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?--