
at the remotest and darkest end of the room--he saw Matthew Redwood, the
costumer, in conversation with a young girl. The young girl's face, a
spot of light amid the surrounding shadows, had an instantaneous and
magnetic effect upon Elias Bacharach's gaze. He quite forgot his old
friends, the cupids. Turning about, and drawing as near to the couple as
discretion would warrant, he made the young girl the victim of a fixed,
eager stare.

She was worth staring at. From under the brim of her bonnet escaped an
abundance of golden hair--true golden hair, that gleamed like a mesh
of sunbeams. In rare and beautiful contrast to this, she had a pair of
luminous brown eyes, set like living jewels beneath dark eyebrows and
a snowy forehead. Add a rose-red, full-lipped mouth, white teeth, and
faintly blushing cheeks; and you have the elements from which to form a
conception of her. She was chatting vivaciously with the master of the
premises. In response to some remark of his, she laughed. Her laugh was
as crisp, as merry, as melodious, as a chime of musical glasses. Who
could she be, and what, Elias wondered. Probably an actress. Few ladies,
unless actresses, had dealings with the costumer, Redwood. Yet, at the
utmost, she was not more than seventeen years old; and her natural and
unsophisticated bearing seemed in no wise suggestive of the green-room.
Ah! now she was going. “Good-by,” Elias heard her say, in a voice that
started a quick vibration in his heart; and next moment she swept past,
within a yard of him, and crossed the threshold, and was gone. For an
instant, never so delicate and impalpable a perfume, shaken from her
apparel, lingered upon the air. Elias stood still, facing the door
through which she had disappeared.

“Ah, good-day, Mr. Bacharach; what can I do for you?” old Redwood asked,
coming up and offering his hand.

“You can tell me who that wonderful young lady is,” it was on the tip of
Elias's tongue to reply: but he stopped himself. Without clearly knowing
why, he was loth to reveal to another the interest and the admiration
that she had aroused in him. He was afraid that his motive might be
misconstrued, afraid of compromising his dignity, of appearing too
easily susceptible in the old man's eyes. So he put down his curiosity,
and began about Mirèio, demanding enlightenment on the score of
Provençal costumes.

“Provençal costumes,” the old man repeated, with a twang that savored of
New Hampshire; “South-French, we say in the trade. Why, certainly. I've
got a whole lot of lithographs, that show all the varieties. But they're
up to my house. You couldn't make it convenient to come and look at them
there, could ye? Then I'd lend you those that struck your fancy.”

“That's very kind of you,” said Elias. “Where do you live? And when
would it suit you to have me call?”

“I live up in West Sixty-third Street, No.----; and you might drop in
most any evening after dinner--to-night, if you've got nothing better to
do.”

“Very well; to-night, then,” agreed Elias, and bade the old man good
afternoon.

He went back to his studio. He had got rid of his blues; but he could
not get rid of his vision of the golden-haired young lady. That,
fleeting as it had been, had photographed itself upon his retina. Again
and again he heard her tinkling laughter. Again and again he breathed
the evanescent, penetrating perfume that she had left behind her upon
quitting the costumer's shop. Excepting his mother, now dead, and the
models whom he employed, Elias Bacharach had never known a woman, young
or old, upon terms of greater intimacy than those required for bowing
in the street, or paying one or two formal calls a year. Until to-day,
indeed, he had never even seen a woman whom he had desired to know more
closely. But this young girl with the golden hair had taken singular
possession of his fancy. A score of questions concerning her presented
themselves for solution. Her name? He ran over all the women's names
that he could think of, from Abigail down to Zillah, seeking for one
that seemed to fit her. None struck him as delicate or musical enough.
Her condition in life? Was she, after all, an actress? If so, at what
theater? He did not care much for the theater as a general thing; but
if he only knew at which one she performed, he would certainly go to see
her. Her age? Had he been right in setting it down at seventeen? Where
did she live? Who were her family? Would he, Elias Bacharach, ever come
face to face with her again? What were the chances of his some time
having an opportunity to make her acquaintance? Perhaps he knew somebody
who knew her, and could introduce him to her. Only, he was ignorant of
her name, and therefore powerless to institute inquiries. How stupid he
had been not to ask Redwood; how absurdly timid and self-conscious! But
it was not yet too late. He would ask him at his house in the evening.
Then, having identified her, it might be possible, by one means or
another, to procure a presentation. Delightful prospect! How he would
enjoy talking to her, and hearing her talk, and all the while feasting
his eyes upon the delicious loveliness of her face! He wondered whether
her character accorded with her appearance. Was she as sweet and as pure
and as bright, as she was beautiful? He wondered--But it would take too
long to tell all the wonderment of which she was subject. When evening
came, Elias promised himself, old Redwood should gratify his thirst for
information.




II.

AT eight o'clock Elias was ushered by a maid, servant into Redwood's
parlor. Redwood's parlor was the conventional oblong parlor of the
conventional New York house, conventionally furnished and decorated. It
had white walls, black walnut wood-work, a gaudily stenciled ceiling,
and a florid velvet carpet, into which your feet sank an inch, and which
gave off a faint but acrid odor of dye-stuffs. For pictures there were
three steel engravings--The Last Supper, The Signing of the Declaration
of Independence, The Landing of the Pilgrims--all hung as near to heaven
as the limitations of space would allow. The chairs were of mahogany,
upholstered in sleek and slippery hair cloth. Upon the huge sarcophagus
which served for mantelpiece, a gilt clock, under a glass dome,
registered five minutes past six, with stationary hands. This started
one's mind irresistibly backward, in quest of the precise point in time
at which the clock had stopped, and set one to speculating upon what the
condition of the world was then.. Years ago, or only months? In summer,
or winter? Morning or afternoon? What of moment was happening then?
Who was President? Where was I, and what doing? Perhaps--it was such
an old-fashioned clock--perhaps I had not yet been born. In the corner
furthest from the window there was a square piano, closed, and covered
by a dark brown cloth, like a pall. Just above it, so that they could
not be reached except by standing upon it, some book-shelves were
suspended. These contained the “Arabian Nights,” “The History of
the Bible,” Cooper's novels, and an old edition of the “New American
Cyclopedia.” Beneath the chandelier stood a center table, with a top of
variegated marbles. This bore a student's lamp, a Russia leather writing
case, an ivory paper knife, a photograph of Mr. Emerson, and half a
score of books. The literature of the center table was rather more
seasonable than that of the hanging shelves. Greene's “Short History of
the English People,” “The Victorian Poets,” “Society and Solitude,”
 and the “Poems of Dante Gabriel Rossetti,” testified that somebody had
modern instincts, testimony which was corroborated by an open copy
of “Adam Bede,” laid face downward upon the sofa. Elias wondered who
somebody might be.

Presently old Redwood entered, in dressing-gown and slippers. He carried
a large bundle under his arm.

“Here,” said he, “are the plates I spoke of. Run them over, and pick out
those that please ye.” The examination of the plates occupied perhaps a
quarter-hour. When it was finished, Elias thanked the old man, and began
to make his adieux. Then, abruptly, as though the question had but just
occurred to him, “Oh, by the way,” he inquired, in a tone meant to be
careless and casual, “can you tell me who that young lady was--the young
lady I saw down at your place this afternoon?”

“Young lady?” queried Redwood, with a blank look, scratching his chin,
and knitting his brow. “Down to my place? What young lady?”

“Why, a young lady with golden hair. You were talking to her when I came
in.”

“Oh, with golden hair--oh, yes.” The blank look gave way to an
intelligent and slightly quizzical one. “But why do you want to know?”

“She's such a remarkable bit of coloring,” explained Elias; “the finest
I've seen this long while. I'd give my right hand to be allowed to paint
her.”

“Your right hand! Rather a high offer that, ain't it?”

“Well, but there's not much danger of its being accepted.”

“I don't know,” said Redwood, reflectively, “I'm not so sure.”

“What?” cried Elias. The syllable did duty for expletive and
interrogatory at the same time.

“I say I'm not sure but it might be managed.” Breathlessly: “But _what_
might be managed?”

Redwood's meaning was clear enough; but it seemed to Elias too good and
too surprising to be true. So he chose to have it set forth in terms of
positive affirmation.

“Why, what are we talking about? But she might be got to sit for ye.”

“You don't say so? Are you serious? How?”

“Well, we're pretty well acquainted, she and I. I might propose it to
her.”

“Do--do, by all means. But is there any likelihood of her consenting?”

“Why, yes, I guess she'd consent--that is, if I urged her.”

“Oh, well, you will urge her, won't you?”

The old man closed one eye, and twirled his mustache. “Hum; that
depends. You must make it worth my while.”

“Worth your while?” faltered Elias, surprised, and somewhat shocked,
at discovering old Redwood to be so mercenary. “Well--well, what do you
want?”

“I want--let me see. Well, I guess I want the picture. You must make me
a present of the picture.”

“Oh, come; that's unreasonable.”

“I thought you said you'd give your right hand I shouldn't have much use
for that. So I'll take your handiwork, instead.”

“That was a figure of speech. I'll pay a fair price, though. Name one
that will satisfy you.”

“I've just done so.”

“Oh, but that's ridiculous.”

“Well, that's the only price I'll talk about. And I'll tell you this,
besides: she never'll sit for you at all, unless I advise her to. She
sets great store by my opinion. You promise me the picture, and I'll
guarantee you her consent.”

“It's asking a great deal. It's asking far too much.”

“All right. Then say no more about it.”

“But--”

“Oh, you can't beat me down, Mr. Bacharach. When I say a thing, I
mean it. You'll only waste your breath, trying to haggle with me. The
picture, or nothing--those are my terms.”

Elias's eyes were full of the young girl's beauty; his ears still rang
with the music of her laughter; the prospect that old Redwood held out
was such an unexpected and such a tempting one: “So be it,” he said
impulsively. “You shall have the picture.”

“It's a bargain,” cried Redwood. “Shake on it.” After they had shaken
hands: “When would you like to begin?”

“At once--as soon as possible.”

“I'll ask her to fix an early day.”

“But are you sure? Is there no chance of her refusing?”

“Now, haven't I given you my word? What you afraid of? The sittings, of
course, will be had at her residence, not in your studio.”

“Oh, of course. Just as she chooses about that. Is--is she an actress?”

“An actress!” The old man laughed. “Bless you, no! What put that idea
into your head?”

“Oh, I don't know. I thought she might be. But her name--you haven't
told me her name.”

“Her name--Excuse me a minute,” said Redwood.

He stepped to the door, stuck his head into the hall, and called at the
top of his voice, “_Chris.... tine!_”

“Yes.”

The word tinkled musically in the distance.

“Come down here to the parlor, will ye?”

“Yes, father.”

Elias's pulse bounded. Did he indeed recognize the voice? What a ninny
he had been making of himself! How inordinately dense, not to have
guessed their relationship from old Redwood's assurance in answering
for her. He felt awkward and embarrassed; and yet he felt a certain
excitement that was not at all unpleasant.

“Mr. Bacharach, permit me to make you acquainted with my daughter, Miss
Christine Redwood,” said the old man.

Elias bowed, but dared not look at her to whom he bowed. He heard her
bid him a silvery good-evening. Then he stole a side glance. Yes, it was
she, she of the golden locks.

“Ha-ha-ha!” roared old Redwood. “Quite a surprise, eh, Mr. Bacharach?”

“A--a delightful one, I'm sure,” stammered Elias.

“Well, now, then, sit down, sit down, both of you,” the old man rattled
on. “That's right. There, now we can proceed to business. Chris, Mr.
Bacharach here, an old customer of mine, is a painter, an artist--with
an especial eye to fine bits of coloring, hey, Mr. Bacharach?”

“Oh,” Christine responded softly, her eyes brightening, and the pale
rose tint deepening a little in her cheeks; “are you the Mr. Bacharach
who painted that beautiful picture of Sister Helen at the last
exhibition?”

“It's very kind of you to call it beautiful,” said Elias, immensely
surprised and flattered to find himself thus recognized by his work;
especially flattered, because he spoke sincerely when he added, “I
myself was discouraged about it. It's so entirely inadequate to the
poem, you know.”

“Why, it didn't seem so to me. On the contrary I never quite appreciated
the poem till I saw your picture--never quite felt all the terror of it.
I think you made it wonderfully vivid. I remember how she bent over the
fire, and how fierce her eyes were, and how her hair streamed down her
breast and shoulders; and then, the great, dark room, and the balcony,
and the moonlight outside! Oh, I liked the picture--I can't tell you how
much.”

“Well,” broke in old Redwood, “you two seem to be old friends. I don't
see as there was much use of my introducing you. But what I should like
to know is, who was it a picture of? Whose Sister Helen?”

“Why, Rossetti's,” explained Christine, laughing. “The heroine of one of
Rossetti's poems.”

“Oh, so,” said the old man, with an inflection of disappointment.

“Are you fond of Rossetti, Miss Redwood?” Elias asked. “I noticed you
had his volume on the table, when I came in.”

“Oh, I adore him. Don't you? I think it's the most beautiful poetry that
ever was written--though, to be sure, I haven't read all. But I don't
know any body else that agrees with me--unless you do. Now, my father,
for instance. I was reading one of the sonnets aloud to him this very
evening--just before the bell rang. He--what do you suppose? He laughed
at it, and called it rubbish.”

“I did, for a fact,” admitted Redwood. “I can't get the hang of that
rigmarol. It's too mixed up.”

“Well, I don't pretend to understand everything Rossetti has written,”
 said Christine; “not every single line. But that's my fault, not his.
Sometimes he's so very deep. But the sonnet I read to you to-night--it
was the one about work and will awaking too late, to gaze upon their
life sailed by, Mr. Bacharach--that wasn't the least bit difficult.”

“Well,” Redwood confessed, “I like a poet who talks the English language
straight. Shakespeare's good enough for me, and Longfellow. But Chris,
here, she goes in for all the modern improvements, especially poetry.
One day I found her purse lying on the parlor table. Think, s's I, I'll
open it, to put in a little surprise. By George, sir, it was stuffed
out to bursting with slips of poetry cut from the newspapers! And then,
aestheticism! Oscar-Wildism, I call it. She's caught that, I don't know
where; and she's got it bad. Actually, she wanted me to disfigure
the hard finish of these walls, here, with one of those new-fangled,
aesthetic papers. But the Lord blessed me with some hard sense; and so
we manage to keep things pretty much as they air.”

“Air” was Redwood's way of pronouncing “are,” when he wished to be
emphatic.

“My father,” observed Christine, “is a deep-dyed conservative, in music,
literature, politics, art, and every thing else except costumes. In the
matter of costumes, I believe, he's very nearly abreast of the times.”

“Oh, you needn't except costumes,” cried Redwood. “The science of
costuming is a branch of archaeology. So that don't count. But look at
here, Chris. What you suppose Mr. Bacharach and I have just been talking
about? Guess.”

“About--? Oh, I can't guess. I give it up.”

“About you.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“I hope he told you nothing bad about me, Mr. Bacharach.”

“Oh, we weren't discussing your character. Men don't gossip, you
know. We were talking about having your portrait painted. I've made
arrangements with Mr. Bacharach to have him paint your portrait.”

“Oh!” Christine exclaimed. Her brown eyes opened wide, and her cheeks
reddened slightly.

“And the question is,” Redwood pursued, “when will you give him the
first sitting?”

“Why, that is for you to say, father.”

“Well, then, I say Sunday morning. How does that strike _you_, Mr.
Bacharach?”

“Oh, any time will be agreeable to me,” replied Elias.

“Well, Chris, shall we make it Sunday morning?”

“Just as you please.”

“All right. Note that, Mr. Bacharach. Sunday morning, December third.
I suppose you'd better send your apparatus--easel, and so forth--in
advance, hadn't ye?”

“Yes; I'll send them to-morrow.”

“That settles it. And now, Chris, listen to me. I want to tell you a
good joke. Perhaps you didn't notice, but when you were down to the shop
this afternoon, Mr. Bacharach here, he came in; and he--” And to the
unutterable confusion of Elias, the merciless old man proceeded to tell
his daughter the whole story. He wound up thus: “And, actually, Chris,
he took you to be an actress. What you scowling at me for? He did, for a
fact. He can't deny it. Didn't you, Mr. Bacharach? Didn't you ask me if
she wasn't an actress?”

Elias appealed to Christine.

“Your father is very cruel, isn't he, Miss Redwood?”

“He loves to tease,” she assented. Then, with a touch of concern, “You
mustn't feel badly. He never means to hurt anybody's feelings,” she
added, and looked earnestly into Elias Bacharach's face. That look
caused him a sensation, the like of which he had never experienced
before. His lip trembled. His breath quickened. His heart leaped.
“Thank--thank you,” he said, with none but the most confused notion of
what he said, or why he said it.

Pretty soon he took his leave.

*****

Elias dwelt in East Fifteenth Street. The house faced Stuyvesant Park.
In this house, March 22, 1856, Elias had been born. In this house, May
13, 1856, Elias's father had died. In this house, alone with his
mother and her brother, the Reverend Dr. Felix Gedaza, rabbi to the
Congregation Gates of Pearl, Elias had lived till he was twenty-four
years old. Then his mother, too, had died. Since then, he and the rabbi
had kept bachelor's hall. It was a large, old-fashioned, red-brick
house, very plain and respectable of exterior, and very bare, sombre and
silent within. Elias had converted the front room on the top floor into
a studio. Thus he had a north light and a wide view. In his childhood
this room had been his play-room. During his boyhood it had been his
bed-room. Now it was his work-room--consequently his living-room, in the
most vital sense of the word. Its four walls had watched him grow up.
The view from its window had been his daily comrade, ever since he had
been old enough to have any comrade at all. In a manner, it had been his
confidant and his counselor, too. It was his habit, whenever he had
any thing on his mind, to station himself at that window, and look off
across the park, and think it out. Hither he had come in sickness and
in health, in joy and in sorrow, in the blackest moments of his
discouragement, in the brightest moments of his hope. Here he had
solved many a doubt, confronted many a disappointment, built many an
air-castle, registered many a vow. He was twenty-six years old. Not a
phase or episode of his development, but was associated in his memory
with that view.

Here, returning from Redwood's on the last night of November, 1882, he
sat down, and abandoned himself to a whole set of new emotions that had
been let loose in his heart. He did not understand these emotions; he
did not try to understand them. If he had understood them, he might have
taken measures to subdue them in their inception; and then the whole
course of his subsequent life would have been altered, and this story
would never have been told. They were very vague, very strange, very
different from any thing that he had ever experienced before, and very,
very pleasant. As often as he went over the events of the evening,
recalling Christine's appearance, and her manner, and the way she had
looked at him, and the words that she had spoken, he became conscious
of a sudden, delicious glow of warmth in his breast. Then, when he went
forward into the time yet to come, and began to paint her portrait in
imagination, he had to draw a long breath, a deep sigh of pleasure, so
exhilarating and so fascinating was the outlook. By and by he was called
back to the present, by the clock of St. George's church tolling out
midnight. He started, rose, stretched himself, went to bed. But an
hour or two elapsed before he got to sleep. Christine's golden hair and
lustrous eyes lighted up his dreams.




III.

SUNDAY came; and with it a warm sun, a blue sky, a soft, southerly
breeze. It was one of those days, peculiar to our climate, which, though
they may fall in the middle of winter, bear the fragrance of April upon
their breath, and resuscitate for a moment in one's heart all the keen
emotions dead since last spring-time. Elias presented himself at the
Redwood house shortly after nine o'clock. Christine smiled upon him,
and gave him a warm little hand to press. Her father asked, “How about
costume? Want her to make up?” Elias said, “Oh, no; what she has on is
perfect.” That was a simple gown of some dark blue stuff, confined at
the waist by a broad band of cardinal ribbon. Her golden hair was caught
in a loose knot behind her ears. Elias set up his easel in the parlor.
Then he began the process of posing the model. This called for nice
discrimination, and was productive of much mirthful debate. At last it
was finished.

“Now,” said old Redwood, “this is altogether too fine a day for me to
spend cooped up in the house. I'll leave you two young folks to take
care of each other. I'm going to read my newspaper in the park. Sunday
don't come more than once a week, you understand. By-by, Chris. So long,
Mr. Bacharach.”

He went off.

For a while Elias worked in silence. So great was the pleasure that he
got from studying this young girl's beauty, and endeavoring to transfer
the elements of it to his canvas, that he never thought of how heavily
the time might lag for her. But all at once it occurred to him.

“Why,” he reflected, “I'm treating her for all the world as if she were
a paid model. This won't do. I must try to amuse her.”

Then he sought high and low for something to say, something that would
be at once appropriate and entertaining. In vain. His wits seemed to
have deserted him, his mind to have become a total and hopeless blank.
In order readily and happily to manufacture polite conversation, one
must have had experience. Elias had had none. Now, in despair, he saw
himself reduced to taking refuge in the weather.

“This--er--has been an unusually mild fall, Miss Redwood,” he ventured.

“Yes, very,” she acquiesced.

“But the summer--that was a scorcher, wasn't it?”

“Yes, indeed, dreadful,” she assented.

“You spent it in the country, I suppose?”

“Oh, no; we staid in the city.”

“Ah, did you? So did I.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes.”

He waited for her to go on, but she did not go on. With a sense of deep
discouragement, he concluded that he had entered a cul-de-sac. He must
begin anew, and upon another topic.

Presently, “I hope you are not getting tired,” he said. “Don't hesitate
to rest as often as you like.”

“Oh, thank you, no; I'm not tired yet,” she answered.

“Generally,” he announced, standing off, closing one eye, and taking
an observation over the end of his crayon, “generally people who aren't
used to it, find sitting very irksome; and even regular models,
whose business it is, want to get up every now and then, and stretch
themselves. But the painter himself never wearies.”

“Because he is so interested in his work, I suppose?”

“Yes, of course. Why, sometimes, of a summer day, I've painted for
thirteen or fourteen hours at a stretch--from dawn till sunset--and then
only been sorry that I could paint no more.”

“It must be delightful to have an occupation like that--one that is a
constant source of pleasure. It's the same, isn't it, with all kinds of
artists--with musicians and sculptors?”

“Yes, and writers. I know a man who is a writer--writes stories and
poems and that sort of thing--and his wife says she has to use main
force to get him to leave his manuscripts. Writers have the advantage of
painters in one respect--they don't need daylight. Indeed, I think many
of them like lamp-light better. The lamp is sort of emblematic of their
calling, just as the palette is of ours. I have read somewhere of quite
a celebrated novelist--I forget his name--an Englishman, I believe--who
shuts his blinds, and lights the gas, and works by gaslight even in
broad day. That's curious, isn't it?”

“And foolish, besides; because they say it's very unhealthful and very
bad for the eyes. I should think his novels would be awfully morbid.”

“I used to paint by gaslight when I was at the League. But I don't any
more. It doesn't pay. In the daytime your colors all look false and
unwholesome--hectic--as if they had the consumption. Of course, if
you're merely sketching, or working in black and white, it's different.”

“Did you study at the League?”

“Yes; and also under Stainar, in his studio.”

“Stainar? At Paris?”

“Oh, no; in New York. What little I know I have learned here in New
York.”

“Why, I thought every body had to study abroad--at Paris or Munich or
Düsseldorf.”

“They don't exactly _have_ to. You can get very good instruction here.
Stainar is a capital master; and there are others. Of course, it's
desirable to study abroad, too. But I couldn't very well. I have never
been further than fifty or a hundred miles from this city in my life.”

“Why, how strange! I haven't either. But then, I'm a girl. You're a man.
I should think you would have traveled.”

“It was on account of my mother. She was a great stay-at-home; and I
never felt like leaving her. Since her death--two years ago--I haven't
had any wish to travel. I haven't had the heart for it.”

After a little pause, Christine asked softly, “Have you any brothers or
sisters?”

“No, none. And my father died when I was a baby. So, except for me, my
mother was quite alone. To be sure, she had my uncle, the rabbi; but
he's not much company.”

“Oh, have you an uncle who is a rabbi?”

“Yes--Dr. Gedaza, of the Congregation Gates of Pearl, in Seventeenth
Street.”

“How interesting! Tell me, what is he like?”

“Why, I don't know. How do you mean?”

“What does he look like? And his character?”

“Well, he's a little old gentleman, a widower. He wears spectacles, and
he's got a bald head. He knows an' awful lot of theology, but in point
of worldly wisdom he's as deficient as a child. Sometimes he's fairly
good-natured, sometimes very severe. Generally he's absent-minded--up in
the clouds.”

“Has he a long white beard?”

“He has a beard; but it's neither long nor white. It's short and
black--though there may be a few white hairs scattered through it. There
ought to be, considering his age. He's--Let me see. He's ten years older
than my mother; and she was thirty years older than I. That would make
him sixty-six.”

“I have never seen a rabbi; but I always thought they had long white
beards, and wore gowns, and looked mysterious and awe-inspiring, like
astrologers or alchemists.”

“There's nothing mysterious about my uncle,” said Elias, laughing,
“unless it be his prodigious learning; and nothing awe-inspiring, except
his temper. That's pretty quick. He wears an ordinary black coat
and white cravat, like a Protestant minister's. You'd take him for a
Protestant minister if you should pass him in the street.”

“And he isn't at all patriarchal or picturesque?”

“Alas, no; not that I have been able to discover.”

“Oh, dear; how disappointing!”

After another little pause, Christine said: “I haven't any brothers or
sisters, either; and my mother died when I was three years old; and my
father is a great home-body, too. Isn't it strange that our lives should
have been so much alike? Only, you're a man and an artist; and I'm
a girl and have nothing to do but to keep house. I wish I loved
housekeeping as you do painting. But I don't; I hate it.”

“That's too bad. But then, it doesn't take up all your time, and it
doesn't cause you such an endless deal of worry and discouragement as
painting does. You have plenty of time left in which to read, and see
your friends, and enjoy life.”

“Oh, no, I don't. You have no idea how many miserable little things
there are to be done. And we only keep one servant. And she's so stupid
that I have to be standing over her all day long. It's like a regular
business--almost.”

She had thrown a good deal of feeling into these utterances; had
emphasized them by bending forward, and lifting her face toward her
hearer's; and by this time she was completely out of pose.

Didn't she think she'd like to rest a little now? Elias asked.

She thought she _would_ like to, for a few minutes, she said; and
getting up, she crossed over and looked at Elias's canvas. All she could
see were a few straggling charcoal lines.

“Oh,” she queried, “is that the way you begin?”

“Yes; I must sketch every thing in in black, first.”

“But how long will that take?”

“That depends upon how often you let me come.”

“Well, if you come every Sunday?”

“Oh, it will take three or four weeks--may be more.”

“And then, how long before the picture will be finished?”

“I can't tell exactly; but if we only have one sitting a week, probably
not till spring.”

“Oh,” she said, and said it with an inflection which Elias construed to
be that of disappointment.

“Why, did you wish to have it finished earlier?” he asked.

“Oh, no; I don't care about that. I wasn't thinking of that,” she
answered, but still with an inflection which made Elias feel that her
contentment had been disturbed. He wondered whether he had said any
thing indiscreet, any thing to hurt or to offend her. He could remember
nothing.

She resumed her pose. He could not have told what it was, but there was
something in her bearing which prompted him to ask: “Is the position
uncomfortable?” and to urge: “Don't sit any more to-day, if you would
rather not.”

“Oh, no; the position isn't uncomfortable. I'd just as soon sit,” was
her reply, in the same unhappy tone of voice.

Now, what could the matter be? What had happened to annoy her?

“Please, Miss Redwood,” Elias pleaded, “please be frank with me. Perhaps
I am keeping you from something?”

Her eyes were fixed dreamily upon the window-pane behind his shoulder.

“I was only thinking,” she confessed in a slow, pensive manner, “of what
a beautiful day it is, and that”--She stopped herself.

“And that--”

“That's all. Nothing else.”

“Oh, yes, there was. Please tell me. And that--?”

“And that--now the winter is upon us--that we shan't have many more like
it. There.”

“Ah, I see! And you were longing to be out of doors, enjoying it. No
wonder.”

She  up and began protesting.

“Oh, really, Mr. Bacharach; no, indeed--”

“Oh, yes, you were. No use denying it. And so far as I'm concerned, I've
done a good morning's work already. And, I propose that we go and join
your father in the park--if you know where to find him?”

“Oh, yes, I know where to find him. Shall I put on my things? One
sitting, more or less--if it's going to take so very, very long--won't
count, will it?”

A few moments later they had entered the park, and were sauntering down
a sunlit pathway. Christine's hair glowed like a web of fine flames.
Roses bloomed in her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled. She vowed that there had
never before been such a delicious day. How soft the air was, and yet
how crisp! How sweet it smelled! How exquisitely the leafless branches
of the trees, gilded by the sunshine, were penciled against the deep
blue of the sky! The sunshine transfigured every thing. What rich
and varied colors it brought out upon the landscape! What reds, what
purples, what yellows! Had Mr. Bacharach ever seen any thing equal to
it? Was it not a keen pleasure merely to breathe, merely to exist, upon
such a day? By and by they turned a corner, and came upon a bench.

“Oh,” exclaimed Christine, halting abruptly, “he's not here.”

“Who?” Elias asked.

“Why, my father.”

“Oh, to be sure; I had forgotten.”

“This is his favorite bench. He always sits here. Now, what can have
become of him?”

“Perhaps he has walked on a little.”

“I suppose he has. But he can't have gone far. He never does. We'll soon
overtake him.”

At the end of another quarter hour, however, they had not yet overtaken
him.

“I'm afraid we've missed him,” she said; “though it's very strange,
because he never goes anywhere else, but just in this direction. I think
we may as well give up the search. But I'm a little tired, and would you
mind sitting down and resting for a moment before turning back?”

“I should like nothing better; only, I must warn you that I haven't the
remotest notion how we are to find our way out of here. The paths we
have taken have been so crooked, I've entirely lost my reckoning.”

“Ah, but I--I know the park by heart. I could find my way anywhere in
it, blindfold, I think.”

“Indeed? How did you get so well acquainted?”

“Oh, we've lived within a stone's throw of it all my life. When I was
a little girl I used to play here. Then I had to cross it twice a day,
when I went to the Normal College. And since then I've made a practice
of taking long walks here every afternoon. There's scarcely a tree or
stone that I'm not familiar with; and I've discovered lots of delightful
little places--nooks and corners--that nobody else suspects the
existence of. Sometime I'd like to show you some of them. They'd be
splendid to paint.”

By this time they were seated.

“Oh, thank you,” said Elias, “that will be charming. And so, you went to
the Normal College?”

“Yes; I graduated there last spring.”

“Graduated! Why, I shouldn't have thought you were old enough!”

“How old do you think I am?”

“Seventeen?”

“Oh, ever so much older. Guess again.”

“Eighteen, then?”

“I'll be nineteen in January--January third--just one month from
to-day.”

“Mercy! You're very venerable, to be sure. And then, having graduated
from the Normal College, what an immense deal of wisdom you must
possess, too!”

She laughed as gayly as though he had perpetrated a rare witticism; and
then said, “No, seriously, I never learned much at the Normal College--I
mean in the classes--except a lot of mathematics and Latin, which
I've forgotten all about now. I learned a little from the other girls,
though. Some of them were wonderfully intelligent and cultivated; and
they put me on the track of good books and such things. Shall we start
home now?” (They rose and began to retrace their steps.) “Tell me, Mr.
Bacharach, what is the one book which you like best of all?”

“That's rather a hard question. Suppose I were to put it to you, could
you answer it?”

“Oh, yes. I think 'Adam Bede' is the greatest book that was ever
written.”

“That's saying a vast deal, isn't it?”

“Well, of course, I mean the greatest book of its kind--the most
vivid and truthful picture of real deep feeling. I wasn't thinking of
scientific books, or essays, or histories, like Spencer, or Emerson, or
Macaulay. I mean, it pierces-deeper into the heart, than any other book
that I have read.”

“Have you ever read 'Wilhelm Meister?'”

“No. I was going to, though. One of the girls lent me a copy---Carlyle's
translation. She said it was splendid. But when my father saw it he made
me give it back. He holds very old-fashioned ideas of literature, you
know; and he says that Goethe is demoralizing. His taste in music is
old-fashioned, too. He never _will_ take me to hear good music. It
bores him dreadfully. He likes to go to grand sacred concerts on Sunday
evening, where they play Strauss and Offenbach, and then at the end
'Home, Sweet Home.' Strauss and Offenbach and even 'Home, Sweet Home'
are very well of their kind; but one tires of them after a while, don't
you think so? I haven't been at a Symphony or Philharmonic for more than
a year.”

“Why don't you go to the rehearsals?”

“Why, he won't take me to the rehearsals, any more than to the
concerts.”

“But you can go to them alone. They're in the afternoon.”

“Oh, but I can't bear to hear music alone. I I must have somebody with
me, or else I don't enjoy it at all. I always want somebody to nudge,
when the music is especially thrilling; don't you?”

“Yes, one longs for a sympathetic neighbor,” Elias admitted; and thought
in his own soul, “I wish the old man would deputize me; it must be
exceedingly pleasant to be nudged by her little elbow.”

When they had reached the house, Christine asked him whether he wouldn't
come in for a little while; and he replied that he guessed he would,
for the purpose of putting away his paraphernalia, which he had left
cluttering up the parlor. Inside they found old Redwood, who explained
that he had departed from his custom that morning, and chosen quite a
different quarter of the park for his outing. Elias stowed his things
under the piano. As he was doing so, a bell rang below stairs.

“Dinner,” announced the old man. “Come, Mr. Bacharach.”

Elias began to make his excuses.

“Oh, none o' that!” the old man cried, grasping Elias's arm. “Come down
and take pot-luck; and may good digestion wait on appetite.”

Pretty soon Elias found himself installed at Redwood's table, with
Christine beaming upon him from one end, and the old man carving a
turkey at the other.

“Well, I declare, Chris, this is quite jolly, ain't it? To have company
to dinner! We two--she and I, Mr. Bacharach--we generally dine alone;
and as we've told each other about all either of us knows, time and
time again, we don't find it particularly lively; do we, Chris? Now, Mr.
Bacharach, I know that you Israelites--excuse me--you foreigners--don't
drink ice-water with your meals; but as I haven't got any wine to offer
you, I'll send out for some beer. Mary!”

The maid appeared; and old Redwood instructed her to purchase a quart of
beer at the corner liquor store. “You'll have to go in by the side-door,
Mary, because it's Sunday. And if any policeman should ask what you've
got in the pitcher, tell him it's milk. Don't be afraid. If he takes you
up, I'll go bail for you. Ha-ha-ha!”

“_Father!_” cried Christine, with a glance at once beseeching and
reproachful.

“Beer,” the old man continued, moderating his hilarity, and adopting a
commentative tone, “beer is a great drink, mild, refreshing, wholesome.
And it's done a sight of good for temperance, too--more than all your
total abstinence orators and blue-rib-bonites put together. I'm very
fond of it, and always drink it with my lunch, down-town. There's a
saloon just under my shop. But Chris there, she can't abide it,
on account of the bitter. She likes wine--and wine--not being a
capitalist--I call an extravagance.”

“Yes,” said Christine, “I think wine is perfectly delicious; and
so pretty to look at, with its deep red or yellow. Once a friend of
father's sent us a whole box of wine--Rhine wine--and----”

“And,” old Redwood interrupted, “and that innocent appearing young woman
there, sir, she disposed of every blessed drop of it; she did, for a
fact. What do you think of that?”

“Oh, father,” protested Christine, blushing beautifully, “you ought not
to say such a thing. Mr. Bacharach might believe you.”

“Well, any how, I wish we had some of it left to offer you, Mr.
Bacharach,” said Redwood. “But here comes the beer.”

“Oh, by the way,” put in Elias, addressing himself to Christine, “did
you know? They're going to give the 'Damnation of Faust' at the Symphony
rehearsal Friday afternoon--the great work of Berlioz. Have you ever
heard it?”

“No; but I have heard selections from it. I wish”--bringing her eyes to
bear upon her father--“I wish I could go.”

“Well, why don't ye? Who's to prevent ye?”

“Will you take me?”

“Not I. But, Great Scott, what's the use of being a pretty young girl if
you've got to drag your aged father around after you? Why don't you get
some young man? I'll bet there are twenty young fellows in this town,
who'd only be too glad. But she, Mr. Bacharach, she scares them all
away, with her high and mighty manners. She's too particular. She'll die
an old maid, mark my words.”

Elias caught a glimpse of a golden opportunity. “I wish, Miss Redwood,
I wish you would go with me,” he ventured, a little timidly, and waited
anxiously for her response.

“There you are, Chris!” cried her father. “There's your chance!
But”--turning to Elias--“but she won't. You see if she will.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Bacharach? That's lovely. I'll go with the very
greatest pleasure.”

Her eyes lighted up; and leaving her seat, she ran around the table, and
deposited a wholly irrelevant kiss upon her father's forehead.

“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed that gentleman, clapping his hands. “You're the
first young fellow I've seen, Mr. Bacharach, who she thought was good
enough for her. By George, Chris, there's hope for you, after all.”

“Oh,” cried Christine, “I'm so glad. I never wanted any thing more in
my life, than I did to hear the--the--it sounds awfully profane, doesn't
it?--'Damnation of Faust.'”

“Well, now,” said the old man, “there's nothing like killing two birds
with one stone. So what I propose is this: I propose that you come up
here Friday forenoon, Mr. Bacharach; and then you can work for a while
at her portrait. Afterward she'll give you a bite of lunch--won't ye,
Chris?--and you can tote her off to the concert. By the way, where does
it take place? At the Academy?”

“No; at Steinway Hall.”

“And when does it let out?”

“At about half-past four, I think.”

“All right. Then I'll meet you at the door when it's over--my shop, you
know, is just around the corner--I'll meet you at the door and save you
the trouble of bringing her home. How does that suit, eh?”

“Very well,” said Elias; but he thought that he should not have minded
the trouble of bringing her home.

*****

When he returned to the quiet, dark house on Stuyvesant Square, late
that afternoon, he sat down at the big window of his studio, and went
over the happenings of the day. He felt wonderfully lighthearted,
wonderfully elated, as though he had drunken of some subtle stimulant.
What a pleasant, interesting city New York was, after all! How
thoroughly one could enjoy one's self in it! The noises of it, mingling
in a confused, continuous rumble, and falling upon his ears, sounded
like the voice of a good old friend. It was an old friend's face that
greeted him, as he looked out upon the bare trees in the park. Every
now and then he drew a deep, tremulous, audible breath. The colors faded
from the sky. Dusk gathered. The bell of St. George's Church rang to
vespers. The street lamps were lighted. It got dark. Elias did not stir.

“Oh, what a sweet, natural, beautiful girl!” he was soliloquizing. “And
what a rough old bear of a father! And what--what a heavenly time we'll
have on Friday!”

He marveled at himself, it gave him such a swift, exultant thrill to
think of Friday; but the obvious psychological explanation of it, he
never once suspected.




IV.

TOWARD the close of Friday's sitting Elias said: “You know, Berlioz
has taken great liberties with Goethe's text--quite altered the story,
indeed, and given it an ending to suit himself.”

“That won't matter much to me,” responded Christine, “because I've never
read 'Faust,' and I have only the vaguest notion of what the story is.”

“Did it suffer a like fate to 'Wilhelm Meister's?'”

“No; but I can't read German, and I didn't know whether there was any
good translation. Is there?”

“Oh, yes; 'Bayard Taylor's is beautiful. You ought to read it.”

“Then, besides, I had an idea that it was very deep and obscure--very
hard to understand. Do you think I could understand it?”

“I'm sure you could--all that's essential. You could get the story and
the human nature. I believe you'd find it even more moving than 'Adam
Bede.'”

“Can't you tell me the story? Won't you tell it to me now?”

“Oh, I should only spoil it.”

But Christine begged him to give her the outline of it, pleading that
she would enjoy the music so much more intelligently if she were not
altogether ignorant of the plot. So, during their luncheon, Elias
related as best he could something of the love-story of Faust and
Margaret. Christine listened with bated breath, and wide eyes fastened
upon his face; and at its conclusion she drew a profound sigh, and
murmured: “Oh, how sad, how sad!”

“Now,” said Elias, “I must explain how Berlioz has tampered with it.”
 Which he proceeded to do.

They walked as far as Seventh Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street, where they
took the University Place car. Elias thought he had never been so happy.
It was an exhilaration merely to share this young girl's presence,
breathing the same air that she breathed. The sunshine caught new
radiance from her hair. Lambent fires burned in her eyes. There was no
music that Elias would rather have heard, than the music of her voice
as she talked to him. They had the car to themselves for the first few
blocks; but then it began to fill up with ladies, and at last chivalry
compelled Elias to sacrifice his seat at Christine's side. He clung to
the strap in front of her, and looked down at her; and she looked up
at him; and so, with their glances, they communed together, very rarely
opening their lips, until, having reached Fourteenth Street, it behooved
them to dismount.

The music began. Christine sat forward in her chair, and listened with
manifest appreciation. But she made no sign to her companion till the
musicians had played, and the chorus sung, the first bar or two of the
“Peasants' Rondo.” Then she turned upon him suddenly, with eyes dilated
and lips apart, and drew a quick breath, and uttered an ecstatic
little “_Oh!_” The syllable sped straight to his heart, and started an
unfamiliar palpitation there. From that moment until the concert was
terminated, both of these young people were in Heaven; she, thanks to
the marvelous music, which seized hold of her, and bore her away, like a
blossom upon its bosom: he, thanks to the beautiful girl who was seated
next to him, and whose eyes kept smiling into his, and whose breath for
one priceless second fell upon his cheek. Every most trifling incident
of that afternoon somehow engraved itself upon Elias Bacharach's memory.
Long afterward he recalled it all: how Christine was dressed, the shape
of her bonnet, the color of her gloves, the fragrance of the rose that
she wore in her breast; how he had wrapped her cloak about her shoulders
when she complained of a draught; how she had beat time with her fan
when the students sang their drinking song, and laughed when Brander
sang the ballad of the rat, and looked grave when Gretchen sang “There
was a King in Thule,” and started, and paled, and caught her breath, and
put her hand impulsively upon Elias's arm, when Faust and Mephistopheles
began their tempestuous ride into hell. He remembered it all, in
exceeding bitterness of spirit. He would have followed Faust's example,
and pledged his soul to eternal bondage, gladly, eagerly, if by doing so
he could have won back the possibilities of that vanished afternoon.

Old Redwood met them, as he had promised, on the curbstone in front of
the exit.

“You'd better come up town and dine with us, Mr. Bacharach,” he said.

“Oh, yes; do, please,” urged Christine.

“I wish I could,” said Elias; “but, unfortunately, I must go home. The
concert has lasted longer than I thought it would; and now they--my
uncle, I mean--will be expecting me at home. Good-by.”

Christine gave him her hand. He watched her till she was lost to sight
in the crowd. It had cost him a pang to separate himself from her.
Now, as he saw her departing further and further away, it was like the
gradual extinction of the light and the warmth and the beauty of the
day. His heart sank. A lump began to gather and ache in his throat. He
turned about and walked slowly home.

Crossing his own threshold, he shivered, as one might upon entering
a tomb. Somehow, his house seemed darker, bleaker, bigger, and more
cheerless than it had ever seemed before. It was, as it always was,
intensely silent. His footstep upon the marble floor of the hallway
resounded sharp and metallic. He joined the rabbi in the latter's study.
They exchanged a few quiet words of greeting, and then sat motionless,
without speaking, as though waiting for something to happen..The
daylight slowly faded. By and by a star could be made out, shimmering
through the window. Both of these men rose to their feet, and put
on their hats. The rabbi lighted a candle, and, with hands uplifted,
intoned a blessing over it in Hebrew. With the candle flame he lighted
the gas. Then, picking up a bulky calf-bound volume from the table, he
began to read aloud from the Thorah, also in Hebrew. Elias paid scant
heed. He heard the rabbi's voice rise and fall in sonorous periods; but
his heart and his mind were elsewhere.

“Now, Elias,” said the rabbi suddenly, “you read on from where I have
left off.”

He handed Elias the book, pointing with his finger to the place. Elias
took it, and read mechanically, pronouncing the words clearly enough,
but giving no attention to the sense:

“And when the Lord thy God shall deliver them before thee, thou shalt
smite them and utterly destroy them; thou shalt make no covenant with
them, nor show mercy unto them. Neither shalt thou make marriages with
them; thy daughter thou shalt not give unto his son, nor his daughter
shalt thou take unto thy. son. For they will turn away thy son from
following me, that they may serve other gods; so will the anger of the
Lord be kindled against you, and destroy thee suddenly. But thus shall
ye deal with them: Ye shall destroy their altars, and break down their
images, and cut down their groves, and burn their graven images with
fire. For thou art an holy people unto the Lord thy God: the Lord thy
God hath chosen thee to be a special people unto himself, above all
people that are upon the face of the earth.'” *

     * Deuteronomy, vii., 2-6.

“'Above all people that are upon the face of the earth,'” echoed the
rabbi. “Amen.”.

With the melancholy December nightfall had come the Jewish Sabbath.




V.

THOUGH nothing had been said about it, Elias took for granted that
the Redwoods would expect him Sunday morning; and accordingly, in the
neighborhood of nine o'clock, he rang their door-bell. He found them
ready for him. Old Redwood sat behind him as he worked at the portrait,
and conversation was general throughout. They asked him to stay to
dinner, but he was afraid of abusing his welcome, and declined. He went
home, shut himself up in his studio, and spent the afternoon thinking
regretfully of the good time that he might have been having if he had
only accepted.

The first post Monday morning brought him a ticket for the private view
of the Academy exhibition to be given that evening. The ticket said,
“Admit Mr. E. Bacharach and one.” Elias went to his writing-desk, and,
on the spur of his impulse, wrote the following note:

_“No.-- East Fifteenth Street, Monday._

_“My Dear Miss Redwood:--I wonder whether you would care to attend the
private view of the coming exhibition this evening? There will no
doubt be quite an interesting lot of people there, not to mention the
pictures; and perhaps it might amuse you to look in for an hour or so.
If you will say yes, I shall be very glad._

_“Yours sincerely,_

_“Elias Bacharach.”_

This he inclosed in an envelope, and addressed. Then he sallied forth to
the nearest messenger office, and had it sent. Then he returned to his
studio to await her answer.

