Chapter 7

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.