The Yoke of the Thorah. Harland Henry
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Название: The Yoke of the Thorah
Автор: Harland Henry
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4064066151898
isbn:
“Oh, yes; do, please,” urged Christine.
“I wish I could,” said Elias; “but, unfortunately, I must go home. The concert has lasted longer than I thought it would; and now they—my uncle, I mean—will be expecting me at home. Good-by.”
Christine gave him her hand. He watched her till she was lost to sight in the crowd. It had cost him a pang to separate himself from her. Now, as he saw her departing further and further away, it was like the gradual extinction of the light and the warmth and the beauty of the day. His heart sank. A lump began to gather and ache in his throat. He turned about and walked slowly home.
Crossing his own threshold, he shivered, as one might upon entering a tomb. Somehow, his house seemed darker, bleaker, bigger, and more cheerless than it had ever seemed before. It was, as it always was, intensely silent. His footstep upon the marble floor of the hallway resounded sharp and metallic. He joined the rabbi in the latter's study. They exchanged a few quiet words of greeting, and then sat motionless, without speaking, as though waiting for something to happen..The daylight slowly faded. By and by a star could be made out, shimmering through the window. Both of these men rose to their feet, and put on their hats. The rabbi lighted a candle, and, with hands uplifted, intoned a blessing over it in Hebrew. With the candle flame he lighted the gas. Then, picking up a bulky calf-bound volume from the table, he began to read aloud from the Thorah, also in Hebrew. Elias paid scant heed. He heard the rabbi's voice rise and fall in sonorous periods; but his heart and his mind were elsewhere.
“Now, Elias,” said the rabbi suddenly, “you read on from where I have left off.”
He handed Elias the book, pointing with his finger to the place. Elias took it, and read mechanically, pronouncing the words clearly enough, but giving no attention to the sense:
“And when the Lord thy God shall deliver them before thee, thou shalt smite them and utterly destroy them; thou shalt make no covenant with them, nor show mercy unto them. Neither shalt thou make marriages with them; thy daughter thou shalt not give unto his son, nor his daughter shalt thou take unto thy. son. For they will turn away thy son from following me, that they may serve other gods; so will the anger of the Lord be kindled against you, and destroy thee suddenly. But thus shall ye deal with them: Ye shall destroy their altars, and break down their images, and cut down their groves, and burn their graven images with fire. For thou art an holy people unto the Lord thy God: the Lord thy God hath chosen thee to be a special people unto himself, above all people that are upon the face of the earth.'” *
* Deuteronomy, vii., 2–6.
“'Above all people that are upon the face of the earth,'” echoed the rabbi. “Amen.”.
With the melancholy December nightfall had come the Jewish Sabbath.
V.
THOUGH nothing had been said about it, Elias took for granted that the Redwoods would expect him Sunday morning; and accordingly, in the neighborhood of nine o'clock, he rang their door-bell. He found them ready for him. Old Redwood sat behind him as he worked at the portrait, and conversation was general throughout. They asked him to stay to dinner, but he was afraid of abusing his welcome, and declined. He went home, shut himself up in his studio, and spent the afternoon thinking regretfully of the good time that he might have been having if he had only accepted.
The first post Monday morning brought him a ticket for the private view of the Academy exhibition to be given that evening. The ticket said, “Admit Mr. E. Bacharach and one.” Elias went to his writing-desk, and, on the spur of his impulse, wrote the following note:
“No.— East Fifteenth Street, Monday.
“My Dear Miss Redwood:—I wonder whether you would care to attend the private view of the coming exhibition this evening? There will no doubt be quite an interesting lot of people there, not to mention the pictures; and perhaps it might amuse you to look in for an hour or so. If you will say yes, I shall be very glad.
“Yours sincerely,
“Elias Bacharach.”
This he inclosed in an envelope, and addressed. Then he sallied forth to the nearest messenger office, and had it sent. Then he returned to his studio to await her answer.
But pretty soon he began to repent what he had done. Surely, upon such brief acquaintance, he had taken too great a liberty. What sort of an opinion would she have of him? Of course, she would say no to his invitation. Oh that he could recall the note—the rash, impetuous note! It was too late to do that; and now he must suffer the consequence of his indiscretion, which would at least be a fall of great distance in her esteem. She would regard him as presumptuous and pushing. She would laugh at him to herself, and with her father, to whom most likely she would show what he had written. Perhaps she would imagine that he was in love with her—girls are notorious for imagining such ridiculous things upon such slight provocation. He, certainly, would never have the hardihood to look her straight in the face again. He walked up and down the floor. Why didn't the messenger bring her answer? Though he knew, or thought he knew, that it would be a snub and a refusal, he was anxious to get it, all the same. Would the boy never come? Was he purposely delaying? Taking a malicious delight in making his employer wait? Stopping upon some street-corner to spin his top? Or—or had she simply disdained to vouchsafe to his request any reply whatever?—— Ah! The door-bell! Elias's heart jumped into his mouth. He stepped into the hall, leaned over the banister, and listened.
He heard the maid undo the chain, and open the door. There was an interval of silence. Then he heard her shut it. Then, in a voice tense for excitement, “Maggie,” he called, “is it something for me?”
“Yes, sir; a note.”
He ran down stairs, and met the servant half-way. She gave him the note. “Mr. Elias Bacharach, No.— East Fifteenth Street, N. Y. C.,” was its superscription, in a pretty, girlish hand. The paper had a faint, sweet smell—something like jasmine, something like mignonnette. He carried it back to his studio, unopened. There, having closed the door, he went to his window, drew a long breath, and with trembling fingers broke the seal. Could he believe his senses? Christine's note ran thus:
“Dear Mr. Bacharach:—Thanks ever so much, and I shall be delighted to go. I have always wanted to go to a private view, but have never been. I hope there are some of your pictures to be seen; are there? You don't tell me at what hour to expect you; but I'll be ready at half-past seven. Sincerely yours,
“Christine Redwood.”
Elias's cheeks burned, his fingers trembled, his temples throbbed, he could feel the blood leap in his veins, as the meaning of this document became apparent to his mind. He read it again and again. He brought it close to his face, and breathed the dainty perfume it exhaled. The pleasure he derived from doing this was wholly disproportionate to the sweetness of the scent. By and by he put it back in its envelope, and deposited it in the drawer of his desk. But he did not leave it there long. In a little while he had it out, and was reading it again, and again inhaling its perfume—which, faint to begin with, had now almost quite evaporated. Still, enough of it remained to send an electric tingle along his nerves, and to cast a wonderfully vivid image of Christine upon the retina of his mind's eye. For the rest of that day he was incompetent. He could not paint. He could not read. He could not sit still. He could only roam listlessly from СКАЧАТЬ