But pretty soon he began to repent what he had done. Surely, upon such
brief acquaintance, he had taken too great a liberty. What sort of
an opinion would she have of him? Of course, she would say no to his
invitation. Oh that he could recall the note--the rash, impetuous note!
It was too late to do that; and now he must suffer the consequence of
his indiscretion, which would at least be a fall of great distance in
her esteem. She would regard him as presumptuous and pushing. She would
laugh at him to herself, and with her father, to whom most likely she
would show what he had written. Perhaps she would imagine that he was in
love with her--girls are notorious for imagining such ridiculous things
upon such slight provocation. He, certainly, would never have the
hardihood to look her straight in the face again. He walked up and down
the floor. Why didn't the messenger bring her answer? Though he knew, or
thought he knew, that it would be a snub and a refusal, he was anxious
to get it, all the same. Would the boy never come? Was he purposely
delaying? Taking a malicious delight in making his employer wait?
Stopping upon some street-corner to spin his top? Or--or had she simply
disdained to vouchsafe to his request any reply whatever?---- Ah! The
door-bell! Elias's heart jumped into his mouth. He stepped into the
hall, leaned over the banister, and listened.

He heard the maid undo the chain, and open the door. There was an
interval of silence. Then he heard her shut it. Then, in a voice tense
for excitement, “Maggie,” he called, “is it something for me?”

“Yes, sir; a note.”

He ran down stairs, and met the servant half-way. She gave him the note.
“Mr. Elias Bacharach, No.-- East Fifteenth Street, N. Y. C.,” was its
superscription, in a pretty, girlish hand. The paper had a faint, sweet
smell--something like jasmine, something like mignonnette. He carried it
back to his studio, unopened. There, having closed the door, he went
to his window, drew a long breath, and with trembling fingers broke the
seal. Could he believe his senses? Christine's note ran thus:

_“Dear Mr. Bacharach:--Thanks ever so much, and I shall be delighted to
go. I have always wanted to go to a private view, but have never been.
I hope there are some of your pictures to be seen; are there? You don't
tell me at what hour to expect you; but I'll be ready at half-past
seven. Sincerely yours,_

_“Christine Redwood.”_

Elias's cheeks burned, his fingers trembled, his temples throbbed, he
could feel the blood leap in his veins, as the meaning of this document
became apparent to his mind. He read it again and again. He brought
it close to his face, and breathed the dainty perfume it exhaled. The
pleasure he derived from doing this was wholly disproportionate to the
sweetness of the scent. By and by he put it back in its envelope, and
deposited it in the drawer of his desk. But he did not leave it there
long. In a little while he had it out, and was reading it again, and
again inhaling its perfume--which, faint to begin with, had now almost
quite evaporated. Still, enough of it remained to send an electric
tingle along his nerves, and to cast a wonderfully vivid image of
Christine upon the retina of his mind's eye. For the rest of that day he
was incompetent. He could not paint. He could not read. He could not
sit still. He could only roam listlessly from place to place, and wonder
whether half-past seven would ever arrive.

At twenty minutes past seven precisely, as he learned from his watch, he
found himself at the foot of Redwood's stoop. No: he had traveled on the
speed of his desire; it would not do to be beforehand. The ten eternal
minutes that lay between him and the appointed time he would while away
by walking around the block. He walked slowly, trying to calculate just
how many seconds, or fractions of a second, were consumed by each step.
At last he had regained his starting point. He mounted the stoop, and
rang the bell.

The parlor was empty. Elias picked up Christine's volume of Rossetti,
and absent-mindedly turned the pages. Oh, at what a break-neck pace his
arteries were beating.

Hark! He heard a light footstep coming down the stairs. He rose. All at
once, it seemed to him, there was a burst of sunlight and oxygen.
She had entered. She was standing before him, smiling and bidding him
welcome. She had on a tiny bonnet of dark red velvet, under which her
golden hair, and her lily-white forehead, and her deep brown eyes, shone
at their best. She carried her wrap over her arm--a fur-lined circular.
In her left hand she held her gloves. Her right she gave to Elias. His
heart fluttered to the verge of fainting as he touched it. How small it
was; how warm and soft! How confidingly it seemed to nestle in his! By a
mighty effort he subdued an impulse to carry it to his lips and kiss
it. He had no idea of letting it go, and perhaps would have continued to
hold it to this day, if she by and by had not drawn it away.

“Here are a couple of roses,” he said, handing her a tissue-paper
parcel.

She took them, and marveled at their loveliness. She fastened one to her
dress, and forced him to wear the other in the lapel of his coat.
She stood on tip-toe and pinned it there. The trimming of her bonnet
brushed, his cheek. It was an instant of intoxication. He wondered
whether she could hear his heart beat.

“It was kind of you to say that you would go. I was afraid you might not
care to,” he began.

“On the contrary, it was kind of you to ask me. I am very glad.”

She sat down, and drew on her gloves. He saw that she was having
difficulty in buttoning one of them.

“Can't I help you?” he asked.

Then he held her hand, and buttoned her glove for her, and breathed the
incense that rose from the flower at her breast. Then he wrapped her
in her circular; and they left the house. He offered her his arm. Her
little hand perched like a bird upon it.

“I am so happy,” he said softly, and immediately regretted that he had
said it.

“So am I,” she said, still more softly; and straightway his regret died.

He looked into her eyes. Far down in them palpitated a mystic, tender
light. Elias had to bite his tongue to keep from telling her then and
there that he loved her.

At the exhibition he pointed out the distinguished people to her, and
showed her the pictures which he thought were the best, and was happy,
happy, happy. Now and then somebody would nod and say: “How d'ye do,
Bacharach?” and cast an admiring glance at his companion, which stirred
his pride. Once a gentleman stopped and spoke a few words to Christine,
and won a smile from her, which pricked his jealousy. He feared that it
was not at all the proper thing to do, but he could not help asking, “A
friend of yours?”

“Oh, no,” she answered; “only our old drawing teacher at the Normal
College.” At that he was happy again. She wanted him to lead her
straight to his own picture at once. By and by they had reached it. The
subject was “The Song of Deborah.” The prophetess was represented as a
woman of about fifty years of age, tall, stalwart, imperious-looking,
with iron-gray hair, steel-blue eyes, and a head of stern and majestic
beauty. Christine thought the coloring was superb, and, “Where did you
ever find such a wonderful face?” she asked. “It is a face to make you
afraid, it's so strong, so proud; and yet it is a face that you could
not help loving; there is something so _good_ about it. Oh, I like it
the best of all the pictures here.” Elias felt that he had not worked in
vain.

There was a great crush of people, and the air was close and hot, and
the few seats where one might rest one's self were all occupied; so
presently Elias asked whether she wasn't tired, and she confessed that
she was--a little; and they left the building.

“Now,” said he, “it's still early, and I for one am ravenously hungry.”

“Oh, are you? That's too bad,” was her guileless response. “But at home
I shall be able to give you”--timidly--“some--some cold turkey.”

“No,” he said, “I shan't put you to that trouble. Let's go to a
restaurant.”

And he led her to Delmonico's.

There, the momentous question, what they had better order, occasioned
much grave debate, and resulted finally in the selection of a
sweet-bread garnished by green peas. Elias thought that Beaune would
be the wine best adapted to moistening a sweet-bread, and accordingly
Beaune was brought, as Christine remarked curiously, “in a little
basket.” She applied herself to the edibles with undisguised relish; but
all at once, pausing and looking reproachfully at Elias, she exclaimed,
“Why, you said you were ravenously hungry, and now you're not eating a
thing!” Indeed, she spoke the truth. His knife and fork lay unemployed
beside his plate; and he was doing nothing but gaze at her with fond,
caressing eyes.

“Oh, I forgot,” he said, and began to eat and drink.

They chatted busily during the repast--about the people who came and
went, about the marvelous toilets of some of the ladies, about the
decorations of the restaurant, about the haughty mien and supercilious
manner of the French gentleman in evening dress who served them, about
the view of electric-lighted Madison Square that they got through
the window at which they were established--about a thousand trifles.
Afterward Elias preserved but a very dim remembrance of the words
that they had spoken. He preserved a very vivid one of Christine's
appearance--of how her eyes had glowed beneath her red bonnet, of
how the rose he had given her had shone like a spot of flame in her
bosom--and of the bliss that he had experienced in sitting opposite
her, and watching the varying expressions of her face, hearkening to the
varying modulations of her voice, and realizing that she was trusting
herself entirely to his protection.

Again by and by he had the privilege of helping her on with her
circular, and of buttoning her glove. They got into a street car to go
up town. The first half of that journey Elias found delightful. They had
to sit very close together, to make room for other passengers; and all
the while Elias was conscious of the touch of her shoulder upon his arm.
But, as he saw the end drawing near, and knew that the moment was not
far off when he would have to leave her, his spirits began to sink. Why
could not the distance be doubled, trebled? What possessed the driver to
race his horses so? Surely, street car had never covered its tracks at
such reckless speed before. He rang her door-bell for her, and tried to
harden himself to the thought that in another minute he would have to
say good-by.

Old Redwood himself answered the door-bell.

“Come in for a moment, Mr. Bacharach, and get thawed out,” he said.

Elias breathed freely. Here was a reprieve, at any rate. They went into
the back parlor, and gathered around a cheerful grate fire. Christine
gave her father an account of the evening's doings. At last Elias
screwed his courage up, and tore himself away. Christine went with
him to the vestibule. He got hold of her hand, and clung to it for the
entire five minutes that it took him to pronounce his valedictory.

Body burning, brain whirling, as if with fever, he walked home. A wild
joy trembled in his heart; a wild pain, too. He loved her. To-night,
at last, for the first time, he had recognized this very palpable and
patent fact. He loved her. There could be no doubt about it. With a
sensation of genuine surprise, the simple fellow acknowledged to himself
that he loved her--with genuine surprise and consternation. Perhaps some
time she might love him a little in return. But even so, he knew that
between her and himself there yawned a gulf, fathomless and impassable;
and in spite of his desire and his passion, he cried out, “God forbid!”

He let himself into the house with his latch-key. Through the glass door
of his uncle's study, at the end of the hall, he could see that a light
was still burning within. He threw off his hat and overcoat, and marched
into the rabbi's presence.

“How that good man would start,” he thought, “if he should guess!”




VI.

THE rabbi's study was a bare enough apartment, furnished with a faded
carpet, three or four chairs, and a writing table. The walls and ceiling
were kalsomined in slate color, the former being lined half-way up with
book shelves. A student's lamp, with a green shade, burned on the table.
The oil in it must have been pretty low, for it shed but a dim light,
and gave off a strong, offensive odor. The rabbi sat with his back to
the door, bending over what looked like a manuscript sermon. The top of
the rabbi's head was perfectly bald, and it reflected the lamplight like
a surface of polished ivory. His little remaining hair and his beard
were bluish black. His eyes, behind thick spectacles, were black,
too--small, deep-set, bright, restless black beads. But his skin was
intensely white, as white almost as the clerical collar that encircled
his throat, and it looked as though it would feel chilly to the touch,
like marble. The rabbi was a very little man, short of stature, spare
of habit, with a frame and with features as slender and as delicate as
a maiden's. Yet he had not at all the appearance of a weakling. You
felt at once the presence of a strong will and of an active, if not
enlightened or profound, intelligence. You felt the presence of a person
who could, if he chose, be sufficiently good-natured, but who possessed
also the capacity of becoming as hard and as cold as ice.

At his nephew's entrance the rabbi glanced over his shoulder.

“Ah, Elias,” he asked, in a tone which, though amiable, denoted very
little interest, “where do you come from?”

“The Academy of Design. I've been at the exhibition.”

“So? Have you any pictures there?”

“Only one. 'The Song of Deborah.'”

“Ah! Is it well hung?”

“Oh, yes--on the line.”

“That's good. Some day I must drop in and see it.”

On both sides the dialogue had been perfunctory. Now there befell a
silence. The rabbi returned to his reading. Elias sank upon a chair,
thrust his hands deep into his trowsers pockets, and fixed his eyes upon
the carpet. For a while the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece was
the only sound.

All at once Elias said: “Oh, yes--I forgot--I've been at Delmonico's,
too.”

“Ah,” rejoined the rabbi, “eating _trepha_ food.”

“I ate neither pork nor shellfish,” Elias submitted. “I ate a bit of
sweet-bread. Of course it hadn't been killed _kosher_. But is that such
a great sin? Some of our most pious Jews go to Delmonico's. To-night,
indeed, I saw Judge Nathan there, with his wife and daughters; and he's
president of his congregation.”

“Small sins beget larger ones. It's better not to commit even
peccadillos,” said the rabbi. “And eating _trepha_ food isn't merely a
peccadillo. However, you're of full age. It's not my place to call you
to account.”

“Speaking of sins, Uncle Felix,” Elias presently went on, “tell me, what
is the worst sin that a Jew could commit?”

The rabbi's eyes had strayed back to his manuscript. Lifting them,
“How?” he queried.

Elias repeated his question.

“Why,” said the rabbi, “there are the ten commandments, which you know
as well as I do. They're of equal force. Theft, adultery, murder--one is
as bad as another.”

“That isn't exactly what I meant. I meant the worst sin which a Jew, as
a Jew, could commit--the worst infraction of the Thorah as it applies
peculiarly to Israel. The ten commandments embody the common law of
morality, which is as binding upon Christians as it is upon Jews.”

“Oh,” said the rabbi, “that's another question.”

“Would it be, for example, the desecration of Yom Kippur?”

“The desecration of Yom Kippur would be a deadly sin; so would the
desecration of the Sabbath; so would disobedience to parental authority.
But the most deadly of all, in my opinion, would be a forbidden
marriage.”

“That is, marriage with a Christian?”

“Yes--with a Gentile, a Goy--with any one not of our own race.”

“That, you think, is the one sin which would be most unpardonable in the
sight of the Lord? For which He would inflict the severest punishment?”

“Yes, I think so. And it's rather odd that we should speak of this just
now, for at the moment when you came in I was reading a sermon on
the very subject--a sermon written by your own greatgrandfather, the
Reverend Abraham Bacharach, of New Orleans, the first of your family
who came to America. I was reading a sermon that he preached at the
excommunication of a young man of his congregation, who had married a
Frenchwoman, a Catholic. Here it is.”

The rabbi pointed to the manuscript that lay upon his table.

“Indeed?” questioned Elias. “What does he say?”

“Oh, he agrees with me, that it is absolutely the most deadly of sins.
He denounces it with a good deal of energy. There's one paragraph here
somewhere that struck me as especially fine. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes, I shouldn't mind,” Elias assented.

The rabbi picked up the manuscript and began to run over the pages,
searching for the place.

“Ah, I've got it,” he said at last. “It comes just after a statement of
the circumstances, as a sort of summing up. It's in German. Shall I read
the original or translate?”

“Translate, if you will.”

The rabbi cleared his throat, brought the manuscript close to his eyes,
knitted his brows and proceeded thus:

“Well, it runs this way: 'He has defied the law of the Lord our God.
Let him tremble and be afraid. He has dishonored the memory of his
ancestors; he has besmirched the name of his family; he has broken the
tie that bound him to his kinsfolk; he has sent the father that begot
him, and the mother that bore and suckled him, weeping on the way to
their graves. Oh, let him cast down his face and be ashamed. To his
brothers and sisters, to those who were his friends and loved him,
to the rabbi, the chazzan, the parnass, and the people of this
congregation, and to all faithful Jews from one end of the earth to the
other, he is as one who has died a disgraceful death. The anger of the
Most High shall single him out. His cup shall be filled to the brim with
gall and wormwood. The light of the sun shall be extinguished for him. A
curse shall rest upon him and upon all that concerns him. His wife shall
become as a sore in his flesh. With a scolding tongue she shall be-shrew
him. As a wanton, she shall shame him.

“His worldly affairs shall not prosper. Misfortune and calamity shall
follow wherever he goes. Whatsoever he puts his hand to, that shall
fail. An old man, homeless and friendless, he shall beg his bread from
door to door. His intelligence shall decay. He shall be pointed out and
jeered at, as a fool that drivels and chatters. His health shall break.
His bones shall rot in his body. His eyes shall become running ulcers in
their sockets. His blood shall dry up, a fiery poison in his veins.
And his seed also shall be afflicted. From generation to generation, a
blight shall pursue those that bear his name. For the blood of Israel
mixed with the blood of a strange people, is like a sweet wine mixed
with aloes. His sons shall be weak of mind and body. His daughters shall
be ugly to look upon. To him and to his the Lord our God will show no
mercy, even unto the brink of the grave. They shall be as if touched
with the leprosy, shunned and despised of all men. To the Goy they will
continue to be Jews; but to the Jew they will have become Goym. The Lord
our God is a jealous God. His love knoweth no bounds. His wrath is like
a great fire that can not be put out. He showereth favors abundantly
upon them that love Him and keep His commandments. The iniquity of the
fathers He visits upon the children and the children's children, even
unto the third and fourth generations. Blessed be the name of the Lord!”

The rabbi had begun this reading in low and matter-of-fact accents; but
as he proceeded, his voice had increased in volume and emphasis, and
the last words rang forth, loud and resonant, as though they had been
addressed to a multitude in the synagogue. The veins in his forehead
stood out blue and swollen against the white skin, and behind the thick
lenses of his spectacles you could see that his black eyes were flashing
fire. He paused for a little, breathing deeply. By degrees the veins
in his forehead grew small and smaller, becoming pale, flat lines, like
veins in marble. Presently, laying aside the manuscript, “There, Elias,”
 he added, quietly, “that is what your great-grandfather thought about
intermarriage, and I guess there has never been a Bacharach to think
differently. I hope there never may be one, I'm sure. Why--why, what
makes you so pale?”

“Am I pale? I didn't know it. The denunciation is bitter--terrible. It
gave me cold shivers.”

“Yes, terrible, so it is. But not exaggerated. It sounds pretty strong,
but it couldn't be called exaggerated. For really it's only a simple
statement of the truth, the facts. I'm going to quote it in my own
discourse next Sabbath. It's just like every thing else. Break a law,
whether it be a law of nature, a law of the land, or the law of God, and
you must expect to suffer the consequences, to be punished.”

“Yes, of course. And yet, somehow, it seems as though the punishment
ought to be in proportion to the offense. Do you seriously, literally,
believe that the Lord would punish such a sin with such frightful,
far-reaching penalties?”

“With worse, even. No mere human mind can conceive, much less describe,
the fearful forms the Divine vengeance would take. All we can do is to
picture to ourselves the worst, and then say: It will be as bad as that,
or worse. That's what your grandfather has tried to do here. The Lord
has expressed in perfectly plain language His desire that the integrity
of Israel should be preserved. That was the purpose for which this
world was created and mankind called into existence. Now, to enter into
matrimony with a Gentile is such a flagrant setting at naught of
the Lord's will--why, common-sense is enough to show the inevitable
consequences.”

“But suppose a Jew should _love_ a woman of another race--a Christian,
for example; what would you have him do? Leave her? Never see her again?
Give her up? If he loved her, no pain that the Lord could inflict would
be worse than the pain of that.”

“Hold your tongue, Elias!” the rabbi cried sharply. “What you say is
blasphemous, is a denial of the Lord's omnipotence. May the Lord forgive
you. No, no. His power to inflict pain, as well as to confer blessings,
is measureless. What would I have the Jew do? Why, of course, I would
have him give her up, no matter how much the sacrifice might cost him.
But the case you put is not likely to arise. Love for a Christian
woman never could enter a Jewish heart. Such a sentiment as a Jew might
perhaps feel for her would be an unholy passion. She might fascinate his
senses, but of true love, she could inspire none at all.”

“And yet, suppose, for the sake of argument, suppose that she
could--that she had--that the Jew really did love her with true love,
what then?”

“Why, then, as I say, I would have him renounce her, and abstain
afterward from any sort of communication with her. I would have him
pray, also, that his heart might be cleansed and restored to health; for
such love would be a spiritual disease.”

Elias made no answer. The rabbi turned his attention to his lamp, the
flame of which was spluttering and palpitating, preparatory to going
out.

“Pshaw,” he said, extinguishing it, “I must have forgotten to fill it.”

Then he struck a match, and lighted the gas.

“You have made me hungry and thirsty with so much talking,” he
continued. “Now I'm going down stairs to forage for something to eat.
Will you come along?”

“No, I guess I'll go to bed,” said Elias. “Good-night.”

But he did not go to bed, nor even to his bed-room.

He went to his studio, and sat down in the dark at the window.

It was a wondrous night--the sky cloudless, the air as clear as crystal.
The moon, waning, was up, but out of sight in the south, hidden by the
housetops. Its frosty light bathed the prospect, like an ethereal form
of dew, as far as eye could see. The branches of the trees were silvered
by it. Their shadows were sharply etched upon the turf beneath. The
yellow flames of the street lamps flared faint and sickly. The few
human beings who now and then passed on the sidewalk opposite, had the
appearance of mere black spots in motion. Only the largest of the stars
dared to show themselves, and they trembled, and were pale, as if cowed
by their luminous rival. In the north-west, the spires of St. George's
Church stood in massive profile against the deep, shimmering vault of
sky. An impressive outlook, cold, serene, passionless; of a sort to
remind one of the magnitude and the inexorableness of the material
universe, and of the infinitesimal smallness and insignificance of one's
self, and to fill one's mind with solemn doubts and questions. But it
had no such effect upon Elias Bacharach. Never had his own self
loomed larger in his eyes, never had it more exclusively absorbed his
faculties, than at this moment, in the face of this moonlit view.

Elias had been bred in the straitest sect of his religion; a rare thing
in this country in these days of radicalism and unbelief. From his
earliest boyhood down, his training, his associations, his family life,
nearly every influence that had borne upon him, had been of a nature to
make him intensely, if not zealously or aggressively, a Jew--to imbue
his mind thoroughly with the Jewish faith, and to color his character to
its innermost fibers with strong Jewish feelings. Besides, the blood
of generations of devout Jews coursed in his veins; it was tinctured
through and through with Jewish prejudice and superstition. He had never
been sent to school, lest in some wise his Judaism might be weakened by
contact with the Christians. His uncle, the rabbi, had taken sole
charge of his education. Pride of race had been an integral part of
the curriculum. “Never forget that you are a Jew, and remember that the
world has no honor to bestow upon you equal to the honor that attaches
to your birth. To be born in Israel is more illustrious than to be born
a prince; the blood of Israel outranks the blood royal; for the Lord
our God created the heavens and the earth, the birds and the beasts, the
flowers, the trees, the air, the sunlight, for the especial enjoyment of
His chosen and much-beloved people. But remember, too, that if the Lord
has vouchsafed to you this great and peculiar privilege, so He will
exact from you great and peculiar devotion. Though a Gentile--because
the Lord pays no heed to him--may commit certain sinful acts with
impunity, for you--upon whom the eye of the Lord rests perpetually--for
you to commit them, would entail immediate and awful punishment. Though
a Christian, for example--because he is of infinite smallness in the
sight of the Lord--may transact business on the Sabbath, if you--a
Jew--were to do so, the Lord would surely visit you with some frightful
calamity. You might be struck by lightning; you might be afflicted
with an incurable disease.” This was the sort of doctrine that had been
dinned into Elias Bacharach's ears from the time when he had first
begun the studies preparatory to becoming Bar-Mitzvah, and to assuming,
as the saying is, the Yoke of the Thorah. Heredity predisposed him to
accept it. The occasion had never arisen for him to doubt it, or even
to consider it in the light of his own intelligence. He had taken it
for granted, just as he had taken his geography and history for granted,
just as many wiser people than he, the world over, take their theology
for granted every day.

To a Jew such as this, nothing can be more intrinsically repugnant than
the idea of marriage with a Christian--or, more accurately, with a Goy,
which term is applied equally to all human beings who are not of Jewish
faith and lineage. The average Caucasian would pretty certainly hesitate
at the idea of marriage with a Mongolian. How much more positive would
his hesitation be, if race antipathy were, as it is in the case of the
Jews, reenforced by the terrors of a supernatural religion. It is no
figure of speech, but a literal statement of the fact, to say that an
orthodox Jewish father would rather have his son die than marry outside
of Israel. He would prefer a funeral to such a wedding. Indeed, such a
wedding would be regarded as equivalent to a funeral. The name of the
bridegroom would be published among the names of the dead in the
Jewish newspapers. His parents, his brothers and sisters, his nearest
relatives, would put on mourning for him; and henceforward, if they
should pass him in the street, they would refuse to recognize him. In
the synagogue he would be excommunicated and cursed. All pious Jews
would be enjoined from holding any intercourse whatever with him; from
speaking with him; from buying of him, or selling to him; from giving
him food, drink, clothing or shelter; from succoring him in danger or
in sickness; even from pronouncing his name. “Be he accursed, and be
his name forever accursed among men.” Furthermore, all pious Jews would
cherish the conviction that sooner or later the vengeance of the
Lord would overtake and overwhelm him. They would predict the direst
calamities, the most fearful retribution. Superstition never pays
attention to statistics, and is never shaken by them. No conceivable
misfortune that can fasten upon a human being in this world, but they
would promise it to him. Poverty, disease, disgrace; an adulterous
wife; deformed children, unsound of mind and evil of heart; whatever the
imagination can depict of horrible and disastrous would inevitably fall
to his lot.

In this faith, among these traditions, Elias Bacharach had grown up.
For hundreds, for thousands, of years, his ancestors on every side had
nourished these superstitions. *

     * It would seem hardly necessary, yet it is no more than
     fair to say that among the better-educated and more
     intelligent Jews in America, orthodoxy of this stripe is not
     common. Even among them, notwithstanding, it prevails to a
     sufficient extent; and among the ignorant classes it is the
     rule. It is a curious circumstance, however, that, in the
     majority of cases, those very Jews who have cast quite loose
     from their Judaism, and proclaim themselves “free-thinkers,”
      “agnostics,” or what not, retain their prejudice against
     intermarriage, and even their superstitions anent its
     consequences.

And yet, an hour ago, when Elias had taken leave of Christine Redwood,
his heart was palpitating with a myriad new and sweet emotions,
for which, suddenly, at last, he realized that the right name
was love--realized it, as has been said, with surprise and with
consternation, for he had been unaccountably blind to his own condition
until to-night. And during his walk home he had pictured to himself the
exceeding joy that would be his if she should ever come to love him in
return. And even now, the light of her eyes still shone in his memory,
the scent of her garments still clung in his nostrils, the sound of her
voice still vibrated in his ears, the touch of her hand was still warm
upon his arm. Even now, as he looked out into the vast moonlit sky, and
spoke her name softly to himself, a thrill swept electrically through
his body. He loved her, he told himself; and if he could not win her
love, if he could not have her for his wife, the world would become a
desert to him, his life would be wasted, he would rather die, here, now,
at once. Perhaps Christine, too, was at this hour looking out of her
window. Perhaps her eyes, as well as his, were filling themselves with
the glory of the night. In this fancy, highly improbable as it was, he
found much comfort. It was good to think that he and she were enjoying
something in common. The moonlight was like a palpable link connecting
them, like a gossamer cord stretching between them and binding them
together. Would that it might bear a message from him to her, and let
her know of the love that was yearning in his bosom. Again he spoke
aloud her name, caressing it as it passed his lips. And again his heart
thrilled, intoxicated with love and hope.

But all at once his superstition sprang upon him. All at once, like a
flash of lightning in the darkness, the fear of the Divine wrath lit up
his imagination. Every drop of blood in his body came to a standstill
and grew cold. He could feel his flesh creep, his hair rise on end. For
a third time he pronounced her name; but this time it escaped like a
gasp of pain from between clenched teeth. Why had he ever seen her? Why
had he not understood the peril that he was running, and avoided it?
Henceforth, at any rate, he would never see her again. He would do as
his uncle had said, give her up, tear her from his heart. No matter
how hard it might be, he would do it, and so save her and himself from
perdition. But the resolution had not taken shape in his mind before
Christine's face, pale and pleading, with pathetic, passionate eyes,
came up visibly before him; and then he was conscious of nothing but
of a great tenderness for her, an infinite need of her, a sharp pang
of remorse that he should have been disloyal to her for an instant,
a strong throbbing in his temples, a wondrous tremor through all his
senses. Yet, even while this vision was still haunting his sight, the
voice of the rabbi began to ring hideously in his ears, repeating the
anathema that his own ancestor had written; and all the Jew in him
shuddered at the sound.

He covered his head and prayed.

He remained in prayer until the dawn had begun to whiten the walls of
his room.

Then he sat down at his window, and watched the red and gold burn in the
eastern sky, and wondered at the strange calm that had come to him.
His prayer had been answered, he believed. He had prayed that his heart
might be purged of the unholy love that had stolen into it. Now he could
think of Christine with complete indifference. Not a trace was left of
the agitation which that thought had aroused in him a little while ago.

“The Lord has heard my prayer. I am not in love with her any more,” he
said.

He went through the rest of that week in the same indifferent
condition--ate, drank, slept, painted, chatted with his uncle, kept the
Sabbath, precisely as though Christine Redwood had never crossed the
horizon of his world.

“I am not in love with her,” he assured himself. “She is a pretty and
pleasant girl; but I am not in love with her, and never shall be.”

The Jew had got the better of the man.




VII.

WHEN Elias woke up Sunday morning, he saw that it was snowing. He lay
abed for a while, with eyes turned upon his window-pane, and watched the
snow-flakes float lightly and silently earthward through the still
air. The street below was noisy with the sound of shovels scraping the
pavement. The daylight had caught a deathlike pallor from the whiteness
round about. Elias wondered whether he would be expected in Sixty-third
Street, despite the storm. He got up and dressed, all the while
balancing this question in his mind. But presently the weather itself
decided for him. The storm ceased. The snow fell no more. The sun came
out.

He went up-town, entered Redwood's parlor, and sat down facing the
folding-doors that led into the back room.

He was not in love with her. She was a pretty and pleasant girl, and all
that; but he was not in love with her, and never would be. This is what
he had repeated to himself again and again during the past few days. So
be it. But then why--when all at once she appeared in the opening of the
folding-doors, and advanced toward him, proffering her hand, and wishing
him good-morning--why did his heart stop beating? Why did his breath
become labored and tremulous? Why did his lips quiver, his cheeks burn?
Why should the sight of her have had this effect upon a man who did not
love her, who was not even on the point of loving her? And then, when he
took the proffered hand in his, and gazed down at her face, and breathed
the air that her presence sweetened, why was his breast suddenly pierced
by a strange emotion, half a pain, half an ecstatic pleasure, and why
did he have to exert his utmost self-control, to keep from catching her
in his arms, and kissing her? What is the psychology of these phenomena,
if he did not love her? She wore the same blue gown that she had worn
at all their sittings; but it seemed to him that her face was paler, and
that her eyes were larger and darker, than their wont.

She bade him good-morning and withdrew her hand, and remained standing
before him; and he remained standing before her, vainly striving to
think of something appropriate to say. But--such perturbation did her
mere nearness cause him--his senses were dispersed, his tongue was tied.
At last, however, he contrived to articulate five words. The sentiment
was neither very novel nor very witty; but it was at least creditable,
and, let us trust, sincere.

“I hope you are well?”

“No,” she answered, “I don't feel very well.”

“Indeed? I--I hope it is nothing serious.”

“Oh, no; only a headache. And I feel lazy and chilly. I'm afraid I have
caught a cold.”

“Then I shan't think of letting you sit for me this morning. We'll wait
about our next sitting till you are better.”

“It's too bad to delay you so.”

“No, no, not at all. It won't make the slightest difference. And now, I
know you ought to go and lie down. So I'll take myself off. Good-by.”

The last words were forced out with a manifest effort; and the speaker
made no visible move to accompany them by the act.

“Oh, must you go?” she asked; and Elias thought her voice fell.

“Why,” he confessed, “I should like nothing better than to stay; only, I
was afraid I might be in the way.”

“Oh, what an idea! Won't you come into the back room? It's warmer and
cozier there.”

In the back room a bright fire crackled in the grate. Old Redwood sat
before it, feet on fender, reading his newspaper. He greeted Elias,
without rising; “Oh, it's you, is it, Mr. Bacharach? Glad to see you,”
 and went on reading.

Christine sank into a deep easy-chair at her father's left. Elias seated
himself next to her. He did not speak. He had no desire to speak. He
would gladly have sat there all day in silence, simply enjoying the
sight of her, and his sense of closeness to her.

She said, “It is a pity to have brought you clear up here for nothing,
Mr. Bacharach. It makes me feel guilty to think of the time you are
losing.”

“My time,” he protested, “is not of such great value; and there's no
place where I could spend it so pleasantly.”

“I should have written you a note,” she added, “telling you not to come;
but I had no idea I was going to feel out-of-sorts. I felt as well as
usual last night.”

“I'm very glad you didn't write the note,” he said, with haste and
emphasis.

“Any way,” she reflected, “you couldn't have received it, could you?
To-day being Sunday, it wouldn't have been delivered till to-morrow.”

He made no answer. At that moment he was gazing at a tiny white hand
that rested on the arm of her chair, gazing hungrily at it, and thinking
how he would like for a single second to touch it, to stroke it, to
press it to his lips. The hand must have felt the influence of his gaze,
for it began to move about in a restless, uneasy manner, and ended by
hiding itself among the folds of her garment in her lap. Elias sighed,
as it disappeared; and then, with no obvious relevancy, remarked, “This
is the first snow of the year.”

“Yes,” she assented; “and now Christmas will be here pretty soon, and
then my birthday. Do you know, Mr. Bacharach, it's very unfortunate to
have your birthday come right after Christmas? Because, of course, you
can't expect to get presents so soon again. I want my father to change
my birthday to July--make believe I was born on the third of July,
instead of the third of January. That would have a double advantage.
It would make me six months younger.”

“But if I should do that,” argued the old man, “I should have to
apply to the legislature to have your name changed, too. We named you
Christine, on account of your being born so near Christmas. If we shift
your birthday over to July, we'll have to call ye Julia.”

“Oh, then I'd rather have you leave things as they are. I should hate to
be called Julia. Do you like Julia, Mr. Bacharach?”

“Not nearly so well as Christine.”--It was delightful--so intimate,
so confidential--thus to be allowed to speak her name in her
presence.--“Christine,” lingering upon the word, “Christine is the
prettiest name I know.”

“Your name,”--shyly--“your name is Elias, isn't it?” she asked.

“Yes, Elias. There have never been any names but three among the men of
my family--Ephraim, Abraham, and Elias. My father's name was Abraham,
his father's Elias, and so on back. The younger son, when there has been
one, has always been called Ephraim. Old-fashioned, Bible names, you
see.”

“I had a second-cousin named Ephraim,” old Redwood volunteered.

Christine said, “I'm glad they didn't name you Ephraim or Abraham. But I
like Elias.”

“Do you, indeed? Most people find it exceedingly ugly. When I was a boy,
it used to make me quite unhappy. My playmates used to tease me about
it.”

“How heartless of them! And how stupid! For it isn't a bit ugly. It's
strong. It has so much character, so much individuality--Elias.”

If it had been agreeable to be allowed to pronounce her name, it was
trebly agreeable to hear her pronounce and applaud his own. Indeed, the
quality of the name hereby underwent a considerable transformation, and
acquired a euphony to his ears that it had never possessed before.

“Speaking of names,” continued Christine, “do you remember those
names that Rossetti mentions in 'The Blessed Damozel,' and calls sweet
symphonies?”

“I think Rosalys was one, and Gertrude another, weren't they? There were
five altogether.”

“Magdalen was a third. But the book is right there on the table. Let's
look and see.”

Elias got the book, sought the place, and read aloud:

                   “'--Whose names

                   Are five sweet symphonies,

               Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,

                   Margaret and Rosalys.'”

Christine said, “I wonder, Mr. Bacharach, whether you will do me a
kindness?”

“You need not wonder. Of course I will, and gladly. What is it?”

“Read the whole poem aloud to me.”

Elias read it to her. He read it with a good deal of fervor. To be
permitted to read aloud to her a poem fraught with intense passion like
“The Blessed Damozel,” was the next best thing to being permitted to
talk to her of his own love. And all the while, as he was reading, he
was conscious of a dainty, subtle fragrance being wafted toward him from
where his auditor was seated, and penetrating to his heart, and making
it thrill. And whenever he lifted his eyes from off the page, they
encountered hers, in the depths of which he could see burning a pale,
strange fire; and again his heart vibrated with a keen, exquisite
thrill.

When he had done, she exclaimed, softly but earnestly, “Oh, how
beautifully you read it! You made me _thrill_ so here,” placing her hand
upon her breast.

At that he experienced the keenest and the most exquisite thrill of all.

Pretty soon. “Tell me,” she went on, “which one of Rossetti's poems do
you like best of all?”

“Oh!” said he, “I should have hard work to choose. Yet, perhaps, I like
'The Bride's Prelude' as well as any. But which do you?”

“You'll laugh, if I tell you.”

“Oh, no, I sha'n't. Tell me, please.”

“Well, the one that somehow moves me most deeply--it is one that I have
scarcely ever heard praised or quoted--may be you haven't even read it.
It's a little mite of a lyric--this.”

She took the book, and quietly, slowly, intently, musically, read aloud
the song, “Even So.”

“Those last lines,” she added, “sound like the wail of a soul--they are
so hopeless, so passionate, so despairing. They _suggest_ so much more
than they _say_--such a deep, dumb grief. Sometimes they haunt my mind
for hours and hours together, and give me such a strange heartache. What
could it have been, the thing that separated them? I suppose he must
have done something base--something that killed her love, so that he
lost her forever. Yet I can't understand why it should be so absolutely
hopeless. If they really were all alone together, as he says, and she
saw how dreadfully he had suffered, I don't understand how she could
help forgiving him and loving him again. Do you?”

And she repeated the verse:

               “Could we be so now?--

                   Not if all beneath heaven's pall

               Lay dead but I and thou,

               Could we be so now!”

She repeated the verse, and at the end she drew a long, tremulous
breath. If she had noticed Elias Bacharach's physiognomy, while she was
speaking, she could not have failed to guess his secret. Pale cheeks,
parted lips, and eyes riveted upon her face, told the whole story more
eloquently than his tongue could have done. But her attention was all
for Rossetti's poetry.

“Well,” exclaimed old Redwood, “that may be very fine sentiment. I'm not
denying it is. But the grammar is what stumps me. When 'but' is used as
a preposition, in the sense of 'except,' it governs the accusative case.
At least, that's how I was taught at school. The line ought to read:
'Lay dead but me and thee,' or 'me and you.' Ain't that so, Mr.
Bacharach?”

“Well, I suppose it's poet's license,” said Elias.

Folding his newspaper, and getting upon his feet, the old man continued,
“Well, I guess I may as well go out and get shaved, Chris. I'll leave
you in the charge of Mr. Bacharach. Take care of her, Mr. B.” And he
went away.

Elias was alone with her.

She sat far back in her chair, looking through half-closed lids into the
fire. He sat forward, upon the ultimate edge of his chair, and looked
at her. His breath was coming hard and fierce. The blood was bounding in
his veins.

For a while neither of them spoke.

By and by Elias broke the silence.

“Miss---- Miss Redwood,” he began; then stopped.

“Yes?” she queried.

He began again, “Miss Redwood--” Again he stopped. His throat felt
compressed, his mouth hot and parched. He knew perfectly well what he
wanted to say; but his heart trembled so, he could not say it.

She, puzzled no doubt by these successive repetitions of her name,
lifted her eyes inquiringly to his.

For an instant their eyes staid together.

That was a memorable instant for Elias Bach-arach. A great wave of
emotion took away his breath, made his body quiver, his head swim, as if
with vertigo. He tried to speak. His tongue lay paralyzed in his mouth.

Suddenly she looked down; and a scarlet blush suffused her throat and
cheeks.

He leapt forward, fell upon his knees before her, caught her hand,
and whispered--a tense, eager whisper, that clove the air like a
flame--“_Christine--my darling!_”

She drew her hand away. She trembled from head to foot.

“Don't be afraid, my darling. Don't tremble,” he whispered.

But she did not cease to tremble. She neither raised her eyes, nor
spoke. Her blush had died away, leaving her face very pale. Even her
lips had lost their color.

“Christine,” he whispered, “I could not help it. I love you. I could not
keep it secret, Christine.”

Shrinking from him, deeper into her chair, “Don't--please don't,” she
pleaded, in a weak, frightened voice.

Still in a whisper: “I could not help it. I--I had to tell you. Oh, why
do you shrink away from me, like that, and tremble? Is my love hateful
to you?”

“Oh, no, no, not that,” impulsively; but then she blushed again, as if
ashamed.

“Oh, my God! God bless you!” he cried, with a great sigh of relief. “I
was afraid it might be.”

He leaned toward her, breathing swiftly; and his eyes consumed her face.
By and by, very gently, he spoke her name, “Christine!”

Her lips parted--“Yes?”

“Christine--I love you--with all my heart and soul.”

No response.

“Christine--do you believe me?”

A long breath; then a scarce audible “Yes.”

“Do you think,”--he paused to gain courage. “Do you think it will ever be
possible for you to care for me?”

No answer.

“Christine--won't you answer me?”

She raised her eyes; and for an infinitesimal fraction of a second they
rested upon his. But then they hastened to seek refuge behind dropped
lids, as if afraid of what they had seen and of what they had revealed.
Again her cheeks blushed scarlet.

Elias started. Suddenly, he threw his arms around her, and drew her
to him hard and close. Her face lay against his shoulder. There was no
sound in the room, save the sound of their breathing. At last she broke
away.

“Christine--do you think--perhaps--you do--care for me--a little?”

“I don't know,” in a timid whisper.

“Not--not the least bit in the world?”

“I d-don't know,” in a smaller and more timid whisper still. “I--I never
thought of it till--till you spoke.”

“Oh, but now that I _have_ spoken--now that you _have_ thought of
it--say--say that you don't hate me.”

“Oh, no; I don't hate you at all.”

He took her hand and kissed it. It was burning hot. She drew it gently
away.

“Don't--please,” she said, very low.

Again no sound.

Again at length, “Christine!”

“Yes?”

“Do you mind my calling you by your first name--Christine?”

“No--not if you like to.”

“Do you think--you--could ever call me--by mine?”

“I don't know.”

“Won't you try? It--it would make me very happy.”

“El-El-ias--” so softly that it sounded more like a little sigh than
like a word.

“Oh! You make me so happy! But do you want to make me happier still?”

“What shall I do?”

“Tell me you are not sorry I love you.”

“Oh, no; I am not sorry.”

“Tell me--tell me that you are glad.”

“Yes--I--I think--I am--glad.”

“Oh, my love! Can't you say just one thing more? You know what. Please.”

She breathed quickly. “Perhaps,” she whispered.

Again Elias threw his arms around her, and drew her close to him. This
time she offered no resistance. Their eyes met. So did their lips.

“Oh, how hard your heart is beating!” she murmured softly.

Presently they heard a footstep in the hall.

“It is my father,” she said, moving away.

“Shall we tell him?” Elias asked.

“No, not yet. I will tell him after you have gone.”

The old man entered, clean-shaven, and redolent of the barber's balmy
touch. It was edifying, the matter-of-fact, unsentimental manner in
which these young hypocrites thereupon began to talk and act. Yes, it
_was_ strange, how rapidly the snow had melted; and it _did_ look as
though they might have a green Christmas after all; and they neither of
them believed in that lugubrious old proverb about a fat church-yard,
any how; and, of course, Mr. Bacharach would stay to dinner, wouldn't
he? and, well, he would like to, very much indeed, but he didn't want to
wear out his welcome; and, oh, there wasn't the slightest danger of
his doing that, was there, father? etc., etc. But whenever the old
gentleman's back was turned, they stole an eloquent glance at each
other; and now and then Elias found an opportunity slyly to snatch and
press her hand.

When he left, Christine went with him to the door. Never before had the
simple process of leave-taking required such a length of time.

He wandered about the street for a long while, ere he went home. There,
he mounted to his studio, and, as usual, sat down at the window. Could
it be the same studio that he had worked in, the other day? Could he be
the same man? He was as nearly delirious as a person in sound health can
be, without going sheer out of his senses. His brain whirled round and
round. It was impossible for him to carry on a consecutive or coherent
process of thought. Dazzling glimpses of the happiness that the future
held in store for him, alternated with exquisite throes of joy, as he
recalled what had happened that very day. His heart kept thrilling, and
swinging from hot to cold, like a thing bewitched. A sweet smell clung
to the palm of his hand, at the spot where hers had lain.

In bed he tossed about all night, murmuring Christine's name, and
remembering the way she had looked, and the words that she had spoken,
and the kiss that she had given him, and all the rest. At last, without
apparent why or wherefore, there began to haunt his mind that verse
of Rossetti's poetry, which, she said, had haunted hers. He could not
silence it. It repeated itself in a hundred keys. Toward dawn he fell
into a restless sleep, to the rhythm of it:

               “Could we be so now?--

                   Not if all beneath heaven's pall

               Lay dead but I and thou,

               Could we be so now!”

But waking up, late next forenoon, he came to his senses--realized
what he had done, and reflected upon it. He hardly dared to credit his
memory. He hardly dared to believe that what he remembered was the very
truth, and not an hallucination born of his desire. And yet--No; dreams
were not made of such circumstantial stuff.

“I love her, I love her,” he cried exultantly. “_And she loves me!_”

What had become of his Judaism? his race-pride? his superstition? Love,
apparently, had swept them clean away. Not a vestige of them remained.
At a touch, it seemed, love had converted Elias Bacharach from the most
reactionary sort of orthodoxy, to a rationalism, the bare contemplation
of which, a few days ago, would have appalled him.

“Surely,” he argued, “the Law of God as the hands of men have written
it in books, is not to be weighed against the Law of God as the hand of
Nature has written it in my own heart.”

He could not realize that he had ever thought otherwise. He could not
realize that he had ever shrunk in terror from the idea of marrying
Christine Redwood. He could not realize that he had ever professed a
creed by which such a marriage would have been accounted sin. When he
recollected how, less than a week ago, that same creed had kept him
awake, praying, all night long--when he recollected how, for six days,
he had told himself that he did not love her, and never would--he was
nonplused; he could not admit it; it was like the recollection of a bad,
fantastic dream.

The man had got the better of the Jew.




VIII.

THE man had got the better of the Jew; and the man retained the upper
hand. There came no reaction. Elias Bacharach's Judaism--or so much of
it, at least, as bore upon the question of matrimony--had apparently
suffered sudden and total annihilation. Under the light of love, it
had apparently behaved as those hackneyed images in the Etruscan tombs
behaved under the light of the sun--collapsed into nothingness. Looking
backward, and repeating to himself the views upon intermarriage, which,
the rabbi said, there had never been a Bacharach to doubt, he was amazed
at their glaring unreasonableness, at their enormity even, and could
only ask incredulously, “Is it possible that I ever believed that
rubbish?” The philosophy of the matter was extremely simple. Elias
had never bestowed upon the rabbi's religious teachings any skeptical
consideration. He had accepted them as facts stated upon authority--had
taken the rabbi's word for them, just as he had taken the rabbi's word
for the boundaries of the State of Nebraska, and for the date of the
Battle of Bunker Hill. But, now, when, for the first time, circumstances
had led him to bring to bear upon them a little analysis and
common-sense, to exercise a little his right and his power of private
judgment, now their absurdity had become startlingly conspicuous. Then,
of course, his wish fostered his thought. Every spontaneous impulse
of his nature aided and abetted his intelligence in its iconoclasm. He
wanted--_he wanted_--to marry Christine Redwood; and a theology which
taught that, merely because the accident of birth had made of him a Jew,
and of her a Christian, such marriage would be sinful, thereby proved
itself to be the offspring of prejudice and superstition.

