Chapter 12

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 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—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.”