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 plaguemeas 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 togo. 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 negro, 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—pleasedon'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'tbearto 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.”
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, withsucha 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. Butatthat 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. Ilikethe 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—theloveyou 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 reallylovedher 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 doyedo?”
“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, andbleach'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 ratherhaveit, 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.”