Christine had said that she would tell her father; but on second
thoughts she found that she lacked the proper courage; and so Elias, not
without some trepidation, had to take the mission upon himself. The old
man, at the outset, professed no end of astonishment, and considerable
indignation. “So!” he cried. “I engage you to paint my daughter's
portrait, and you spend the time making love to her! A pretty kettle
of fish, as I'm alive!” But by degrees his amiability was restored;
and finally he remarked, “Well, Mr. Bacharach, though you are a
Hebrew, you're white; and any how, religion don't worry us much in this
household, and never did. I'm a Universalist, myself; and Chris--well, I
guess no one knows what she is. One thing's certain--she might have
gone further, and fared worse; she might, for a fact. You're a perfect
gentleman; and you can't help it, if you _were_ born a Jew. You don't
look like one, and you don't act like one. Of course, there's your
name--Bacharach--a regular jaw-breaker; but I shan't stick on a name.
It ain't I that's got to bear it; and so long as Chris is satisfied, it
ain't for me to grumble. I guess she'll smell about as sweet under it,
as she does under her present one. You see, I agree with the Great Bard.
Any how, if she's made up her mind to have ye, I suppose I'll be obliged
to say yes, sooner or later; and it'll save time and trouble for me to
say it sooner.” So it was arranged that they should be married early in
the spring, that they should spend the summer traveling in Europe,
and that in the autumn they should return to New York, and domicile
themselves under Redwood's roof.

“The man who marries my daughter,” stipulated the old gentleman, with a
grim smile, “has got to marry me. I ain't pretty, but I'm solid; and I'm
not going to be separated from her in my old age. He's got to fetch his
traps, and live in this house, besides, because I'm used to it, and
I don't mean to quit it till I'm carried out horizontally. It's big
enough, and to spare, the Lord knows. Come and look it over.”

Elias followed the old man from cellar to garret. On the third floor his
conductor threw open a door, and announced. “This is her room.” Elias's
memory of the few brief seconds that he had been permitted to pass upon
Christine's threshold, looking into her room, breathing the sweet air
of it, and noting its hundred pretty little girlish fixings--inanimate
companions of her most intimate life--thrilled in his heart many a time
afterward. Was it not for him, her lover, like a glimpse into the Holy
of Holies?

They were to be married in the spring. Now it was December. Meanwhile
they had nothing to do but to make the most of the present. They saw
each other nearly every day; and those days on which something prevented
them from seeing each other, were very long and very dark days to Elias
Bacharach. How did they amuse themselves? Innocently enough, and with
no sort of difficulty. If an exhaustive account of their doings were
reduced to writing, it would seem very trivial and very monotonous;
but to them, basking in the light of new-born love, the trivial and the
monotonous did not exist. High and low, far and wide, the world had been
invested with the splendor, the mystery, and the majesty of the golden
age. Yes, indeed: the period, long or short, during which first love
holds sway over our hearts, tyrant though the ruler be, is notoriously
our golden age, never to come but once. In this respect history does
not repeat itself. Elias felt that each of his five senses had been
sharpened, and that, moreover, he had acquired a sixth sense, a
super-sense. The homeliest things, the most familiar sights,
the commonest occurrences, took on a beauty, a significance, a
suggestiveness, undreamed of until now. They aroused thoughts in his
brain, emotions in his breast. He had used to regard New York as a
somewhat sordid and unpicturesque metropolis: now he held it to be the
most romantic city of the earth. Did she not dwell within its walls?
Certainly, in former years, the Eighth Avenue horse-railway, with its
dingy cars and shabby passengers, had had no special fascination for
him; but now the bare mention of its name would rouse a sentimental
tenderness in his bosom. Was not that the line by which he traveled when
he went to see her? Everywhere he became aware of new aspects and new
influences, to which heretofore his consciousness had been hermetically
sealed. In a letter written by him to Christine at about this time--for,
despite the frequency of their meetings, they found it necessary to keep
the post-office busied on their behalf--Elias indulges in the following
rhapsody:

“I have waked up from a long sleep, a period of torpor, diversified by
vague dreams, into fresh, keen, sensitive life. I have begun to love;
and until one begins to love, one is only half born. Until one loves,
half the faculties, half the activities, which one possesses, lie in
a dormant state, are merely potential, latent. For love--is it not the
very soul and life of life itself? I know a poem which says: 'Through
love to light! Oh, wonderful the way, that leads from darkness to the
perfect day!' That expresses exactly what I mean. The life I lived
before I knew you, and began to love you, compared to the life I live
now, as the dusk of early morning compares to the brilliant day that
comes with the rising of the sun. Where there was chill, now there is
warmth. Where there was silence, now there is music. Where there was
gloom, now there is glory.

“Things that were before invisible or insignificant, now force
themselves upon my attention, and have a meaning and a solemnity. It is
as though you had touched me with a vivifying wand--as though you had
given me to drink of the elixir of life. Well, you _have_ given me to
drink of the elixir of love; and that is even more potent and marvelous
in its effects. These are not mere phrases, Christine, dashed off in
enthusiasm, without being weighed. They are an imperfect expression of
very real and practical facts. See the direct and manifest influence
that my love of you has exercised upon my work, my art. I used to tell
myself, with a good deal of complacency, that the artist was a sort of
priest; that he ought to be a celibate, that he ought to consecrate the
whole of himself to his art, that the muse should be his wife, that no
mortal woman should divide his homage with her. I had one formula that
pleased me especially. I said,4 The muse is a jealous mistress. She will
brook no rivalry. To win her favor, one must renounce the world, and
devote himself exclusively to her service.' And I used to fancy that I
really believed this high-flown nonsense. But what sophism! What cant!
What puerile pinning of my faith to a hollow set of words? For the very
first requirement to successful accomplishment in art--what is it?
Isn't there a spiritual equipment as much needed by the artist, as
indispensable to his productiveness, as his material equipment of
palette, paint-tubes, and brushes? Why, the very sinequa-non is this;
that he shall live. I mean, that he shall be intensely human; that he
shall think clearly, feel deeply, and see truly--see the truth, the
whole truth, and the very heart of the truth. Until one has lived in
this sense, one's art will never be real art. It will only be a nicer, a
more complex, species of mechanics. It will be the body of art, without
the spirit of it. Well, did I live, did I think, feel, see, before I
knew you, and loved you? A little, perhaps; vaguely, incompletely; by
fits and starts; as in a glass, darkly. But now? Oh, it is as though you
had given me a soul! You have quickened the dormant soul that was in
me, given it eyes, ears, perceptions, sympathies. At last I am alive,
tingling and throbbing to my finger tips with life, with warm, buoyant,
intense, eager life. My existence now is a constant exaltation, a
constant inspiration. Whatever my eye looks upon, whatever my ear hears,
whatever my fingers touch, means something, says something to me, and
wakes a response in my own heart. I think, feel, see, and consequently
paint, with a zest, an impetus, a power, and yet a serenity, a repose,
of which I never even had a conception in the old days, Christine! Oh,
my love! '...When I look at you, Christine, and realize that you are my
betrothed--that you love me, and that you have promised to be my wife;
and when I take your little hand in mine, and stroke it, and feel its
wondrous warmth and softness, and bring it to my lips, and breathe that
most delicate fragrance which ever clings to it; and when I gaze into
the luminous depths of your eyes, and behold your spirit burning far,
far down in them: oh! my blood seems to catch fire; each breath is like
a draught of some magic, intoxicating vapor; I come near to fainting,
for the great joy that fills my heart--fills it, and thrills it. I dare
say all men who love, and are loved in return, are happy. But none can
be so supremely happy as I am, so miraculously happy; because no one
else loves you, and is loved by you. And other women are no more like
you than--than dust is like fire, than glass is like diamond, than water
is like wine. You mustn't laugh at me for saying this. It is really,
honestly true. They resemble you in outward form, of course; they, too,
have hands and feet, shaped more or less upon the same pattern that
yours are shaped upon. But you--you have something--something which
I can not name or describe--something subtle, impalpable, and yet
unmistakable--something supersensual, celestial--which makes you as
different from them as--it is a grotesque comparison, but it will show
you what I mean--as a magnet is different from common iron. It is a
difference of quality, which I can not find any words exactly to define.
I suppose really that it is simply your soul--that you have a purer,
finer soul than other women. Whatever it is, I recognized it, and felt
it, with a thick thrill, as one feels an electric spark, the first
time I ever saw you--reflected in that old, time-stained looking-glass,
between the windows in your father's shop. I recognize and feel it
perpetually, everywhere I go. All the other women that I see have about
them a touch of the earth, from which you are free; and they lack that
touch of heaven, which you have....

“Why, from among the millions of men upon this planet, why should I have
been the one chosen to enjoy this unique rapture? What have I done to
deserve that the single peerless and perfect lady should be mine? It is
incomprehensible. In a world built up of marvels, it is the prime, the
crowning, the over-topping marvel. It would be incredible, were it not
indubitably true. But sometimes, true though I know it to be, I become
so acutely conscious of the wonder and incomprehensibility of it, that
I doubt it in spite of myself. Then I think: may be, after all, it is
a dream. At such moments, I hasten to see you, to verify it. I can not
reach you quickly enough. At what a snail's pace the horse-car drags
along! How endless are the intervals when it stops, to take in or to let
off a passenger! I count the seconds, I count the inches. All the while,
my soul is trembling within me; nor does it cease to tremble, till I
have crossed your threshold, and beheld you with my eyes, and
touched you with my hands, and thus, so far as seeing and feeling are
believing, convinced myself that you really exist, and that my great
happiness is not a phantasm--unless indeed, my whole life is one long
phantasm, one continuous dream, which sometimes I think may be the
explanation of it. This great, vast happiness! It would be ungrateful
and irreverent to suppose that it has fallen to my lot by mere chance or
accident; and yet I can not understand why God should have so favored
me above all other living men; why He should have selected me to receive
the greatest blessing that He had to bestow--your love, my queen!”

And in a letter written by her to him, she says: “What if we had never
known each other? That would have been very possible, wouldn't it?
The world is so large, and there are so many, many people, and the
likelihood of any two happening to come together is so very slight, it
would have been quite possible for us to have gone through life, and
died, without ever having known each other. Think of the many years that
we did dwell right here in the same city, without ever even knowing of
each other's existence! And yet often, perhaps, in the course of those
years, we came very near together. Who can tell but that we may have sat
together in the same concert-hall, listening to the same music? We may
have passed each other in the street a great many times. We may even
have ridden in the same horse-car together, and not have noticed each
other. Isn't it strange? But think, if I had not happened to go to my
father's shop that afternoon! Or, if you had not happened to go there,
too, at just the same time! Why, then we might never have known each
other at all! It takes my breath away, to think of it; doesn't it yours?
How strange and empty and incomplete our lives would have been? We
should have gone through life, without ever really knowing what life
meant--without ever realizing the greatness and the richness and the
wonder of it. I should never have known what it was to love--for I never
could have loved any one but you. Oh, how lonesome I should have been!
But you--do you think you might have loved somebody else, and married
her? There are so many women; but there is only one you.---- Oh, if I
could only feel sure that you would always, always love me, and never
get over loving me! Whenever you are away from me, I can't help being
afraid that you do not love me any more. I long so impatiently to have
you come back and tell me that you do. If you ever really should get
over loving me--oh, I--I would rather have you kill me right away.”

Thus these young persons pursued their billing and cooing. Thus they
played their parts in the oldest of old plays, never for an instant
suspecting that the same songs had been sung, the same lines declaimed,
the same little scenes enacted, the whole worn threadbare, by myriads
of similar personages, ever since the world began; and scarcely giving a
thought, either, to the time when, by and by, the curtain would be
rung down, and the theater emptied, and the foot-lights put out. So
shortsighted, so self-absorbed, is love. The two letters from which I
have just quoted, lie before me now. It is not such a great while since
they were written--not such a great while since the paper grew hot
tinder the writer's hand, and fluttered as the reader's breath fell upon
it. But the paper is quite cold now; and already the ink has begun to
fade. Yet, to Christine's pages there still clings, singularly enough,
the ghost of a faint, sweet smell.

Numberless were the delightful hours that Elias spent painting at her
portrait; and long before the spring came he had it finished. Of course,
he was not satisfied with it. Of course, he found it tame and poor when
compared to the original. But what true artist ever is satisfied with
his own handiwork? What true lover but always will find tame and poor
a portrait of his mistress? He made, besides, a great many pencil and
water-color drawings of her. He never tired of striving to transfix
something of her exquisite beauty upon the pages of his sketch-book. The
effort was always a pleasure. The result was always a disappointment.
He did not, however, by any means, confine these experiments to his
sketch-book. All the blank paper that passed his way, ran an imminent
risk of being seized upon, and made to bear an attempt at her likeness.
I have on my desk that volume of Rossetti's poems, from which, on
a memorable Sunday morning, Elias read aloud “The Blessed Damozel.”
 Scattered over the fly-leaves and the margins of the pages, I have
counted no fewer than sixty-nine pencil studies of Christine's face, in
various stages of completion. Beneath one of these is written in Elias's
hand, “Oh, what a wonder of a woman!” and immediately following, in
Christine's, “Oh, what a goose!”

Often, if the sun shone, they would take long walks in Central Park; and
Christine kept her promise to show him some of those nooks and corners
which she had preempted, and which nobody else knew the existence of.
One of these speedily became a favorite resort of theirs. It was a
high rock, the top of which was carpeted with many generations of pine
needles, and screened from the vulgar gaze by a girdle of pine trees.
Here, when the weather was warm enough, they would stop to rest for a
little after their jaunts; and here, though he never suspected it, the
final chapter of Elias Bacharach's story was destined to be acted
out. The pine trees are still standing and flourishing: but they are
inscrutable, and bear no record, breathe no hint, of the tender passages
between these lovers, at which they were wont to assist.

Often, in the midst of his work in his studio, Elias would be seized by
a sudden and uncontrollable desire to pay his sweetheart a visit; and
would fling aside his brushes, discharge his model, hurry up-town, and
ring her door-bell. Of course, unapprised of his coming, she would not
always be at home; but if the maid could inform him whither she had
gone, he would be sure to follow; and on more than one occasion he
caught a fine cold, standing in the wind-swept-street, watching the door
of the house where he knew that she was calling, and waiting to join her
at her exit.

Christmas came, and New Year's Day, and her birthday, and his. They
celebrated all of these festivals in company. For New Year's Eve, one of
Christine's Normal College classmates had invited her to a party. Elias
naturally was her cavalier. He suffered torments indescribable, as she
whirled through the waltz on the arm of another man--he could not dance,
himself; had never learned how, poor fellow--but when, from the corner
in which he was sulking alone, he saw that the heel of her slipper had
broken off, and that her partner was holding that heel in his hand, and
inspecting it with curious eyes, he could no longer contain himself.
Another man to profane with his touch the heel of Christine's slipper!
He advanced upon the couple, scowling savagely; and addressing the young
man: “Give me that,” he commanded gruffly. He got hold of it, and stuck
it into his pocket. Christine shot dagger-glances at him. On their way
home, in the carriage, she scolded him roundly for his jealousy and his
bad manners; but before they separated, she had forgiven him; and the
padded carriage walls had witnessed a very pretty reconciliation. That
night he sat up till daybreak, writing her a letter, very penitent, very
affectionate, very voluminous. “That we should have begun the New
Year with a quarrel!” was its remorseful burden. At eight o'clock he
dispatched it by a messenger. Yet he knew that at ten o'clock that very
forenoon she would be ready to receive him in proper person. But ten
o'clock!

Two mortal hours! It seemed years and years away.

Time moved steadily forward. The winter passed. March came, an
exceptionally mild, sunshiny March, much of which was spent among the
pine trees in the park; then April. Their wedding-day was definitely
fixed for the second of May. On the third, they were to set sail by the
French steamship for Havre. Their tickets were bought, their plans were
all made. The services of the clergyman who was to tie the knot,
had been secured. And yet, in all these months, not a whisper of his
engagement had Elias breathed to his uncle, the Rabbi Felix. From day
to day, from week to week, he had put off the inevitable moment. He knew
that nothing which the rabbi could say or do, would have the slightest
effect upon him, so far as shaking his resolution was concerned; but he
supposed that there would be a scene, and a very stormy and disagreeable
one, and he dreaded it; and so he had procrastinated--or, as he phrased
it, had waited for a favorable opportunity. He had gone on living in
the same house, eating at the same board, with this old man, his uncle;
chatting with him, even, as a precaution against possible suspicions,
saying his prayers and reading his Bible with him, and all the while
keeping the one dominant fact of his life shut close in from sight.
Sometimes the secret weighed very heavily upon his mind, pressed hard
for utterance, got even so far as the tip of his tongue. But then,
asking himself, “What good--what but bad--could come of my telling him?”
 he would decide to wait for yet another while. Perhaps the rabbi, on
his side, had noticed that Elias was absent from home a good deal; but,
considering his youth, and that his home was such a dull, unattractive
place, what wonder? What else could be expected? I must not forget to
state that some rumors to the effect that Elias Bach-arach intended
to get married, were circulating in the Jewish world--which is, of all
worlds, the one most prone to gossip--but these failed to specify the
lady's name, and took for granted that she was a Jewess; and the rabbi
was far too much of a recluse to be reached by them, any how.

With the Redwoods Elias had been perfectly frank. He had said to the
old man: “I suppose you will think that the only relative I have in this
quarter of the world--my uncle, Dr. Gedaza--ought to call upon you; and
I suppose you'll think it very singular if he doesn't. But I had better
tell you candidly that he will strongly disapprove of my marriage,
simply and solely on the ridiculous ground that Christine happens not
to have been born a Jewess. I hope you won't let this have the slightest
influence whatever upon you; because I'm a man, of full age and sound
mind, master of my own purse and person, and he's only my uncle;
and, with all due respect, I can't see that my marriage is any of
his business.” In the end, both Christine and her father had accepted
Elias's view of the case.

Time moved steadily forward, and now it was the night of Tuesday,
the first of May, and to-morrow Elias's happiness would be sealed and
consummated. He and Christine had spent a very ecstatic evening with
each other; but, of course, by and by it behooved him to take his leave;
and so, toward eleven o'clock, he rose and began the process. About
midway in it, however, he broke off and said abruptly: “Oh, by the by, I
forgot to tell you something.”

“Ah?” she queried. “What?”

“An idea I had.”

“An idea?”

“Yes; about--about breaking the news to my uncle.”

“News? What news?”

“Why, _the_ news--the news of our marriage.”

“Why!” she exclaimed, with an expression of very serious surprise. “Do
you mean to say that--that you haven't done that yet?”

“No; not yet. That's just the point. You see----

“Oh, Elias,” she interrupted, in a tone of emphatic rebuke, “I supposed,
of course, you had told him long ago. You ought to have told him. That
wasn't right.”

“What difference does it make? I have waited about it, because it would
only have raised trouble between him and me, without doing a particle of
good to either. There's no end to the bother and complications it would
have caused. He lives in my house, you know; and if we had had a row,
he would have felt obliged to clear out, and all that. So I kept my own
counsel; and I'm very glad I did. For now my idea is to say nothing
to him at all; but after we're safely aboard-ship, and started for the
other side, I'll send him a letter by the pilot. That will spare both of
us a very painful and unprofitable interview.”

“Oh, but it's not fair, it's not honorable, it's not respectful. He's
your uncle--your own mother's brother--and you owe it to him not to do
that--not to go and get married without even letting him know. You ought
to have told him long ago. It will hurt his feelings awfully, when he
finds out how long you have kept it from him--when he finds that you
have waited till the very eleventh hour. Now you must tell him right
straight away--as soon as you possibly can--to-night, as soon as you
reach home. Promise me that you will.”

“But, Christine--”

“No, no, no! Unless you want to make me very unhappy, you'll promise to
tell him right away. That letter by the pilot! I don't understand how
you could have thought of such a thing! It would be cruel and--and it
would be _cowardly!_ There!”

Elias tried to argue the matter. But Christine put her foot down, and
vowed, with a look of inflexible determination upon her gentle face,
that she would never, never, forgive him, unless he made a clean breast
of it to the rabbi that very night.

“But it is late. What if he should have gone to bed?” he suggested
feebly.

“Then wake him up.”

Of course, before they parted, he had pledged himself to do exactly as
she wished; and she, pacified, went off to bed, whether to sleep or to
lie awake, in either case, we may be sure, to dream of the happiness
that was ripening for her in the womb of time.

Elias did not enjoy his journey home that night. His frame of mind was
by no means such as, on general principles, one would expect of a man in
his position--a man who had just said his last farewell to the lady whom
he loved, and whom the morrow was to make his bride. His imagination
running on ahead of his person, entered the rabbi's study, and rehearsed
the scene that would there shortly have to be enacted in very truth.
Elias was surprised at the excessive dread he felt. He strove to reason
it away, repeating to himself, “He can do nothing, absolutely nothing.
He can only talk; and talk doesn't hurt.” But all the same, when he
arrived in front of his house, and realized that the long-deferred
moment was actually at hand, his heart quaked within him, and a sudden
perspiration broke out upon his forehead. However, there was no help for
it. He had promised; and he was bound to keep his promise. So, drawing a
deep breath, and swallowing his reluctance he opened the rabbi's study
door.




IX

HE rabbi sat before his empty fire-place, with slippered feet upon the
hearth, reading to himself, in a whisper, from the current number of
_The Jewish Messenger_. He raised his eyes absent-mindedly upon Elias's
face, where they rested for an instant, vacant of expression. Then,
suddenly, they lighted up, but with a light which was manifestly that
of alarm. Throwing aside his newspaper, and half rising from his chair,
“What--what is the matter with you?” he cried. “What has happened?”

“Happened? The matter with me?” stammered Elias, halting. “What do you
mean?”

“Why, boy, you're as pale as death. You look--you look as though you had
seen a ghost.”

Elias forced a laugh, a faint one.

“Nonsense,” he said. “I'm all right. Perhaps it's the shade of your
lamp. The light, coming through that green, is enough to make any one
look.”

He sat down opposite the rabbi, and struggled hard to appear nonchalant
and at his ease, even going to the length of lighting a cigarette. He
must have met with some success; for presently the rabbi, who had not
ceased to regard him anxiously, observed with an air of relief, “Yes,
I guess it _was_ the lamp-shade. Now that you're seated and out of the
range of it, you look as usual. But when you first came in, I declare,
you gave me quite a turn.” With which he picked up his newspaper, found
his place, and resumed his whispered reading.

Thus for a few minutes. Then, tossing his half-consumed cigarette into
the grate, “I wanted to have a little talk with you to-night, Uncle
Felix, if you don't mind,” Elias said.

“Of course, I don't mind,” the rabbi returned kindly, lowering his
paper. “What did you want to say?”

“Something that will surprise you, I suppose. I wanted to tell you that
I am thinking of--of getting married.”

“Ah, indeed!” cried the rabbi, his face breaking into a smile.
“Thinking of getting married! Well, I'm glad, right glad, to hear it.
It's--you're twenty-seven, aren't you?--it's high time.”

“So it is,” Elias assented, conscious of a certain dismal humor in the
situation.

There befell a silence, during which the rabbi, still with a smile upon
his lips, seemed to be revolving the intelligence in his mind.

Pretty soon, “Yes, I admit, it does surprise me,” he continued, “for, to
speak the truth, I had set you down for a pretty confirmed woman-hater.
But, as I say, it's high time. Men wait too long nowadays about getting
married. In half the weddings that I perform, the bridegrooms are fully
thirty-five, and many of them are upwards of forty. Now, in my time,
it was different. We used to recognize marriage as a religious
obligation--which it is, in fact--and to look askance at a man who was
still single at five-and-twenty. I myself was married at twenty-three.”

He paused for a moment, then asked, “Well, have you begun to look
around?”

“To look around?” queried Elias, puzzled.

“Exactly--for a young lady,” explained the rabbi.

“Oh! Why, no. I found her without looking around.”

“Found her? You mean, then, that you have actually made a choice?”

“Why, of course. What did you suppose?”

“Oh, I thought may be you were merely considering the subject
abstractly--on general principles--and had decided that the time
had come. But you say that you have already chosen the lady. Well, I
declare, how close-mouthed you have kept!--I suppose now,” he added,
“you want me to open negotiations, eh?”

“Negotiations? How do you mean?”

“Why, with her parents, of course. Ask for her hand--declare your
sentiments.”

“Oh, no; that isn't necessary.”

“No? How so?”

“Why, I've done all that for myself. I have proposed, and--and been
accepted.”

“You have! You don't say so! Oh, you sly, secretive rascal! Well, I
congratulate you. You ought to have stuck to the good, old-fashioned
custom, and had me make the first advances; but I congratulate you, all
the same. What's her name? Who is she? One of our congregation? Tell me
all about her.”

The rabbi sat forward in his chair, curiosity incarnate. His pale skin
had become slightly flushed. His eyes, beaming over the gold bows of his
spectacles, were fixed intently upon his nephew's face.

Elias had not enjoyed this beating about the bush; but he had lacked
both the courage and the tact to put an end to it. Now, however, when
its end had arrived naturally, in the course of circumstances, he
wished that it might have been indefinitely prolonged; so great, so
unreasonable, was the dread he felt.

“Her name,” he began--he looked hard at the floor; and his voice was
a trifle unsteady--“she's a young American lady; and her name is
Redwood--Miss Christine Redwood.”

For an instant the rabbi's appearance did not change. It no doubt needed
that instant for his mind to appreciate the purport of what his ears had
heard. But all at once, the flush across his forehead first deepened
to a vivid crimson, and then faded quite away, leaving the skin waxen
white, with the blue veins distended upon it. A dart of light, like an
electric spark, shot from his eyes, which then filled with an opaque,
smoky darkness. His lips twitched a little; his fingers clenched
convulsively. He started backward a few inches into his chair. His
attitude was that of a man whose faculties have been scattered and
confounded by a sudden, tremendous blow.

But this attitude the rabbi retained for scarcely the time it takes to
draw a breath. Almost at once he seemed to recover himself. His fingers
relaxed. His face regained its ordinary composure. In a low voice, with
not a trace of perturbation, coldly, even indifferently:

“A young American lady? Miss Christine--? Be kind enough to repeat the
name,” he said.

Elias, continuing to stare hard at the floor, repeated it:
“Redwood--Miss Christine Redwood.”

Then, with bowed head and trembling heart, he waited for the
outbreak which, he supposed, of course, would come. He stared at the
floor--taking vague note of the patch of carpet at his feet, remarking
how threadbare it was worn, how faded its colors were, remarking even
how, at a certain point, a bent pin stuck upward from it--stared at
the floor, and waited. But the rabbi spoke no word. The clock on the
mantelpiece ticked, ticked, ticked; suddenly, from its interior,
sounded a quick whir of machinery, and then a single clear stroke of
its bell--half-after midnight. Next instant the clock of St. George's
church, across the park, responded with a deep, reverberating
boom-Elias waited; and still the rabbi did not speak. Such silence was
incomprehensible, exasperating, ominous. All the more violent, for this
delay, would the storm be, when it broke, Elias thought. He did not dare
to look the rabbi squarely in the face, to meet his eye; but he stole a
glance, swift enough to escape arrest, and yet deliberate enough to see
that the rabbi was still seated, just as before, in his chair; and then
he returned to his contemplation of the carpet. Yes, the silence was
exasperating, even unbearable. Why did he not say his say, scold, plead,
exhort, curse, empty the phials of his wrath, and have done with it?
Elias waited till his over-taxed nerves could endure the suspense no
longer; when, teeth gritted, tone defiant, “Redwood,” he repeated for a
third time. “Don't you hear?”

The rabbi vouchsafed no syllable in reply; but his lips curled in a
slight, enigmatic smile.

Again Elias found himself constrained to wait. He waited till the
silence had again grown insupportable. At length, springing to his feet,
“For God's sake,” he cried, “why--why don't you speak?”

“Speak?” echoed the rabbi, with the same inscrutable smile, and a
scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulders. “What is there to say?”

“Say--say any thing. I don't care what you say,” Elias cried
passionately. “Only, this silence--if you want to drive me crazy, keep
it up. It makes me feel as if--as if my head would burst open.” He
crushed his hands hard against his temples. “Go on. Speak. Curse me.
Any thing. Only, don't sit there that way, as though you had been struck
dumb.”

“Come, come, Elias! Stop your bellowing. Stop storming about like that.
Sit down--there, where you were before. Be quiet. Be rational. Then, if
you wish, we can talk.”

Elias dropped into his chair.

“I'm quiet. I'm rational,” he groaned. “Go ahead.”

“Well, really,” the rabbi submitted. “I don't see that there is much to
be said.”

“Not much to be said! For heaven's sake! Haven't you heard? Haven't you
understood? Haven't I told you that I am going to marry a Christian?”

“There's no need of screaming at me, Elias. Yes. I have understood.
When--when was it your intention that this marriage should take place?”

“To-morrow. It takes place to-morrow evening at half past eight
o'clock.”

“Indeed? So soon? Why have you waited so long about telling me? Or,
having waited so long, why did you tell me at all?”

“I don't know. Many reasons. I thought--”

“Oh, well, it doesn't matter. It makes no difference,” the rabbi
interrupted, and again relapsed into silence.

“Well?” ventured Elias, interrogatively.

“Well, what?” returned the rabbi.

“Well, why don't you go on? Finish what you've got to say?”

“I don't know that I have any thing more to say.”

“Any thing _more!_ You haven't said any thing at all, as yet.”

“Well, then, I don't know that I have any thing at all to say.”

“Good God!” Elias broke out furiously. “You--you'll--what is the matter
with you, any how? I tell you that I am going to marry a Christian; and
you--you sit there--like--like I don't know what--and answer that you
have nothing to say about it!”

“Precisely; because, indeed, I _have_ nothing to say about it--except
this, that the marriage will never take place. That's all.”

“Never take place! I give it up. What in reason's name do you mean?”

“I mean what I say.”

“That we--she and I--are--are not going to get married, after all?”

“Yes.”

“But haven't I told you that our marriage comes off to-morrow night?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Well, you have told me so; but you are mistaken.”

“Mistaken! I think you must have gone mad.”

“Not in the least. The marriage won't come off to-morrow night, nor any
other night.”

“I should like to know what's to prevent it.”

“It will be prevented.”

“I don't just see how.”

“Wait, and you _shall_ see.”

“By whom? By you, for example? If so, by what means?”

“Oh, no; not by me.”

“By whom, then?”

Elias put this question, smiling defiantly.

For a moment there was a deep stillness in the room, broken only by the
ticking of the clock. Then the rabbi rose to his feet, advanced close to
Elias, and stood facing him. With an expression of immense dignity upon
his white, delicately modeled features, quietly, gravely, in a tone of
serene conviction: “Elias,” he said, “by the Lord our God, the God of
Israel.”

Elias's smile died out. He recoiled with a start into his chair; and
for an instant all the blood left his lips. But then, with an attempt
at lightness which was somehow very unbecoming, “Oh, so? You mean,
I suppose, that the Lord will strike me dead--or afflict me with a
paralysis--or something of that kind--yes?”

Quite unscathed by his nephew's irony, slowly, seriously, without
raising his voice, “I mean, Elias,” the rabbi pursued, “that you had
better beware. You expected me--when, at midnight, you burst in here,
pale with guilt, and made the announcement that within twenty-four hours
you were going to transgress all the laws of our religion, by marrying a
woman who is not of our race or faith--you expected me--didn't you?--to
reason with you, to picture to you the awful consequences that must
follow upon such a sin, to plead with you in the name of your dead
father and mother, to entreat you, to endeavor in every possible way to
get you to give up your insane, suicidal idea. You expected me, as you
have said, to curse you; or, that failing, to fall upon my knees, and
beseech you.--Well, you see--and, to judge from your actions, you see
with some surprise, even with some disappointment--that I do none of
these things, that I do nothing of the kind. Why? Because, as I have
told you, the marriage you speak of will never take place. There is not
a single chance of its taking place--not any more chance of its taking
place, than there is of the sun's failing to rise to-morrow morning.
Neither I, nor any man, need raise a finger, need speak a word. The Lord
God of Israel, Elias Bacharach, has His eye upon you. He will prevent
this marriage from taking place. And all I say to you is--what I said at
the beginning--look out! Beware!”

The rabbi had spoken very earnestly, but very quietly, and without a
touch of excitement. Having concluded, he went back to his chair,
took off his spectacles, wiped their lenses with his handkerchief, and
unconcernedly replaced them upon the bridge of his nose.

Elias had sat still, nervously twitching his foot, and allowing his eyes
to roam vacantly about the room. Now, for a moment, he kept his peace.
Then, “You don't state the grounds for this singular and no doubt
comforting belief, nor do you specify the methods by which the Lord is
to accomplish the result. I should like to know, if it is the some to
you, just what to expect. Am I, as I suggested, to be incapacitated
bodily? By paralysis? By death? Or what?”

“I don't choose to state the grounds of my belief, Elias, nor to
specify in any respect, nor, indeed, to discuss the question at all with
you--especially when you see fit to adopt that insolent and blasphemous
tone of voice. I will simply repeat--what I hope you will reflect upon,
and take to heart--that you had best beware. Now I wish to be left
alone. I shall see you again in the morning. Good-night.”

Elias rose.

“Well, I'm glad you take the matter so easily, Uncle Felix; and since
you practically put me out, good-night.”




X.

AS he had done upon a former and slightly similar occasion, and as he
was wont to do whenever his spirits were in any degree perturbed, Elias
climbed up-stairs to his studio, and sat down at the window. All day
long the sun had shone bright and hot; but ever since dusk the sky had
been clouding over; and now, plainly, a thunder-storm was near at hand.
The atmosphere was thick, still, tepid. With increasing frequency,
shafts of jagged lightning tore their way through the clouds, and were
followed by long, sullen, distant rumblings, as of suppressed fury
somewhere. Suddenly a breeze sprang up, swelling quickly into a strong
wind. The air filled with dust. The branches of the trees, over in the
park, groaned aloud; and from here and there came the noise of banging
shutters, and of loose things generally being knocked about. The flames
in the street-lamps below flared violently. Some of them went out. Big
drops of lukewarm water began to fall, splashing audibly where they
struck. All at once, a blinding flash, a deafening peal of thunder, from
right overhead; and the rain came pouring down in torrents.

Now, of course, Elias Bacharach--he in whose soul the man had long since
worsted the Jew, and reason abolished superstition--of course, Elias
knew that what his uncle had said about the God of Israel interposing
to prevent his marriage, was the sheerest sort of rubbish. That the
old gentleman had spoken in good faith--that he really believed in the
validity of his own prophecies, and had not uttered them merely with
a view to working upon his hearer's imagination, and exciting his
fears--Elias could not doubt; for to resort to such strategy was not, he
conceived, in the character of the artless and simple-minded rabbi.
But that very good faith only proved him to be the victim of a most
preposterous delusion. For himself, Elias had no misgivings. As
confident as a mortal can be of any future event, in this world of
uncertainties, so confident was he that the morrow evening would make
of him and Christine man and wife. Of course, there was always the
unforeseen to be allowed for; accidents were always possible. But if he
had none but supermundane obstacles to dread, then he might regard his
marriage as already an accomplished fact. And, notwithstanding, Elias
felt very much disturbed--very much annoyed, mystified, and ill-at-ease.
All that the rabbi had said was stuff and nonsense, at absolute, obvious
variance with science, with simple common sense--fit material for
laughter, for a certain contemptuous pity; but, nevertheless, every
time that Elias recalled just _what_ the rabbi had said, and the rabbi's
manner of saying it, he felt a sharp, inward pang, very like terror; he
had to catch a quick, short breath; and he confessed to himself that
he would give a good deal to be enabled to get inside the rabbi's
consciousness, and learn the grounds on which he based his
extraordinary, but apparently secure, conviction, and find out exactly
what form of divine interference he anticipated. Despite his clear
perception of the rabbi's sophistry, he caught himself furtively
querying: “Can there be any thing in it?” Despite his assurance that
all would go well, he caught himself furtively wishing that all was well
over, and his marriage-certificate signed and sealed. “There is not a
single chance of its taking place--not any more chance of its taking
place than there is of the sun's failing to rise to-morrow morning.”
 That phrase stuck like a thorn in his mind, and produced a considerable
irritation.

This state of things, besides being intrinsically unpleasant, was
offensive to Elias's self-esteem. That he, at his age, in his stage
of enlightenment, should be unsettled by the senseless menaces of a
superstitious old bigot! Like a child frightened by its nurse's bugaboo.
And yet, there it was again, the sharp, internal twinge, so like the
sting of terror; and there again he fell to speculating upon what the
causes of the old man's singular belief could be.

He sat at his window, peered out into the night, and tried to think of
something else. He tried to think of Christine, tried to call up her
image, tried to live over again the evening that he had passed with her,
tried to picture to himself the happiness that the coming day held in
store. No use. “There is no more chance of its taking place, than there
is of the sun's failing to rise to-morrow morning.” The rabbi's voice
kept ringing in his ears, like a hateful tune that one has heard, and
can't get rid of. The painful emotions it awoke, kept rankling in his
bosom, and crowded out all the sweeter ones that sought to enter.
He could fix his mind permanently upon no subject but the rabbi's
irrational predictions. He tried to stir up a little interest in the
thunder-storm. There it was, raging furiously just outside his open
window; rain dashing earthward like a loosened flood; lightning-flash
following lightning-flash, and thunderclap thunder-clap, in rapid,
tumultuous, terrifying succession; enough, one would fancy, to arrest
and to appall the attention of any conscious being, human or even brute,
within the reach of sight or sound; but Elias's attention it held for
a moment only. Then his mind sped back to the subject which he was most
anxious to avoid. “Not a single chance--not any more chance than there
is of the sun's failing to rise!”

The clock of St. George's Church struck two. What was the rabbi doing
now? Elias wondered. Had he gone to bed? Or was he, perhaps, still down
stairs in his study?--praying, perhaps, that the Lord would in no wise
dishonor His servant's pledges. At this notion, Elias involuntarily
ground his teeth. “Praying for mischief!” he thought. “And what--what
if, after all, there should be some efficacy in that sort of
prayer!”--He remembered and rejoiced that he had told the rabbi nothing
further about Christine than her name--neither her father's name, nor
her place of abode. Otherwise, the rabbi might have deemed it his duty
to constitute himself heaven's instrument, and, by intimidating the
bride, have caused pain and trouble, if not, temporarily at least, have
prevented the wedding from proceeding. In his fanaticism, what might he
not be capable of doing?

The rain, beating upon the window-sill, spattered inward, wetting
Elias's clothing. When, by and by, he became aware that his coat-sleeve
had got soaked through, he left his seat, closed the window, and lighted
the gas.

His studio--in anticipation of his coming trip to Europe, and subsequent
change of residence--he had pretty well dismantled, having packed away
in dark closets and camphor-chests, the most part of such goods and
chattels as dust or moth can corrupt. Little, indeed, was left out, save
three or four chairs, a life-size lay-figure stripped of its draperies,
an easel or two, and a few time-blackened plaster casts fastened to
the wall. But over in one corner there was heaped up an assortment of
miscellaneous odds and ends, the accumulation of half a dozen years,
which, now, as his eye noted it, Elias remembered, he had meant to
overhaul, with a view to laying aside whatever he should think worth
keeping, and consigning the rest to the rag-and-bottle man. In the hurry
and excitement of the past few days, however, he had forgotten all about
it.

For a little while Elias stood still, blinking in the new-made
gas-light, and gazing rather vacantly at this old lumber-pile. Then,
suddenly, a gleam as of inspiration brightening his features, “What
time,” he asked himself, “could be better than the present? If I go to
bed, I shall only toss about, without sleeping; whereas, if I do this,
it will be an improvement upon sitting idle, and brooding, any how.”

With which, straightway, he whipped off his coat, drew up a chair, and,
not incurious as to what long-lost objects he might possibly unearth,
started upon the forgotten task.

Paint-rags, besmeared with a thousand colors; torn canvases, bearing
half-finished, half-begun, or half-obliterated studies; paint-tubes,
half-emptied, in which the remaining paint had congealed, or “fatted”;
worn-out brushes, broken palettes, shattered maul-sticks, fragments
of old casts and ornaments in plaster or terra-cotta; letters without
envelopes, envelopes without letters; newspapers, pamphlets, exhibition
catalogues, magazines, circulars, tailor's bills, cracked bottles,
cigarette-stumps, cast-off gloves, pocket handkerchiefs, cravats; all
sheeted over with fine, black dust, and all exhaling a musty, oily
odor; these were the elements that predominated, and most of these Elias
tossed pell-mell to the middle of the floor, for the maid to carry
away in the morning. To divert one's thoughts from some persistent and
exasperating topic, it is a commonplace, there is nothing like busying
one's fingers; manual exercise being the surest means to the end of
mental rest. Pretty soon Elias's late encounter with his uncle had
sunken out of mind--only occasionally, for brief intervals, to struggle
up, and agitate the surface--and agreeably interested in his present
occupation, he was whistling softly to himself, indifferent alike to the
perspiration that bathed his forehead, to the dust that penetrated his
nostrils, and to the dirt that took lodgment upon his hands.

Meanwhile, the thunder and lightning had ceased, and the rain had
settled into a steady drizzle.

Elias's first notable find was a pretty little gold lead-pencil, one,
he recognized, that had been sent him, as a present, on his twenty-first
birthday, by an aunt of his--his father's only sister--who lived in
New Orleans, and whom he had never seen. It had got lost, in a
most inexplicable manner, very-soon after its reception; and,
conscience-smitten, Elias now recollected how he had suspected, to the
degree of moral certainty, a poor devil of an Italian model of having
stolen it. Well, here it was, intact; and so, poor Archimede had been
innocent, after all.

Holding it in his hand, and examining it a little, before putting it
into his pocket, and going on with his work, Elias felt himself suddenly
carried backward, for an instant, to the period with which it was
associated. Talismanic pencil, that had power to raise the dead, and
annihilate the intervening years! There it lay, in shape, weight, color,
in length, breadth, thickness, in all its attributes and dimensions,
precisely the same as on that far-off birthday morning, when his mother,
to whose care his aunt had entrusted it, delivered it to him, neatly
boxed up in pasteboard, wrapped in tissue-paper, and sealed with red
sealing-wax. How well he remembered! It might have been last week. It
might almost have been yesterday. And yet, how much, indeed how much,
had happened since. At the breakfast-table, she had said, “Here, Elias,
here is something your Aunt Rachel has sent you--something that you will
prize especially, because she is not at all rich, and has doubtless had
to pinch and deny herself, in order to buy it.” Then she offered him
the parcel, which he, touched, surprised, expectant, took and opened,
finding within this same little pencil; and not it only, but wound
around it, a bit of writing in his Aunt Rachel's hand--the traditional
Hebrew _bensch_: “May the Lord make you to be great, like Ephraim and
Manasseh!” And immediately, of course, in his boyish enthusiasm, he had
set himself down, and put the pencil to its virgin use, by inditing with
it a glowing note of thanks--about the only use he ever had put it to,
for very soon afterward it disappeared. And then, the rest, the rest of
that wonderful, never-to-be-forgotten day! The pride and the triumph of
it! The masterpiece of a dinner that his mother had prepared. The check
for a dazzling sum of money, that he had found adroitly folded in
with his napkin! The toothsome nut-cake, with its twenty-one symbolic
candles! The wine that had been drunken to his health! The speech that
the rabbi had made, standing up at the head of the table, and haranguing
away as though he had had an audience of a thousand, instead of only
Elias and his mother--the mother, however, listening amid tears
and smiles, and applauding and nodding her head, as the splendid
achievements which the future was to behold at the hands of her son,
were prophetically described. The watch the rabbi had given him!--the
same that was ticking in his waistcoat-pocket at this very instant.
And the prayer that the rabbi had chanted! And how Elias himself, with
swelling heart, had joined in the invocation: “Holy, holy Lord, Thou
Who art one God!” and had vowed silently that, by the Lord's help, he
_would_ “strive to become good in the sight of men, and a pride unto his
people.” How well he remembered, thanks to this little pencil, precisely
the same now as then, quite unchanged. But oh, what a changed Elias, he
in whose palm it lay! How all the conditions of his life, and all his
interests and purposes in life, and all his convictions about life, had
changed since then! How little he had dreamed in those days of what was
coming! Strange, that he should have had no premonition of it. Strange,
that he should have gone on in peace and contentment, treading his level
path, forward, forward, unsuspectingly, and never have caught a glimpse,
never have got an inkling, of what was waiting for him, of what each
step was bringing him so much the nearer to, of what presently was to
burst upon him in a glory like that of heaven, and utterly revolutionize
himself and all his world. Strange, indeed! And yet, in those old,
simple, tranquil days, he had been happy, very happy, in a simple,
tranquil way; and now, as he looked back at them, they shone suffused in
a rose- enchantment; and he could feel his heart reach out toward
them, with a strong longing affection, which, though melancholy, was not
unmixed with sweetness.

Deep, engrossing, and of long duration, was the train of associations
that had thus been started. The church clock across the park rang the
half hour, before Elias finally roused himself, and renewed his attack
upon the lumber heap.

