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?--