For a good while he struck nothing more of interest--nothing that he
cared to save, or even to look at twice. But by and by he fished out a
sketch-book, which, to judge from the dilapidated state of its binding,
must have been pretty old, and over which he paused, beating it against
the floor, to rid it of some of its dust, and then opening it, to
inspect its contents. On the fly-leaf he found his initials, “E. B.,”
 and a date, “January, 1876.” Listlessly turning the pages, he was
somewhat amused, and a good deal ashamed, to perceive how poor and crude
the drawings were--heads, for the most part, with only here and there
a full-length figure; and he congratulated himself not a little that he
had thus chanced to run across it, because now he could destroy it,
and so make sure that nobody else should ever have the satisfaction of
seeing what wretched stuff he had once been capable of perpetrating. He
supposed that the sketches had nearly all been intended as portraits,
but in the main he could not place them--could not remember the persons
who had served as models. One face kept repeating itself; there were as
many as a dozen separate studies of it; the face of a young man, aged,
presumably, nineteen or twenty years; strangely familiar; the face of
some one, beyond doubt, whom he must have known intimately; and yet,
knitting his brows, and exerting his memory to the utmost, he was quite
unable to recall the original. Odd; and intensely annoying, as baffled
memory is apt to be; until, of a sudden, with a thrill of recognition
that was by no means agreeable, he identified it as himself. A few pages
further along, again with a sudden thrill, but this time with a far
stronger and deeper one, he came upon a portrait of his mother. It was
badly drawn, finical, over-elaborated; the draperies rigid as iron;
the flesh wooden; the pose--she was seated, reading--awkward, and
anatomically impossible; and yet, spite of all, it was an excellent,
even a startling, likeness; and-happening upon it in this unexpected
manner, Elias felt a not unnatural heart-leap and quickening of the
pulse. When, or under what circumstances, he had made it, he could not
think. He bent forward in his chair, gazed intently at it, and tried
hard to recollect. If the date on the fly-leaf was trustworthy, it must,
of course, have been after the first of January, 1876; but in his own
memory, ransack it as he might, he could find no record; This struck him
as exceedingly singular; because, he believed, he had been careful to
preserve all the sketches of his mother that he had ever taken, even the
most primitive and rudimentary; and how this one could not only have
got mislaid, but entirely have escaped his mind, besides, he was at a
complete loss to understand. So bending forward, and gazing intently at
it, he tried his best to recollect.

Of what now befell, or seemed to befall, I shall give an account written
some two years later by Elias himself, in a letter to Christine:

“Gradually--as is apt to happen, if you fix your eyes for any length
of time upon a single spot in some small object--gradually the picture
blurred, becoming simply a formless smudge upon the white surface of
the paper; a lapse on the part of my eyesight, which I, absorbed in the
effort I was making to remember, did not attempt to correct, but which
in due time, as was natural, corrected itself; and again the picture
stood out as distinct as before. Now, however, at once, every other
thought and every other feeling were swept away, clean out of my head,
by a sensation--I shall not be able to define it; you will easily
conceive it; a sensation half of amazement, half of terror; for, without
having changed in size, the face seemed to have changed totally in
quality; it seemed to have ceased to be a face drawn with black lead
upon paper, and to have become a face in veritable flesh and blood. The
hair had apparently become hair. There was color in the cheeks. And the
eyes were liquid, living eyes. They--the eyes--were what most affected
me. Large, black, mournful, as her eyes had been in life, they looked
into my eyes with an expression--I can't describe it. It was what you
would call an expression of intense agony, and of appeal; as though it
were an agony of my causing, and one that she appealed to me to
relieve. The lips--bluish white, as her lips were, toward the end of her
life--the lips seemed to move, and kept moving, as if trying to speak,
but unable to; until at last _they succeeded_; and I could have vowed
that I heard, in her own recognizable voice, just a little above a
whisper, these words: 'There is no more chance of its taking place than
there is of the sun's failing to rise. Beware!'--the words that my
uncle had spoken down stairs. I was so much startled, so much terrified,
that I jumped up from my chair. Thereat, instantly, the illusion
ended. Again it was only a crude pencil drawing upon the page of my
sketch-book. I can't tell how long it had lasted. Very likely not longer
than two or three seconds, though it seemed at least as many minutes.
I don't think I had breathed once. I don't think my heart had given a
single beat. It had literally paralyzed me with fear.

“But now that it was over, I fell back upon my chair, and my heart began
to pound like a hammer against my side; and I sat there, panting and
perspiring, like a man exhausted by some tremendous physical exertion.
I felt sick and dizzy, and had a racking headache.--Of course, it was
a mere optical delusion; a mere hallucination; not an actual, objective
phenomenon, not a _ghost_; a mere projection from my own imagination. A
long time afterward I talked with a physician about it. The substance of
what he said was this: Consider the steadily increasing excitement
under which my mind had been laboring for many days, in view of our
approaching marriage; consider the interview that I had had with my
uncle, only an hour or two earlier, and the high pitch of agitation to
which it had wrought me up; consider that it was long past my customary
bedtime, and that my brain was irritated by lack of sleep, for I had
not slept much of any the night before; consider that my mother was
just then the one person uppermost in my thoughts, having been vividly
recalled to me first by the pencil I had found, and then by the drawing
that I was looking at; consider finally that my bodily posture--bending
over till my chest nearly touched my knees--was such as to keep the
blood pent up in my head; and the occurrence becomes very easily
explicable, especially so, as such hallucinations, when people are
excited, are not uncommon experiences. This is what the medical man
said. It is undoubtedly true; and something like it I had wit enough to
tell myself immediately, at the time. But telling did no good. It is one
thing to satisfy your judgment; another to tranquilize your feelings and
hush your imagination. _They_ choose to accept the direct testimony of
your eyes and ears, rather than the deductions of your common sense.

“I knew, as I have said, that my nerves had simply played me a trick;
but that knowledge did not prevent me from passing a most wretched,
uncomfortable night--the rest of that night, till day-break. The memory
of the thing persisted in haunting me, in spite of the efforts I made
to forget it. Strive as I might, I could not shake off the fear, the
uneasiness, that it had inspired. Thinking of it, even at this distance,
I still wince a little. It produced a very deep impression, and must
have been, I believe, in large part accountable for, as it was of a
piece with, what happened next day--or, rather, the evening of the same
day, for it was now early morning.”




XI.

ELIAS speaks of “day-break”; but it can not accurately be said that the
day broke at all that morning. The blackness of the night slowly
faded into a dismal, lifeless drab. It rained. The wind blew from the
north-east. Under it, the branches of the trees, across in the park,
swayed strenuously to and fro. The sparrows, with sadly bedraggled
plumage, huddled together upon the window-sills, and raised their voices
in noisy disputation, as if thereby seeking to screw their courage up,
and not mind the%sorry weather. The milkman's wagon came rattling down
the street. The milkman wore a rubber overcoat. His war-whoop sounded
less spirited, less defiant, than its wont.

By and by Elias looked at his watch. It was getting along toward seven
o'clock. Just then somebody rapped upon his studio door. Elias's
nerves must indeed have been in a bad way. He started, paled, trembled,
recovered himself, and called out, “Come in.”

It was the rabbi.

“Good morning, Elias,” the rabbi said.

“Good morning,” responded Elias, with a none too hospitable inflection.

“So, you haven't been abed? You've been sitting up all night?” the rabbi
questioned.

“How do you know that?” was Elias's counter-question.

“I looked for you in your bedroom, and saw that your bed had not been
slept in.”

“Oh.”

After a pause, “What have you been doing, up alone all night?” the rabbi
asked.

“Lots of things. A man on the eve of his marriage has plenty to do.”

The rabbi stood still for a little while, glancing around the room. Then
he sat down. At which, Elias rose.

“If you'll excuse me,” he said, “I'll go down stairs. I haven't taken my
bath yet.”

“Have you said your prayers yet?” inquired the rabbi.

But Elias was already beyond ear-shot in the hall.

When, perhaps a quarter hour later, Elias, emerging from his bath,
entered his bedroom, he discovered the rabbi established there at the
window.

Wheeling about, and facing his nephew, “You didn't answer my question,”
 the rabbi said.

“What question?”

“I asked whether you had said your prayers this morning.”

“Oh.”

“Well, have you?”

“No.”

“Perhaps lately you have got out of the habit of saying your
prayers--yes?”

Elias made no reply. He appeared not to have heard. He was busy
fastening the buttons into a shirt-bosom.

“I'll wait till you've finished dressing,” said the rabbi.

He went to the window, and stood looking out.

The rabbi's presence troubled Elias exceedingly. But, he thought,
considering every thing, the least he could do would be to put up with
it as graciously as possible and not grumble. “What do you want with
me, any how?” it was his impulse to demand. But he held his tongue, and
proceeded with his toilet.

When at last he had tied his cravat and buttoned his coat, “Are you
ready now to come down stairs with me?” the rabbi began.

“What for?”

“Several things. Are you ready? Will you come?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” Elias answered, and followed the old man from the
room.

To himself: “I don't care what he does or says. It may be annoying, but
it can't do any serious harm. To-day is the last day; and I'll let
him him have his own way in every thing, no matter how absurd and
exasperating it may be. I'll keep my temper and treat him respectfully,
no matter how hard he may try me.”

They had reached the front hall of the house. The rabbi put his hand
upon the knob of the front parlor door.

“Oh,” Elias exclaimed, drawing back, “are you going in there?”

“Yes.”

Calling to mind his resolution, Elias gulped down his unwillingness, and
said, “Oh, well; all right.” But it cost him an effort to do so.

Even during his mother's life-time, the front parlor had been but very
seldom used. Since her death, it had not been used at all. Indeed, since
the day of her funeral, now nearly three years gone by, Elias had not
crossed its threshold. The blinds and windows were kept permanently
closed, save when, once a week, the servants entered to sweep and dust.

Now the rabbi pushed open the door, and, stepping aside, signalled Elias
to pass in. Elias obeyed. The rabbi followed.

It was dark inside. Only a few pallid rays of daylight leaked through
at the edges of the curtains. The air was cold and at the same time
oppressive--laden with that stuffy, musty odor, which always pervades
an uninhabited, shut-up room. At first, Elias could scarcely see an
arm's-length before his face; but, as his eyesight gradually accustomed
itself to the obscurity, he was able to make out the forms of the
furniture, and to discern upon the walls sundry large black patches
which he knew to be pictures.

The rabbi struck a match.

“Take it,” he said to Elias, “and light the gas; I'm not tall enough.”

Elias did as he was bidden.

The gas-burner, from disuse, had got clogged with dust. It shot a long,
slim tongue of flame up into the air, and gave off a shrill, continuous
whistle. Every now and then the flame had a convulsion, the whistle
dropped a note or two; then both returned to their original conditions.

For a New York dwelling-house, it was a spacious room, this parlor;
say, in width twenty feet, by forty in depth. The chairs and sofas,
scrupulously wrapped in linen, were ranged along the walls. Over the
carpet, completely covering it, stretched a broad sheet of grayish
crash. The piano wore a rubber jacket, and had its legs swathed in
newspapers. The books in the bookcases--books of the decorative, rather
than of the readable order, for the most part--were locked up behind
glass doors. The tall mirror, between the windows, shone through a
veil of pink mosquito-netting. Supplies of the same material had been
stretched across all the pictures.

In front of one of these pictures--that which hung above the
mantel-piece--the rabbi now paused, and, raising his arm, pointed to it,
in silence.

It was the portrait of a gentleman, full length, life-size, done in
oils. The gentleman rested one hand upon a pile of ponderous, calf-bound
volumes--law-books, or medical works, they looked like--that towered
aloft from the floor. In his other hand, he held an unrolled scroll of
parchment, upon which big black Hebrew characters were inscribed.
Of artistic value the picture had little, or none at all; but it had
another sort of value: it was a portrait of Elias's father.

The rabbi pointed to it in silence. Elias thought the rabbi's proceeding
a little theatrical; but he made no comment.

By and by the rabbi lowered his arm, and faced about. Having done which,
he raised his other arm, and this time brought his index finger to bear
upon a portrait of Elias's mother.

Theatrical, certainly; disagreeably so, too; Elias thought.

At this point there befell an interruption which had somewhat the effect
of an anti-climax. The breakfast-bell rang.

“Well,” said the rabbi, “let's go to breakfast.”

Elias turned off the gas. They left the parlor, and went down stairs to
the dining-room.

There, having taken their places at the table, the rabbi extracted a
handkerchief from his pocket, and with it covered his head. Elias did
likewise. Whereupon the rabbi chanted the usual grace before meat. At
its conclusion, both he and Elias replaced their handkerchiefs in their
pockets, and the maid-servant brought the coffee.

For a while neither nephew nor uncle spoke.

At last, “What are you thinking about, Elias?” the rabbi asked.

“I was thinking, if you wish to know,” Elias answered, “of my great
happiness--of the fact that to-day the lady whom I love is to become my
wife.”

“Ah, so? It doesn't seem to improve your appetite,” returned the rabbi.
“You're not eating especially well.”

He made Elias the object of a curious, meditative glance; then pursued:
“Don't misunderstand me, Elias. It isn't at all my aim to dissuade you
from this marriage. That, as I told you last night, would be a work of
supererogation. But I _should_ like to ask you just a single question.
Suppose your mother were still alive, would you entertain for an instant
the idea of marrying a Christian?”

“I don't know?”

“You don't know?”

“Well, probably not.”

“Good. That is what I thought. And now, let me ask you one question
more. Is it your opinion that, simply because your mother has died, you
are absolved from all obligations toward her, and are at liberty to act
in a way, which, if she were still with us, it would break her heart to
have you act in? Is that your opinion?”

Elias did not reply. He  up, however, and bit his lip.

The rabbi waited a moment, then queried, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“You don't answer.”

“I don't mean to answer. It isn't a fair question,” said Elias.

The rabbi gave a short, contemptuous laugh.

Again for a while neither of them spoke. Elias was uncomfortably
conscious that the rabbi's eyes were fixed upon his face. He stood it as
long as he could. Then, abruptly, he got up.

“Please excuse me,” he said, “I have something to do up-stairs.”

With which he left the room.

He went to his studio and locked the door behind him. He had told the
rabbi that he had something to do. But the truth was that he had nothing
to do, except to kill time as best he could until the hour should arrive
for him to start for Sixty-third Street. He had arranged not to call
upon Christine at all that day. He thought it would be more considerate
to leave her alone with her father. Now, the day stretched out like an
eternity before his imagination. Would it ever wear away?

It occurred to him that it might not be a bad plan to get some sleep,
if he could; so he retired to his bedroom, and threw himself all dressed
upon his bed.

Pretty soon he heard a rap upon the door.

“Who is it?” he demanded.

“I,” the rabbi's voice responded. .

“He'll end by driving me mad,” thought Elias. “What do you want?” he
asked aloud.

“I want to see you.”

“Well, I'm busy.”

“I shan't interfere with your business.”

“I'm going to sleep.”

“I shan't prevent you from sleeping.”

Elias said nothing further. The rabbi came in. “I only wanted to sit
with you. It is better that I should be on hand,” explained the rabbi,
and sat down near the window.

Elias closed his eyes and tried hard to sleep. But he could not sleep.
It is doubtful whether, in view of his approaching wedding, he could
have slept, under the most soothing circumstances. Under the actual
circumstances, it was like trying to sleep while some one is sticking
pins into you. Elias strove to be philosophical. “Why should I allow his
mere presence to irritate me as it does?” he asked himself. Whatever the
correct answer to this inquiry may have been, the fact remained that the
rabbi's mere presence did irritate him to an excessive degree. He
bore it for a few minutes silently. At length, flinging his philosophy
overboard, he jumped up from his bed, and announced vehemently, “Well,
I'm going out.”

“Ah,” said the rabbi, quietly, “I'll go with you.”

“Thanks,” replied Elias, “but I prefer to go alone.”

“I'm sorry,” said the rabbi; “but it is my duty.”

“What's your duty?”

“It is my duty not to let you leave my sight today.”

At this Elias lost his self-control.

“In heaven's name,” he blurted out, “do--do you mean to say that you're
going to stick to me like this all day?”

“I should fail in my duty toward you, if I did not.”

“Well then, do you--do you know what you'll do?” cried Elias, in a loud,
infuriated voice.

“No; what?” questioned the rabbi, composedly.

“Good God! You--you'll drive me out of my senses. You make me feel as
though my head would split open. You--you--” His voice choked in his
throat. His face had become burning red.

“Look out,” said the rabbi. “You'll burst a blood-vessel, if you carry
on like that.”

“Well, then, for mercy's sake, leave me alone. Go down stairs about your
business. Leave me here to attend to mine.”

The rabbi did not speak. He made no move to obey.

“Don't you hear?” Elias cried.

“Yes.”

“Well, why don't you go?”

“I have told you. It is my duty to stay.”

“God help me, if you weren't an old man, and my uncle, I--I'd--” Elias
faltered. His clenched fists completed the sentence.

“Put me out? But I _am_ an old man, and your uncle; and so you won't,
eh?” rejoined the rabbi, with maddening coolness.

“You must forgive me,” said Elias, recovering a little his
self-possession. “I ought not to have threatened you. I didn't mean to.
But you don't know how you make me suffer. You don't know what torture
it is.”

“Oh, that's all right. You needn't apologize,” the rabbi said.

“But what I ask,” Elias went on, “I ask as a kindness, please leave me
alone.”

“That,” returned the rabbi, “is a request which I am compelled to deny.”

Elias stood still for an instant, as if undetermined what to do. He
felt the blood rush angrily to his brain, and then sink away, leaving a
violent ache behind it. “Well, I suppose I'll have to grin and bear it,
then,” he said by and by, and dropped upon a chair.

After an interval of silence Elias began, with sufficient coolness,
“Would you mind telling me _why_ you consider it your duty to remain
with me all day?”

“It is my duty to be on hand, to be at your side, when the moment of
your need shall arrive. It may be any moment now.”

“Of my need? I don't understand.”

“When the Lord manifests Himself,” the rabbi explained.

“Oh,” said Elias, and relapsed into silence. He added presently, “I'm
going down stairs, to get a glass of water,” and rose.

“You'll come back?” questioned the rabbi, “Yes, I suppose so.”

But when he had reached the foot of the staircase, and saw his hat
hanging from the rack near the vestibule door, a temptation presented
itself which was too strong for flesh and blood to resist. He caught his
hat up, and put it upon his head, and dashed out into the street. It
was raining. He had no umbrella. But he did not mind. He walked rapidly,
without an objective point, without even noticing what direction he
followed.




XII

AT first, as might have been expected, Elias's sensation was simply
one of immense relief--relief to have got clear of the house, to have
escaped the forced companionship of his uncle. But, of course, the
inherent elasticity of healthy human nature was bound ere long to assert
itself. There was bound to ensue not relief only, but reaction. A weight
had been lifted from off his spirits; they, compliant to the law of
their being, rebounded--sprang up far above their ordinary level. From
unwonted depression, his mood leaped to unwonted exaltation. It seemed
as though a great billow of happiness broke over him, and sent a glow
of delicious warmth penetrating to the innermost fibers of his
consciousness. A flood of jubilant thoughts broke loose in his brain,
and swept away the last vestige of disquiet that had been lurking there.
Forgotten were the pains and fears of the night; sunken quite out of
mind, the exasperation and the anger of the past few hours. The love of
Christine burned hot in his heart. The realization that this very night
she was to become his bride, his wife, radiated like a light through his
senses. So intense, indeed, was his thought of her, that he could all
but see her in visible shape before him, smiling upon him through her
bright brown eyes, offering him her sweet red lips to kiss. He could
all but feel the warmth and softness of her hand in his, and breathe
the dainty perfume which, flowerlike, she shed upon the air that circled
round her. His joy lent lightness to his footstep. If he had worn the
winged sandals of Mercury, he could not have marched along with greater
buoyancy or speed. It sharpened all his faculties for pleasure, and
deadened all his sensibilities to discomfort, like rich, strong wine.
The rain, beating through his clothing, and wetting his skin--that was
a pleasure. The wind, blowing in his face, brisk and cold--that was a
pleasure. It was a pleasure to tread the soppy, slippery sidewalk,
a pleasure to gaze down the long, dark vistas of the streets. The
atmosphere, rain-cleansed, had a fresh, invigorating smell.

He wanted very much to go and see his ladylove, but he debated with
himself whether he had better. In the first place, it seemed only right
and delicate not to intrude upon the privacy of father and daughter this
last day. It seemed as though he owed this much to Redwood. But then,
too, as she did not expect him, he would have to explain the reasons for
his coming; and he was loth to tell her the story of what had happened
since their leave-taking of last night. It would distress and worry her;
and would it not, also, reveal a certain weakness, at least a too
great impressionability, in himself? Besides, to descend to minor
considerations, with garments dripping wet, he was in no fit state to
present himself before her. He would be sure to excite her apprehension
lest he had caught a cold. Excellent arguments against yielding to his
inclination, unquestionably; notwithstanding which, however, and even
while his brain was busy formulating them, his muscles of locomotion,
controlled by his unconscious will, were bearing him steadily and
rapidly toward the quarter of the city in which Christine lived. And by
and by, with a good deal of surprise, he found that he had arrived
at the corner of Eighth Avenue and Sixty-third Street, and was within
eye-shot of Redwood's door.

Here he halted. The arguments against proceeding pressed upon him with
renewed force. He cast a longing glance over at the house, swallowed his
desire, right-about faced, and walked away.

A few strides brought him to the edge of Central Park. He turned in. The
park, of course, was deserted. A single moist and melancholy policeman
kept guard at the gate. His features betokened a gloomy, phlegmatic
wonder, as Elias, without an umbrella, passed him by.

The air in the park bore a racy, earthy odor, brought out by the rain.
The young leaves of the trees, pale green, fluttered in bright contrast
against the background of dull gray cloud. The greensward had profited
by its bath, and gleamed with a silken luster. It was very quiet. The
pattering of the rain-drops, the rustling of the foliage in the wind,
and now and then the note of a venturesome bird, were the only sounds.
Of town noises, there were none. New York might have lain a hundred
leagues away. All of which Elias, as he trudged along, was dimly but
agreeably aware of. It had cost him dear to give up his wish to see
his sweetheart; and now he was seeking consolation among these leafy
pathways, where he and she had so often sauntered side by side, and
where every thing vividly recalled her. Ere a great while he had reached
that pine-topped rock which had been their habitual resting-place, and
was to be--! He climbed to the summit of it. He had never before been
here without her. His heart throbbed hard, so strong and so sweet were
the memories that thronged upon him.

But, standing still, he pretty soon began to realize that a wet skin is
not after all an unmitigated luxury. He began to feel cold. It occurred
to him for the first time that he had perhaps been imprudent, that at
any rate he had better go home now, and get into dry clothes. Yet, if
he went home, he would have to meet the rabbi again; and, by the by,
the rabbi doubtless supposed that he had deliberately deceived him--had
slipped out of the room on the pretext of wanting a glass of water, with
the deliberate intention of not coming back. But during his outing he
had gained considerable fortitude; his repugnance for the notion of the
rabbi's society had abated a good deal; and, looking forward, he thought
that he should not find it half so objectionable as he had done a while
ago. For the matter of deception, the rabbi was at liberty to believe
whatever he chose. Such deception would have been justifiable, any
how--would have been practiced in self-defense.

He looked at his watch, and saw with astonishment that it was three
o'clock. He had taken no note of time, but he was surprised to learn
that so much had glided by. He would have to go home, any way, before
long now, to make ready for the evening. Without further delay, he
turned his face toward the outlet of the park, and marched off at a
rapid gait.

He let himself into the house as noiselessly as he could, mounted
directly to his bedroom, shot the bolt, and at once set about changing
his clothes. But in a very few minutes there came a tap at the door.
He knew perfectly well who it was: nevertheless, he called out, “Who's
there?”

“I,” answered the rabbi.

“Well, what do you want?”

“I want to see you, You know what I want.”

“Well, I can't let you in just now. I'm undressed.”

“That makes no difference. I sha'n't mind that.”

“Oh, but I should mind it.”

The rabbi remained silent for a moment; then, “Do you think it was
exactly honorable, the way you acted?” he inquired.

“What way?”

“Telling me an untruth, and then stealing out of the house?”

“I didn't mean to tell you an untruth. It was an inspiration, after I
had left you. Any how, all's fair in love and war, you know.”

Elias chuckled softly to himself.

“What are you laughing at?” the rabbi asked. “I'm not laughing.”

“Well, nothing has happened? You're all right?”

“Yes; I haven't been struck by lightning yet.”

“Don't talk like that, Elias. It's blasphemous.” Elias made no answer.

Presently the rabbi said, “Well, aren't you ready to let me in yet?”

“No.”

“How soon will you be?”

“I don't know.”

“Five minutes?”

“No, I guess not. I guess not at all.”

“Why not?”

“Because, frankly, your presence is irksome to me.”

“How so?”

“Oh, I can't analyze it. You make me feel uncomfortable. Put yourself in
my place, and you'll understand.”

“You're mistaken, Elias. It isn't I that makes you feel uncomfortable.”

“Who, then?”

“Nobody. It's your guilty conscience.”

“So? My guilty conscience doesn't trouble me much, when you're not
around.”

“How about last night?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, it kept you awake all night, didn't it?”

“Oh.”

“Well, didn't it?”

“Gammon. I was busy, making my preparations for this evening.”

“Oh, that reminds me. At what time is it your intention to start?”

“Start?”

“Yes, for the place of the wedding.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“So as to be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To start with you.”

“Good heavens! You don't mean to say that you expect to go with me to
the wedding?”

“Certainly.”

“O, well, really, I can't let you.”

“Why not?”

“I can't let you make a scene there. You may plague _me_ as much as you
like. But I can't have any disturbance at the wedding.”

“You ought to know me well enough not to fear my making a disturbance.
I'm not in the habit of making disturbances.”

“Well, then, what do you want to go for?”

“Simply to be there.”

“But I thought--I thought my own going was to be prevented.”

“Oh, no, I never said that. You may be suffered to _go_. It is the
performance of the wedding ceremony that will be prevented.”

“Oh, then you think the 'moment of my need' has been put off a little?”

“I don't know. I say, you may be permitted to continue straight up
to the brink, but before the marriage is consummated, the Lord will
interfere.”

“His confidence is weakening,” thought Elias, and held his tongue.

“Well?” questioned the rabbi.

“Well, what?”

“At what hour shall I be ready?”

“You promise not to make a row?”

“You needn't be afraid.”

“And to conduct yourself exactly as though you were an ordinary guest?”

“I generally conduct myself as a gentleman, don't I?”

“Well, then, I mean to leave here at a quarter before eight.”

“All right,” said the rabbi; “and now it is a quarter after four. Since
you refuse to let me in, I'll go and sit in my own bedroom. I might
catch cold, standing here in the hall. Call me if any thing should
happen.”

For the sake of killing time, Elias dawdled as long as he could over
his toilet. When, at length, it was completed, he picked up a book, and,
seating himself at the window, tried to read. But it was no use. His
mind wandered. The thought of his wedding was the only thought that he
could keep fast hold of. He was very much excited and very impatient.
He wished heartily that it was over and done with, and thus all room for
doubt or accident excluded. He wondered how he would manage to survive
the remaining hours. What a pity that he had not left something till
the last moment to be attended to. Then he would have had an occupation.
But, unfortunately, every arrangement was complete. He had packed
all his trunks, and sent them off to the steamer. A shawl-strap and
a hand-satchel were the only luggage not thus disposed of; and these,
also, were packed and locked. Well, he must busy himself with something;
and so by and by he proceeded slowly to unpack the hand-satchel, and
thereupon forthwith to pack it over again. He had about finished, when
the dinner-bell rang. That meant half-past six.

The dinner-bell sounded musically in Elias's ears, partly because
he thought that he was hungry, chiefly because the process of dining
would consume a certain quantity of time.

He found the rabbi already established at the table. He observed, with
a half contemptuous, half annoyed, sense of its childishness, that the
rabbi had discarded his customary white cravat for a black one--a thing
which he never did except when he had a funeral to conduct.

The two men covered their heads. The rabbi intoned his grace. The
servant brought in the eatables. Elias asked her to go out to the
livery-stable, and order a carriage for a quarter to eight. She had been
employed in the Bacharach household as long as Elias could remember,
this servant, Maggie. Now she felt entitled to display a little friendly
curiosity.

“Excuse me,” said she, “for asking; but is it true, Mr. Elias, that
you're going to get married to-night?”

Elias was about to answer, when the rabbi interposed:

“Who has been putting such a notion into your head? Of course, it isn't
true. When Mr. Elias gets married, you shall be invited to the wedding,
Maggie.”

Elias did not care to join his uncle in debate. Maggie went off upon her
errand. They dined without speaking. The gentle clink of their knives
and forks sounded painfully distinct.

Elias's excitement, his nervousness, his impatience, were constantly
becoming more intense. At every unexpected noise, no matter how slight
or how commonplace, at every footstep in the hall, at every clatter of
dishes in the kitchen, at every gust of wind upon the window-pane, he
started and caught his breath. He felt his heart alternately growing hot
and cold. Now it would leap with joy, at the thought of what was so near
at hand; now it would cease beating, in spasmodic terror of some unknown
calamity. It began to gallop tempestuously, when at last Elias heard the
carriage rattle up, and stop before the house. “Oh,” he told himself,
“it's only the way any man in my place would feel. One doesn't get
married every day in the week.” His cheeks burned. His mouth was dry and
feverish. His hands gave off a cold perspiration, and they shook like
those of an old man.

The rabbi entered the carriage. Elias, having instructed the coachman
where to drive, followed. The carriage moved off.

“At a church?” questioned the rabbi.

“No; at their house,” replied Elias.

“A large affair? Many guests?”

“Very few. Perhaps twenty-five or thirty. Their friends.”

“That's good. It would be a pity to have a crowd.”

After which both held their peace. Elias leaned back in his seat, and
looked out of the window.

Now, not only his hands, but all his limbs, were trembling, quaking, as
if he had the ague. He gritted his teeth firmly together to keep them
from chattering. In his breast he was conscious of a vague, palpitating
pain, very like extreme fear. He tried hard, but vainly, to exercise
his will and his intelligence. In his brain all was bewilderment and
confusion. Mechanically, he repeated to himself, “It is as every man in
my place would feel.” But he did not believe it. His condition mystified
him completely. He was suffering miserably. One thought alone rode
clear above the mental hurricane: “Thank God, it will soon be over.”
 Meanwhile, in a dull, sick way, he was looking out of the window,
and observing the progress of the carriage. Onward, onward, they
were jolting, through the wet streets, where the sidewalks, like inky
mirrors, gave back distorted images of the street lamps; past blazing
shop-fronts, past jingling horse-cars, past solitary foot-passengers;
ever nearer and nearer to their destination; and that sinking in his
breast, and that uproar in his brain, ever growing more marked, more
painful, more perplexing. A happy bridegroom driving to his wedding!
More like a doomed criminal driving to the place of expiation. Presently
they reached the great circle at the junction of Fifty-ninth Street
and Eighth Avenue. Elias drew a long, deep breath, clenched his fists,
straightened up, by a huge effort mustered a little self-possession, and
announced faintly, “Well, we're almost there.” To his bewildered senses,
his own voice sounded unfamiliar and far away.

A few seconds of acute suspense, and the carriage came to a stand-still
in front of Redwood's door.

“Well,” began the rabbi, as Elias made no movement, “is this the house?”

“Yes.”

“Well, sha'n't we get out?”

“Yes, of course. But first, let me tell you. You go right into the
parlor--at the left as we enter. I'll go straight up-stairs. For God's
sake, remember your promise. Don't--don't make any disturbance here.”

They got out of the carriage, and climbed the stoop, over which an
awning had been erected. The door was opened by a <DW64>, in dress-suit
and white gloves. The rabbi, pursuant to Elias's request, turned at
once into the parlor, where already a half-dozen early arrivals were
assembled. Elias, bearing the rabbi's hat and overcoat, hurried up the
staircase to the room that had been set apart for him. There, having
slammed the door behind him, he flung himself into an easy-chair, took
his head between his hands, closed his eyes, and strove with might and
main to summon a little strength, a little composure.

“There is no more chance of its taking place, than there is of the sun's
failing to rise to-morrow morning”--that phrase had begun again to ring
hideously in his ears.

Pretty soon he became aware that he was no longer alone. Somebody had
entered the room, and was speaking to him. He looked up. Dazed and
dizzy, as if through a veil, he saw old Redwood standing before him.

“Did you speak? What did you say?” he asked.

“I said how-d'ye-do,” answered Redwood. “You look sort of rattled.
What's the matter with you?”

“Oh, nothing. I'm very well, thank you. How--where is Christine?”

“Oh, she's busy making her toilet--she and her friends. They've been at
it pretty much all the afternoon. But, I say, brace up. Would you like
something to drink?”

“No. Much obliged, but I--I'm all right. Only a little excited you
know.”

“And, by the way, who was that old party that came in with ye--black and
white?”

“Black and white?”

“Yes--black hair, white face--black tie, white collar--looks like a
parson, and like an Israelite, at the same time.”

“Oh, that's my uncle--Dr. Gedaza.”

“You don't say so! So he's come around, has he? Relented, and got
reconciled? Well, I must go down stairs, and clasp his fist.”

“No; don't please. That is, I wouldn't if I were you. Better let him
alone,” said Elias.

“Why, man alive, why not? Mustn't I do the honors of the house?”

“Yes; but he--he's sort of eccentric. I wouldn't pay any attention to
him. It might get him started, you understand.”

“Oh, well, you know him, I suppose; and if you say so, all right. But it
don't seem just the thing not to bid him welcome. You'll have to excuse
me, any how, now. The guests are arriving right along, and I must be on
deck to receive 'em.”

Old Redwood departed. Elias felt rather better--less feverish and
excited, but somewhat dull and weak.

In a few minutes Redwood reappeared.

“Come,” he cried. “Chris is ready--waiting for ye.”

Elias's heart bounding fiercely, he rose, and followed the old man
through the hall into the front room. Christine advanced to meet him, a
vision of dazzling whiteness. “Oh, I'm so afraid,” she whispered, as he
folded her in his arms. Then, after he had released her, “Here, dear,”
 she said, and plucked a rosebud from her bouquet, and pinned it into his
button-hole. Her fingers trembled. A truant wisp of golden hair lightly
brushed his cheek.

“Now, children,” said old Redwood, “you understand the programme, do
ye? I go in first, and stand up alongside the parson. You follow about
a minute after, Christine leaning on Elias's left arm. Now the sooner
you're ready the better. Shall I start?”

“Yes,” they answered.

He kissed his daughter, wrung Elias's hand, and left the room.

*****

The clergyman stood between the front parlor windows. At a distance of
two or three yards, the guests formed an irregular horse-shoe. There
were a few young girls in bright colors, a few young men in white
waistcoats and swallow-tails. The rest were elderly folk, the women
in black silks, the men in black frock-coats. A goodly quantity of cut
flowers, distributed about the room, refreshed the hot, close air.

There was a low buzz of conversation--which, however, abruptly subsided,
as the door opened, and old Redwood marched gravely up, and took his
position at the clergyman's right hand.

The inevitable hush of expectancy. All eyes focused upon the door.
Through which, next instant, entered the bridal couple, and walked
slowly forward to where they were awaited.

“Dearly beloved,” solemnly began the minister, “we are gathered together
here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join
together this man and this woman in holy matrimony”--and continued to
the end of his preliminary address.

After a brief pause, he proceeded: “Elias, wilt thou have this woman,
Christine, to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in
the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and
keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking al! others, keep
thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”--and again paused,
waiting for Elias to respond.

A crimson flush suffused Elias's face, then, in an instant, faded to an
intense waxen pallor. A film, a glassiness, appeared to form over the
pupils of his eyes. His lips parted and twisted convulsively, writhing,
as if in a desperate struggle to shape the expected words. Suddenly he
threw his arm up into the air; a stifled, broken groan burst from his
throat; he fell backward, head foremost, full length upon the floor, and
lay there rigid, lifeless.

For a moment a breathless, startled stillness among the people. Then a
quick outbreak of voices, and an eager pressing forward toward the spot
where Elias had fallen.

Christine for a breathing-space remained motionless, aghast. All
at once, “Oh, my God! He is dead--_dead!_” she cried, an agonized,
heart-piercing cry, and sank upon her knees beside him, and flung
herself sobbing upon his breast.

Parrot-like, the guests caught up her cry, and repeated it in low, awed
tones among themselves: “He is dead. He has dropped down dead.”

The poor minister looked very badly scared, and as though he felt it
incumbent upon him to say or to do something, without knowing what.

At first old Redwood himself had started back, completely staggered. But
he very speedily recovered his presence of mind.

“Oh, no, he ain't dead either,” he called out.

“He's got a fit or something. Hey, Dr. Whipple, down there! Come up
here--will ye?--and see what ye can do.”

The person thus appealed to, a tall old gentleman, with iron-gray hair,
had gradually been elbowing his way to the front; and before Redwood
had fairly spoken his last word, was bending over Elias, and gazing
curiously at his face.

Close upon the doctor's heels came the rabbi. The rabbi's countenance
wore a strangely inappropriate smile--one would have said, a smile of
satisfaction.

“Well, doctor?” questioned Redwood.

“Oh, doctor, doctor,” cried Christine, looking up through her tears,
“is--is he--?”

“No, no, my child,” answered the doctor, kindly. “He'll be as well as
ever in an hour or two--only a bit head-achey and shaken up. There's no
occasion for any alarm at all.” Turning to Redwood: “It's epilepsy. Does
he have these attacks often?”

“I'm blamed if I knew he had them at all,” said Redwood. “How is it
about that?” he asked, addressing the rabbi.

“He has never been troubled this way before,” the rabbi replied.

“Perhaps it's in his family?” questioned the doctor.

“Perhaps. I don't know,” the rabbi answered, though he did know
perfectly well that Elias's father had died in an epileptic fit; a fact,
by the way, of which Elias himself was ignorant.

“Brought on, then, by nervous excitement, worry, loss of sleep, or
what not, I suppose. It will be interesting to note whether he ever has
another,” the medical man concluded.

Christine, upon receiving the doctor's assurance that her lover was
in no danger of death, had begun anew to sob upon his breast, more
violently, if possible, than at first.

The clergyman had retired to the back parlor, and was discoursing of the
mishap to a bevy of gaping guests.

“He turned as red, madam, as red as a beet,” the clergyman declared,
“and then as white--as white as your handkerchief, and frothed at the
mouth. I never saw a person turn so white--positively livid. Conceive
my feelings. I was really very much pained, and very apprehensive. I
thought certainly that it was heart-disease, and that he was about to
breathe his last. I can't tell you how distressing it is, to have such
a thing occur in the midst of such a joyful occasion. It has given my
nerves a most serious shock.”

His auditors murmured sympathetically.

“Well, doctor, what's to be done? Can you fetch him around?” Redwood
asked.

“Oh,” the doctor said, “he'll come around naturally in a little
while--an hour or two, at the furthest. I think that we had better carry
him to another room, where it will be quieter and cooler and away from
the people.”

“No,” put in the rabbi; “if you will help me get him into the carriage,
I'll take him home.”

“Why,” exclaimed Redwood, “if you do that we'll have to postpone the
wedding.”

“Yes, I shouldn't wonder,” concurred the rabbi.

“But then--there'll be the very deuce to pay. Here are these guests
assembled, and supper prepared, and their passage engaged on to-morrow's
steamer, and their trunks gone aboard, by George, and every thing
in apple-pie order; and take it all around, you couldn't make a more
awkward proposition.”

“Add to which,” interposed the medical man, “that in his present
condition, a carriage-drive, and the jolting up which it would involve,
are just the things that might do him the most injury.”

“I'm sorry,” the rabbi said; “but being his only relative here, I feel
myself responsible for him, and must act as my own judgment directs. I
shall thank you, therefore, if you will assist me in carrying him to our
carriage.”

“I'll be hanged,” cried Redwood, “if I think it's decent for you to step
in here, and knock all our plans into a cocked hat, like that. And, any
how, didn't you hear the doctor say that a carriage drive would hurt
him?”

“And yet,” volunteered the doctor, “if the gentleman insists, Mr.
Redwood, it will be wiser to let him have his own way. A dispute, you
know, under the circumstances, is hardly desirable.”

“I do insist. I feel in duty bound to,” said the rabbi.

“Well, you've got a mighty queer sense of duty, then,” retorted Redwood;
“and you can bet your life that when Elias comes to, he'll be as mad
as jingo. But if you choose to take the responsibility on your own
shoulders, go ahead.”

When Christine saw that they were about to bear Elias from the room, she
demanded eagerly, almost fiercely, whither? And upon being informed that
the rabbi meant to carry him home, she passionately besought the old man
not to do it; imploring him to let her sweetheart remain where he was,
at least till he should have regained his senses; and pleading that
until then she could not help fearing the worst.

“Oh, sir--please--_please_ don't take him away from me. How shall I
rest, until he has come to, and spoken to me? Oh, I can't--I can't
_bear_ to have you take him away, like that. If you would-only leave him
till he can speak to me! What shall I do, all night long, not knowing
whether he is sick--or dead--or what, and--and always seeing him before
me, that way? Oh, there, there! They are taking him away. Oh, Elias! Oh,
sir! Oh, God, God! Oh, what shall I do?”

She might as well have addressed her entreaties to a stone. Neither
by gesture, nor by word of mouth, nor by variation of feature, did the
rabbi signify that he had even heard her voice, or was even aware of her
existence. The carriage drove away, leaving Christine in a paroxysm of
frantic grief.

“Well,” remarked old Redwood to Dr. Whipple, “I've heard tell of bowels
of mercy; but actually, that old Hebrew there, he must have bowels of
brass.”




XIII.

SLOWLY recovering his senses, the first thing that Elias became
conscious of, was a racking headache. By and by he opened his eyes, and
glanced around. Vaguely, as if half waking, half dreaming, he saw that
he was lying fully dressed upon his own bed in his own bed-chamber. The
gas was turned down low. By fits and starts a puff of fresh, cool air
blew through the open window, making the curtain flap noisily, and the
gas-flame flicker. Nobody else was in the room. Pretty soon he closed
his eyes again, and again for a while was aware only of that desperate
pain in the head.

But by degrees a certain sluggish perplexity began to assert itself, a
certain dull surprise and curiosity.

“There is something strange--something I don't understand. How do I come
to be here? Have I been asleep and dreaming? Or is it true that a little
while ago I was somewhere else? Where? I was doing something--something
important--something that somebody else was doing with me. What? And
then something happened. And--and now, here I am, lying here as though
I had just waked out of a sleep, but all dressed, and with such, with
_such_ a headache---- Let me think.”

He tried hard to think; but in his mind all was impenetrable darkness,
through which his thought groped at random, catching no gleam to follow;
until of a sudden, a swift, intense lightning-flash of memory; and in an
instant of supreme horror--with a mental recoil that communicated itself
to his body, and made it start convulsively--he beheld what he supposed
to be the appalling truth. Upon that lightning-flash, succeeded a very
thunderstorm confusion in his brain.

“Oh, God!” he cried; and again and again, “Oh, God!”

Just what was it that he remembered?

“I remembered,” says he, in another part of that letter from which an
excerpt was printed in Chapter X., “I remembered every thing down to
the moment of my falling, with unaccustomed vividness and detail. I
remembered our entering the parlor--you trembling upon my arm!--and
running the gauntlet of the guests, and coming to a stand-still before
the clergyman. I remembered the address that he had made; and how
you had listened, with downcast eyes and blushing cheeks; and how I
had--well, scarcely listened--but waited till he should finish, with
eyes fastened upon your face, and heart beating hard for happiness.

“I remembered his asking, 'Wilt thou take this woman, Christine, to thy
wedded wife?' and the glow of joy and pride and triumph, with which I
prepared to answer. I remembered that then, just as I was opening my
lips to speak, it seemed as though suddenly a dazzling disk of light
rose before my eyes, changing color in rapid pulsations from white
through yellow to scarlet; a sudden, tingling pain, like a powerful
electric current, starting in the back of my head, shot through my
body; a hard, sharp lump stuck in my throat; I felt that I was losing my
ability to stand upright. I tried with might and main to keep my
feet, and to speak the two necessary words. But I could not. My limbs
contracted spasmodically. I heard a sharp explosion, like the report of
a pistol, which sounded and felt as though somehow it came from within
my own head. I cried out. I believed that I was surely dying. There was
a second of immense agony--fear of death. I fell. Up to that point, I
remembered every thing perfectly. But _at_ that point, my memory broke
short off.”

And remembering these things in this way, what did he conclude?
He jumped to a conclusion which was most unwarrantable and most
deplora-able, but which, considering all the circumstances, considering
the fact that he was a Jew, born a Jew, bred a Jew, and the fact that
for countless generations his ancestors upon every side had been Jews of
the Jews, can scarcely be regarded as unnatural. He concluded that what
the rabbi had prophesied had come to pass. He concluded that the God of
Israel had indeed interfered.

The wild, black chaos, into which this conclusion hurled all his
faculties, all his ideas, all his emotions, who shall describe? Was it
not unspeakable even to himself? With horror-struck soul, the horror
quivering through every atom and fiber of his being, he could only lie
there upon his bed, shuddering, and moaning out, “Oh, God! oh, God! oh,
God!”

In wonder-tales and mystical romances, we are accustomed to see the
supernatural dealt with composedly enough. Surprise, amazement even,
it may inspire in the fictitious personages confronted by it. But when,
outside of literature, in what we call real life, a man of ordinary
sensitiveness persuades himself that he has felt the contact of that
awful, questionable Something which lies beyond the limits of common
experience, his revulsion of feeling does not stop at amazement or
surprise. All his theories and principles of life, tacit, unconscious
perhaps, though many of them may be, are shaken from their foundations,
disorganized, thrown into confusion; and his predominant sensation, we
may be sure, is one of blood-curdling, panic horror. Such, at least, was
the truth with Elias. His heart seemed to have frozen in his bosom; and
he was sick with fear from head to foot.

Presently--how long after his recovery, he could not have told--he felt
the touch of a cool hand upon his forehead, and heard the voice of his
uncle low and gentle, say, “Elias, my poor boy, are you suffering? Are
you in pain?”

He looked up into his uncle's face.

“Oh, thank God!” he cried. “Thank God, that you have come! Stay with me.
Turn up the gas. I want light--plenty of light. Turn it up full head.
There--that's right. Now, sit down--here--near me. Don't leave me alone.
For God's sake, don't leave me alone. Oh, it is good, so good, to have
somebody with me. It was horrible to be all alone.”

The rabbi drew a chair up to Elias's bedside, and seated himself there.

“If you could go to sleep, Elias,” he said, “it would be the best thing
for you.”

“If I could go to sleep!” Elias laughed a harsh, unmirthful laugh. “If I
could go to sleep! That's good!” Then, loudly, passionately: “How shall
I ever go to sleep again? Are you crazy, to talk to me of sleep! Don't
you know what has happened? Oh, my God, my God! And he talks to me of
sleep! _Sleep!_ Man alive, how--how shall I ever do any thing in all my
life again, but--but--_Oh!_” His voice broke into an inarticulate groan.
He had started up, leaning on his elbow. Now he fell back flat.

“You are very much excited,” said the rabbi. “You must try to calm
yourself. Is the pain very great?”

“Oh, the pain--the pain is nothing. I have a headache, yes. But that is
nothing. I wish it was ten times worse. I _like_ the pain. If it were
worse, then I might--I might forget the fearful, awful--oh, I can't
express it. Put yourself in my place. If it had happened to you, how
do you think you would feel? Oh, it's very easy for you to sit there
comfortably, and talk to me about going to sleep.”

“If it had happened to me, Elias, I should rejoice in it,” the rabbi
answered; and then, as Elias made no retort, went quietly, gravely, on:
“Instead of agitating and terrifying you, Elias, the knowledge that you
have gained of how close the relations are between the Lord our God and
His chosen people, ought to inspire you with a deep, serene joy, with
a feeling of infinite gratitude, and of perfect confidence. It
should rejoice you, to know that the Lord is your constant, steadfast
companion, that He follows your every footstep with the personal
solicitude of a father. Awful, yes; but grand, beautiful, inspiring, and
of unspeakable comfort amid the trials and perils of the world. Think,
Elias, and try to appreciate, how great the Lord's love for you has been
shown to be--His love and His mercy. You--were you not purposing the
commission of the most deadly of sins? A sin which would have pursued
you with unceasing penalties to your grave, and for which not you alone,
but your children, and your children's children, would have had to
suffer? And in His abundant love, what did the Lord do? He suffered you
to persist up to the very brink of the precipice, and to gaze down into
the abyss of iniquity; but before you had taken the final, fatal step,
and fallen, he! He stretched out His arm; He saved you from destruction;
and, like a forgiving parent, He brought you back to His bosom. Isn't
what I say true, Elias?”

The rabbi paused; but Elias remained silent.

“Answer me, Elias. Isn't it true?”

“Oh, I suppose it's true. Yes, yes, I suppose it's true. But what
difference does that make? You--you may analyze it as much as you
choose. I don't deny what you say. I don't care about that. But if you
had been through it--if you had been through it---- Good God! You make
me mad, sitting there, and talking philosophy to me.”

“Not philosophy--don't say philosophy--say religion. It has upset you,
because, in spite of my warning, you did not expect it, and because
you haven't thought about it sufficiently. You haven't pierced to the
innermost substance of it, and thoroughly understood it. Reflect
upon it, in the light of what I have said. Reflect that it has simply
exemplified to you the closeness, the carefulness, with which the Lord
our God looks to your welfare. As you walk among the pitfalls of life,
He holds your hand, and sustains you. He will allow no evil to beset
you. How safe you ought to feel! What courage you ought to take!”

Elias pondered the rabbi's speech in silence. To the best of his
comprehension, deranged as it was by his terror, debauched by his
superstition, its truth seemed indisputable.

“And now,” the rabbi continued, after a brief pause, “it is apparent
that the Lord has been your guide from the beginning. You were becoming
indifferent--without knowing it, perhaps--indifferent to your religion.
You had not zeal enough. You dwelt in a Christian community; and the
Christian atmosphere was infecting you, was corrupting you. You were, so
to speak, drifting away. The Lord saw it. He wished to call you back. He
wished to awaken your slumbering soul, to revive your flagging Judaism,
to rekindle your ardor, which had burned down to a tiny spark. Well, in
His wisdom, this was the means that He devised. He caused you to
fancy yourself attached to a Christian woman. He allowed you to harden
yourself to the thought of committing the extreme sin--to the thought
of marrying her. Then, at the last moment, He manifested Himself. He
rescued you from your danger. And thus He gave such new vitality to
your faith, that there is now no possibility of its ever becoming faint
again. Oh, have you not reason in this to praise the Lord, and to thank
Him, from the depths of your spirit? Oh, my son, son of my sister, how
signally He has blessed you!”

“It is true,” Elias answered, “the Lord has shown me great
mercy--greater than I deserved. I shall never doubt again. I shall
always be a good Jew after this.”

“And as for the--the _love_ you talked about--”

“Oh, don't speak of it. It is dead, quite dead. The Lord has struck it
dead in my heart. It is as though it had never been--as though I had
never seen her, or known her.”

“I was sure it would be.”

“The Lord has burned it out of my heart.”

“He has breathed upon your heart and purified it. I am glad you
recognize it. I am glad, too, that you seem calmer now, and more like
yourself again.”

“Yes, I am more like myself. I see that I had no reason for getting so
wrought up. But--oh, it was frightful.” Elias shuddered. In a minute he
asked, “Can you forgive me?”

“Forgive you? For what?”

“You know--the way I acted.”

“It isn't a question of forgiveness. You didn't understand. I could not
have expected you to act otherwise.”

“You are very generous. I was, as you say, ignorant. I acted like a
brute.”

“You acted according to your light--which was dim. I understood. The
Lord gave me to understand. When you first came into my study last
night, and told me what you meant to do, the Lord gave me to understand.
He assured me that it would all come out well in the end--that the
marriage would never take place. That is why I spoke as I did. I felt
perfectly sure. I did not fear for an instant. But now, Elias, we must
stop talking. You must go to bed, and sleep.”

“I don't believe I shall be able to sleep tonight.”

“Yes, you will; for I am going to give you a sleeping potion.”

The potion had a speedy effect. Elias buried his face in the pillow, and
was soon sound asleep.

*****

“That obstreperous old man who was to have been your father-in-law,
has called twice,” said the rabbi; “and he is coming again at five
o'clock.”

It was in the afternoon of the following day. Elias had just waked up.
The rabbi was seated upon the foot of Elias's bed.

“What did he want?” Elias asked.

“Oh, he called to inquire about you--about how you were feeling.”

“And you told him?”

“That you were asleep.”

“Is that all?”

“What else?”

“I didn't know but you might have told him of my--my change of heart.”

“No. I thought it better that he should hear of that from your own
lips.”

“Why?”

“Several reasons. Chiefly, because then he can have no doubt about it.
You can make him understand that it is assured and irrevocable. If I
were to speak with him he might doubt my word, or suspect that I had
been influencing you. He seems to be something of a fire-eater.”

“Well, I dare say you are right. But it will be very hard.”

“It will, undoubtedly. But there's no help for it. It's an unavoidable
nuisance. Once over and done with it, you'll feel immensely relieved.”

“It is strange,” said Elias, “how completely my affection for her seems
to have been destroyed. Here, a little while ago, it was, and for many
months had been, the ruling passion, the single aim and purpose of my
life. I thought of nothing else, felt nothing else, cared for nothing
else, all day long, every day. And now, it seems to have been utterly
wiped out and obliterated, without even leaving a trace behind it--just
as you blow out a candle, and the flame vanishes. I can think of her
without any emotion of any kind. If I had never known her, if she had
never been more than a passing acquaintance, my indifference could not
be greater. This is very strange, isn't it?”

“No, Elias, not strange at all. You must remember that it is the act
of the Lord. As you said this morning, the Lord has struck your passion
dead in your heart. He has purified your heart with fire, and restored
to it the cleanliness it had before this woman crossed your path, and
tempted you. The truth is, you never really _loved_ her at all. She
exerted a certain baleful fascination over you--a fascination which the
breath of the Lord has dissipated, just as the breath of the morning
dissipates the miasms that have gathered over night.”

“I suppose--I suppose it will be a heavy blow for her. She loves me. She
will suffer terribly.”

“Oh, you mustn't think of that. That isn't your affair. The Lord has
used her as His instrument. Now that her usefulness has ceased, the Lord
will dispose of her as He deems wisest.”

“But she will suffer, all the same. And here is what is strangest. It
stands to reason--it is obvious--and I know perfectly well--that she
will suffer. And yet, I seem to feel no pity, no sorrow, no sympathy,
for her--not any more than as though my heart were a stone. My whole
capacity for feeling seems to have been destroyed. Perhaps it is so.
Perhaps it has been. Perhaps the Lord--I don't know how to say just what
I mean; but it seems as though I had grown indifferent to every thing.”

“In the main, that is the result of the shock you have sustained. It
will pass. But as for her, the Lord will not allow you to feel for her.
You have suffered enough. Her turn has come. If you have no sympathy for
her, it is because she is entitled to none. The Lord desires that she
shall receive none. She is a Christian, a Goy, despised and abominated
of the Lord. She has served her purpose. Now she must bear her
punishment.”

“And yet--”

“No, no, boy. Don't think about it. Don't let your mind dwell upon it.
You must not think of any thing but of how grateful you ought to be for
your own escape. Put all your mind and heart into thanksgiving.
Praise the Lord! It is irreverent for you to question, to lament, the
consequences which the Most High, in His wisdom, has ordained.”

After an interim of silence, Elias said, “There is something in this
connection which, I think, I ought to tell you. Night before last, up in
my studio--” And he went on to give the rabbi an account of the curious
experience he had had with his mother's portrait. “I thought at the
time,” he concluded, “that it was simply a morbid illusion of my senses.
But now I am not so sure. What do you say? What is your explanation?”

“I do not believe that the souls or spirits of the dead are ever
permitted to manifest themselves to the living,” replied the rabbi; “and
therefore I do not for an instant entertain the theory that it could
have been a genuine apparition of your mother. But neither do I believe
that it was a mere trick of your senses. I believe that the Lord, as a
warning to you, caused you to see what you saw--caused an image of your
mother's face to rise before you. I am not surprised. I have known of
His causing similar things to happen before.”

“It is wonderful, it is incomprehensible,” said Elias, “why the
Lord should take such an intimate interest in the welfare of a mere
individual, like me.”

“You are a Jew. There is not a faithful Jew living, but is kept
constantly in the Lord's eye, in the Lord's mind. The longer you live,
the more perfectly will you realize the ineffable privilege you have
enjoyed in being born a Jew.”

At about five o'clock, surely enough, old Redwood called. The maid
ushered him into the rabbi's study, where Elias and his uncle awaited
him. He halted just within the threshold, and made a stiff bow to the
rabbi. Then he advanced upon Elias, with extended hand, exclaiming,
“Well, Elias, I'm glad to see you. How are you? How do you do?”

Elias took his hand, held it for an instant, dropped it, and responded,
“How do you do?”

“That ain't answering my question,” said Redwood. “I want to know, how
do _ye_ do?”

“Oh, I feel quite well, quite as usual, thank you,” replied Elias.
“Won't--won't you sit down?”

“Well, I guess I will--yes,” the old man assented, and did so. “Well,”
 he continued, “this has been the devil's own business all around, hasn't
it? Poor Chris, poor little Chris--she's pretty near out of her head.
She's all broke up. She is, for a fact. She wanted to come down here
with me--begged and implored me to let her. But I wouldn't. I didn't
know how you might be; and, think s's I, it might just fret her worse
than ever. She's been scared about to death. Poor little thing! I tried
to comfort her, and cheer her up; but it wa'n't much use. A father don't
count for much, now-a-days, when a young man is concerned. I suppose,”
 he wound up abruptly, “seeing you feel all right again, you'll be up
to the house to-night, hey? Then we can settle on a new day for the
wedding.”

Elias summoned his utmost courage. “N-no; I think not,” he said. His
voice was husky and unsteady.

Redwood did not understand. “Hey--what?” he queried.

“I say, no; I think I shall not call this evening.”

“No? Why, why not? Don't you--ain't you well enough? Chris is just--I
may say, she's just pining for a sight of ye. I really think she'll
get sick, if this thing keeps on. If you're able to leave the house, I
really think you'd better come up. She--she's nearly cried her eyes out.
I told her--just before I left--I told her: 'Now, look here, Chris, you
want to stop that crying. You want to dry your eyes, and _bleach_ 'em,
against Elias's coming,' says I, 'for he won't admire them, red like
that.' I said this, you know, to sort of make her laugh. But seriously,
I'm scared about her. I am, actually. She hasn't tasted a mouthful
of food all day. I guess I'll have to call in the doctor if she ain't
better to-morrow. But unless you're considerably worse off than you
look, I guess you'd better come up. I'll tell you what you do--you come
up with me now, and take dinner.”

Elias felt that the old man was making it more and more difficult
for him to say what would have to be said. He clenched his fists, and
gritted his teeth, and began by a great effort to force out the words.

“Mr. Redwood--there is a--a misunderstanding. I must set it right.
I--I am exceedingly sorry--to--to be compelled to tell you--to tell you
that--” Here his voice sank to a whisper. He paused for a moment, drew a
long breath, resumed aloud, “--that, owing to circumstances which I
can not perfectly explain--because, in fact, of our difference
of religion--she being a Christian, and I a Jew--the--the
engagement--between Miss Redwood and myself--will have to be--broken
off. This is quite positive. There is no help for it. Please--please
believe it, without my saying more. I am very sorry. Our engagement will
have to be broken off.”

He did not dare to look at the man to whom he had spoken. He looked at
his uncle. But the latter was watching old Redwood.

Old Redwood's face was eloquent. When Elias had begun to speak, the old
man had been smiling good-naturedly. Gradually his smile had faded to an
expression of blank incomprehension; which, in its turn, had gradually
changed to one of uttermost, indignant astonishment. But now, this too
had departed, and his features had become set in a new smile--a smile
which revealed the abyssmal contempt, the passionate, malignant scorn,
at the bottom of his soul, far more clearly than the strongest words
could have done. A grayish pallor had overspread his brow. His eyes
blazed upon Elias. Between his drawn lips, his teeth gleamed savagely.
He sat still, nodding his head, and smiling that unpropitious smile.

For a long while, painfully long, no one spoke.

Elias, though he dared not look, knew how fiercely old Redwood was eying
him--felt the heat of old Redwood's gaze. His cheeks flaming, his body
in a tremor, he sat still, afraid to stir. He could hear old Redwood
breathe. He could hear the boisterous beating of his own heart, in dread
apprehension of the brewing storm. He could hear the regular, metallic
tick-tack of the rabbi's clock, which increased the stress, as it
measured the duration, of his suspense. The rabbi, also, was smiling
now--a smile of genial satisfaction.

At last old Redwood moved. He shifted in his chair. He cleared his
throat. With a single jerk of his tall frame, he got upon his feet. He
stood for a few seconds, silent. Presently, “Well, Elias Bacharach,”
 he said, in low, dry tones, vibrant with suppressed fury, “I understand
that I am to inform my daughter from you, that, as you have said, on
account of your difference of religion, she is to consider herself
jilted and thrown over. I think that is the upshot of what you have
said.”

“Say, rather, released from her engagement,” put in the rabbi, blandly.
“And if you will permit me, I shall be happy to explain to you the
circumstances which render this step unavoidable.”

“Pardon me,” returned old Redwood, with a grand bow and flourish. “I
was not aware, sir, of having addressed you. I'm talking to Mr. Elias
Bacharach. And now, Elias Bacharach, this is what I've got to say. I
suppose you know what you air. I suppose you know the names I could call
ye, if I had a mind to demean myself to calling names. You look in the
dictionary, and you'll find them printed in black and white. But I guess
you won't need to look so far. I guess it will do just as well if you
look in your own conscience. You know what you've done. You know how
you've taken a young, innocent girl, and won her heart, and got it set
on you, so that she don't think of any thing or any body else; and then
flung her overboard, and spoiled her life, and darkened her whole youth.
And you know what honest people think of a man who's done that. That's
all. You needn't be afraid. You needn't sit there, shaking. I ain't
going to hurt you. I ain't going to touch you, even. I'll go home now.
I'll go home, and tell the news to Christine. If it kills her, you know
who'll have to answer for her death.” Thus far, the old man had spoken
with great self-control; but here, suddenly, he forgot himself.--“But,
by God,” he thundered out, “if it does kill her, I--I'd rather _have_
it, by God! than have her married to you, now that I know what you are,
you damn, miserable, white-livered Jew!”

With which, he stalked from the room; and next moment the street-door
slammed behind him.

“Well, now, Elias,” said the rabbi, “now it's all over for good and
all.”

“Yes, I dare say,” replied Elias; “but I feel somehow as though it had
just begun--as though the worst of it were still to come.”

“Oh, nonsense!” cried the rabbi. “You're morbid. Cheer up. Let's
celebrate your deliverance with a bottle of wine.”




XIV.

APPARENTLY it did not once occur to Elias to seek a natural explanation
for what had happened; and even if it had done so, I don't believe it
would have made much difference. But this, as has been said, in view
of all the circumstances, was scarcely strange. The supernatural
explanation had, so to speak, captured his mind by storm. With
tremendous force and suddenness, it had thrust itself upon him at a
moment when he was suffering the exhaustion and the debility consequent
upon a violent shock; and, once in possession, it clung tenaciously, and
left no foothold for a saner judgment to stand upon. Then, besides, had
not the rabbi's menaces predisposed him to accept it? And finally, there
were heredity and education and mental habitude, which in such matters
must surely count for much. Elias had been fancying that his inherited
and sedulously cultivated superstition was dead and buried. Love, like
a radiant St. George, had slain the monster. To us, wise after the fact,
it is conceivable that it had but slumbered; and now again was
wide awake, breathing fire and vengeance; and had given its quondam
executioner such a blow as might not speedily be recovered from, if at
all.

Elias, at any rate, did not doubt. He told himself that he had been on
the point of committing a mortal sin, one that would have removed him
forever beyond the pale of divine mercy, one that would have entailed
upon him, and upon his seed after him, infinite retribution. He told
himself that at the eleventh hour heaven had intervened, and saved him
from his own suicidal clutch. He shuddered at the notion of the risk
he had run. He was duly grateful for his deliverance. It had at first
surprised him to find that his love of Christine had not survived. That
which had absorbed his life, and shaped and directed his life, and been
to his life what the sunlight is to the day, its vital, dominating,
distinguishing principle, had vanished utterly out of his life, had
melted phantom-like, and left not a shred, not a mark, not even a gap,
behind, to show where, or of what substance, or of what form it had
been. It was the extinguishment of a subtle, spiritual flame, which
departs, so far as is determinable, nowhither--is simply swallowed
up and assimilated by the inane. Three days ago, he had believed it
possessed of everlasting vigor; and now, it was gone as completely
as the snows of yesteryear. Death and dissolution had occurred
simultaneously.--But his surprise was short-lived. On reflection, he
agreed with the rabbi, that nothing else could have been expected. He
adopted the rabbi's metaphor, and said that the breath of the Lord had
entered his heart, and cleansed it. He remembered how, once before,
something similar had befallen, in answer to prayer. But the effects
of that had been transitory. The effects of this, he thought, would be
permanent. If there were the materials for melancholy here, Elias was
callous to their influence.

It seemed, indeed, that not only had his love been abolished, but that
his entire emotional system had sunken into a state of apathy, and
become unresponsive and inactive. He knew, for example, perfectly well
how Christine would suffer. The light of her youth would be quenched,
and its sweetness turned to gall and wormwood. The world, that was so
fair in her sight, would crumble suddenly to a wide waste of dust and
ashes. An agony like fire would be kindled in her young heart, hopeless
even of hope. It might perhaps, as old Redwood had said, it might
perhaps kill her. But if it did not kill her, it would do worse. She
would have to live, and bear it. He knew all this. He could not help
knowing it. It was too big, palpable, conspicuous, to be ignored. He
knew it; and he stated it clearly, completely, circumstantially, to
himself. And then he wondered at his stolidity; for it woke not a throe
either of compunction or of compassion. He said to himself, “Altogether
aside from the personal element, from the fact that she is who she is,
and that I have been her lover; altogether aside, also, from the fact
that I, though helpless and irresponsible, am still the occasion of
her unhappiness; and simply because she is a woman, a human being, the
knowledge of her overwhelming sorrow and utter desolation, ought to move
me to deepest, keenest pity.” But it did not. It did not move him to
a single momentary qualm. His condition puzzled and mystified him. He
could imagine no way to account for it, unless by again following the
logic of the rabbi, and assuming it to be the act of God. That it was
merely the torpor, the numbness, naturally resulting from the fright,
and the immense physical and moral shock, he had sustained, does not
appear to have suggested itself to him.

On the morning after his interview with old Redwood (on the morning,
namely, of the fourth of May, 1883; date worth remembering), Elias was
established at his studio-window, watching the play of sunlight and
shadow upon the foliage opposite in the park, and introspecting somewhat
listlessly in the direction above set forth, when there came a light tap
upon his door; and, without turning around, he called out, “Come in.” He
heard the door creak open. He heard the visitor take two or three steps
forward into the room. Then, before he had looked to see who it was,
he heard his own name pronounced shyly, by a voice that was but too
well-known:

“Elias!”

Unspeakably astounded and discomfited, he sprang to his feet, faced her,
and stood dumb.

At the moment he was not conscious of noticing especially her
appearance; but long afterward he recalled it vividly. Long afterward,
the pale face, the disordered golden hair, the large, dark, tearful
eyes, the appealing attitude--hands stretched out toward him, face
upturned--became of all his memories the strongest, the clearest, the
most constant, the one on which his remorse chiefly fed.

But now, he faced her and stood dumb, aware only of hubbub in his brain,
and dismay in his breast.

She, manifestly unprepared for this style of greeting, started back. Her
eyes filled with fear.

“Oh Elias,” she faltered, “you--you make me think that it is true.”

He, finding his voice, cried piteously: “Oh, why--why did you come
here?”

And then they were both silent.

At last she began: “I came--because I could not believe--because my
father told me something which I knew was a lie. I came to have you
tell me that it was a lie. Oh, why did he tell me such a cruel thing?
Why--why do you act like this?”

She paused, expecting him to speak. But he did not speak.

All at once she went on passionately: “Oh, you don't know what he told
me. He must have wanted to kill me. But I knew it was a lie. I told him
it was a lie--oh, such a shameful, cruel lie. Oh, God! Here, this was
it: he told me--he told me that you--Elias--oh, no, no, no! I can not
say it. But yes, yes--I _will_ say it--I _must_ say it. He said that
you--you did not love me any more. Oh, my God, my God!”

She had moved up toward him. Now she fell upon his breast, and sobbed
her heart out.

He passively allowed her to remain there. What to do? what to say? he
asked himself, distracted.

“Oh, Elias--my darling--I--I knew it could not be true,” she was
murmuring between her sobs.

Thus, until her grief had spent itself--until she had had her cry out.
By and by she raised her eyes to his, and smiling a forlorn little
smile, asked timidly, “You think I am very silly?”

But her smile did not last long. Suddenly, it changed to an expression
of utmost woe and terror. She fell back a step or two.

“Elias!” she cried, in a sharp, startled voice. “Why do you look at me
like that? Is--do--you can't--mean--that it is true!”

He felt that he must speak. He must gather his forces, and make her
understand. He was trying to. He was trying to find the words he needed.
But before they had come to him, the door opened, and the rabbi glided
upon the scene.

The rabbi took in the situation at a glance.

“Elias,” he said, “this is unfortunate. You ought to have called me.”

Turning to Christine: “You have forgotten yourself, madam. By what right
are you here? Did your father send you? I shall be happy to show you the
way down stairs.”

He bowed in the direction of the door.

She looked helplessly from the rabbi to his nephew; but she found little
to reassure her in Elias's face.

“Was there any thing you had to say to this young lady, before she goes,
Elias?” the rabbi queried, in a brisk, business-like tone.

“No, nothing,” Elias began faintly, “nothing, except--yes, except--”
 He broke off, and drew a sharp, loud breath; suddenly he began anew:
“Christine, I am powerless. The Lord--it is the Lord's will. I--it--what
your father told you--it was the truth.”

The words found their own way out, mechanically. He could scarcely
realize that he had spoken.

For an instant she stood motionless. Then she reeled and tottered, as if
about to fall. Then she recovered herself. Slowly, with a dazed, stunned
air, groping blindly, she turned, and reached the door, and crossed the
threshold.

The rabbi followed, shutting the door behind him.

Elias dropped into a chair. Bewildered, agitated, fagged-out, undone--he
felt all this. But he felt not a pang for her.

“If I had thrown you down and trampled upon you,” he wrote, a little
less than two years afterward, “it would not have been so brutal, so
cruel; but if I had done it in my sleep, I could not have been more
insensible to your pain.”




XV.

ONE evening at dinner, about a fortnight later, “What's the matter,
Elias?” the rabbi asked. “You're not feeling sick, are you? Or blue? Or
worried about any thing?”

“Why, no,” Elias answered, “I feel all right. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I don't know. I thought you were looking a little out-of-sorts.
Likely enough, it was only an idea.”

“The truth is,” Elias presently volunteered, “that, so far from feeling
blue or low-spirited or anything of that kind, I don't seem to feel much
of any thing at all. I'm sort of sluggish--dull--dead-and-alive. I'd
give a good deal for a sensation, an excitement. I've been feeling
this way pretty much all the time since--for the last two weeks. Heavy,
thick, as though my blood had stopped circulating. I wish you'd stick a
pin into me.”

“Oh, you need a little amusement, a little fun, something to take you
out of yourself. That's all. Why don't you go to the theater?”

“No, thanks. I'm not fond of the theater. Besides, it's too hot.”

“Well, then, why don't you make a call?”

“A call! Pshaw; is that your notion of excitement?”

“Well, it's better than sitting at home, and moping, isn't it?”

“And, any how, whom do I know to call on?”

“Whom do you know? Mercy upon me! I could name fifty people, whom
you not only know, but to whom you actually owe calls. It's really
abominable, the way you neglect, and always have neglected, your social
duties. There's no excuse for it. If--if you were an old recluse like
me, it would be different.”

“I don't see how. What if you were a young recluse, like me?”

“Ah, but nobody has a right to be a young recluse. It is only when we
get along in years, that we are entitled to withdraw from the world.
Besides, it's narrowing, it's hardening. You need contact with other
people, to broaden your mind, and keep your sympathies alive. If you
avoid society while you're young, the milk of human kindness will dry
up in your bosom. You'll get coldblooded, selfish, indifferent.” Which
amiable sentiments, falling from the lips of the rabbi, possessed a
peculiar interest. “Come,” he added, “run up-stairs, and put on your
best suit, and go make a call.”

“Again I ask, whom on?”

“On--on anybody. I'll tell you whom. Call on Mr. and Mrs. Koch.”

The pronunciation of this name has been anglicized into _Coach_.

“Which Koch? A. Hamilton?”

“No, of course not. Washington I.”

“Oh, heavens! I haven't called on them these two years. I'd be afraid to
show my face inside their door. They'd overwhelm me with reproaches.”

“Well, what of that? You could stand it, I guess. They're very nice
people, the Kochs; people whom it is worth while to be on good terms
with--so warm-hearted and unpretentious, and yet with their hundreds of
thousands behind them. There isn't a smarter business man in New York
City than Washington I. Koch, nor a more honest, nor a more open-handed.
Look at that stained glass window he gave the congregation. And then, at
the same time, he's a man of ideas, a well-informed man; and best of
all, he's a pious Jew.”

“Well, I'll tell you what I'll do,” said Elias; “I'll call on them, if
you'll come along.”

“I! Nonsense! I called on them last New-Year's, and shall call again
next. That's the most that can be expected of me.”

“Well, I shouldn't dare to go alone. If you'd come along, to keep me in
countenance, I'd go. But alone--no, never.”

There was an interval of silence. Suddenly the rabbi said, “Well, I
declare, I'll do it. I'll do it, just to encourage you. There; let's go
up-stairs and dress.”

Pretty soon they left the house and sauntered westward arm-in-arm. Elias
wore the Prince Albert coat that he had had made to be married in.

It was a hot night, and it had all the qualities characteristic of a
hot night in New York. The air was redolent of bursting ailanthus buds.
Strains of music, more or less musical, were wafted from every point
of the compass--from behind open windows, where people sang, or played
pianos; from the blazing depths of German concert saloons, where
cracked-voiced orchestrions thundered discord; from the street corners,
where itinerant bands halted, and blew themselves red in the face; and
from the indeterminate distance, where belated hand-organs wailed with
mechanical melancholy. Third Avenue, into which thoroughfare Elias and
the rabbi presently turned, was thronged by many sorts and conditions of
men and women clad in light summer gear, and drifting onward in light,
languid, summer fashion. It was intensely hot and oppressive; and yet,
somehow, it was productive of a certain unmistakable exhilaration.
The sense one got of busy, teeming human life, was penetrating and
enlivening.

They walked up to Eighteenth Street, where they took the Elevated
Railway. At Fifty-ninth Street they descended, and thence proceeded to
Lexington Avenue. On Lexington Avenue, just above Sixty-first Street,
the Kochs resided. Out on the stoops of most of the houses that they
passed, the inmates were seated, resting, gossiping, trying to
cool off--the ladies in white dresses, the gentlemen often in
their shirt-sleeves. Here and there, some of them were partaking of
refreshments; beer, sandwiches, or cheese that savored of the Rhine.
Here and there, some of them had fallen asleep. Here and there, a couple
of young folks made surreptitious love, and, consumed by inner fires,
forgot the outer heat. A pervasive odor, compounded of tobacco smoke
and eau-de-cologne, assailed the nostrils. What snatches of conversation
could be overheard, were either in German, or in English pronounced with
a strong German accent.

They rang the Kochs' door-bell, and were ushered by a white-capped,
flaxen-haired _Mädchen_ into the drawing-room.

The drawing-room was gorgeously and elaborately over-furnished. A
bewildering arabesque, in gold, vermilion, and purple, decorated the
ceiling. A dark, pseudo-æsthetic paper, bearing huge pink apricots
embossed upon a ground of olive-green, covered the walls. The gas
fixtures were of brass, wrought into an intricate design, and burnished
to the highest possible brilliancy. The globes were alternately of ruby
and emerald tinted glass. There were a good many pictures; two or three
family portraits in charcoal, and several bits of color. Of the latter,
the one above the mantelpiece was the largest. A blaze of crimson
and orange, deep-set in a massive gilt frame, it proved, on close
inspection, to be a specimen of worsted-work; and represented, as a
device embroidered upon the margin testified, the Queen of Sheba playing
before Solomon. The Queen had beautiful gambooge hair, and ultramarine
eyes. Her harp was of ivory, with strings of silver; her costume,
décolleté, of indigo velvet, trimmed profusely with handsome gold lace.
Solomon--it is to be hoped, for his own sake, that Solomon in all his
glory was not arrayed like this flamboyant effigy of himself. In a robe
of gold brocade, lined with scarlet satin, and bearing upon his brow
a richly bejeweled crown, that must certainly have weighed in the
neighborhood of twenty pounds, the sagacious monarch looked wretchedly
hot and uncomfortable. The rest of this apartment was in perfect
keeping. The chairs were of ebony, upholstered in stamped red velvet.

Before long Mr. Koch came in. He wore alligator-skin slippers, and a
jacket of pongee silk. Between the fingers of his left hand, he carried
a half-smoked cigar. He was a short, thick-set, pale-complexioned man,
of forty, or thereabouts; inclined to baldness; with clear, light-gray
eyes, and a straw- mustache waxed in the style of the Second
Empire. He looked very clean, very alert, very good-tempered, and yet
as though he could become as hard and as sharp as flint, if occasion
demanded. He welcomed the rabbi with warm and deferential courtesy.
Then, turning to Elias, in hearty, jovial, hail-fellow-well-met manner:
“Well, Mr. Bacharach, how goes it? It's a dog's age since we've seen
you, and no mistake. Have a cigar?”

With one hand, he was subjecting Elias's arm to a vigorous pumping. With
the other, he offered him a tortoise-shell cigar-case.

“They're genuine,” he remarked. “I'll warrant them. Imported by my
brother-in-law for his private consumption. Cost you a quarter apiece
straight, if you bought them in New York. _Hoyo de Montereys_.”

Elias selected one. Mr. Koch produced a silver match-box, extracted
a wax match, scratched it, and held it while his guest got his cigar
alight.

“Now,” said he, flirting the match flame into extinction, “I'm going to
ask you gentlemen to step down stairs to the basement. You'll find the
whole family down there, engaged in an impressive ceremony. They're
bidding good-night to the baby, whom my wife is about to put to bed.”

In the basement, or dining-room (which, in the Koch establishment,
pursuant to a common Jewish habit, was made to serve also as a general
sitting-room), as many as seven or eight ladies and gentlemen, some
seated, some standing, were gathered around the extension-table,
upon which, in the approximate center of it, sprawled a fair, fat,
two-year-old baby. The spectators were all smiling benevolently at him,
addressing complimentary remarks to him, and exchanging complimentary
notes about him among themselves. All the gentlemen were smoking.

“Lester, was you a good boy?”

“Mein Gott! He kroes bigger every day.”

“Laistair, was you sleeby?”

“Tust look at that smile! Ain't it perfectly grand?”

“Laistair, haif you got a kiss for grainpa, before you go to bed?”

And so forth, and so forth: all of which Master Lester acknowledged with
a vague grin, and a gutteral goo-goo-goo.

But at the entrance of Mr. Koch, flanked by Elias and the rabbi, the
whole company deserted Lester, and making a rush forward, surrounded the
visitors. The rabbi, every body greeted with subdued respect, as was due
to his sacerdotal quality. But over Elias, they gushed.

Mrs. Koch, a thin, wiry little woman, with a prominent nose and a
pleasant manner, piped in her shrill treble: “Oh, Meester Bacharach! I
didn't naifer expaict to haif this honor. I ain't seen you in this
house for two--for three--years, already: dot time you called with your
mamma.”

Mrs. Koch's mother, Mrs. Blum, a dumpy, rubicund old lady, with rather
a sly, rollicking air about her, held his hand, and swayed her head like
an inverted pendulum from side to side, and smiled incredulously, and
kept repeating, “Vail, vail, vail!”

Then came sprightly Mr. Blum, short, corpulent, and florid, like his
wife; with a glossy bald pate, a drooping white mustache, and white
mutton-chop whiskers, which left exposed a very red and shiny double
chin. “My kracious? Was dot Elias Bacharach? Du lieber Gott! How
you haif krown, since laist time you was here!” He held Elias off at
arm's-length, and scrutinized him carefully. “Excuse me,” he demanded
all at once; “where you get dot coat mait? Washington, come over here,
and look at Elias Bacharach's coat. Dem must be Chairman goots, hey?”
 He plucked at the material of the unfortunate garment with his thumb
and forefinger, and stroked it with the palm of his hand. “Dot's a goot
coat,” he declared at last. “What you pay for it?” He lifted up one of
the skirts, and examined the lining. He was a veritable child of nature,
this Mr. Blum; and besides, he and his son-in-law constituted the
firm of Blum & Koch, manufacturers and jobbers of ready-made clothing,
Franklin Street, near Broadway.

Elias and the rabbi paid their respects to the baby; after which, Mrs.
Koch picked him up and carried him off.

“Mr. Bacharach,” said Mr. Koch, grasping him by the elbow, “don't
you know my brother-in-law, Mr. Sternberg?--Guggenheim & Sternberg,
wholesale tobacco. My sister, Mrs. Sternberg; my other sister, Mrs.
Morgenthau; my niece, Miss Tillie Morgenthau: Mr. Bacharach.”

To each of these persons, in turn, Elias made his obeisance.

Mrs. Morgenthau was in appearance a feminine duplicate of her brother;
short, thick-set, smart-looking, and with an air of having lots of _go_;
what is called a bouncing woman.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” she announced, in a loud, robust
voice, and with emphasis, as though she wanted it understood that she
wasn't fooling, but meant exactly what she said. She shook his hand,
giving it a virile grip.

Miss Tillie Morgenthau was a young lady of eighteen or twenty, taller
than her mother, exceedingly taper in the waist, and of an exceedingly
fresh complexion; decidedly a pretty girl, with plenty of waving black
hair, a pair of bright blue eyes, a shapely red mouth, and a generous
provision of tiny teeth, regular and of pearly whiteness.

“Oh, I suppose Mr. Bacharach don't remember me,” she said, pouting
playfully. She pronounced the personal pronoun _I_, like the
interjection _Ah_.

“Oh, on the contrary,” protested Elias, trying hard to remember whether
he had ever seen her before.

“Now, Ah'm perfectly sure you don't,” she insisted. “But All'll tell
you. It was at the Advance Club, winter before last. Mr. Greenleaf
introduced you to me--Charley Greenleaf. Do you belong to the Advance?”

No, Elias said; he was not a member of any club.

“Well, now,” called out Mr. Koch, to the company generally, “now that
the baby's gone to bed, I propose that we adjourn to the summer-house,
and try to get cooled off.”

An exodus at once began; and presently they were all established, a
picturesque, free-and-easy group, upon the stoop. Elias found himself at
Miss Tillie's side.

“Fearfully hot, isn't it?” she observed.

“Very, indeed,” agreed Elias.

“It always is hot over here on Lexington Avenue--Jerusalem Avenue, I
call it, on account of the number of Jews that live over here. Pretty
good name for it, don't you think so?”

“Quite good, yes,” he assented.

“But over where we live, it's much cooler. Have a breeze there most all
the time.”

“Ah, where is that?”

“Beekman Place--clear down on the edge of the river. Number 57. Be happy
to have you call on us there. We--mamma and I--we live with my uncle and
aunt, the Sternbergs. It's fearfully out of the way, but it's grand when
you get there.”

“Yes, I've heard so,” Elias said.

“Musical, Mr. Bacharach?” she inquired.

“Well, I don't know. I'm very fond of music.”

“Sing?”

“No.”

“Play?”

“No, not any more. I used to, a little. But I gave it up.”

“Oh, my! What a pity! I think it's perfectly elegant for a gentleman to
play, don't you? But so few of them do. I think it's simply awful.”

“I suppose you play, of course?”

“Oh, I should say so. Yes, indeed. Music's my forte. I teach, too. Give
lessons in Dr. Meyer's conservatory, and take private pupils.”

“Won't you play for us a little to-night, then?”

“Oh, gracious, no. It's too hot. Ah'm about melted, as it is. Ain't
you?”

“Well, it _is_ pretty warm,” Elias confessed, in & reflective tone.

At this juncture, the white-capped maid-servant began to circulate among
the people, bearing a large tray, upon which reposed a pitcher, a couple
of slim bottles, and half a score of cut-glass tumblers.

“Beer or wine, Mr. Bacharach?” cried Mr. Koch, from above. “Take your
choice, and help yourself. They're both gratis.”

Elias poured out a glass of wine for Miss Tillie, and for himself a
glass of beer.

“Have a fresh cigar?” cried Mr. Koch.

“No, thank you. I haven't finished this one,” returned Elias, who had
allowed the fire of his cigar to go out.

“Well, if you ain't comfortable, speak up, that's all,” his host
concluded, and became silent.

“Oh, by the way, Meester Bacharach,” piped Mrs. Koch, who, having
disposed of Lester, had rejoined the company, “I hear dot we haif to
con-kratulate you.”

“Indeed? What about?” inquired Elias, unsuspiciously.

“We hear dot you was encaged. Was it true?”

“Oh!” he cried, taken aback. He  up; but the darkness hid his
blushes.

“Vail?” pursued his good-natured tormentress.

“No--not at all--an entire mistake,” he stammered.

“Oh, dot's too baid. Ain't you naifer going to get married?”

“I don't know. I guess not,” he said.

At this, there was a universal murmur of disapproval.

“Dot's just the way with all the young fellers, now-a-days,” Mr. Blum
exclaimed. “They don't none of them want to get married. It's simply
fearful; hey, Dr. Gedaza? When me and you was young men, we'd be ashamed
to be single at his age, hey? Why, a man ain't a goot Jew, if he don't
get married. Might just as well be an American right out. If I was you,
Elias Bacharach, I'd be afraid. The Lord will punish you. You better get
married, or look out.”

“Yes, that's so.”

“There ain't any doubt about that.”

“A young fellow ought to get married, and no mistake.”

Remarks such as these went up from all directions; and poor Elias felt
like the most miserable of sinners.

Tillie came to his rescue. “Oh, let Mr. Bacharach alone,” she cried. “He
ain't dead yet. Give him time.” Then, turning to the victim, “Don't
you mind them. They've got marriage on the brain.--How are you going to
spend this summer? In the country?”

“Well I haven't made any plans yet,” he answered; “have you?”

“Oh, yes--we're going to the Catskills--Tannerstown--all of us. Ever
been there? It's perfectly ideal--the grandest place I ever did see. And
such a lot of nice people! I must know a hundred at the very least, who
are going there this season--Advance Club people--friends of my uncle
Wash. You said you didn't belong to the Advance. Why don't you join? If
I were a man, wouldn't I, though! They give the most elegant balls that
you can possibly imagine. Mamma and I go to all of them. Mamma took the
prize at the last.”

“Prize for what?” asked Elias.

“Why, don't you know? They give a prize for the most original costume;
generally a book, or a work of art. Mamma's was a magnificent picture
album, with hinges and clasps of hammered silver--solid, not plated. The
ladies all go in costume, and each one tries to wear the most curious
and surprising. Well, for instance, one lady represented a match. She
had a dress just perfectly covered with burned matches, and matches in
her hair, and for ear-rings, and every thing. Then, another lady, she
went as a pack of cards; and her dress was just one mass of patch-work,
and each patch was a card. And then mamma--Well, guess. What do you
suppose mamma represented?”

“I give it up.”

“Well, it was simply the grandest idea you can possibly imagine. It took
the whole room by storm. Gracious me, how they did laugh and applaud!
She went as a fireman.”

“A--what? M gasped Elias.

“Yes, a fireman. She had a red shirt with brass buttons, and a helmet,
and a badge, and a hatchet, and a big black mustache, like a regular
member of the department. Well, she did look just too funny for any
thing. You ought to have been there. You'd have laughed to die. I had a
side-ache for a week afterward. She and the match were rivals; and there
was quite a lot of betting as to who would come in first. But, as the
judge who made the awards said, she did her duty, and _extinguished_ the
match. That was pretty good, wasn't it? She got the prize, and the match
got an honorable mention.”

“And your own costume?” Elias questioned. “What was that like?”

“Oh, I went in an ordinary white dress. Mamma thought I was too young
to take a character. But next fall--Promise you won't tell. You mustn't
breathe a word of it, will you? Next fall, I'm going as an ear of corn.”

“Why,” exclaimed Elias, “how can that be managed?”

“Oh, we've got it all designed; and my Uncle Wash, he's having some
stuff woven on purpose, to represent the kernels. It's right in his
line, you know. You wait till you see it. It will be simply the most
ideal thing you can possibly imagine. But _please_ don't mention it.
Some one else might do it first, and get in ahead of me, if you did.”

“You may rely upon me,” Elias vowed. “I'll be as secret as the grave.”

The rabbi now rose, and began to make his adieux. Elias followed his
example.

“You two gentlemen come up here to dinner next Sunday afternoon, will
you?” demanded Mr. Koch.

Before Elias had had a chance to decline, if he had been disposed to do
so, the rabbi replied, “We will, with pleasure. Thank you.”

On the way home, “Well,” the rabbi asked, “did you have a good time?”

“Oh, fair,” returned Elias. “Queer set, aren't they?”

“Well, they have certain mannerisms, yes. But you mustn't mind a
superficial thing like that. They talk too loud, and their grammar isn't
of the choicest; but they're thoroughly kind-hearted and well-meaning;
and they're not wanting in brains, either, though they may be a trifle
unpolished. Mr. Koch himself is a remarkably intelligent man, a man of
ideas. You get to talking to him sometime, and you'll find out. How did
you like that little Miss Morgenthau?”

“Oh, she's quite amusing. Not a bad little thing. Very raw and untamed,
but good-natured enough, I dare say.”

“Her father, Reuben Morgenthau, was a professional, musician--one of
the best pianists I ever heard; and she is said to have inherited his
talent. He was lost at sea when she was a baby. Good-looking girl, isn't
she? I suppose Washington I. Koch will make her a handsome settlement,
when she gets married. Yes, I suppose he'll do something very handsome,
indeed.”




XVI

THE sluggishness, the dull, dead-and-alive feeling, of which Elias had
complained to his uncle, seemed to be tightening its hold upon him. From
morning to-night, each day, he went about in a state of profound apathy.
His customary occupations had lost their power to interest him. His
painting he pursued listlessly, getting no pleasure from it, and
producing wretched stuff. He would sit at his studio window for hours at
a stretch, moping; trying to think of something to do that would cause
him a little sensation; wondering what the matter with himself could be;
pitying himself from the bottom of his heart. He craved excitement as
the toper craves his grog. But there were grog-shops on every corner;
he knew of no excitement-shop. The entire emotional side of his nature
appeared to have become congealed and unsusceptible. Even his five
bodily senses had lost their edge. His food, unless he deluged it with
salt and pepper, was vapid, flavorless. The cold water with which he
bathed in the morning, felt lukewarm to his skin. Whatsoever his eye
looked upon, straightway forfeited all its beauty, all its
suggestiveness. He fancied he would enjoy a horse-whipping. It would
stir him up, and start his blood to circulating. Already his memory of
Christine had begun to grow dim and shadowy, like the memory of a person
known only in a dream. His whole acquaintance with her, from first to
last, as he reviewed it, seemed unreal and dream-like. As a matter of
curiosity, he tried now and then to call up her face and figure; with
none but the vaguest, meagerest results. She had gone quite out of his
life, and was fading rapidly quite out of his thought. When Sunday came,
and the rabbi reminded him of their engagement to dine at the Kochs', he
experienced something almost like a distinct and positive pleasure.
These people, at least, with their high-pitched voices and peculiar
manners, would afford him a small measure of amusement. He hoped Miss
Tillie would be there. Her aggressive crudity, which, a few weeks ago,
would have cut him like a knife, would now simply have the effect of an
agreeable irritant.

His hope in this respect was not disappointed. The dinner party
consisted of precisely the same lot of people whom he had met the other
evening, without an addition or a subtraction. When he and the
rabbi arrived, they were all assembled in the parlor, forming the
circumference of a circle, of which Lester, sprawling upon the carpet,
and smiling a smile of beatific inanition, was the center. They were in
ecstasies of admiration, which, evidently, they expected the new-comers
to share. It was a monstrously fat baby, without any features to speak
of; and it had a horrid red eruption all over one side of its face. Yet,
very gravely, Mr. Koch asked, “Isn't that the handsomest baby you ever
saw, Mr. Bacharach? Wouldn't you like to paint his portrait?” And Elias
felt constrained to reply that it was, and that he would.

By and by his nurse came, and bore Master Lester away.

Mr. Blum sidled up, and taking Elias by the arm, remarked, “You was an
artist-painter, Mr. Bacharach. Come; I show you a work of art.”

He led his victim to the worsted-work enormity above the mantel-piece.

“Hey? What you think of dot?” he inquired, with a connoisseurish smile.
“I give dot to my daughter for a birthday present. Dot's immense, hey?
I had it mait to order. Dot coast me a heap of money. How much you think
dot coast?”

Elias had no idea. A great deal, he supposed.

“Vail, sir, dot coast me two hundred and fifty dollars, cash down. But
it's worth it. I don't consider no money wasted, dot's spent for a work
of art.”

Suddenly a look of intense vacancy spread over Mr. Blum's countenance;
which was as suddenly followed by one of liveliest interest. Bringing
his forefinger with a swoop down upon Elias's cravat-pin--a Roman coin,
set in a ring of gold--“Excuse me,” he demanded eagerly, “is dot a
genuine aintique?”

“I don't know, I'm sure. I dare say not,” Elias answered, smothering his
impulse to laugh.

“Where you bought it?”

Elias told him.

“What you pay for it?”

Elias told him.

“Oh, vail, dot must be an imitation. You couldn't get no genuine
aintique for a price like dot.”

Pretty soon a servant appeared, and announced that dinner was ready.

“Take partners,” Mr. Koch called out.

They went down to the dining-room, and distributed themselves about the
table in accordance with the instructions, verbal and gestural, issued
by Mrs. Koch. Elias sat between Miss Tillie and Mrs. Blum.

The men covered their heads with their handkerchiefs. There was
an instant of silence. Mr. Koch glanced over at the rabbi, nodding
significantly; whereupon, in his best voice, the rabbi intoned a grace.
The men joined in the amen, which they pronounced omen.

The dinner began with a cocktail, and wound up with a liqueur. There
were ten courses, and five kinds of wine. After the French, the Jews
are the best cooks in the world; and the present repast fully sustained
their reputation. The banqueters sat down at one o'clock. At a quarter
to five the gentlemen lit their cigars. It was not until six o'clock
that the table was finally deserted.

During the soup not a word was spoken. Everybody devoted himself
religiously to his spoon. At last, however, leaning back in his chair,
heaving a long-drawn sigh, and wiping the tears of enjoyment from his
eyes, Mr. Blum exclaimed fervently: “Ach! Dot was a splendid soup!” And
his spouse wagged her jolly old head approvingly at him, from across the
table, and gurgled: “Du lieber Gott!”

This was the signal for a general loosening of tongues. A very loud and
animated conversation at once broke forth from all directions. It was
carried on, for the most part, in something like English; but every now
and then it betrayed a tendency to lapse into German.

“Vail,” announced Mr. Blum, with a pathetically reflective air, “when I
look around this table, and see all these smiling faces, and smell
dot cooking, and drink dot wine--my Gott!--dot reminds me of the day
I lainded at the Baittery, forty-five years ago, with just exactly six
dollars in my pocket. I didn't much think then that I'd be here to-day.
Hey, Rebecca?”

“Ach, Gott is goot,” Mrs. Blum responded, lifting her hand and casting
her eyes toward the ceiling.

“Oh, papa,” murmured Mrs. Koch, with profound emotion, “and you
didn't think you'd be a graindpa, neither, with such a loafly little
graind-son, did you?”

“I didn't think I'd be much of any thing at all, dot's a faict. I didn't
haif no prospects, and I didn't haif no friends. If it hadn't been for
my religion, I don't know what I done. I guess I commit suicide. But I
was a good Jew, and I knew the Lord would help me. Then I got married,
and dot brought me goot luck. When me and Rebecca got married, I was
earning just exactly five dollars a week, as a journeyman tailor.
There's an exaimple for you, Elias Bacharach.”

“Your success has been very remarkable,” observed the rabbi.

“My success--what you think my success has been due to, Elias
Bacharach?”

“Oh, to business wisdom--to what they call genius, I suppose.”

“No, sir--no, siree. Nodings of the kind. I owe my success to three
things: to my God, my wife, and my industry. I ain't no smarter than any
other man. But all my life I been industrious; and the Lord has given me
good health; and my wife has taken care of my earnings. All my life I go
to work at six or seven o'clock every morning; and I don't never leave
my work till it can spare me. You aisk my son-in-law. He tell you that I
get down-town every morning at seven o'clock; and I don't go home in the
busy season till ten or eleven at night; and I'm sixty-five years old.
Dot's what mait my success. Hey, Rebecca?”

“Ach, Gott!” cried Mrs. Blum. There was a frog in her voice, and
her merry little eyes were dim with tears. She turned to Elias, and
whispered: “Oh, he's such a _goot_ man, that man of mine!”

“Elias Bacharach,” pursued Mr. Blum, “you see dot lady there, next to
you--my wife? Vail, she's pretty near as old as I am, and maybe you
don't think she's very hainsome. But I tell you this. She's just
exactly as hainsome in my eyes to-day, as she was on the day when we got
married; and that's forty years ago already.”

Mrs. Blum was blushing now, peony red; and she cried out, “Oh, go'vay!
Shut up!” And all around the table a laugh went, at the fond old
couple's expense.

When sobriety was restored, “I saw by the papers,” said the rabbi,
“that the manufacturers of clothing have been having trouble with their
workmen, lately--strikes, and that sort of thing. How have you got along
with yours?”

“Oh, we--we got along maiknificent,” Mr. Blum replied. “You see my
son-in-law over there? He mainage the whole affair. You aisk him.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Koch--when Mr. Koch spoke, he raised his voice,
and assumed a declamatory style, as though in fancy he were addressing
a public meeting--“Yes, sir, when I saw that other houses were having
trouble, I made up my mind to take the bull by the horns. So I called
all our men together, and I talked to them up and down. I gave it to
them straight. 'Look at here, boys,' said I, 'I want you to understand
that the firm of Blum & Koch are not merely your employers; they're your
friends. They're the best friends you've got, and don't you forget it.
They mean to deal fairly and squarely with you in every thing, and they
want to be dealt with the same way by you. You have rights, and we mean
to recognize and protect your rights. You have interests, and we mean to
make your interests our interests. And unless I'm hugely mistaken, we've
always done it. Well, now, look at here. If you men ain't contented; if
you think you've got any grievances; or if there's any demands you want
to make, I'll tell you what you do. Don't you come to us as enemies, or
strikers; but you just come right up like one friend to another, and you
tell us in a friendly way what you want; and I promise you that
every thing you ask will be considered, and every thing that's even
fair-to-middling reasonable, will be done for you?' That's what I said
to the men; and it worked like magic. They gave three cheers for Blum &
Koch; and two or three days later they sent a committee with a statement
of their claims. Well, sir, the granting of those claims involved a net
loss of two per cent, annually on our profits; but we talked it over,
and we made up our minds that the harm it would do us, wouldn't equal
the good it would do the men; and so we gave in gracefully. There was
one point, though, on which we held off. But we told them our reasons
for holding off on that; and after they thought it over, they came and
confessed that we were in the right.”

“Would it be indiscreet to ask what that point was?” the rabbi ventured.

“Not at all. It was this. We got a man in our employ--one of our best
hands--an Irishman of the name of O'Day--who's been with us ever since
we started manufacturing. You know, when we first went into business, we
simply jobbed. We didn't begin to manufacture till '76. Well, that man,
O'Day, a year or two ago, he contracted a kind of a nervous disease,
which makes it impossible for him to do his work when the other workmen
are around. He can work perfectly well alone; but in the room with the
others, he gets excited, and loses his head, and can't take a stitch.
At the same time, he's got a family to support. So we've given him a
machine, and we allow him to do his work in his own home. Well, sir, the
men, they're dead set against tenement-house labor; and they wanted us
to discharge O'Day. We wouldn't. It struck us as such a dirty mean thing
to do, that we made up our minds the Lord would punish us, if we did it.
We made up our minds that if we did that, we'd deserve to have bad luck
right along. So we told the men we wouldn't. We told them that we'd
rather shut down and go out of the trade, than discharge O'Day--which
was the fact. We said we'd always been a prosperous house; and that we
believed we owed our prosperity chiefly to the fact that we'd never done
any thing to offend the Lord. We said that right out. And we said also
that if any other man in our employ should get in the same box, we'd
treat him the same way. Well, as I say, the men, they thought it over,
and they concluded that we were in the right.”

“Yes, sir,” added Mr. Blum, “we believe in treating our hands like
feller-beings. I was a hand myself, already. Dot's a great advaintage.
We don't go on the American plan, and treat them like machines.”

“Now, don't you get started on that subject,” cried Mr. Koch. “There's
nothing he's so prejudiced about, as every thing American. I'm an
Americain We're all Americans. The Americans are the grandest people on
the face of the earth.”

“I don't see how you make dot out,” retorted Mr. Blum.

“Well, I'll tell you how I make it out. I make it out this way. But
first, you just hold on. Let's see how _you_ make it out. What do _you_
judge the Americans from? What do you know about them, anyhow? Why,
you meet a few of them downtown; and you're prejudiced against them, to
begin with, because they're Christians; and they're prejudiced against
you, because you're a Jew; and you and they don't understand each
other, and don't get on together; and the consequence is, your mutual
prejudices are simply intensified. Well, now, that ain't a fair way to
judge a people. I'll leave it to Dr. Gedaza if it is. The right way is,
not to take individuals, but to take public sentiment. Public sentiment,
that is to say, the feeling of the people in general on questions of
importance--that's the real index of a people's character, And there
ain't another country in the world, where public sentiment is so high as
it is right here in the United States of America.”

“In what respects?” questioned the rabbi.

Mrs. Koch put in: “You needn't scream so, Washington. We ain't none of
us daif.” But her husband didn't hear her.

“In what respects?” he shouted, swelling with emotion. “Why, in--in
every respect--on every question of honor and decency and morality.
Here's a simple example. You go to Europe--you go to London, Berlin,
Paris--I don't care which--and you notice the way the drivers beat their
horses in the public streets; and nobody thinks any thing of it, nor
dreams of interfering. If they tried to do it here, in New York, they'd
be mobbed in no time. Well, that may seem a trifle; but it _ain't_
a trifle. No, sir. For it points to a radical defect in the European
character, and to a positive virtue in the American. It's the sense of
fair play--that's what it is. Don't abuse a creature, simply because
he's defenseless and you've got the upper hand. Do you see? Then take
the American way of treating women. You let a respectable young girl,
provided she's good-looking--you let Tillie, there--go out alone in
Paris or Berlin, and when she gets back, you ask her whether she's been
stared at, or insulted. But you let her go out here. Why, she could
travel alone from New York to San Francisco, and not run a risk.
Then take morality and decency. And take the American way of doing
business--the big, generous scale on which every thing is done, and the
sense of honor among business men. They're sharp and close, I admit,
but they mean what they say every time. I tell you, it's grand, it's
beautiful; it does me good every time I think of it. I go to Europe
every two or three years on business; and I get a chance of comparing.
It makes me sick, the depravity, the corruption, and the stinginess, you
meet everywhere over there.”

The orator sank back in his chair, panting, and absent-mindedly mopped
his brow with his napkin.

“Vail, dot's pretty good,” cried Mr. Blum, with cutting irony, “and what
you say of them big American bank swindlers, hey? They do things on a
generous scale, don't they?”

“That's no argument,” replied his son-in-law. “That don't signify any
thing. If you want to argue, you just answer me this. If you think
America's such a poor sort of a place, what did you come here for, any
way?”

“Oh, I came because I didn't have no money; and I got an idea the
streets here was paved with gold.”

“Well, now that you've got money, and now that you know the streets here
ain't paved with gold, why don't you go back?”

“Oh, dot--dot is another question.”

“Well, I'll tell you why. Because you like it here, Because, down deep,
you think it's the finest country in the world. You talk against it,
for the love of talking. If you went to Europe, you'd be as homesick as
anybody.”

“Ain't my uncle a splendid conversationalist?'' Tillie whispered to
Elias.

“Washington,” said his father-in-law, solemnly, “you got a head on you
like Daniel Webster's.”

“Oh, papa!” cried Mrs. Koch. “You make me die with laifing.”

Mrs. Blum was rocking from side to side in her chair, and murmuring,
“Gott! Gott! Gott!”

For a while, again, there was silence; which, again, by and by, Mr. Blum
was the first to break.

“Sarah,” he declared, addressing his daughter, “them pickles is simply
graind.”

“I opened a new jar to-day, papa,” Mrs. Koch returned.

“Elias Bacharach,” the old gentleman continued, “what _you_ think of
them pickles?”

“They're delicious,” Elias said.

“Vail, sir, my daughter, she make them herself. I think she make the
best pickles going.”

“Oh, papa,” protested Mrs. Koch, blushing. “How can you say dot, when
Aintoinette Morgenthau is seated right next to you? Her pickles beat
mine all hollow.”

“No,” cried Mrs. Morgenthau, magnanimously; “he's right. You're the
boss.”

“Vail,” pursued Mr. Blum, judicially, “there is a difference.
Aintoinette's pickles is splendid--dot's a faict. Maybe their flavor is
just exactly as good as yours. But yours is crisper. My Gott! when I put
one of your pickles in my mouth, dot makes me feel said. I never taste
no pickles so crisp as them, since I was a little boy in Chairmany,
and ate my mamma's. Her pickles--oh, they was loafly, they was
maiknificent.”

“Ach, papa! You got so much zendimend!” his daughter exclaimed, with
deep sympathy.

“You ought to taste my mamma's pickles,” Tillie whispered to Elias. “Of
course, Mr. Blum is prejudiced in favor of his daughter's.”

“Been to the theater lately, Mr. Bacharach?” Mr. Koch called out.

“No,” said Elias, little foreseeing the effect of his announcement; “I
don't go to the theater much. I'm not very fond of it.”

Immediately, from all directions, there was an outburst of astonishment
and indignation; for in New York the theater has no patrons more ardent
or devoted than the-German Jews.

“Oh, Mr. Bacharach!”

“How can you say such a thing?”

“Gott in Himmel!”

“Oh, you don't mean it!”

“Vail, if I aifer!”

And so forth, till the poor fellow was blushing to the roots of his
hair, and would have liked to bite his tongue out. Mr. Koch took up the
cudgels in his behalf.

“Oh, come,” he shouted, “don't make Mr. Bacharach feel as though he'd
brought the Tower of Babel crashing around his ears. He's got a right to
his opinion, hasn't he? I understand the way he feels. In fact, I feel
about the same way, myself. I _go_ to the theater a good deal, I don't
deny; but that's because there's nothing else to do. When I get home at
night I'm fagged out, and I want a little amusement, and I take my
wife and go to the theater. But all the same, I'm free to say that the
theaters here in this town are about as poor as they can make them, and
no mistake. Melodrama and burlesque--that's what they give you. Good,
honest pictures of life--where'll you find them, I'd like to know? Now
and then you get a big star--Salvini or Booth; now and then you get an
old English comedy; but it's the average that I'm talking about, and I
defy any man to say any thing in defense of that. You folks, you go to
the theater, the same as I do, because you haven't got any thing else to
do. But an intellectual young fellow like Mr. Bacharach, he don't need
any outside amusements of that sort. He'd rather stay home, and think;
wouldn't you, Mr. Bacharach?”

“Washington,” said Mr. Blum, “you're talking about American theayters.
But what you got against the Chairman theayter--the Thalia--hey?”

“Oh, you go 'way. You want to get back to our old quarrel,” Mr. Koch
retorted. “No, thanks.”

“Sarah,” said her father, abruptly, “there's one of your adopted
children--my grainchild, consequently,” he added, winking humorously at
Elias.

He pointed toward the open window, at which appeared the red and
weather-beaten visage of an elderly tramp. The tramp was peering
in through the iron bars, and muttering an inarticulate, plaintive
prayer--presumably for “cold victuals.” Mrs. Koch glanced over her
shoulders at him, and then, addressing a hasty “Excuse me,” to the
company, got up and left the room.

“She's got about twenty of them fellers,” Mr. Blum informed Elias, “who
she tries to be a mudder for. She feeds them, and clothes them, and
gives them free lectures. They're coming all the time. We don't never
sit down to a meal, but one of them sticks his head in the winder. Now,
you just listen.”

Out in the area, Mrs. Koch's high-pitched voice could be heard earnestly
speaking as follows:

“Oh, you baid man! You told me you wouldn't touch another drop of liquor
this week! And now I see you been indoxicated! You smell perfectly
outracheous; and dot loafly coat I give you, all spoiled! I got a great
mind to send you away, and naifer do nothing for you any more.”

A dull reverberation, like the far-distant roll of muffled drums,
testified that the tramp was pleading in his defense. After which,
Mrs. Koch went on: “Vail, you promise you don't drink another glaiss
of liquor till next Sunday, hey? You cross your heart, and promise? All
right. Then, you take this. And bright and early, to-morrow morning, you
come around here, and I give you a job. I want my cellar to be cleaned
out.”

“She makes them fellers say they'll come around to-morrow morning, every
time she sees them; but they don't never come,” Mr. Blum announced.
“She's keeping dot cellar dirty just on purpose, so dot some time she
can give the chop to one of them good-for-nodings. I guess I clean it
out myself, if dot goes on much longer.--Hey! Hold on, there!” he cried,
with sudden excitement. He ran to the window; stopped the tramp, who was
in process of departure; and deposited a twenty-five-cent silver piece
in his grimy palm. Returning to his seat, he appeared quite oblivious to
the laughter at his expense, in which the others were indulging.

“You want to kill that old fellow, don't you?” Mr. Koch demanded.
“Giving him a quarter! Why, it will bring on an attack of delirium
tremens.”

“Dot's all right,” Mr. Blum replied. “I know how it is myself. I was
pretty near to being a traimp myself, one time, already. Hey, Rebecca?”

“Du bist ein Engel--ja wohl!--ein himmlischer, wunderschoener Engel!”
 cried his wife, her broad face beaming like a harvest moon. Then she
whispered to Elias, “Ach! He is so loafly, dot Meester Blum!” and kept
swaying her head, and smiling to herself, for the next ten minutes.

With the coffee, the gentlemen lighted their cigars, and, leaving their
respective places, gathered in a knot at one end of the table, where
they began vociferously to exchange their views upon the state of trade.
The ladies assembled at the other end, and discoursed of topics maternal
and domestic. Lester was produced, and trotted upon his grandmother's
lap, while his “points” were mooted and admired for the thousandth time.
Finally, the men again covered their heads; and the rabbi chanted his
grace _after_ meat. Then Mr. Koch proposed that the company should
ascend to the parlor, and listen to some music. In the parlor the
gentlemen lighted fresh cigars; and Miss Tillie seated herself at the
piano.

She played the second Hungarian Rhapsody, and the Allegro Appassionato
from the Moonlight Sonata, and Chopin's Funeral March, and she played
them all marvelously well. Her technic was exact and brilliant; her
feeling was ardent, intelligent and refined. For an hour she flooded the
room with bewitching harmonies, and held every heart there spellbound.
Elias, whose chief sentiment for her, a short while ago, had been one of
half contemptuous amusement, felt an emotion very like genuine respect
begin to stir within his bosom. It astonished him, it awed him a little,
to find that a young lady who, in the commoner relations of life,
appeared so crude and so prosaic, was possessed of such superb and
consummate genius for a noble art. “There must be something _in_ her,
after all,” he thought. She, perhaps, divined what was going on in his
mind; for, when he had finished complimenting her upon her performance,
she said, in a subdued voice, and with a gentler air than her usual one,
“I know, Mr. Bacharach, that I'm not very much in conversation; but when
I sit down at the piano, it seems as though somehow I was another girl,
and a great deal nicer one; and I feel things that I don't ever feel
anywhere else. I guess maybe music's my natural method of expression.”

“Now, Mr. Bacharach,” Mr. Koch said, when Elias and the rabbi were
taking their leave, “don't treat us like strangers. Drop in on us any
evening, or to dinner any Sunday afternoon. We'll always be glad to see
you.”

“Yes; come over often,” added Mrs. Koch. “Come just exactly as if you
was to home.”




XVII.

ELIAS had enjoyed his dinner at the Kochs' very much. He had been
greatly amused by it; but he had derived from it, besides, a pleasure
that was deeper than mere amusement--the pleasure, namely, which comes
of contact with people whom we feel to be thoroughly good and wholesome.

“They, with their strident voices, and vulgar manners, and untutored
ways of thinking, are the sort of Jews that Gentiles judge the race
by,” he reflected. “It is a comfort to know that underneath all their
superficial roughness and unrefinement, the core is sound and sweet.”

It was with a sense of agreeable anticipation that, on the following
Thursday evening, he started out to pay his digestion visit.

The maid-servant showed him into the parlor, and went off to announce
him. Returning a moment later, she asked him to step down-stairs to the
basement. There he was very cordially welcomed; and Mr. Koch explained,
“I thought you'd rather join us down here, than have us come up to the
show-room. (That's my nick-name for the parlor; pretty good, hey?) Down
here it's more comfortable and homey.”

Mr. and Mrs. Blum smiled and swayed their heads at him; and Mrs. Koch,
clasping Lester to her bosom with one hand, offered him the other.

“We don't want to make company of you, Mr. Bacharach,” Mr. Koch went on;
“and so, after my wife has put Lester to bed, you must come around with
us to Winkum's. We're going to meet my brother-in-law and my sisters
around there.”

“I shall be very happy,” Elias responded. “But Winkum's--what is it? and
where?”

“Oh, Winkum's is Terrace Garden. I always call it Winkum's, because a
man named Winkum kept it when I first began to go there, years ago; and
I've never got used to calling it by its new name. Force of habit.”

Mrs. Koch passed Lester around, and everybody kissed him good-night.
Then she carried him from the room.

“Have a cigar?” asked Mr. Koch. “They're genuine--_Hoyo de Montereys_.”

Elias took a cigar.

Mr. and Mrs. Blum were whispering together, on the sofa, over in the
corner. He appeared to be urging her to do something, which she, with
blushes and modest smiles, was protesting against.

“Come,” cried Mr. Koch; “it ain't polite to whisper in company. What you
people conspiring about?”

“I want her,” Mr. Blum answered, “to offer Elias Bacharach some of her
cheese-cake; and she's too baishful. Elias Bacharach, my wife every now
and then, she make us a cheese-cake. You never taste any thing like it.
It's simply elegant. Vail, she make us one to-day; and I want her to
give you a bite of it, just to show what she can do. But she--she's just
exactly as baishful as she was the day we got married; and that's forty
years ago, already.”

“Oh, Mrs. Blum,” Elias pleaded, “I shall really feel very much offended,
if you don't let me taste it. There's nothing in the world I like so
well as cheese-cake. Please don't disappoint me.”

Blushing and giggling, the old lady got up, and said, “Ach, Gott! All
right,” and waddled from the room. Presently she waddled back, and
placed an enormous slice of cheese-cake, together with knife, fork, and
napkin, upon the table. Then she sat down, and crossed her hands upon
her stomach, and watched Elias as he ate. Between his mouthfuls, he kept
uttering ejaculations of delight and wonder: marvelous! delicious! never
tasted any thing equal to it in all my life! etc. She kept swaying
her head and smiling. At the end, he vowed that the cheese-cake was
a triumph of art, and confessed that antecedently he would not have
believed such excellence attainable. Her husband demanded, “Didn't I
tell you so?” The old lady herself was overcome, and could only gurgle,
“Gott! Du lieber, lieber Gott!”

By and by Mrs. Koch reappeared; and her husband called out, “Well, let's
start.”

At Terrace Garden they found Mr. and Mrs. Sternberg and Mrs. Morgenthau
seated at a round table under an ailanthus tree.

“Why, where's Tillie?” cried Mr. Koch.

“Oh, she had to stay at home to work,” her mother answered. “Preparing
for some lessons she has to give to-morrow.”

The electric-lamps flared and sizzled. The band played tunes from comic
operas. There were many people present, seated at similar tables, under
similar trees, eating, drinking, smoking, chatting, listening to the
music. Their countenances were mostly of the Semitic type. Every now and
then a new party entered, from the café adjoining: an old gentleman and
lady, a middle-aged gentleman and lady, and a troop of young folks of
both sexes: three generations. Your Jew loves to take his pleasure with
his family to share it. His boon companions are, as a rule, his father
and mother, his wife and children. The waiters dashed like meteors
hither and thither. One of them stopped before the table of our friends;
and Mr. Koch, having determined the sentiment of the meeting, ordered
“beers all around.”

“Vail,” observed Mr. Blum, “to drink dot beer, and hear dot music, and
breathe dot fresh air, dot's what I call solid comfort--hey?”

“Yes; and to see the people,” added Mr. Koch. “I don't know as there's
any thing that I enjoy better than I do to sit around here of a summer
night, and watch the people--see them arrive in squads, and then notice
their ways of enjoying themselves after they've got settled. It's quite
a study; and every now and then you catch a glimpse into a regular
romance. Now, Mr. Bacharach, you just take in that table over there.
Can't you imagine how that young fellow's heart is thumping, as he
whispers to her in that energetic manner? And see how she blushes, and
fidgets with her fan, and pretends not to like it. And the old folks,
her father and mother, of course--they sit placidly, with their backs
turned, and have no attention for any thing but the beer and the music.
I got a great mind to go up and nudge them. I have, as I'm alive.”

“Don't you do nothing of the kind!” cried Mrs. Koch, indignantly. “The
idea! How you like it if some busy-body come up, and nudge my papa, when
you was making loaf to me?”

“Well, now, what I admire about that couple,” pursued Mr. Koch, “is
their clever acting. They're trying hard not to give themselves away,
and not to let people see how sweet they feel. Unless a fellow watched
them mighty close, and had been there himself, he might really be
deceived by them, and think they were talking about nothing more
interesting than the weather. But you and me, Mr. Bacharach, we're
shrewd, and we know better. She's a daisy, and no mistake, ain't she?
And the young man--he looks like a respectable sort of a chap, too.
Well, I guess I _won't_ interfere. I guess I'll do as you say, Sarah. It
may be a desirable match. What's your advice, mother-inlaw?”

Mrs. Blum, quivering like a mass of jelly with suppressed mirth,
responded, “Ach, Gott! Go 'vay! You make me die!”

Mr. Blum, his face wreathed in smiles, exclaimed, “Washington, you got
more wit about you than any man I know. It's simply wonderful.”

It seemed as though the Kochs knew every body that came. At all events,
every body that passed their table stopped, and said how-d'ye-do,
shaking hands, and addressing Mr. Koch as Wash. His usual rejoinder was:
“First-class. How's yourself?”

“I'm sorry your daughter wasn't able to be here, Mrs. Morgenthau,” Elias
said.

“Oh, my daughter,” Mrs. Morgenthau returned, “she works like a horse.
You never saw such a worker. It's simply fearful. And such a _good_
girl, Mr. Bacharach. Only nineteen years old, and earns more than a
hundred dollars a month, and supports me and herself. Her uncle, my
brother over there, he's as generous with his money as if it was water;
and he gave Tillie a magnificent education. But she's bound to be
self-supporting, and hasn't cost him a cent for nearly a year. Of
course, he gives her elegant presents every once in awhile; but she pays
our expenses by her own work. She's grand. She's an angel.”

“You're right there,” putin Mr. Koch. “Tillie's all wool, from head to
foot.”

“And a yard vide,” added Mr. Blum.

“And such a brilliant musician,” said Elias.

“Musician?” echoed her mother. “Well, I should say so. You ought to hear
her play, when she really knuckles down to it. Why, you--you'd jump,
you'd get so excited. The other night she was only drumming--for fun. I
tell you what you do. You come around and call on us some evening, over
in Beekman Place. Then you'll hear her, the right way.”

“I shall be very happy to. It's very good of you to ask me.”

“Good? Oh, pshaw; don't mention it. Tillie 'll be delighted.

“We shall esteem it an honor to welcome you in our home, Mr. Bacharach,”
 Mr. Sternberg said, with a stiffness which he mistook for courtliness. .

“Yes, come over, do,” added Mrs. Sternberg. “Come Sunday evening and
take supper with us.” Elias agreed to do so, with thanks.

“You folks come over, too,” said Mrs. Sternberg, addressing the Koch
contingent.

“You may count upon us,” replied Mr. Koch, “providing you'll have enough
to eat.”

At which sally there was a general laugh.

“What you all laughing at?” the wag proceeded. “I hope you don't think
I'm joking. I wouldn't want to come to supper with a family, if they
didn't have enough to go around.”

At this, the laughter was redoubled; and Mrs. Morgenthau demanded in a
whisper of Elias, “Ain't my brother immense?”

“There's either a ball or a wedding going on in there,” Mr. Koch
announced, pointing to the brightly-lighted windows of the hall, that
abuts upon the garden. “Hear that music? It's a string-orchestra,
playing dance tunes. Running a race with our band here. Wonder which
will come in first.”

Pretty soon the doors of the hall were thrown wide open; and a stream of
young people poured forth into the garden. The men wore dress-suits
and patent-leather pumps; the ladies, evening costumes, of red, white,
yellow, and other bright-hued silks. They took possession of the
unoccupied tables round about, and proceeded to make merry in a very
noisy and whole-souled manner.

“Yes, it's a wedding, sure enough,” said Mr. Koch; “and here comes the
bride.”

The bride, a buxom daughter of Israel, of twenty odd, attired in
canary- satin, escorted by her bridesmaids, and followed at a
respectful distance by the groom and his four best men, drew up to
the table nearest that of our friends, and called for beer and cheese;
which, when the waiter brought them, she attacked with a vigor and with
a directness that were charming to witness. Indeed, so interesting did
her immediate neighbors find the spectacle, that not a word was spoken
among them for a long while. They sat still, and watched her with
smitten eyes. At last, however, she called out to her husband: “Nun,
gut, mein Turteltâubchen; ich bin ganz satt und glücklich. Komm 'mal mit
mir, und noch ein wenig lass uns tanzen.” And then Mrs. Koch said that
she was sorry to break up a party, but she really thought she'd better
go home, as Laistair might have woke up, and he would be frightened if
his mamma wasn't there to put him back to shleep. This expression of
maternal solicitude produced its due effect; and, with many hearty
good-nights, the company departed upon their several ways.

*****

Sunday evening, Elias rang the Sternberg doorbell at six o'clock. The
Kochs and the Blums had already arrived; and they, with the host
and hostess and Mrs. Morgenthau and Tillie, were assembled in the
back-parlor, enjoying the view from the bay-window--up, down, and across
the river, and over the Long Island country on the other side. He got,
of course, a very effusive reception. Mr. Koch inquired what the good
word was. Miss Tillie said she was so glad to see him, and that it was
perfectly elegant of him to come. Mr. Sternberg mixed him a vermouth
cocktail, “to put an edge on his appetite.” And Mr. Blum declared, vail,
he was looking splendid.

“Supper's all ready,” proclaimed Mrs. Sternberg, and led the way to
the back-yard, where, protected by an awning, the table fairly groaned
beneath its burden of good things. “Say, Wash,” she called out to
her brother, “think there's enough?” Which proved that Mr. Koch's
witticisms were not speedily forgotten in his admiring circle.

Elias thought it exceedingly pleasant thus to feast in the open air,
while the sky and river glowed with the reflected splendor of the
sunset; and said so to Miss Tillie. She replied that it was simply
ideal, that they always did it in good weather, and that it was quite
the rage among the residents of Beekman Place. Beekman Place, she went
on, was the grandest street in the city, and she was awfully attached
to it. She'd lived there most all her life, and all the memories of her
childhood were associated with it. She remembered when she used to go
fishing, with a thread and a bent pin, off the docks below there, and
how scared her mamma used to get, lest she should tumble into the water,
and be drowned. She didn't know what she'd do--she knew she'd feel just
perfectly fearful, any how--when she had to leave, and dwell elsewhere,
as she supposed she would some day. Oh, no, they weren't thinking of
moving. She meant when she got married.

“Why,” exclaimed her interlocutor, “I didn't know you were engaged.”

“Well, I'm _not_ engaged. But I suppose I'll _get_ engaged before I die.
All girls do.”

But couldn't she persuade her husband to come and live in Beekman Place?

Well, that would depend a good deal upon what sort of a man he was. Most
men wouldn't want to come so far out of the way. She knew, when she was
at college, it used to take her pretty much all day going and coming,
and cost a regular fortune in car-fares.

College? The Normal College?

Yes. Class of '82. Salutatory.

Indeed! That was a great honor.

“Well, may be it was; but I didn't care a cent for it. I wanted to be
Valedictory. I worked hard for it, for four years; and when I didn't get
it, you can't imagine how horribly bad I felt.”

“Oh, yes; I can understand. It must have been very hard.”

“Florence Rosenbaum got it. She, and I, and an American girl named
Redwood, had been rivals ever since we were freshmen. Some years one
would lead, and some years another. But at the finish, Rosenbaum came
in first, and Redwood third, and I second. I'd just as soon have come
in last.”--Tillie paused; appeared puzzled; finally demanded, “Why, what
you looking so queer about?”

“Why, nothing. I didn't know I was looking queer.”

“I thought something was choking you, you got so red in the face.”

“Been down to the beach this season, Mr. Bach-arach?” broke in Mr. Koch,
having reference, presumably, to Coney Island. Elias replied in the
negative. “Well, then, I tell you what let's do,” Mr. Koch proceeded,
addressing the table at large; “let's make up a party to go down to the
beach some afternoon this week, hey?”

After a clamorous debate, it was decided that they should dine at the
beach on the following Wednesday evening, provided the elements were
favorable.

Supper over, they went up stairs, and sat in the dusk, smoking their
cigars, and looking out of the bay window, while Tillie played. “I'm
going to give you a Chopin evening,” she had said. Elias, stretched in a
great easy-chair, watching the moon float up red and swollen from behind
the castellated prison on Blackwell's Island, and listening to the
subtle, dreamy measures of the Berceuse, thought he had never before
experienced such restful and satisfying pleasure. It got dark. The moon
shrank and paled. A million diamonds sparkled upon the bosom of the
river. Along the opposite embankment, the street lamps gleamed like
fallen stars. A soft breeze, laden with the odors of lilac and wistaria,
stole in at the window. The music, sweet and solemn, thrilled the
darkness like the voice of a beautiful, sad, strange spirit. Suddenly it
died away. Somebody lighted the gas. There was an outbreak of talk and
laughter. The spell was broken. Elias started, got upon his feet, bade
his friends good-night, went home.




XVIII.

THEY had a very noisy and jolly time down at the beach; a time which,
they all agreed, was simply grand. They walked to and fro along the
shore, and went in for a bath, and ate a capital dinner, and enjoyed the
music, and met lots of their friends, and laughed and talked till their
sides ached, and their throats were sore. Mrs. Blum, in her bathing
costume, was the butt of many innocent jokes. Her husband said she
resembled a _blaidder_. Elias had to think hard, before he caught the
idea, and recognized its force. They returned to the city by the
boat; and, having reached the Battery, Mr. Blum gave expression to the
universal sentiment when he declared, “Vail, dot sail up the Bay, dot
was maiknificent, dot was perfectly immense.”

“Come over soon now, won't you, Mr. Bach-arach?” Mrs. Morgenthau asked,
as Elias was tearing himself away.

“Yes, do,” chimed in Miss Tillie.

And he promised that he would.

He redeemed his promise about a week later. Tillie played to him to his
heart's content, and afterward she amused him with her conversation.

On his way home, “She's a good little thing,” he soliloquized;
“thoroughly well-meaning and kind--hearted. Crude, of course, and
uncultivated; but a fellow must make allowances for that sort of thing.
She has plenty of mother-wit; and her dash--her abundance of animal
spirits--it--it's positively stimulating. Then she plays--well, her
playing is marvelous, masterly--such execution--such expression--really,
no praise could do justice to her playing. And she's not at all
bad-looking, either.”

He called pretty soon again; and after that he got into the habit of
calling regularly at frequent intervals. He was invariably welcomed with
exceeding warmth, and treated with a certain deference that no doubt
tickled his vanity. Besides, a bay-window overlooking the East River is
a pleasant place to spend a hot summer's night. And Tillie's music, it
was worth traveling miles to hear.

In his hours of solitude he led a very useless and meaningless
existence. He did not paint much; and when he did, his occupation proved
neither profitable nor enjoyable. He read a good many light novels; he
spent a good deal of time seated at his studio window, gazing off
across the tree-tops, and lapsing into a state of mental vacuity,
that approached as near to total unconsciousness as is compatible with
sustained animation. He even went to the theater now and then, escorting
Tillie and her mother. To Mrs. Morgenthau he had taken a genuine liking.
There was something so hearty and vigorous about her, something almost
manly. His palate was dulled. He craved strong flavors.

“They're going to the country before long, aren't they?” the rabbi asked
one day.

“Yes; the first week in July.”

“Well, don't you think we ought to have them to dinner, before they go?”

“That wouldn't be a bad idea,” confessed Elias.

And on the following Sunday to dinner they all came; Mr. Koch expatiated
in his oratorical style upon the charms of the Catskills; and the others
unanimously joined him in urging Elias and the rabbi to “come along.”
 The rabbi replied that he positively couldn't. His professional duties
were such as to compel him to remain in town.

“But there's no reason why _you_ shouldn't,” he concluded, turning to
his nephew; “and I think decidedly you'd better.”

At this, they concentrated their fire upon Elias; and in the end, he
said, well, perhaps he would run up for a week or two some time in
August.

But he did not wait till August. After they were gone, he found the city
intolerably dull. What to do with himself, how to divert himself, where
to seek a substitute for the excitement that they had afforded him, he
did not know. He began to realize that he had grown very dependent
upon their society; likewise, that he possessed but very few and
feeble resources within himself. He did not like this. It damaged his
self-esteem. But he could not deny it, he could not get the better of
it. He craved the sound of their voices; he craved Tillie's music;
he craved the exuberant friendliness with which they treated him. The
idleness, the monotony, the insipidity, of his daily life in the city,
he could not endure. In the copious leisure that it left him, he would
sometimes--despite his customary inanition--he would sometimes fall
to thinking; and when he thought, he did not admire himself; he even
sluggishly despised himself; a sense of his uselessness bore in upon
him; he was anxious to escape himself. So, toward the middle of July,
he packed his trunk, and went to Tanners-town. He had said that he would
run up for a week or two. But he did not return to New York until the
others did so, early in September.

He and Tillie were together a great deal. They sat next to each other at
table. In the daytime they would take walks together, or lounge together
about the piazza of the hotel, or play croquet together; or, haply, she
would lie in a hammock, while he read to her, or sketched her. In the
evening, if there was dancing, they would dance together; for she had
taught him to dance. Or, perhaps, they would go together for a stroll by
moonlight, or again sit together on the piazza in the dark. He liked
her very much indeed. On closer acquaintance, her crudity became less
conspicuous. Either he got accustomed to it, or it was eclipsed by her
many and sterling virtues. She was a paragon of unselfishness--always
doing something for somebody, always giving up something that somebody
else might enjoy it. When they went for a drive, Tillie always took the
least desirable seat. When there was an errand to be run, Tillie always
ran it. When a letter had to be carried to the post, Tillie always
carried it. Etc., etc. Her attitude toward her mother struck Elias as
especially fine. Such filial respect, solicitude, obedience, unwearying
devotion, he had never witnessed before. She was constantly looking
after her mother's comfort, fetching and carrying for her mother, doing
for her mother. If a pretty fan were for sale in the village, she must
purchase it for mamma. If there were pretty wild flowers growing along
the road-side, she must gather them for mamma. If mamma breathed a wish,
Tillie would devote hours, if need were, to the execution of it. For
hours, if mamma had a head-ache, Tillie would stand upon her feet,
stroking mamma's forehead. Her mother appeared to be her passion, almost
her religion. And how could Elias help admiring such a model daughter?
And then, her music, and her pretty face. _Could_ anybody play like
that, _could_ anybody possess such bright blue eyes, and not have a
gentle soul, even a spark of divinity, glowing beneath the surface? What
mattered faulty grammar, or too robust a voice? On the whole, he told
himself, he had a genuine affection for Tillie. She was a rough diamond;
rough, but susceptible of the highest degree of polish. She only needed
time and refining influences, to make a charming lady. He liked her
very much indeed, with a patronizing, brotherly sort of liking. What her
sentiment for him might be, he never thought to ask himself, but tacitly
assumed that it was one of cordial friendliness.

Mr. Koch and Mr. Sternberg staid but a fortnight apiece. Mr. Blum, the
ladies, and Elias, staid till the beginning of September; when they all
came back to town in company. Elias then resumed his frequent visiting
in Beekman Place.

One evening after dinner the rabbi asked Elias to step into his study.

“I had a call from Mr. Koch this afternoon,” the rabbi said.

“Ah?” returned Elias.

“Yes. He stopped in on his way up-town.”

“That so? Any thing special?”

“Well, yes. That's why I wanted to see you, now. He spoke about you.”
 Emphasis on the “you.”

“About me? Indeed? Why, what could he have had to say about me?”

“Well, he thought it was strange that you didn't come to see him, and
wanted to know why you were holding off.”

“Come to see him? Why, I went to see him only last week. Holding off? I
don't know what he can mean.”

“No, no. You don't understand. He meant about declaring your
intentions.”

“What intentions? Intentions? I don't know what you're driving at, I'm
sure.”

“Why, your intentions in respect to his niece, of course.”

“My intentions in respect--Mercy!” gasped Elias, with honest
astonishment, as the idea suddenly dawned upon him. “You don't mean to
say that--that he imagines--that--that I--Good Lord!”

“Why, certainly,” said the rabbi. “How could he help it? You haven't
taken Washington I. Koch for a fool, I hope. Besides, your attentions
have been so very marked, that no great penetration was necessary. I'm
not much at that sort of thing, but even I saw through them long ago. In
fact, no man with half an eye open could have failed to do so.”

“Merciful Powers!” exclaimed Elias, and sat dumb.

“There's no use making so much ado about it, either,” pursued the rabbi.
“It was bound to come out, you know, sooner or later; and, at any rate,
you have no reason for feeling ashamed of it.”

“But--” began Elias.

“Oh, I dare say. I dare say, it's a little embarrassing. That's not
unnatural. But then, you couldn't have kept it a secret forever. By its
very nature, it was bound to come out.”

“But,” Elias began anew, “but it's not true. It's the most preposterous
mistake I ever heard of. I never had any such idea, never dreamed of
having any such idea. Intentions! Why, I always thought of her as--as
scarcely more than a child. I don't see how anybody could have made such
a stupid, ridiculous blunder. Well, I did give Mr. Koch credit for more
intelligence.”

“Elias,” demanded the rabbi, with very great seriousness, “are you in
earnest, or is this a comedy?”

“A comedy? I tell you it's outrageous. I never was more in earnest in my
life.”

“And I am to understand that you have made Miss Morgenthau the object of
your particular attentions--as you can't deny you have done--and in
that way have necessarily endeared yourself more or less to her--I am
to understand that you have deliberately done this, without meaning
eventually to make her your wife?”

“Particular attentions! I've paid her no particular attentions. I took a
friendly interest in the girl, and behaved toward her in a friendly
way. My wife! The notion never entered my head--nor hers, either, I'll
venture to say.”

“I can hardly believe it,” said the rabbi, shaking his head
incredulously. “I don't like to believe it. I don't like to believe you
capable of--of such--”

“Such what? What have I done? Is it my fault, if people jump to false
conclusions? Am I to blame for their lack of sense? Can't a young man
be ordinarily polite and decent to a young girl, without every body
fancying that he is spoony over her?”

“No, he can't; not if you call it ordinarily polite and decent to visit
a young lady regularly every week or so, and spend a couple of months at
her side in the country. From that sort of politeness and decency,
her parents always infer that he means matrimony. It gives the same
impression to society, also, and frightens other young men away.”

“Well,” groaned Elias, “I suppose it's needless for me to say I'm
sorry. I _am_ sorry; but that's neither here nor there. If I had at
all foreseen--But what's the use of iffing? Now that you have opened my
eyes, I'll stop visiting her. That's at once the least and most I can
do. Well, I'm glad it went no further. So far, at any rate, no harm has
been done.”

“No harm done! Well, I must say, your complacency astounds me. No harm
done! You--you get a young girl's expectations all aroused--get her
heart set on you--get her and her family to taking for granted that
you want to marry her--get the whole world to talking about her as your
sweetheart--and then coolly dismiss the matter with a No harm done! No
harm done, forsooth!”

“Oh, come,” protested Elias; “you exaggerate. It's not so bad as all
that. Whatever you and her uncle and the others may have suspected,
_she_ never misconstrued my feeling for her. She has too much good
sense. Why, I never spoke a word to her that could, by torturing it
even, be interpreted as any thing more than friendly. As for her heart
being set upon me, and her expectations aroused, that's rubbish, pure
and simple rubbish.”

“Is it, though?” retorted the rabbi. “Her uncle didn't seem to think
so.”

“What do you mean?” cried Elias.

“I mean that Mr. Koch gave me to understand that Miss Morgenthau is in
love with you.”

“Gave you to understand? Oh, you _mis_understood.”

“I could scarcely have done that. He told me so in just so many words.”

“Well, then, he didn't know what he was talking about.”

“Perhaps not; but he had it directly from Mrs. Morgenthau. When he
asked why you didn't pop the question, I said it might be that you were
doubtful about what kind of an answer you'd get. Then he assured me that
you could set your mind at rest on that score, for Mrs. Morgenthau had
told him that Tillie thought all the world of you. The young girl has
confided in her mother, as a young girl should.”

“Oh, this is horrible!” Elias gasped.

“Yes, horrible; I think that's the right name for it, if what you say
about your own feeling is true. If you don't mean to marry her, I can't
see how it could be much worse. But now, honestly, are you sure you
don't?”

“Why, I tell you, I never thought of such a thing--never dreamed of it.”

“Well, it isn't too late to think of it, even now. It's a fine chance. I
advise you to consider a little before you throw it away. She'd make
you an excellent wife, and bring a snug sum of money with her. Mr. Koch
mentioned something like twenty thousand dollars. You can have her for
the asking. Such an opportunity may never occur again.”

“You speak as though it were a bargain--just as I should expect Mr.
Blum to speak of what he calls a chop-lot. You don't suppose I want
her twenty thousand dollars? I have more money than I've any right to,
already; I, who do nothing to earn any. I think it ought to settle the
question, when I say I don't love the girl.”

“What do you mean by love?”

“What is generally meant by love? I mean that I don't care for her in
any way except a friendly one.”

“Well, what do you mean by friendly?”

“I mean that I like her--just as a fellow might like his sister.”

“You make a distinction without a difference. Or rather, no; the
difference is against you. Love, in the sense in which you use the
word, isn't what's wanted. A strong liking, an affection, is more to the
point. I was struck the other day, when looking in the dictionary,
to find, among its other definitions, _love_ defined as a 'thin silk
stuff.' Well, affection is a stout woolen fabric. For matrimonial
purposes, for daily wear and tear, the latter is by far the better.”

“There's room for two opinions about that. I may be allowed to have my
own.”

“Certainly; though your opinion would coincide with mine, if you were
wiser. But let us confine ourselves to the practical aspects of the
case. You say you like the young lady very much?”

“Yes, but--”

“Not so fast. Now, if you like her very much, would you not wish, if
possible, to spare her the pain and the mortification of having her
hopes in your regard disappointed?”

“If possible, of course. But it isn't possible.”

“One moment. Now, don't you think she's a very estimable young woman?
Don't you think the man who got her for his wife would be a fortunate
fellow?”

“Other things equal--that is, if he loved her--yes, I think so.”

“Well and good. Then what I want you to consider is this. In the first
place, here is a young lady, whom you like very much, ready and willing
to become your wife. You've got to take her or leave her. Unless you
profit by your chances, and secure her now, you'll have to give her
up altogether, and lose her for good. In the second place--whether
intentionally or unintentionally doesn't matter--you have, by your
assiduous devotion, contrived to win her love, and to cause her and her
family to expect that you were going to ask for her hand in marriage.
Consequently, in the event of your now abruptly breaking off with her,
and discontinuing your visits, you will occasion the young lady herself
much unmerited grief and humiliation, you'll set busy-bodies far and
wide to gossiping, and you'll bring no end of odium down upon yourself.
Consider these things, and you'll see that you've got yourself into a
very unpleasant situation, a very tight fix. There's only one way out of
it; but that way is strewn with roses. Matrimony! Marry her! Why, if I
were in your place, I shouldn't hesitate an instant.”

“If you were in my place, I don't think you'd know what to do.”

“If I were in your place, I should congratulate myself. I should be
thankful for my tremendous good-luck, in winning such a wife. Tillie
Morgen-thau is a jewel, if there ever was one. She has certain
peculiarities of manner, I admit; but six months of intimate association
with you, would tone them down to nothing. She's as pretty as a picture;
she plays wonderfully; and her character is pure gold. Just think, boy,
that this prize is within your grasp! Then, besides, you ought to get
married, anyhow. Such an opportunity comes but once in a lifetime. I'm
an old man; and I know what I'm talking about.”

“That may be; but that makes no difference. I simply repeat, I don't
love her, I'm not in love with her. I shall never be in love with
any body. My capacity for loving has been exhausted. I shall remain a
bachelor all my life.”

“Oh, you try my patience. Your talk is silly. Your head is full of
romantic notions, like a schoolgirl's. Remain a bachelor! Don't you
know that every man is required by our religion to marry and bring up
a family? Love? Gammon! Love marriages in nine cases out of ten are
unhappy. Hundreds, thousands, of better men than you, have married
without the sickish sentiment which you call love; and happier marriages
were never made. I tell you, if you don't marry Miss Tillie Morgenthau,
you'll live to repent it bitterly. Think of how she would brighten up
this gloomy old house. Think of the children. Think--Oh, you're throwing
away the flower of your life. The Lord--yes, sir--the Lord God of Israel
has put this woman in your path; and you, with your imbecile delusions
about love, see fit to spurn her!”

Elias held his peace.

By and by, “Well?” questioned the rabbi.

“Well, what?”

“Well, what are you going to do? Have you thought better of it?”

“I am still of the same mind.”

“You still mean to fly in the face of Providence?”

“Well, if it pleases you to phrase it that way, yes.”

“And your knowledge of the wound you are going to inflict upon Miss
Tillie--you don't flinch, you don't falter a little, at that?”

“What can I do? I can't help it. I--I suppose I was born to cause sorrow
in the world. I have already spoiled the life of one young girl. Now, it
looks as though I were in a fair way to spoil the life of another.”

“Elias, the two affairs ought not to be mentioned in the same breath.
In _that_ one, you weren't responsible. In this, you are. Being
responsible, and seeing your duty plain before you, I don't understand
how you can hesitate. Don't you realize what you have done? You have
gone to work and compromised this young girl; yes, sir, _compromised_
her. And having done that, you are bound in common honor to marry her.
Why, sir, throughout this city, in every Jewish family in this city, if
you don't marry her, she'll be talked about. Think of that. Furthermore,
I tell you, it's the will of the Lord. If you don't marry her, the Lord
will punish you. You'd better consider a little. You'd better think
twice, before you determine in cold blood to break this young girl's
heart, and make her name a by-word among gossips, and defy the will of
the Lord our God. It's a fearful responsibility.”

“Oh, don't tell me that. I know that. It couldn't be worse. I should
very gladly marry her, or do any thing else, to mend matters, to repair
the mischief which, it seems, I have wrought; only, I can't believe that
it is right to marry without love. If, as you say, it is the will of the
Lord, why hasn't the Lord made me love her?”

“He _has_ made you love her--with the best sort-of love--with a genuine,
strong affection. If you don't feel a flimsy, volatile passion for her,
it is because that isn't the thing that's needed in marriage. Who's the
better judge of right and wrong, who's the better qualified to interpret
the will of God, you or I? You'd do well to call to mind how once before
I warned you, and you chose to make light of my warning; and then, what
happened? Now, here is my last word. You marry Miss Morgen-thau, or
you'll regret it to your dying day.”

After a long pause, “Well,” said Elias, “I'll think about it.”

“You'll have to think quickly,” rejoined the rabbi; “for I promised Mr.
Koch that he should hear from you by to-morrow evening at the latest.”

“Oh, you ought to have allowed me more time than that. I really need
more time than that.”

“Time? What do you want time for? Are you absolutely lacking in decision
of character? Why, in a case like this, a man, who _is_ a man, ought to
say yes or no on the spot. There's nothing that needs deliberation. You
have to make the simplest kind of a choice, the easiest possible
choice. You have to choose between obvious, palpable right, and obvious,
palpable wrong. If you took a year to think about it, the matter
would still stand precisely as it stands to-day. I'm surprised at
you--surprised that you can hesitate a minute.”

“Well, if you object to my taking time, then the only thing left for me
to do, is to repeat what I've said already.”

“That you won't marry her?”

“If I've got to decide instantly, on the spot, yes.”

“Well, then, take time; and much good may it do you. We'll talk about
this again to-morrow. I hope meanwhile the Lord may enlighten you, and
move your stubborn spirit. Now, good-night.”

*****

When they met at breakfast next morning, “Well,” began the rabbi, “have
you thought about it?”

“Yes,” replied Elias, “I have thought about it--all night long.”

“Contrived to make up your mind?”

“Yes, I have made up my mind.”

The rabbi's pale skin turned a shade paler. He waited a little, before
asking, “Well?” His voice was faint and tremulous.

“Well,” said Elias, “I have made up my mind to do as you wish--to call
upon Mr. Koch this evening, and do as you wish.”

The rabbi jumped up from his seat, grasped Elias's hand, wrung it
fervently, and cried, “It is the will of the Lord! The Lord be praised!”
 Elias held his tongue. He was looking very grave this morning.

“Oh, but you have lifted a load from off my spirit,” pursued the rabbi,
returning to his place. “At last I shall be contented. If only your
mother might have lived to enjoy this day!”

“I am glad you are pleased,” said Elias.

“But tell me, boy, tell me all about it. What finally decided you?”

“Oh, it's a long story. It wouldn't interest you.”

“On the contrary, I'm most anxious to hear it. Go on. Out with it.
Come.”

“Well, it isn't very exciting. It's simply this. I have tried to be
honest, and to get at the real truth. I have tried to analyze and
comprehend my own feelings, and to look the circumstances squarely in
the face. The result is, I believe that you are right--that I have more
or less seriously compromised her, and am bound in duty, therefore, to
marry her, if she wants me to. I don't think I am swayed by any selfish
motive. I think my desire to act honorably, to do the right thing, is
sincere and genuine. The prospect of having her for my wife gives me no
pleasure at all. I must confess that it is no longer repugnant to
me, either. It awakes no emotion of any kind. It leaves me totally
indifferent. This evening, as I say, I shall propose for her hand. If,
as you expect, I am accepted, well and good. If I should be rejected,
equally well and good. I shall neither be pleased nor disappointed, in
the one event or in the other. The long and short of the business is,
that I never hope to be happy in this world; nor to be much of any
thing, except listless and sluggish. I've used up my share of happiness,
already. So far as I can see, I'm utterly good-for-nothing, besides. I
have already caused plenty of misery. If, by marrying this young girl,
I can keep from causing any more, and perhaps even become the means of a
little positive happiness--why, I can't think of any better use to
which to put myself. I dare say I shall be able to make her a tolerable
husband, as husbands go. I shall try to, any how. It's a pity I was ever
born; but that can't be helped at this late date. If I could be quietly
annihilated, wiped out of existence, I think that would be the best
thing all around; but I haven't the courage to do away with myself. So,
as long as I've got to go on cumbering the face of the earth, when I see
a chance to render myself comparatively inoffensive, it seems as though
I'd better seize it and improve it.”

“Elias,” said the rabbi, “I don't know whether to scold you, or to laugh
at you. You're morbid, abominably morbid. This marriage is exactly what
you need, to brace you up, and put a little health into you. You talk
like a French novel. You have cut open your doll, and found it stuffed
with saw-dust. Poor, pessimistic fellow! Bah! I shall neither scold you,
nor laugh at you. I shall congratulate you. And in a few months now, I
shall have the satisfaction, in my professional capacity, of pronouncing
you the happiest of husbands.”

“If I talk like a French novel,” returned Elias, “I talk, at least, as
I feel. I mean every word I say. The one conviction that abides with
me all the time, lies heavily upon my conscience day and night, is the
conviction of my utter uselessness and worthlessness in the world. Why,
the cook in our kitchen, the man who looks after our furnace, does more
practical good, has a better claim to his bread and butter, than I. I
have lived twenty-seven years. All that I have been able to accomplish
in all that time, is the irretrievable ruin of an innocent young
girl's life. That's the one ponderable result of my twenty-seven years'
existence--the one thing I've got to show for it.”

“And your pictures? Do your pictures count for nothing?”

“Oh!” cried Elias, with a sudden outburst of passion, “don't talk to me
of my pictures. I should like to burn every stitch of canvas that I have
ever put my hand to, and spoiled for better purposes. I _have_ burned
all that remained in my possession. As long as I live, I shall never
touch a brush again.”

From which it would appear that our hero had wrought himself into a very
unenviable, frame of mind.

To narrate at length what followed would be melancholy; and it would
be superfluous. Tillie and Elias became engaged. Their engagement was
cele-brated by three redoubtable dinners--one at the Sternbergs', one at
the Kochs', and one at the dark house on Stuyvesant Park. Their wedding
was set down for the following January. Then, according to the regular
Jewish custom, for three successive Sunday afternoons, they were “at
home” at the residence of the prospective bride. Hither flocked
scores, even hundreds, of their friends, and offered their
congratulations--their friends, and their friends' friends, and the
friends of all relatives and connections, far and near. Much wine
was drunken at these receptions, much cheese-cake eaten, much tobacco
smoked; and oh, what a quantity of talk, in what a variety of accents,
from best to worst, roused cacophonic echoes in the walls and ceiling!
Among our New York Jews, it may be said with material literalness, a
subtle chain of countless rings the next unto the farthest brings. If
one had wished to obtain a bird's-eye-view of the metropolitan Jewish
world, to behold in indiscriminate procession all sorts and conditions
of Jews and Jewesses, one could not have done better than arrive early
and remain till the end of one of these Sunday afternoons. Old and
young, good and bad, wise and foolish, rich and poor, savage and
civilized; fat Jews and lean Jews, shabby Jews and shoddy Jews,
gentlemanly Jews and rowdy Jews; petty tradesmen, banker princes,
college professors, commercial travelers, doctors, lawyers, students,
musicians: all came, accompanied by their wives and their children,
their parents, and their parents-in-law, and their brothers and
sisters-in-law, to add their quota to the great jubilation. And such a
lot of hand-shaking as there was transacted among them, to be sure; for,
at a congratulation-party of this description, you must not only shake
hands with the betrothed couple and their immediate family, but
likewise with each of your fellow-guests, pronouncing, as you do so, the
shibboleth: “Congratulate you,” or, “Gratulire.” Then, as has been said,
there was an unceasing flow of wine, tobacco smoke, and talk; and the
place sounded like a stock exchange or bedlam.

This sort of thing--sitting for joy, it is sometimes called--may be
sufficiently amusing for a while; but three successive Sundays of it are
rather too much; and Elias and Tillie were both heartily glad when at
last it was over.

Tillie, all smiles and blushes and animation, was the happiest of happy
little persons. Over and above the generous settlement he was to make
for her at her marriage, Mr. Koch had drawn a check to her order for no
less dazzling a sum than two thousand dollars, the proceeds of which
she and her mother were now very busy spending for her trousseau. Elias
could not help catching something of her good spirits. He could not
remain quite dejected or impassive in the presence of such an exuberant
joy as hers. He began to be fonder of her than ever, even, he sometimes
told himself, to love her after a fashion; but it was a neutral,
passionless sort of love, and had its source, not in impulse, but in
habit. He looked forward with a certain mild pleasure to his union with
her, and was mildly thankful that he had followed the rabbi's counsel.
They were not much alone together, he and she; and when they were, their
deportment was far enough from lover-like. He, indeed, seldom opened
his mouth, save to answer a question, or to utter a sympathetic _oh_ or
_ah_; but listened to Tillie's vivacious descriptions of the dresses she
was having made, or sat silent in the bay-window, and watched the boats
sail by on the river, while she played his favorite music to him. He
took her and her mother to the theater as often as either expressed
a desire to go, and tried heroically not to yawn or appear bored. He
escorted them, also, to a good many dancing parties, and dinner parties,
as well as to the famous Advance Club ball, where Tillie excited a
vast deal of admiration as an ear of corn, and just narrowly missed the
prize, getting instead an honorable mention.

Alone, Elias persistently fought shy of himself, persistently shunned
self-communion. He dared not open his eyes, and look himself squarely
in the face. He knew that it would not be an inspiriting spectacle. His
studio he had locked up, with the resolution never to touch his paints
any more forever. He sought to escape from himself in reading; and,
indeed, he read an astonishing multitude of books upon an astonishing
multitude of subjects. But now and then, in spite of his efforts to be
blind, the actual Elias Bacharach would loom up big before him, in all
his ghastly demoralization; and sick with self-loathing, he would bury
his face in his hands, and demand bitterly, impotently, why he had ever
been born? what single earthly purpose he was good for? why he could
not be abolished utterly forthwith? But these dark moods, or lucid
intervals, were commonly of short duration. He was generally able to
forget them in a novel. He watched his wedding-day draw near and nearer,
without the slightest quickening of the pulse. As I have said, he took
a certain insipid pleasure in the thought of his marriage. He fancied
it would be rather agreeable than otherwise to have Tillie a constant
inmate of his house. She would brighten it up, put a little electricity
into its atmosphere, relieve the excessive tedium of life in it. But
this pleasure was very mild indeed; the languid pleasure that one might
experience at the prospect of becoming the owner of a languidly admired
vase or piece of furniture. Yes, he was glad enough that it was going
to be his; but he did not care a great deal one way or the other; and as
the day approached which was to inaugurate his proprietorship, he felt
no flutter of the heart, no accession of eagerness or interest. Tillie's
excitement, on the contrary, intensified perceptibly. It had the effect
of beautifying her, and of civilizing her. With heightened color and
brightened eyes, she was an exceedingly pretty girl, one that any man
might have been proud of for his bride. Then, she did not talk half
so loudly as she had used to do; and her choice of words, phrases,
and figures, underwent a notable modification for the better. The
adjectives, _grand, ideal, elegant, fearful_, and such like, for
example, dropped almost entirely out of her daily speech.

Of course, before long, the wedding-presents began to come in. Tillie's
delight knew no bounds. Every evening Elias discovered her in an ecstasy
over the things that had arrived that day, and joyfully anticipating
those that would arrive to-morrow. Some of these presents made the
poor fellow groan inwardly. Mr. Blum, for instance, sent an enormous
worsted-work picture of Ruth and Boaz, with a charming, though
misapplied, inscription cunningly embroidered in gold thread: “Whither
thou goest, I will go,” etc. Elias knew that this would have to be hung
in a conspicuous place in his house; for, of course, when Mr. Blum came
to see them, he would look for it, and, if it wasn't visible, would feel
hurt and slighted. Mrs. Blum sent a pair of diamond ear-rings. Tillie
at once put them on; and she never afterward appeared without them; so
that, from this point, whenever she figures upon these pages, the reader
will kindly imagine a lustrous solitaire pendent from each of her tiny
ears. They were large and handsome; and Mr. Blum confidentially informed
Elias that he had got them at a bargain, but that they had coast him a
heap of money all the same.

Neither Mr. Sternberg's parlors, nor Mr. Koch's, were spacious enough
to accommodate a tithe of the people who would have to be invited to
the wedding; and therefore it was decided to follow the common Jewish
practice, and engage for the occasion a public hall. Mr. Koch engaged
the hall of the Advance Club.

There, accordingly, in the afternoon of Monday, the seventh of January,
1884, and in the presence of rather more than three hundred witnesses,
Mr. Elias Bacharach and Miss Matilda Morgenthau were pronounced
irrevocably man and wife; the Reverend Dr. Gedaza, assisted by the
Reverend Mr. Lewis, as cantor, officiating. The ceremonies were
conducted in the strictest orthodox style. The happy couple stood
beneath a silken canopy, supported by four young gentlemen designated by
the groom; all the men present covered their heads, some with hats,
some with handkerchiefs; the cantor intoned an invocation, a prayer,
a benediction; the rabbi put the requisite questions, and got the
regulation responses, both in Hebrew; after which, he made a very pretty
and touching speech, kissed the bride, and said, “Mrs. Bacharach, accept
my heartiest congratulations.” The wine, meanwhile, had been spilled and
drunken, and the goblet crushed under the bridegroom's heel. For upwards
of an hour afterward, there was a wild clamor of talk; and every body
shook hands with Elias, and gave Tillie a kiss. Then they all sat down
to dinner. The chazzan chanted a grace. The banqueters fell to. By and
by toasts were proposed, and harangues delivered. The dancing began at
eleven o'clock, and held out until five the next morning.

So they were married.




XIX

FIRST of all, weakened in body and mind by an epileptic stroke; then
scared literally out of his wits, terrified into a mental and emotional
stupor, by the belief that that which we know to have been an epileptic
stroke was a visitation from an angry God; a victim, rather than a
villain; the creature of disease and superstition, of heredity and
education; Elias Bacharach had deserted and forgotten the woman whom
he loved, and had allowed himself to be seduced into a marriage with a
woman whom he did not love. That a reawakening, accompanied by all the
horrors of despair and remorse, should come sooner or later, was, of
course, inevitable. It did not come, however, till some nine months
after his separation from Christine Redwood, which was some nine months
too late.

I have in my possession a quantity of manuscript, in Elias's crabbed
handwriting, which gives a deep and clear, though fragmentary, insight
into the life he led after his marriage. It is in the form of a
long, turbulent, and often hysterical letter, addressed by him, under
circumstances which will in due time be explained, to Christine--a
letter, however, which was never sent--and it bears date February, 1885.
I have already made one or two quotations from it. I shall avail myself
freely of it in the present chapter.

About the relations between himself and Tillie, Elias writes, “there
is not much to be said. Our relations were perfectly amicable, but
perfectly superficial. Man and wife in name, in reality we were simply
good friends; scarcely that, indeed; scarcely more than friendly
acquaintances. She was invariably bright, cheerful, amiable, unselfish.
I tried to do my duty by her, as I conceived it; to be always kind to
her, and to seize every opportunity that I saw to afford her pleasure,
or to spare her annoyance. I dare say this was not enough. I dare say
she deserved better of me than she got; that I ought to have striven to
be her husband in a more genuine and vital sense of the word. But I
did not; and if, in this way, I sinned against her, it was at least an
unintentional sin, a sin of omission, and one which she remained unaware
of. I was egotistical and self-centered, as it is my nature to be. She
was not at all exacting. If I would listen to her when she talked, and
admire her dresses, and enjoy her playing, and take her to the theater
or to parties, she was quite contented. She neither asked, nor appeared
to expect, any thing further. So that, though we saw each other every
day, and were together a good deal of the time, we were as far
as possible from being intimate. Our real, innermost selves never
approached each other. In fact, she and my uncle were much more intimate
than she and I. He was always having her to sit with him in his study,
where he would talk to her of the subjects that interested him, or get
her to read aloud to him, or to act as his amanuensis, and write under
his dictation. She thought my uncle was a 'perfectly adorable old man';
and he called her 'the light of his declining years.'

“I, meanwhile, lived my own life, such as it was, in silence. But it
was not much of a life. It was not especially enjoyable, and it was
altogether valueless. I produced nothing, accomplished nothing, was
of no earthly use or benefit to anybody in the world--except a sort of
convenient appendage to my wife. My favorite occupation--the only one
that I cared any thing about--consisted in getting away by myself, and
reading. My studio was my castle. Once inside it, with the door closed
behind me, I was sure of not being disturbed. I, had forsworn my
painting, as I fancied, for good and all. I had got utterly discouraged
about it, had lost all zest in it, had vowed never to return to it. But
up here in my studio I had a lot of books; and here for hours I would
sit at the window, reading. My appetite for reading had recently become
voracious, insatiable. I can't convey to you an idea of how dependent I
was upon my books. They were the world in which I lived, moved, had my
being. Away from them, I kept thinking about them, longing to get back
to them. Not that I derived so much pleasure from them, but simply
that I was unhappy unless I had them. They were to me, I suppose, in
my dead-and-alive condition, something like what his drug is to an
opium-eater--not so harmful, of course, but just as indispensable: a
stimulant, which I could not do without. What the books were, doesn't
matter. All sorts, from the latest sensational novel, or wildest
exposition of spiritualism, up to Milton and the Bible. Yet, perhaps,
I ought to give you the names of some of these books, for some of
them produced a very deep and vivid impression upon me, and no doubt
contributed more or less to my subsequent state of mind--helped, I mean,
to bring it on. Well, I reread _Wilhelm Meister_; and I read for the
first time Rousseau's _Confessions_, de Musset's _La Confession d'un
Enfant du Siècle_, and Browning's _Inn Album_ and _The Ring and
the Book_, besides many of his shorter poems. I mention these five
particularly, because they were the ones that had really strong effects.
They stirred me; pierced to my heart, and _hurt_ me; where other books
merely interested or amused me. What I mean is, they appealed to
my emotions, where other books merely appealed to my intelligence.
Especially Browning. When I read Browning, the exhilaration was almost
physical. It was like breathing some vivifying atmosphere, like drinking
some powerful elixir. It made me glow and tingle through and through. It
was as though the very inmost quick of my spirit had been touched,
and made to throb and thrill. I had never supposed, I would never have
believed, that any book could possibly have exerted such a profound and
irresistible influence over the reader. My sensation was like an acute
pain, that yet somehow verged toward--not pleasure--something deeper and
better than pleasure. No music, not even Beethoven's or Wagner's, ever
moved me, ever carried me away, as these poems of Browning's did. They
literally transfixed me, magnetized me, like the spell of a magician.
The reason was, of course, partly because the poetry is in itself so
great; so intense, so penetrating, so vibrant with the living truth,
so warm with human blood and passion; and I don't believe that any man
could read it understandingly without being affected by it very much
as I was. But the reason was also partly personal. In _The Ring and the
Book_ I found expressed, in clear, straightforward language, all those
deep, strenuous emotions which I myself had experienced in my love of
you, which had always groped and struggled for expression, but which to
me had always been inexpressible--yearnings which I had felt with all
their force and ardor, which I had labored hard to speak, but which
I had never been able to speak, any more than as if I had been dumb;
which, pent up in my heart, and straining for an outlet, had sought one
by means of broken syllables, glances, caresses. In _The Ring and the
Book_ I found them expressed; found my own unutterable secrets uttered.
Oh, if only when you and I were together I had had _The Ring and the
Book_ to read aloud to you from! Then, perhaps, I could have made you
feel how deeply, utterly, I loved you. In the _Inn Album_, too, another
chapter of my own story was told, more of my own secrets were laid bare.
The material conditions, the circumstances, the accidentals, to be sure,
were totally different; but the essentials seemed to me the same. A man
had irretrievably wronged a woman--a noble, beautiful woman, who loved
him and trusted him. A lover had acted basely toward his sweetheart. And
there, also, I found an expression for my remorse and my despair. But
now I am anticipating. For the present these thoughts had not come to
me--the thought of you, and of what had been between you and me, and
of how I had wronged you. I mean to say, they had come to me after a
fashion; now and then, spasmodically, by fits and starts; but they had
not pierced more than skin-deep, and they had not taken fast hold. They
had come and gone. Later on, they came and staid--like coals burning in
my heart. For the present, I did a great deal of reading and scarcely
any thinking. Sometimes, it is true, instead of reading, I would sit
still, looking out of the window, and carrying on a certain mental
process which might perhaps have been called thinking: but it was
the sort of thinking known as mooning. I mean it was vague, listless,
purposeless; it had no vigor, no point; and it bore no result. You, and
our love, and the misery I had caused you, were the subjects of it, yes;
but it was like thinking in a fog. It had not grown intense and clear.
It had not crystallized. It awoke in my breast a sort of sluggish,
languid melancholy, instead of the pain that I ought to have felt, and
by and by did feel--and feel now, and so long as I live shall feel.
Whatever there is in me that is not wholly bad and callous, what I
suppose would be called my better nature, was just preparing to wake
up; and these were the dull, premonitory throes. I was just beginning to
come to myself, out of a long lethargy. My remorse was just beginning to
kindle. It had not yet sprung into the white-hot continuous fire that it
has since become.”

In another place he says: “As I write to you now, what I am trying hard
to do, is to get at close quarters with the real, bare truth; to look
straight and steadily at it; and to tell you, as clearly and as calmly
as I can, what I see. But the truth is so deep and subtle, though so
unmistakable; and I am so unused to writing; and it is so hard for me to
keep down my feelings, that I can't seem to find the right words. After
I have written a sentence, when I come to read it over, it seems almost
as though I might as well not have written at all. What I write does not
express half clearly, or fully, or forcibly enough what is in my mind.
So I can't help fearing that you may not understand. Yet my desire
that you _shall_ understand is so strong, I am so serious, so much in
earnest, I can hardly believe it possible that my words can entirely
fail to show you what I mean. If they should do so, if in this letter I
do fail to make you understand, then I will say this: the only purpose
that I have left in life will be defeated. That is the only object that
I care to live for: to make you understand. Oh, I beg of you, try to
understand. I have no right to ask you to do any thing, to expect any
kindness, any common mercy even, from you: and yet I do ask, I implore
you to read this letter through, and to try to understand what I am
trying to express. Not a single line is written which I do not feel in
the bottom of my heart. I am striving honestly, with all my might, to
strip my soul naked before you. And when what I write seems feeble
or obscure, please endeavor to pierce through to the meaning and the
feeling of it. You have a kind and pitiful heart; and if a human being,
no matter how low or base, called out to you in great pain to stoop and
do a little thing--a little, easy thing--to soothe and relieve him, I
know you would do it. Well, that is the way I call out to you now, and
beg you to read and try to understand my letter. As I write, I feel
like a dumb man, his heart big and sore with something that presses
desperately to be spoken, laboring to speak. Well, what I want to make
you understand is this. Very slowly and gradually, by imperceptible
degrees, a great change was coming over me, was being wrought _in_ me.
This change was really nothing but a return to health, mental and moral
health. Ever since that night on which we were to have been married, I
had been mentally and morally sick--in an unhealthy, unnatural state.
My moral nature, and many of my mental faculties, had lain torpid and
inactive, as if deadened--had not performed their functions. Well,
health was now slowly returning to them, health and vitality. The depths
of my spirit--it is a canting phrase, but it expresses exactly what I
mean--the depths of my spirit, which had long lain stagnant, were being
stirred. I had always comprehended, as a mere intellectual proposition,
how much you must have suffered. It was obvious. Dull and half
stupefied as I was, I could not help comprehending that. It was like
two-and-two-make-four. But the comprehension had got no further than my
brain. It had not touched my heart, and made it shudder with horror,
and burn with remorse, for my own baseness, and for the agony that I had
inflicted upon you, as it has done since. I had comprehended, but I had
not felt it. My love of you had been struck dead; and my imagination--or
whatever the faculty is, which causes us to sympathize with another's
pain--was failing to act. So I had gone about the daily affairs of my
life, in no wise troubled or affected by the fact, which I was perfectly
aware of, that you, at the same time, in solitude, were suffering the
worst sorrow possible in the world--yes, absolutely the worst; I know
it. I had gone about, and got what apology for enjoyment, what vulgar
amusement, I could, out of life; had eaten, drunken, talked, laughed,
read, smoked, paid calls, listened to music, all precisely as though you
did not exist, never had existed; and finally I had become engaged and
married; and all the while I knew what hopeless, speechless anguish you
were enduring, thanks to me; I knew it, but did not care. Now and then I
would think of it; but so dead was my heart, the thought never aroused a
single throe of pain in it. I thought of it on the night of my
wedding. In the midst of the dancing, in the midst of the loud, romping
merriment, I thought: 'What is she doing at this moment?' But it was
nothing like sympathy or self-reproach, that prompted me. It was a sense
of the curious incongruity. I shrugged my shoulders, said to myself that
I could not help it, and went on dancing. This will show you how low I
had sunken, how callous I had become; and you may imagine how I despise
myself, how I hate and abhor myself, as I recall it now. Oh, my God!
my God!--Christine, for God's sake, when you read this, don't harden
against me, because of it, and refuse to read any more. Don't stop
reading. For God's sake, in mercy to me, go on reading to the end. Don't
close your ears against me, and refuse to listen. The only alleviation
of my torments that I have, is the hope that you will read this letter
through, and understand how I have repented.... Well, as I say, this
state of being was now slowly, gradually, changing. Not a day passed now
but I would think of you, and of every thing that had been between you
and me, from the beginning to the end; and now these thoughts did arouse
pains in my heart--vague pains, that I did not understand--dull
pains, such as one feels in sleep, or while under the influence of an
opiate--but still, certainly, pain. As I said before, I was only just
beginning to come to myself. My realization of what I had done, of
what you had suffered, of what I had made you suffer, had not yet
crystallized. My love had not yet waked up. My remorse had not yet got
really afire. But all of a sudden, one day, the complete change came.
The change was precipitated.

“It was a Friday afternoon late in February, a year ago--dark, rainy,
warmish. My wife had gone to the rehearsal at Steinway Hall. I had
agreed to meet her in the lobby, at the end, and bring her home. All
day long, that day, I had done nothing but mope. I had sat at my studio
window looking out into the gray, wet park, or up into the heavy, inky
clouds, and giving myself over to the blues--thinking that there was the
world, full of interests and activities, the same world that I had
used to find so pleasant, and in which I had hoped to work and to be
of service, the same world quite unaltered; and that yet, somehow,
unchanged as it appeared to be, it had changed totally for _me_, had
lost all its flavor for me, all its attraction for me; the light, the
spirit, had died out of it. I got no pleasure from it. I was of no use
in it. I was so much inert, obstructive stuff and lumber. Then, why did
I continue to exist? Neither useful nor happy, what excuse for being
had I? Why should I not at once be annihilated and done away with? etc.,
etc. This was the strain that my mind had been running in all day long.
Then, toward five o'clock, I put on my hat and walked around to Steinway
Hall to wait for Tillie. It was singular, and even now I can not account
for it by any ordinary theory, that, as I stood there in the lobby
waiting, while the audience, mostly women, passed out, I was conscious
of a strange trembling of the heart, such as one feels in anticipation
of some momentous event, such as usually accompanies what we call a
presentiment--a presentiment that something portentous for our good or
for our evil is about to happen. I could not understand it at all. I
could not imagine what it was caused by. And yet, notwithstanding,
I could not subdue it. It went on from moment to moment getting more
intense; troubling me, perplexing me. I concluded that it must be the
wind-up and climax of my blues, just as a dull, dark day sometimes winds
up and reaches its climax in a thunder-storm. I said to myself, 'You
have not felt any thing like this for nearly a year. This is the sort
of thing you used to feel when you were in love--after you had rung
Christine's door-bell, while you were waiting and chafing for the door
to be opened.' Meantime the audience were pouring out past me, laughing,
chatting, greeting their acquaintances, putting up their umbrellas; and
I was keeping a look-out for my wife. When, all of a sudden, my heart,
which had been trembling in the way I have described, all of a sudden it
gave a great, terrible leap, and then stood stock still; and I could not
breathe nor move, but was literally petrified, rooted to the spot, and
felt a fearful pain begin to burn in my breast. For I saw--I saw you.
Oh, my God! I saw you come out of the hall, and move slowly through
the lobby, passing within almost a yard of me, so that I could have
stretched out my hand and touched you, so that, if I had whispered
your name, you would have heard me, and saw you go down the stairs
and disappear in the street. I stood there with wide, staring eyes and
parted lips, like a man turned to stone. How shall I ever disentangle,
and put before you in some sort of consecutive order, the great crowd
of thoughts and emotions that suddenly, and all at the same time, broke
loose in my heart and brain? In that brief interval--it could not have
been more than a minute altogether--I lived through almost every thing
that I have lived through since. It was all compressed into that minute.
I shall try hard to give you some sort of an account of it, to make it
as clear and as comprehensible as I can. But I know that, however hard
I try, I shall only be able to give you a very meager and faint
conception. If I could only see you, and speak to you--if for one moment
I could kneel down at your feet, and touch your hand, and look into your
face, and utter one long, deep sigh--oh, I should feel then as though
I had in some degree expressed what was, and has been ever since, in
my heart and mind. Sometimes, when I have listened to certain pieces of
music, I have felt that in them was the expression for my unspeakable
emotions. I have felt this about some of Chopin's impromptus and
nocturnes--that if I could somehow make you hear them, you would somehow
understand. Do you know the Impromptu in C-sharp minor? That sometimes
seems to express almost perfectly my grief and passion and remorse and
hopeless longing. But--but to touch your hand, and look into your eyes,
and sob at your feet--I would be willing to die at the end of one minute
spent that way. But see--see how I am compelled to sit here, away
from you, and realize that never, never, so long as I live, shall I be
allowed to approach you, or speak to you. Can you imagine the agony it
is, to yearn with your whole soul to speak one word to a woman; to have
your whole soul and heart and mind burdened with something that burns
like fire, and will never cease burning until you have emptied soul
and heart and mind at her feet; and to know that she is scarcely a mile
distant from you, in the same city with you; and yet to know that if
she were dead she would not be further removed from you, it could not
be more impossible for you ever to approach her, ever to speak with her?
Can you imagine that? Oh, sometimes I can not believe it--believe that
facts can be so inexorable. Sometimes it seems against nature that a
man's whole strength, whole life, can be concentrated in one single
wish, and yet the fulfillment of that wish be absolutely beyond hope.
It is too stupendous, too monstrous. Oh, to think! To think that at this
very moment you, your own living self, are almost within reach of my
voice! It would not take half an hour to bring me to your side. And once
there, once in your actual presence--Oh, my God! This unceasing agony
would be ended, this unutterable agony would be uttered. We two should
be together once again--you and I. Oh, the joy, the joy, to sob out all
our grief together, and soothe each other's pain! And yet, if I were at
the other extremity of the earth, or if you were dead, it could not be
more impossible, I could not be more hopeless. Christine!

“But there! I am losing control of myself, crying out and raving in my
despair. But what I have set myself to do, is to keep perfectly calm,
and, by the aid of all my forces, to try to give you a clear statement
of what I have been through. If I ever succeed in making you realize
how thoroughly I have understood your pain, how completely I have
appreciated the enormity of my own conduct, and how bitterly I have
repented it, I shall be almost happy, and I shall have discharged a duty
toward you--the only duty that I have a right any more to owe you.

“Well, now, I tell you that in that one minute--in the time that elapsed
from the instant I first caught sight of you, down to the instant when
you disappeared in the street below--in that minute, with intensity
proportionate to the rapidity, I lived through nearly every thing that I
have lived through since. All my vivid realization of how utterly base
I myself had been, and of your unspeakable agony, caused by me, your
despair, your humiliation; all my remorse, my yearning to atone for what
could never be atoned for, to repair the irreparable wrong that I had
done; all my sense of what I had wantonly flung away, and lost beyond
recovery; all my despair; in a word, all my love--love that had lain
stunned, as I supposed _dead_, but now suddenly had come to, never to
let me rest any more: these, and much else that I shall not attempt to
reduce to words, these were what sprang upon me all at once, shaking
my soul to its foundations, and holding me rigid, horrified, in their
grasp. Oh, help me to find an expression for what strains so hard to
be spoken. I have just read over what I have written. It sounds vague,
cold, formal. If I had left the paper blank, it would have done about as
well. What I have written conveys only the weak echo of what I want to
say, of what I feel. I stood there in the lobby of Steinway Hall; and I
watched you pass under my eyes; and I saw how pale you were, how
large and dark and sorrowful your eyes were; and suddenly I knew, I
understood, how I, my very self, had made you suffer, you whom I loved,
and how never, never, no matter how long I might live, could I in any
way do any thing to soothe you, to comfort you, to make up to you for
the suffering I had caused you; I knew and understood all this; and
my heart went out to you, bounding and burning with a thousand fierce
emotions, with an anguish of remorse and love--oh, my sweet, injured
lady beautiful, frail Christine!--and now, now when I try to give you
some faint idea of it, I am as helpless to do so, as if I were trying to
scream out in a nightmare, and my voice failed me, and my tongue clove
to the roof of my mouth. What if I had trampled down all conventional
restraints, and then and there, in spite of the crowd, in spite of every
thing, had rushed forward and stopped you, and thrown myself upon the
ground before you, abasing myself at your feet, and just moaned out
loud--letting it all burst forth in one good, deep, satisfying sob? My
heart throbs hard at the thought. Yet, of course, I had no right to do
it. If I had done it, I should only have relieved myself, at the cost of
paining you--you whom, God knows, I have already pained enough.. . . Oh,
well, I must try to do my best with pen and ink. Well, as I say, I stood
there, breathing heavily, at last, after many months of death, at last
alive, I stood there like that, when--when my wife came up, and took my
arm, and demanded, startled by my appearance, what the matter was. My
wife! And I had just seen you; and my soul was full of you, you whom I
had wronged and lost! And here was my wife, taking my arm, speaking to
me, emphasizing the antithesis. The past and the present! What I had
given up, and what I had got in place of it! After my glimpse of you,
the reality--Tillie! Oh, it was as though a starving man had just seen
bread, smelled meat, and then, looking into his own hand, had found a
stone there. She took my arm; and I turned her question as best I could;
and I led her home. Conceive how, as I walked home from Steinway Hall
this Friday afternoon, the ghost of a certain other Friday afternoon
bore me company. One Friday afternoon, only a little more than a year
earlier, in December, 1882, you had gone with me there, to hear the
_Damnation of Faust_. Do you remember? You had sat at my side, close at
my side. You had looked into my eyes, had touched my arm, had spoken to
me. The sweetness of the rose that you wore in your bosom, had filled my
nostrils. For one instant, one delirious instant, your breath, your very
breath, had fallen upon my cheek! You had allowed me to wrap you in your
cloak, when you felt a draught--in the fur circular you used to wear; I
remember the faint perfume that always clung to it. We were so intimate,
so confidential, you and I! You were happy. And I loved you; and I had
the possibility of winning your love open before me. And now! God, to
think that the possibility which that afternoon held safe in store for
me, had been used and wasted! To think that by no remaining possibility
it could ever be won back! Every thing was destroyed. I myself, by my
own voluntary act, had destroyed every thing--even hope. Well, well, my
wife and I walked home. My brain and my heart were burning. Chaos was
let loose in them. I wanted to scream out, to beat my breast, to rend
my garments. But I had, instead, to put on an indifferent face, exchange
commonplaces with her, take her home; and, it being Sabbath by this
time, had to join in the praying and the Scripture-reading, and all
that. Of course, I was eager, wild, to get away, by myself. But I had
to sit it out with the family--my wife, her mother, my uncle--till ten
o'clock that night. I was pretty nearly beside myself. But at last I
escaped, and got into my studio. There is no use my writing about that
night, the night I passed alone up here in my studio--alone with you;
for, so intense was my thought of you, you were all but palpable at
my side. I had given you back, as I supposed, all your letters--every
keepsake I had to connect me with the past. But this night, as the
reward of much ransacking, I found in the drawer of my desk the very
first note you had ever written me, the one in which you said you would
go with me to the exhibition. Do you remember? How we walked up and down
the galleries? And how you leaned upon my arm? And the little red bonnet
that you wore? And how, afterward, we went to Delmonico's? That little
note, ever since, has been the most precious of all my possessions. Your
own hand traced these letters! Your own breath fell upon this paper!
What effect it had upon me that night, I shall not attempt to tell you.
Think of this: it still kept a faint trace of its fragrance--of the
sweet smell it had had, when you first sent it to me. That _that_ should
have remained, that immaterial, evanescent perfume! That _that_ should
have outlasted the rest! No; there is no use of my writing a line about
that night. I should only be incoherent, if I tried. All I will say is
this: if you had cared about revenge, and had witnessed my suffering
that night, you would have been satisfied.”

Still elsewhere, he goes on as follows: “Christine, what I want to say
to you is very simple. I don't understand why I should have so much
difficulty in saying it, why every attempt I make at saying it should be
such a wretched failure. I suppose it is because, when I bring my mind
to bear upon it, when I look it squarely in the face, it appalls me
so, I get so excited, my feelings get so wrought up, that I lose the
self-command which a man must retain, in order to express himself
clearly and fully with his pen. It is as if, instead of saying what I
have to say, fluently and directly, I were to falter, and stammer, and
gasp forth inarticulate, unmeaning sounds. If only the impossible were
not impossible; if only the hopeless were not hopeless; if for one
minute I could stand in your presence; alone with you, and look into
your eyes, and touch your hand, and speak one word to you--just call you
by your name, Christine!--or, no, not even do that, not even speak,
but simply stand there silent, and look at you: then, I feel sure that
somehow you would understand, and then I could find something like
peace. You would understand by instinct, by intuition, what my mind and
heart are full of. If such a meeting might only come to pass! But I do
not delude myself. I know that it never can come to pass--never, not if
we go on living in the same city for fifty years. Constant and intense
as my longing to see you is, fiercely as my heart beats at the thought
of meeting you, I know that I might as well long to see, think of
meeting, one who is dead. I am a married man, and have no right to seek
to see you. But even if I were not a married man, you, whose scorn and
hatred of me must be bottomless, you would spurn me, you would refuse,
shuddering, to look at me, or to listen to me. I know it. Even if you
ever, in your holy goodness and mercy, can forgive me in some degree
for what I have done, I know you never can forgive me enough to let me
approach you, to let me speak to you by word of mouth. The mere idea
of meeting me, I suppose, must always be full of horror for you. I can
never atone for the wrong I have done you. I can never even tell you of
my remorse, and beseech your forgiveness, except by writing. So I write,
begging you, in charity, to read and to try and get my meaning. If it
were not for the hope that you will read this letter through, I believe
my agony would drive me mad. This hope is the only thing that mitigates
it, and makes it bearable.

“Well, then, here is the simple truth, told as simply as, by my utmost
effort, I can tell it. For a period of some months, I had been in a
condition which you must let me compare roughly to somnambulism--a sort
of daze, a dull, half-waking trance. While in that condition, a
great number of my mental and moral faculties had lain absolutely
dormant--just as much so, as if I had not possessed them. From that
unconscious fit into which I fell on the night of our wedding, I had
never perfectly recovered. My body had recovered, yes, and a part of my
mind--the every-day, working part. But the rest of my mind, the _better_
part of it, had never emerged from the coma which it sank into then. And
during this period, I want to say, I do not think I was, in the ordinary
sense, responsible for what I did. I was mentally responsible: that is,
I knew what I was doing, and I chose to do it. But I was not exactly
morally responsible, because morally I was blind. My moral sense--my
heart and conscience, I mean, were in a state of suspended animation;
and I acted without their guidance. I don't say this with a view to
excusing myself. I say it, because I honestly believe that it is true,
and because, to some extent, it accounts for my otherwise unaccountable
way of acting. Well, let me call it somnambulism. Then, on that Friday
afternoon, when I so unexpectedly caught sight of you in the lobby of
Steinway Hall, there, at that instant, all of a sudden, I woke up; I
came to my senses, in heart and mind was my complete self again. And
awaking in this way, getting my moral eyes opened, my moral faculties
into running order, I then for the first time, saw, realized,
understood, what, while in that irresponsible, somnambulistic state, I
had done. Dumfoundered, aghast, I saw the ruin I had wrought--ruin of
your life, your world, and of mine--total, hopeless ruin. I have read of
a man who dearly loved his wife, and who, one night, in his sleep, got
up and murdered her. When he awoke next morning, and found her lying
dead beside him, and made the horrible discovery that he himself had
done it--well, he must have felt a little as I felt after I had seen you
that day at Steinway Hall. And the worst of it--the aspect of it which
was most unbearable, most infuriating--was this knowledge, that loomed
up before me, as big and as unalterable as a mountain of granite:
the knowledge that what I had done could never be undone; that the
desolation to which I had reduced our world, could never be repaired;
that, no matter how bitter my remorse was, no matter how poignant my
regret, I could never atone for the wrong I had committed, never could
win back again the treasure I had thrown away. It was a mountain of
granite, I say, against which, frantically, with all my puny strength, I
dashed myself; thereby making no impression, but falling back, bruised,
stunned, disheartened. My knowledge now of your suffering, my knowledge
of how I had made you suffer, and that, though my whole life yearned
toward you with tenderness, love, contrition, unutterable, I never in
all my life could do the slightest, smallest thing toward making
amends to you, toward soothing the pain, healing the wounds, that I
had inflicted upon you--upon you, my pale, sweet lady--oh, I ask you to
imagine how heavily that knowledge weighed upon my spirit, how sharp its
clutch was, how it would never let me rest, never allow me a moment of
forgetfulness, but clung constantly and grimly, a monster with which it
would be futile for me to hope to struggle. That last meeting between
us, when you came here to my studio, to this very room, to the room I am
writing in now, and I here, in my uncle's presence, threw you down
and trampled upon you, and allowed him to lead you away, crushed and
bleeding--that last meeting, when I still had it in my power to spare
you all that shame and sorrow, to take you in my arms, and quiet all
your pain, and kiss away all your fear, and to _keep_ you--keep you
for myself--oh, you may imagine how my memory of that meeting, my
realization of how I had hurt and humiliated you, my recognition of the
wasted possibilities it had held, would not out of my heart, but abode
there all the time, eating into it like acid. The walls and ceiling
of the room, which had been witnesses of that last meeting, seemed
eternally to be crying it out at me. When I looked at the floor, it was
as if I saw a blood-stain there where you had stood. Oh, to think that
there for one long minute you did really stand, you yourself, within
arm's-reach of me; and I might have put out my hand, and touched you,
and taken hold of you, and kept you to me forever, but did not! To think
that I let you go; and you went; and I did not call you back! Oh, God,
if I had only come to my senses soon enough to have called you back! But
no, no; you went; and there was an end of it all. Love, happiness, hope,
all went out with you. I drove you out. I drove them out. Christine, for
every single pain that I inflicted upon you at that meeting, I ask you
to believe, I have never ceased to pay with the acutest anguish that I
am capable of feeling. That spot on my floor where you stood--ah, God,
how many thousand times have I kissed it since! Ah, God, if there were
only some power in earth or heaven that could bring you back there, make
you stand there, again, for just one minute more! And it was I--I, whose
soul goes out to you with an immensity of love that I can not find words
for---- I, who would give all the rest of my life for the privilege of
caressing and comforting you for a single instant--I, whose place it was
to shield you and protect you--I myself, who drove you awray from
here, heart-broken, never to return. Oh, my beautiful, pale darling!
Christine, lost, lost forever! Here am I, my heart bursting with the
desire to be, in some way, of some sort of service to you; and there
are you, needing perhaps some little service: and yet if we were upon
different planets, it could not be more impossible for me ever to lift
my finger in your aid! Oh, I say, it is infuriating. It is too much. Oh,
if I could tear open my breast, and let you look in, and see!--see the
love, the remorse, the despair, that are stirring in perpetual fever
there.. . . Oh, the misery I caused you! The long, hateful days that you
had to drag through afterward, while I was amusing myself, dining out,
learning to dance, getting engaged and married! Far and wide, as far as
your eye could see, the world, which had been a fair and fragrant garden
in your sight, had crumbled suddenly to a bleak waste of dust and ashes.
The hand that you loved had dealt you a blow worse than a death-blow.
You had entrusted your happiness to me, and I had betrayed my trust;
had taken it, and deliberately dashed it to the ground, and shattered it
beyond possibility of mending. My frail, beautiful lady. Yes, if I had
stabbed you with a knife, I should not have been so brutal, so base,
so cruel; your pain would not have been so great; I should have less to
reproach myself with to-day. Yes, I know it.”

*****

But, the reader may curiously ask, how about his theology? his belief
that it had been the act of heaven? This question he touches upon only
incidentally, and disposes of briefly: “In the light of my resuscitated
love, the mere remembrance of that blasphemous delusion filled me with
loathing for myself--made me shudder, and draw back, sickened. It was a
monstrous lie. I can not bring myself to write about it.” And on another
page, he says: “My superstition was the dragon, whose breath poisoned
our joy, withered our world, burned out our hearts. The dragon was
killed at last, but too late--after its ravages had been accomplished,
after it had done its worst.”

I may seize this opportunity, also, to request that if Elias is not
always so scrupulous about his syntax and rhetoric as one might wish,
the reader will charitably pardon him, in view of the high degree of
mental excitement under which he is manifestly laboring.

*****

“Well,” he continues, “after this reawakening, what of my life?
Externally my life went on precisely as before. I was married. I had
married of my own free will. I knew that, however detestable my marriage
might now have become to me, I was bound in all honor and decency not
to do any thing that could make my wife unhappy. I had already done
mischief enough in the world. I must not, if I could help it, do any
more. I must keep my secret. Though all the forces of my body and soul
were sucked up and concentrated in that one fierce secret, as they were,
I must not let it appear. So, the relations between my wife and myself
went on precisely as before; and I tried to be a good husband to her,
and to give her what pleasure, and spare her what pain, I could. The
same theaters, dinners, parties; the same talk about dresses, the same
piano playing. Sometimes, even while, with as much nonchalance of manner
as I could master, I was listening to her prattle, my secret would be
burning so hot in my breast, it was a wonder to me that she did not
guess it, or suspect it--that she did not _feel_ it. Sometimes, even
while I was directly speaking to her, answering some question that
she had asked me, or what not, my heart was being wrung by such strong
emotions, it seemed as though she could not help but divine them. It was
hard work, keeping this constant guard over myself, wearing this mask.
But, of course, I was in duty bound to wear it. The relief was immense
when I could get away by myself, and let it drop off. Away by myself, I
could, any how, _be_ myself--lead my own life, without dissembling.

“My own life--what was it like? Well, outwardly it was a life of silence
and inaction. My real life was an inward life--lived in my own heart. My
heart was like a furnace. Shut up there, my love, my remorse, my despair
at the past, my hopelessness of the future, a hundred nameless,
restless, futile fears and longings, burned steadily all day long from
day to day. Sometimes one emotion would be paramount, sometimes another.
Sometimes memory would take possession of me; and, seated at my studio
window, with my one relic of you clasped in my hand, I would go back,
and live over again all that had passed between us, from the day when I
first saw you, down to the day when, in this same room, I had put you
from me. Do you remember that day--the day I first saw you? Do you
remember our first speech together? And how awkward I was? and
embarrassed? Do you remember the night of the party--New Year's Eve--
when the heel of your slipper broke off? And how jealous I was? And how
angry you got with me? And how you scolded me? And then--in the
carriage, going home? Do you remember your birthday? and mine? The silk
handkerchief you embroidered for me with my initials? The concerts we
used to go to together? and the little suppers afterward? The books we
read together? _Detmold? The Portrait of a Lady?_ The poems you were so
fond of? The letters we used to write to each other, even when we were
going to see each other the very same day?... Or, perhaps, instead of
sitting still here at my studio window, I would leave the house, and go
for a walk in the old places--the places that were associated with our
love, and now for me were sorrowfully consecrated by it. I would walk up
Eighth Avenue, over the ground that I had used to cover every time I
went to see you; would cross the great circle at Fifty-ninth Street;
would come within eye-shot of your door, look up at your window, recall
the time when I had had right of entrance, wonder what you were doing
now; would enter the park, and even seek out our pine-trees, and stay
for a while there in their shadow--there, where--! Do you remember? You
may imagine whether this was bitter-sweet. To go back to the time when
you had been mine, wholly mine, and live over all the rapture of that
time, in all its minute, intimate details; and then, with an infinite
hunger for you gnawing in my heart, to return to the present, look into
the future, and realize that I, by my own act, had let you go, had lost
you forever! You may imagine with what woe and fury, deep and frantic,
and yet dumb, I would recall and repeat to myself that verse of
Rossetti's poetry: 'Could we be so now?' And there was the truth, the
relentless truth, for me to confront, and reconcile myself to, if I
could: 'Not if all beneath heaven's pall lay dead but I and thou, could
we be so now!' The truth which, as I said, was like a mountain of
granite, separating you and me. Oh, but at other times I could not
believe that the truth _was_ the truth. It was too cruel. It was
incredible. It must be some hideous hallucination--some nightmare, that
I should sooner or later wake up from. I could not believe that it was
in the possible order of nature for a man and a woman to have loved each
other as you and I had loved each other, and yet to have become so
utterly lost to each other as it now seemed that we were; for two human
lives to have been so perfectly fused together, blended together like
two colors upon my palette, and yet afterward to have become so
completely rent asunder. I could not believe it possible for my soul to
yearn toward you and thirst for you constantly, as it did, and yet be
debarred forever from any sort of communion with you. It seemed as
though somehow, sometime, somewhere, we _must_ come together--you and I
once more!--and all our sorrow be swept away by the great joy of our
reunion. Oh, Christine, if it might be so! If only it might be so! At
these moments my imagination would break the bonds of reason and fly off
in daydreams, long, delicious flights of fancy, visiting wondrous air
castles where you and I dwelt together--only shortly to drop back upon
the awful reality. The reality: I married, and all your love for me,
your priceless love for me, by my fault, turned to horror and hatred.
And yet, in spite of the reality, in the very teeth of it, I would
think: 'Well, what if my wife should die?' As long as I am telling you
the truth, I may as well tell you the whole truth, no matter how bad it
may make you think I am. Yes, I would say: 'What if my wife should die?'
And then I would repeat to myself what you had once said about that very
same verse of Rossetti's poetry: 'I can't understand why it should be so
absolutely hopeless. If they really were all alone together, and she saw
how dreadfully he had suffered, I don't understand how she could help
forgiving him and loving him again.' And then, for an instant my heart
would bound with something like hope. But only for an instant. As soon
as my reason could make itself heard, I would acknowledge that I had
sinned too much ever to expect forgiveness from you. No, it would be
past human nature.... At still other times my uppermost feeling would be
simply an intense desire to see you--not for any special purpose, not
with a view to speaking to you--simply a craving for the sight of your
face. I felt that if I could only look upon you for an instant, catch
one brief glimpse of you, I should have something to remember and
cherish, something for my heart to feed upon, which was feeding upon
itself. It would be an agony.

“I knew that. The mere thought of it was that. But it would also be the
nearest approach to a joy that I could expect. So, in the hope that I
might see you, I would stand for hours on the corner of your street, in
the snow, in the rain, in the hot sun or cold wind, watching the door of
your house, waiting for you to pass in or out--very much as, in the
old times, I would watch the door of a house where I knew that you were
visiting, and wait to join you at your exit. (Do you remember? And how
surprised you always used to be?) But I was always disappointed. I never
once saw you. I would walk, also, in those quarters of the city where
ladies throng to do their shopping; always searching for one face in the
crowd, but never finding it. And I haunted regularly the rehearsals at
Steinway Hall and at the Academy of Music, closely watching the audience
as it passed out, always hoping that my experience of that afternoon in
February might be repeated, invariably getting my labor for my pains.
Where did you keep yourself? Oh, sometimes I felt that I positively
could not live without a sight of you. I was starving for a sight of
you. Only to see you for one little moment! Only to feed my heart with
one brief glimpse of you! That did not seem such a greedy or
unreasonable desire. It could do you no harm, provided I were careful
not to _be_ seen, as well as to see; and I meant to be careful about
that. It could do no living creature harm; and to me--oh, to me it would
be like a drop of water to a man consumed by thirst. Then my wish would
become the father of my thought. I would say:

“'Surely, if I go out now, and scour the city, visiting every spot
that in any possibility she may visit--the shops, the park, Fourteenth
Street, Twenty-third Street--surely, at some point our paths will cross
each other, and I shall see her.' Well, I would go out. I would give
my thought a trial. I would walk the streets till I was fagged out
and foot-sore. I would come back home, with a heart sick for hope
deferred.... What fears tormented me all this time, you will surely be
able to conceive for yourself. How could I know but that you might have
died? One morning at the breakfast-table my uncle glanced up from his
newspaper, and, looking very queerly at me, said, 'Here, Elias, here's
news for you. An old friend of yours is dead.' With a horrible, sick
heart-leap, I thought: 'Ah, she is dead.' With as indifferent an air as
I could put on, I asked, 'Who?' He handed me the paper, pointing to the
death notices. It cost me all my strength to look; but I looked. Yes;
there I saw your name, Redwood. With the courage of despair, I read
the notice. 'No; it was not you; it was your father. But how could
I know--what assurance had I--that you had not died, too, without my
chancing to learn of it? The thought that you might have, got to be a
fixed idea in my brain. There was no way by which I could find out. I
knew nobody to whom I could apply for information. But at last, one day,
by accident, in looking through a newspaper, I again caught sight of
your name, Redwood. Ah, how the sight of it made my temples throb! I
read that you had been appointed a teacher in the Normal College. So, my
doubts on the score of your death were set at rest. It may seem strange
to you that I should care so much whether you live or die, since already
you are as far and as hopelessly removed from me, as if you were dead;
yet the thought that you may die is the blackest of all thoughts to me.
I don't know why it is, but I feel that so long as you remain in it, the
world will not be quite a blank wilderness to me. There is still some
warmth, some beauty, in the light of day, which would go out utterly
if you were to die. So long as you live, _I_ want to live. It seems as
though there were something to live for; though I can't tell what. But
if you were to die--oh, God! if she were to die! I pray God to put an
end to my life at once. Oh, don't die, Christine. Oh, to think that
if you were to die, I might not hear of it, and might go on living! To
think that I can do nothing to make life worth living for you! Nothing
to protect you from the danger of death! To think that if you were lying
on a sick bed, and I knew it, I could do nothing to soothe you, to nurse
you back to health! Oh, Christine! Oh, God grant that at least we may
both live until I have finished this letter, and you have read it! I
must not die, you must not die, until I have finished, and you have
read, this letter.... Once in a great while, once in six or eight weeks,
or even seldomer, I would dream about you. These dreams were the one
luxury of my life, being, as they were, the one means of escape from my
life; reversing, as they did, the real truth of my life. Every night,
when I lay down to sleep, I would think to myself:

“'Perhaps to-night I shall dream of her. She will come to me in my
dream.' These dreams always annihilated the recent past, and carried me
back to our happy days. You were mine again, with me again. All was as
it had been. My lost treasure was for a brief space restored to me. The
great joy that I experienced in these dreams, I can not describe. It
was boundless, unspeakable. Of course, to wake up in the morning,
and realize that it had only been a dream, was hard. To wake up, and
look around me, and see the walls of mv bedroom, the view from my
window, and breathe the air, and listen to the sounds, of the morning,
all quite unchanged, just as they had used to be in the old time; and
then to think how completely all the rest was changed--changed beyond
possibility of retrieval--you and your love lost to me forever--that was
hard enough. It was like a famished man dreaming of food, and waking up
to find a stone in his hand. And yet--and yet, so great was the rapture
of them, while they lasted, my dreams were worth purchasing at almost
any price; certainly, at the price of the pain of waking. To see you,
to speak to you, to touch you; to be spoken to, and touched, by you;
to hold your little, soft, warm hand in mine, to hear the music of
your laughter, to breath the fragrance that the air caught from your
presence, to gaze into the depths of your eyes, even though in a
dream--it was better than nothing, wasn't it? Better than never,
dreaming or waking, to see you at all. So, as I say, every night I would
hope to dream of you--notwithstanding the thought that perhaps I had no
right to dream of you, that you perhaps would begrudge me the possession
of you, even in my dreams; but, as I say, my hope was rewarded very
seldom--not oftener than once in every six or eight weeks. This was
strange, seeing that you absorbed my mind constantly, all day long,
every day.

“I believe I called my life purposeless and hopeless; but it was not
exactly this. One purpose and one hope, each forlorn enough, I clung to.
They furnished the only light that I could see, as I looked forward into
the future. The same hope and purpose that animate me now, as I write.
I purposed and I hoped, sometime, by some means, to let you know--to let
you know what I have been trying to let you know by all this writing;
how thoroughly I had appreciated my own brutality and baseness, how
intensely I had realized your suffering, and how my heart was devoured
by remorse, despair, and love. This desire to let you know, was the one
constant desire that never left me. It was like an extreme thirst, that
would not let me rest till I had satisfied it. I could not understand
it. Even now I do not understand it. What good could it do either you
or me? No good to you, surely; for the most that you can possibly care
about, in regard to me, is to be let alone, and allowed to forget me.
And what good to me? Would it give you back to me? Would it allay my
remorse? Not unless it could undo the past, and blot out the pain I had
caused you. Would it rekindle your love? I might as well expect, by my
touch, to raise the dead, as ever, by any means, to rekindle your love.
Would it even win for me your forgiveness? I knew that it was not within
the capacity of human nature, ever really, from the bottom of the heart,
without a reservation, to forgive such wrong as I had done to you. This
was what my reason said; and yet, despite all this, I felt--and still
feel, and can not help feeling--that somehow I ought to let you know,
that it was only right to let you know. I longed to let you know. That
is the substance of it. I longed to let you know; and my longing defied
my reason, just as hunger defies reason. If I could only let you know,
it seemed as though both you and I should then be able to find something
like peace and repose. My soul ached to unbosom itself before you; and
all reasoning to the contrary notwithstanding, my instincts told me
that you, as well as I myself, would be happier--at least, less
unhappy--afterward. It was as though I had something big and heavy in my
heart, that pressed to be got out; that would strain and rack my heart
until it was got out; and that could only _be_ got out by letting you
know. I suppose this is always the way, when a man's heart is full of
conscious guilt. But how to let you know? Oh, my impulses answered at
once. They said: 'Seek her out. Kneel down before her. Look into her
face. Touch her hand. Give it vent--let it all burst forth--in one good,
long, satisfying sob! Then, she will understand. She will understand
what is too deep, too passionate, for any speech. Her heart and yours
will be at rest. This anguish will be relieved.' Oh, how my temples
throbbed, how my breath quickened, how my whole spirit thrilled, as I
allowed myself to shape that thought. You, my frail darling, whom I had
hurt so! You, my sweet rose-lady, whom I had torn, and crushed, and made
to bleed! Christine, pale, sad Christine! To spend one moment weeping
at your feet, trying a little to soothe and comfort and console you, to
atone a little for the sorrow I had caused you, to pour out my love and
my remorse before you! Oh, good God! But of course, of course, I knew
that I might as well hope to speak with one who was dead. I, a married
man, had no right, even in my own secret thoughts, to wish for such a
meeting between you and me. And you, despising me, you would fly from
me, you would never permit me to draw near to you. And yet, it is so
hard to reconcile one's self to the truth, even when one can have no
doubt about it, I would go on hoping, in spite of the hopelessness, in
spite of the fact that I had no right to hope--hoping that somehow the
impossible might come to pass. But at the same time, I would think: 'How
else? Is there any other way?' Necessarily, it occurred to me to write.
But the idea of writing was repugnant. I never could tell the half of
what I had to tell by writing; and then, what assurance had I that you
would read my letter? (What assurance have I, even now?) So, for the
time being, I put the plan of writing out of my head; and went back, and
asked again: 'How else?' Was there no possible method by which I
could let you know what weighed so heavily, so heavily, upon my mind?
Sometimes the most absurd notions would seize hold of me, with all the
force of realities. For a little while, this would become not merely
a theory, as of a thing conceivable, but a conviction, as of a thing
actual; that, thinking of you as constantly and as intently as I did,
by some occult means in nature, my spirit was enabled to transcend the
limitations of space and matter, and to reach yours, and to communicate
with it. For hours at a stretch, I would sit here at my studio window,
harboring this delicious fancy: that now, at this very moment, by the
operation of some subtle psychic force, you were receiving the
message which my heart was sending you. I had read of such things in
wonder-tales, even in serious pseudoscientific treatises. Why might
there not be something in them? But, as I have said, only for a little
while could a fancy like this hold its place. In a little while my
common-sense would assert itself, and bring the dismal truth looming
up again stark before me. All of a sudden, one day, I thought of my
painting. It made my pulse leap. It seemed like an inspiration. I
would paint a picture which--if you saw it; and if I sent it to the
exhibition, you would very likely see it--which would tell you the whole
story. In a fever of impatience to get the picture begun, and without
having stopped to determine what the picture was to be, I procured
canvas, paints, brushes. Then I paused, and asked: 'But what shall I
paint?' It did not require much thinking, to make the futility of the
whole design clear to me. Unless I could tear my heart out, and paint
_it_, with all the fierce passions fermenting in it, I might as well
not paint any thing at all. Now, at last, you see, I have returned to my
former plan of writing. I have done so, in despair of any other means,
and because it is no longer possible for me to hold back. I have held
back until I am tired out, worn out. I have been writing at this letter,
from time to time, during the past fortnight. To-day is Friday, February
13th. I have much left to say. As soon as it is finished, I shall send
it to you.”

*****

“As soon as it is finished!” It was never finished. Events now
supervened, which interrupted it, and prevented its completion. Those
events, it will be my business, in the concluding chapters of this
story, to relate.




XX.

WHEN Elias professed to recognize that, no matter how detestable his
marriage might now have become to him, he was bound in all honor and
decency to do nothing that could make his wife unhappy, he certainly, so
far as he was conscious of his own intentions, meant what he said. Of
his free will, he had married a perfectly innocent woman. He must not
allow the burden of his guilt to bear in the slightest degree upon her
shoulders. He must abide exactly by the letter, and, to the best of his
ability, by the spirit, of his marriage vows. He purposed to do so; and,
so far as he had fathomed it, his purpose was honest and earnest. Yet,
at the same time, inevitably, his life at home galled and irked him more
than a little. His daily association with Tillie, with Mrs. Morgenthau,
and with the rabbi, was both irritating and enervating. He had
constantly, as he put it, to wear a mask; to sham, to play a part, to
act a lie. He had to counterfeit emotions and interests which he was
very remote from feeling, and to conceal with utmost, unflagging
vigilance those that actually dominated his heart. He had to pretend to
be cheerful and sympathetic. He had to keep the one vital reality of his
existence closely locked down, a secret prisoner in his breast.
Shamming, through practiced in a laudable cause, is, as those who have
tried it can testify, a sufficiently sorry and thankless business. Elias
sickened of it. The never-relaxing guard that he was obliged to maintain
over himself, on the perpetual _qui-vive_ lest by some momentary
inadvertence he should betray himself, wearied and discouraged him. He
became impatient, restive. In certain moods, he would reflect: “It is a
part of my punishment. I have brought it upon myself. I deserve it. I
must submit to it unrebelliously, in silence.” But Elias was not by
temperament a Spartan; and more frequently, longing ardently for
respite, he would cry: “If only for a little while I could escape! If
only I could go away, and, in solitude, for a little while, give the
rein to my own true self--live my own true life, without this eternal
necessity of suppression and deceit!” The actor wanted to withdraw for a
moment out of view, behind the scenes, there, for a moment, to drop his
stage-smile and stage-manner. Not unnaturally, it may be conceded. But
the question was one of method. How? Consistently with his resolution
not to make his wife unhappy, how could it be done? Gradually a plan,
simple of conception, and easy of execution, got shaped in Elias's mind.
The plan itself, to be sure, involved a certain amount of falsehood; but
falsehood which, Elias concluded, was innocuous, and, under the
circumstances, justifiable.

On Monday, February 16, 1885, at the breakfast table, he made the
following announcement to the persons there assembled: “To-morrow I am
going out of town. I am going down into the country on Long Island, to
do a little winter landscape painting. I shall be gone perhaps a week,
perhaps a fortnight.”

No opposition was offered. Such questions as were asked, he had
anticipated, and so answered with consummate glibness. Next morning a
carriage drew up before the door. Elias, with his trunk and his traps,
got into it, and was driven off. As the carriage turned the corner,
he could see Tillie lingering on the stoop, looking after him. His
conscience smote him gently for an instant; and he renewed his vow never
to do any thing that could bring sorrow upon his wife. “Poor,
little, light-hearted thing,” he soliloquized. “It is easy to satisfy
her--'pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.'” And then he
dismissed her from his mind. It is probable that, so long as he lived,
he never once thought of her again.

“I don't know why it is,” the light-hearted and easily satisfied Tillie,
as she re-entered the house, confessed to her mother, “but I feel just
as blue as if he had gone away forever, instead of only for a fortnight.
I feel just perfectly wretched. I've been feeling bad enough for ever
and ever so long; but this is just the last straw. I don't believe he
cares for me the least bit in the world.” And she buried her face in her
mother's bosom, and had a good, long cry.

Elias's carriage drove neither to a railway-station, nor to a
steamboat-pier. It drove to a lofty, red-brick apartment-house (for
bachelors), in West Forty-second Street, “The Reginald,” where Elias had
hired a furnished suite of rooms by the month. The falsehood involved
by his plan had consisted in saying that he was going to the country.
He had no idea of quitting the city. Just so long as Christine Redwood
remained in New York, New York would be the only habitable spot on earth
to Elias Bacharach.

The clerk of the apartment-house conducted Elias to his quarters, and
left him there.

Elias locked his door behind the clerk. Then, suddenly, he flung himself
full length upon the floor, and gave vent to a great sigh of relief. At
last he was alone, all alone, and free. At last he had got clear of the
disguise, which, like a strait-waistcoat, he had been compelled to wear
for upwards of a year. I don't know how long he continued to lie there
upon the floor! I don't know how many times he sobbed out her name:
“Christine! Christine! Christine!”

Finally, however, he rose to his feet, brushed off and smoothed down his
clothing, and descended to the office of the establishment, where he had
some business to transact with the proprietor. Afterward, he meant to go
for a walk, and feast his eyes for a while upon the house in which she
dwelt. He knew this house very well. It was in Forty-eighth Street,
between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. Many and many a time, during the past
few months, he had gone there, after nightfall, and watched the lights
glow in the windows, and wondered which of the lights was hers. By day,
he never approached nearer than the nearest corner. He did not wish to
be seen by her. He conjectured that the sight of him might distress her.
Now, he meant, after finishing his business with the proprietor, to go
and stand on that corner for awhile, and enjoy the luxury of staring at
the chocolate- façade of her dwelling-house.

He found the proprietor engaged in conversation with a gentleman. He
took a position, therefore, at a respectful distance, and waited
till their colloquy should end. He paid no heed to the gentleman's
appearance; but afterward he recalled him vaguely as tall,
fair-complexioned, rather athletic-looking, and presumably in the
neighborhood of thirty years of age. Pretty soon the gentleman put on
his hat, and left the room.

“Did you notice that party I was talking with?” the proprietor inquired
of Elias.

“Not especially,” Elias replied. “Why?”

“Handsome chap, and one of the whitest in this town. Civil Engineer, of
the name of Hosmer--R. E. Hosmer. Got an office down in the Astor House.
He's lived here with me going on three years. But this is his last day.
To-morrow he gets married.”

“Ah?” returned Elias, with a perfunctory affectation of interest.

“Yes, sir, gets married, and sets up house-keeping. So I lose him; and
I'm mighty sorry to, I can tell you. He's a gentleman, from the word go.
But he's caught a stunning pretty girl for a wife, now, and don't
you forget it. He had her here one night, along with some friends, to
dinner; and he took me up, and introduced me to her. She's what I call
a daisy, straight out. Well, sir, tomorrow morning they're going to
be married; and he said he'd have invited me to the wedding, only it's
strictly private. No admittance except on business, you understand. No
guests; nothing. Well, that's all right, I suppose, if people like it
that way. No law against it, any how. But you see, I wanted to send
her some sort of a little present, being so friendly with him, you
understand; and so I thought awhile, and finally I got this.” (The
proprietor went to his safe, and, coming back in a minute, exhibited a
necklace of amber beads.) “I got this. Tidy, ain't it? But do you know,
I'll be hanged if I hadn't forgotten to ask him for her address, until
just this instant. There's time yet, however; and I'll send it up by one
of the boys right away. Let's see. Ah, yes; here it is. He wrote it out
on this envelope.”

Elias took the envelope which his communicative landlord offered him,
and glanced indifferently at it. In large, clear letters, was written:

“Miss Christine Redwood,

“No.-- West 48th Street,

“City.”

Elias did not start, nor exclaim, nor indeed make any sign by which an
observer could have guessed that what he had just read had been of any
special import to him. He turned perhaps a little pale. Perhaps his lips
twitched a little. Perhaps his attitude assumed a certain rigidity. But
it was with an air of perfect composure that he said to the proprietor,
“Oh, by the way, I forgot something. I must go back to my room The
matter I wanted to speak to you about--I'll be down again about it,
later.” With an air of perfect composure; for, at this moment, like a
man who has been shot, Elias was conscious of very little, save a sudden
daze and bewilderment. He knew in a dull way that something serious had
happened to him. There had been, all at once, a shock, a thrill that
pierced and transfixed him; and then had come a strange stunned feeling;
and now--now, he must get away, by himself, back in his own room, at
once.

He entered the elevator, and was carried upstairs.

Automatically, he heard the elevator-man say: “Fine day, sir.”

Automatically, he responded, “Yes.”

“But cold. Coldest of the season, I guess. Below zero, sir.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, here you are, sir. Sixth.”

“Thanks.”

Automatically, he stepped out of the elevator, and found his way through
the corridor to his door. Automatically, he unlocked the door, passed
it, locked it behind him. But then, of a sudden, his strength deserted
him, his sensations rushed upon him, and overpowered him. He dropped
upon the first chair he came to, and sat there, all huddled up, and
staring blindly, like a drunken man. Indeed, it was not unlike a drunken
man that he felt. He felt deathly sick. He felt an oppression upon his
lungs, and had to labor hard for his breath. His head sagged forward
heavily upon his chest; his brain went spinning furiously round and
round. His ears rang. A blackish, half-opaque mist hung before his eyes,
in which the objects about him swam dimly, bewilderingly, to and
fro. The house seemed to be rocking on its foundations. In his
breast--something--a lump, big and hot, like a coal of fire--was
struggling frantically, in spasmodic leaps, as if to break away, and get
outside. At one instant he thought it would choke him; it had sprung up
into his throat. Again, he thought it would rend his very bone and flesh
asunder, with such force it dashed itself against the walls that shut it
in. Then, for another instant, it fell back, and was quiet; but then he
thought it would burn him up, with its intense, angry heat. Liquid
fire went circling through his veins, scalding them, and causing the
uttermost parts of his body to throb and tingle.

So, for it may have been a half hour, he sat there upon that chair,
limp, motionless, like one stricken impotent and senseless by too much
wine. In the end, however, all at once, as if stung, he sprang up, and
began striding wildly, with unsteady gait, back and forth across his
floor. He moaned aloud. Sometimes he would wring his hands together.
Sometimes he would press them to his temples. By and by he began to talk
to himself. His voice was husky, his articulation indistinct. His words
came in spurts. A spectator would certainly have put him down for drunk.

“She is going to be married.... married.... do you understand? Going to
become the wife of another man. Another man is going to possess her....
do you understand? That man.... you saw him down stairs.... he is going
to possess her. She.... Christine.... oh, God help me!.... Perhaps he
has seen her, been in her presence, heard her voice, looked into her
eyes, touched her hand, kiss.... yes, very likely.... kissed her....
this very day. Perhaps he is with her at this instant.... now.... he,
with _her_.... do you understand? While you.... I.... I.... Oh, have
mercy on me. Strike me dead.... And to-morrow morning she is going to
marry him, to-morrow morning.... going to be married.... Well, well,
it's all right It's none of my business. Yes, it's all right. She can do
as she pleases. I can't help it. It's not my affair.... Only.... only,
I want to know.... I want to know, _why?_ Why is she going to marry him?
Only tell me that: why does she want to marry him? Not for love. No! She
can't love him. It would be impossible that she should love him. Don't
tell me she loves him. No, no! Why, I say, look--look at how she
loved me--how passionately, how entirely--with what complete, absolute
surrender of herself! Why, after a woman has loved one man that way, I
tell you, it is impossible, it is not in nature, for her ever to love
another--really love another.... No!.... I don't care what her feeling
toward me may be.... hatred.... indifference.... I don't care what....
I know she does not.... I know she never can.... love him.... love any
body else. I know it. It would be against nature--impossible.... Oh,
it's laughable. The idea! that she should ever feel toward any one as
she felt toward me! Such perfect confidence.... such perfect giving of
herself!.... Christine! Oh, do you remember, Christine? Do you remember
how you loved me? How your eyes burned with love, and your fingers
clung with love, and your bosom rose and fell with love, and your voice
thrilled with love? And all our unutterable intimate joy? And how
you said it was like anguish, it was so keen? And.... and.... Do you
remember! And now, do you mean to say that you can ever be like that
with another man--not me--with _him_--with any body? Like that? Loving
like that? Oh, no, no! Monstrous! Impossible. No, no, you don't love him
like that. Nobody could love twice like that. You never can love any
one like that--any one but me. Me! I am the only man who has ever tasted
that sweetness--who ever shall taste it. He--oh, the poor fool and
beggar! He may be married to you a thousand years. He will never
taste that--which I have tasted--never get even the perfume of it.
Never--never!.... And yet.... and yet, she is going to marry him. Oh,
Christine, tell me--for mercy's sake, tell me--why do you marry him? Why
does she want to marry him? Oh, there may be a hundred reasons. But not
for love. I am sure, not for love. Is marriage a proof of love? Did I
marry for love? She pities him. That's it. He loves her. He has
worked upon her sympathies. In despair--hopeless of any happiness for
herself--out of pity--she has consented to marry him. He has importuned
her--tired her with his entreaties--until she has consented.....But
not for love.... Don't tell me she loves him--that my own beautiful
Christine--dark-eyed Christine--loves another man--that man. Oh, the
fool, the complacent fool, if he dares to imagine that! That she--my
glorious Christine--mine, I say--once mine, always mine--my own--wholly
mine--weren't our very souls burned together, into one?--that _she_
loves _him!_ Why, it makes me laugh! The poor, fatuous fool!.... And
yet.... she.... she is going to marry him.... to be his wife.... He is
going to possess her.... have the right to see her, hear her, touch her,
every day.... while I--I--Oh, no! He thinks so, does he? I will show
him. I will defeat him yet. It is not yet too late. I will go to
her--I--now--at once--I will go to _her_--to Christine--yes--and see
her, and speak to her, and touch her--take her in my arms--oh, God!--and
tell her how I love her--and how I have suffered--and how I have never
ceased to love her--. and pour it all out at her feet--all my love and
sorrow and remorse--at her feet--now--to-day--before it is too late--and
she--she will forgive me, and forget all the pain I have caused her--all
the pain and shame--poor Christine, sweet little Christine, whom I hurt
so!--she will forgive me, and--and love me again--she will love me--she
_does_ love me--she _must_ love me, I tell you--yes--she will come
to me, and love me--and we--she and I--we will go away together--to
Europe--to South America--somewhere--anywhere--she and I--Christine
and I--together--we will go away together, and--and.... Oh, what am I
saying? God forgive me! What a low, miserable wretch I am! As if I had
any power, any right! No, no! she will marry him. He will be happy.
Perhaps he will make her happy. Why not? He is good and honest and
well-to-do. He loves her, and will be kind to her. Why shouldn't he make
her happy? Oh, Christine. I hope he will. If you will only be happy,
then I shan't mind. God bless her, and make her happy. She will marry
him, and she will love him in a certain way, in a quiet, peaceful way,
and she will have children, and be contented, and live in comfort
and peace--quietly--gently--forgetting me, and the pain I caused her,
and--Oh, God! Oh, God! My punishment is greater than I can bear.”

He fell in an inert mass upon the floor, and covered his face with
his hands, and moaned again incoherently; until again, all at once, he
sprang to his feet, and, striding back and forth, as before, again began
to talk to himself.

“I must see her. I must see her, and let her know. I must see her
to-day--before to-morrow morning--before she is married. After, that,
after she is married, as she will be to-morrow morning--after that, I
can never see her. She will have no right to let me see her--no right
to think of me, to hear from me--a married woman--another man's wife....
The letter--the letter I have been writing to her--she will never read
it. Waste time--waste paper--waste effort. No use sending it. No use
finishing it. After to-morrow morning, after she is married, she will
have no right to receive it--to receive any thing from me.......Oh, I
say, I must see her. If I am ever to see her, ever to let her know, it
must be to-day. To-day, or never. After to-day--to-morrow--a married
woman--she can never let me approach her--never--never.... Yes,
to-day--right away--at once. I must see her right away, at once.... Oh,
Love! To think of seeing you--really seeing you--and speaking to you!
Oh, Christine--to-day, this very day, at last!.... There, there! Let me
be calm. Let me think. How shall I--how can I manage it? To see her? Let
me think.”

He pressed his hands hard against his brow, beneath which his brain
seemed to have become a whirlpool, sucking into black confusion every
faculty for thought he had. He repeated two or three times: “Let me
think;” and kept crushing his brow between his hands, to subdue, if he
could, that dizzy, stupid feeling. At last he went on, stammeringly, and
in a voice which, from husky, had grown thin and feeble:--

“I must not go to see her at her house. No, that would not do. That
would not be fair to her. What would people think, who saw me? They
might overhear what I said to her. I might not be able to see her alone.
I might--I might meet _him_ there. No, I must not go to her house.
But this is what I will do. I will write her a note--a little short
note--asking her--begging her--to let me have five minutes' speech
with her--to come and give me five minutes' speech with her--in Central
Park--among our pine-trees in Central Park. She will do it. It is such
a little thing, I am sure she will do it. She can't have the heart to
refuse to do it. No, no!.... There! I will write the note, and send it
at once. In half an hour she will receive it. She will come right away.
Within two hours--within two hours from now--I--I shall--I shall see
her!”

With about as clear a realization of what he was doing as he might have
had if he had indeed been the worse for drink, so dazed and bewildered
did he feel, he opened his trunk, and took from it the materials for
writing. Then, seating himself at the table, with a drunken man's
comprehension of what he wrote, upon paper that swayed boisterously up
and down under his eyes, he dashed off the following note:--

_“Christine: Just learned I have just learned that to-morrow morning
that you are going to be married to-morrow morning. Please read this
note through. There is nothing in it which will harm you to read. It is
essential to my peace of mind that, before you are married, I should say
something to you, see you and say something, five words, which it will
not take me take five minutes for me to say, and which it will harm no
one for you to hear, neither you, nor your future husband, but will be a
great mercy to me. In mercy, in common pity to a suffering human being,
I beg of you, let me see you, and say this to you. In mercy to one who
is suffering all the agony of hell in life, which I know I deserve, only
that does not make it any easier to bear, in mercy, give me a chance
to speak with you. I don't come to your house, because it would not do,
would not be fair to you, for if he should see me there, it would be
unpleasant for you. So, at once, as soon as you receive this, come to
the rock among the pines in Central Park, and give me five minutes'
speech with you. It will be as great a mercy as if you were to give a
cup of water to a man dying tortured by thirst. I promise to say nothing
which it will be wrong for you to hear, or for me to say. Don't be
afraid of me. I shall never hurt you any more, I shall not try to
dissuade you from marrying him. On the contrary, marry him, and be
happy, if you can. Any thing so long as you are happy. I dare say he
will make you happy. I pray God that he may. Only, for pity's sake, you
who have a kind and pitiful heart, for pity's sake, in mercy to me, for
the sake of the love that was between us, Christine, grant me this one
request, which will harm no living man or woman, neither him nor you,
nor my wife, and come to the rock among the pines in Central Park. I
shall be willing to die after I have seen you and spoken to you. God!
I would rather die now than have you refuse. Come at once. I shall go
there right away, immediately, and I shall wait there until you come.
My soul is burning up with something which I must say to you, which you
must let me say to you, Christine, and you can not be so hard, so cruel,
as not to come, you who have such a tender, kind heart, Christine. My
agony is so great, and you can relieve it so easily, by simply coming
for five minutes. Look, you are going to give him your whole life--years
and years. Can't you give me five minutes? He can afford to let me have
five minutes, he who is going to have years and years. Come. It is the
only favor I shall ever ask of you. My head is so confused, queer, as
though all my wits were scattered, I don't know how to put it so as to
move you to come. I seem to have it on the tip of my tongue, the thing
to say that will persuade you, and then when I try to grasp it, and
write it down, it is gone. If you understood why and how much I want you
to come, I know you would come. I do not believe that you can be so hard
as to refuse this to a man who is broken-hearted, and almost crazy with
remorse, and who promises by all that is sacred, before God, gives you
his solemn word of honor, not to say a thing which it would be wrong
for you to hear, who are going to be married, or for me to say, who am
married already. Gives you his solemn word of honor. Only, before you
are married, and so eternally separated from me, worse than death,
to-morrow, before that, come and let me speak five words. If there is
any mercy in your heart, you won't disappoint me. Come at once. I am
going there right away, now, to wait for you. The rock among the pines.
You know. Christine! Christine! For God's sake!--Elias Bacharach.”_

*****

This note, without stopping to read it over, he enveloped, and
addressed. Then, in great haste, donning his hat, he left his room, and,
too impatient to wait for the elevator, ran down stairs to the office,
where he bade the clerk summon a messenger.

“Yes, sir,” said the clerk; and, with a click-click-whir-r-r, off went
the summons from the instrument. After which, the clerk returned to the
dirty paper novel he had been reading. Elias wondered, in a dull, hazy
way, how any body could have the heart to read a novel.

Pending the messenger's arrival, he paced restlessly hither and thither
about the broad, marble-paved entrance-hall of the house, and tried to
get the better of that queer, confused feeling in his head. Tried in
vain, however; for, from moment to moment, it grew more pronounced: a
feeling of congestion, as though his brain was solidifying, turning into
stone; as though gradually and simultaneously his different senses were
being sealed up.

By and by, as if through a deadening medium of some sort, as if through
a thick blanket, he heard a lusty young voice shout: “Call?”

He looked. As if through a veil, he saw a boy in brass buttons standing
in front of him.

“Yes,” said Elias; and it required a great effort of will to concentrate
his mind sufficiently to find, and to regulate his organs of speech
sufficiently to shape, the words: “Yes, come with me.”

He led the boy to the corner of Seventh Avenue and Forty-eighth Street.
The sun shone brightly. There was no wind. But it was very cold. Elias
thought: “Perhaps it is the cold that makes me feel so strangely. I feel
exactly as though my brain were being frozen, as hard as ice.”

When they had reached the corner, he said: “Now, young man, I want you
to take this note to this address, No.--, right on this block--that
house, over there, just beyond the lamp post--and I want you to ask to
see the lady to whom it is directed--Miss Redwood--to see her in person;
do you understand? See her in person, and deliver this note into her own
hands, and to nobody else. And then you come back here to this corner,
where I shall wait for you. Now, hurry.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, with a sagacious wink; “I catch on, sir;”
 and started off.

Elias watched him--down and across the street, and up her stoop--till he
vanished in her vestibule. For what seemed an eternity, the boy remained
out of sight. Then, presently, he reappeared; and in a minute or two was
again at his employer's side.

“Well,” questioned Elias, “well, did--did you see her?”

“Yes, sir; sawr 'er.”

It made Elias's heart beat to realize that this boy had just stood in
his lady's presence, had looked full upon her, breathed the atmosphere
that she glorified, listened to the celestial music of her voice. It
was with something akin to reverence for the young barbarian, that he
repeated: “You saw her, you actually saw her!”

“Well, so I remarked, sir,” replied the boy.

“And---- and you gave her the note?”

“That's what I done, sir.”

“What did she say?”

“Say? She didn't say nawthing.”

“Nothing at all? Not a word?”

“Well, sir, here's how it was. I says, 'Redwood?' and she says, 'Yes;'
and I says, 'Sign;' and she signed; and that's all there was _to_ it.”

“She signed? Have--have you got her signature?”

“Why, certainly. Here you are,”

The boy exhibited a bit of pink paper, upon which, in the hand that
he knew so well, Elias, with a breath-taking thrill, read her name:
“Christine Redwood.” He took the paper between his fingers. It was like
a talisman. Her touch, scarcely a moment since, had warmed it, her face
shadowed it. He had to struggle with himself, to keep from carrying it
to his lips, and kissing it, then and there.

“What--how much--will you take for this paper?” he demanded of the boy.

“Nawthing. Got to return it to the office.”

“I'll give you a dollar for it.”

“Jimminy! You must want it pretty bad.”

“Well, will you part with it for a dollar?”

The boy reflected; wrestled with temptation for an instant; in the end
said: “Well, sir, all is, you'll have to sign me another; that's all,
sir. Let's have the dollar.” He produced a duplicate bit of pink paper,
upon which Elias executed the only forgery of which he was ever guilty.
Then a bright silver dollar changed hands. Our hero pocketed his
invaluable purchase, and set his face toward Central Park.




XXI.

BACK and forth, among the pine-trees that had been witnesses of the
happiest moments of his life; over the carpet of frozen pine-needles,
every inch of which was holy ground to him, because her foot had trodden
it in the past; through the intense cold and stillness; Elias marched,
waiting for her to come. Harder than ever was the frost that bound and
benumbed his senses; but in his heart, there was the heat of battle.
Hope and doubt struggled together there, in mortal combat.

At one instant, doubt getting the upper hand, he would cry: “Will she
come? No, God help me, it is most unlikely. I may as well make up my
mind to it. She will not come.”

Next instant, hope inflaming him: “She _will_ come. I know she will.
She has a kind and tender heart. She can't find it in her to refuse. She
will come; and she will let me tell her how I love her, and how I have
suffered; and she will soften toward me, and forgive me. And perhaps her
love for me will come back--and overpower her--and make her forget every
thing else--and then--she--perhaps--oh, merciful God! if--if she should
consent!”

Thus he alternated between hell and heaven.

If he had been enabled to penetrate but a very little way into the
future, I suspect, his thoughts and his emotions would have been of a
quite different order.

“I must have been here at least an hour by this time,” he said. “It must
be almost time for her to get here.”

With stiffened fingers he drew out his watch.

Having looked at it: “Yes; she may get here any minute now.” Oh, how the
prospect made his heart throb! “She may be not further than a few yards
away.--Ah!--Hark! I--I hear a footstep. I swear, I hear a footstep. Is
it she? It comes down the path in this direction. God--God grant that it
is she. Nearer--nearer--nearer----”

What was this? Bending forward, every muscle strained, every nerve on
tension, to follow the footstep that he seemed to hear--suddenly his
voice failed him, and expired in a low, guttural murmur; suddenly a
dreadful spasm contracted all his features; his face flushed scarlet,
then paled as white as marble; his arm flew up into the air, the fingers
clutching at emptiness; foam flecked his lips; a groan burst from his
throat; he tottered; he fell headlong to the earth; a brief, horrible
convulsion, a protracted shudder; and he lay there, rigid, immobile, as
if dead.

The footstep that he had heard passed on into silence.

The pine-trees that sheltered the rock, screened him from sight. This he
had used to account one of the chief advantages of the spot. Was it an
advantage now? Perhaps so; but he would be very bold indeed, who should
dare to say yes for certain.

The cold settled down upon him, and wrapped him in its stony embrace.
The afternoon wore away. The daylight faded into twilight, the twilight
into night. And still Elias lay there, alone with the deadly cold.

In the Bacharach house, on Stuyvesant Square, the family were at dinner,
with Elias for their topic. Where was he now, and what doing? they
wondered. Enjoying himself, they hoped.

By and by the moon came up, and wove a silvery garment about him. The
next day's sun came up, and bathed him in fire, and arrayed him in
cloth-of-gold. The sun soared higher and higher. In the distance a
church clock struck eleven. She was being married now, probably. Elias
did not stir.

The wind veered around into the south-west, and the temperature grew
tolerable again. Then some children ventured out, to play in the park.
Up to the top of this rock they clambered. Next moment, in gleeful
excitement, they were calling to their nurse, whom they had left below
in the pathway: “Come, and look at the man asleep!”

The New York papers on Thursday morning contained two announcements,
divided from each other only by a thin black line, thus:


MARRIED.

_Hosmer--Redwood.--In this city, on February 18th, by the Rev. Dr.
Frederick Shepard, Robert Emory Hosmer to Christine Redwood._


DIED.

_Bacharach.--In this city, on Tuesday, February 17th, suddenly, Elias,
beloved husband of Matilda Morgenthau, and only son of the late Abraham
Bacharach, M. D., in the twenty-eighth year of his age. The Lord gave,
and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord. New
Orleans papers please copy._


THE END.







End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Yoke Of The Thorah, by Sidney Luska

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