Part 14

“Oh, my daughter,” Mrs. Morgenthau returned, “she works like a horse. You never saw such a worker. It's simply fearful. And such a _good_ girl, Mr. Bacharach. Only nineteen years old, and earns more than a hundred dollars a month, and supports me and herself. Her uncle, my brother over there, he's as generous with his money as if it was water; and he gave Tillie a magnificent education. But she's bound to be self-supporting, and hasn't cost him a cent for nearly a year. Of course, he gives her elegant presents every once in awhile; but she pays our expenses by her own work. She's grand. She's an angel.”

“You're right there,” putin Mr. Koch. “Tillie's all wool, from head to foot.”

“And a yard vide,” added Mr. Blum.

“And such a brilliant musician,” said Elias.

“Musician?” echoed her mother. “Well, I should say so. You ought to hear her play, when she really knuckles down to it. Why, you--you'd jump, you'd get so excited. The other night she was only drumming--for fun. I tell you what you do. You come around and call on us some evening, over in Beekman Place. Then you'll hear her, the right way.”

“I shall be very happy to. It's very good of you to ask me.”

“Good? Oh, pshaw; don't mention it. Tillie 'll be delighted.

“We shall esteem it an honor to welcome you in our home, Mr. Bacharach,” Mr. Sternberg said, with a stiffness which he mistook for courtliness. .

“Yes, come over, do,” added Mrs. Sternberg. “Come Sunday evening and take supper with us.” Elias agreed to do so, with thanks.

“You folks come over, too,” said Mrs. Sternberg, addressing the Koch contingent.

“You may count upon us,” replied Mr. Koch, “providing you'll have enough to eat.”

At which sally there was a general laugh.

“What you all laughing at?” the wag proceeded. “I hope you don't think I'm joking. I wouldn't want to come to supper with a family, if they didn't have enough to go around.”

At this, the laughter was redoubled; and Mrs. Morgenthau demanded in a whisper of Elias, “Ain't my brother immense?”

“There's either a ball or a wedding going on in there,” Mr. Koch announced, pointing to the brightly-lighted windows of the hall, that abuts upon the garden. “Hear that music? It's a string-orchestra, playing dance tunes. Running a race with our band here. Wonder which will come in first.”

Pretty soon the doors of the hall were thrown wide open; and a stream of young people poured forth into the garden. The men wore dress-suits and patent-leather pumps; the ladies, evening costumes, of red, white, yellow, and other bright-hued silks. They took possession of the unoccupied tables round about, and proceeded to make merry in a very noisy and whole-souled manner.

“Yes, it's a wedding, sure enough,” said Mr. Koch; “and here comes the bride.”

The bride, a buxom daughter of Israel, of twenty odd, attired in canary-colored satin, escorted by her bridesmaids, and followed at a respectful distance by the groom and his four best men, drew up to the table nearest that of our friends, and called for beer and cheese; which, when the waiter brought them, she attacked with a vigor and with a directness that were charming to witness. Indeed, so interesting did her immediate neighbors find the spectacle, that not a word was spoken among them for a long while. They sat still, and watched her with smitten eyes. At last, however, she called out to her husband: “Nun, gut, mein Turteltâubchen; ich bin ganz satt und glücklich. Komm 'mal mit mir, und noch ein wenig lass uns tanzen.” And then Mrs. Koch said that she was sorry to break up a party, but she really thought she'd better go home, as Laistair might have woke up, and he would be frightened if his mamma wasn't there to put him back to shleep. This expression of maternal solicitude produced its due effect; and, with many hearty good-nights, the company departed upon their several ways.

*****

Sunday evening, Elias rang the Sternberg doorbell at six o'clock. The Kochs and the Blums had already arrived; and they, with the host and hostess and Mrs. Morgenthau and Tillie, were assembled in the back-parlor, enjoying the view from the bay-window--up, down, and across the river, and over the Long Island country on the other side. He got, of course, a very effusive reception. Mr. Koch inquired what the good word was. Miss Tillie said she was so glad to see him, and that it was perfectly elegant of him to come. Mr. Sternberg mixed him a vermouth cocktail, “to put an edge on his appetite.” And Mr. Blum declared, vail, he was looking splendid.

“Supper's all ready,” proclaimed Mrs. Sternberg, and led the way to the back-yard, where, protected by an awning, the table fairly groaned beneath its burden of good things. “Say, Wash,” she called out to her brother, “think there's enough?” Which proved that Mr. Koch's witticisms were not speedily forgotten in his admiring circle.

Elias thought it exceedingly pleasant thus to feast in the open air, while the sky and river glowed with the reflected splendor of the sunset; and said so to Miss Tillie. She replied that it was simply ideal, that they always did it in good weather, and that it was quite the rage among the residents of Beekman Place. Beekman Place, she went on, was the grandest street in the city, and she was awfully attached to it. She'd lived there most all her life, and all the memories of her childhood were associated with it. She remembered when she used to go fishing, with a thread and a bent pin, off the docks below there, and how scared her mamma used to get, lest she should tumble into the water, and be drowned. She didn't know what she'd do--she knew she'd feel just perfectly fearful, any how--when she had to leave, and dwell elsewhere, as she supposed she would some day. Oh, no, they weren't thinking of moving. She meant when she got married.

“Why,” exclaimed her interlocutor, “I didn't know you were engaged.”

“Well, I'm _not_ engaged. But I suppose I'll _get_ engaged before I die. All girls do.”

But couldn't she persuade her husband to come and live in Beekman Place?

Well, that would depend a good deal upon what sort of a man he was. Most men wouldn't want to come so far out of the way. She knew, when she was at college, it used to take her pretty much all day going and coming, and cost a regular fortune in car-fares.

College? The Normal College?

Yes. Class of '82. Salutatory.

Indeed! That was a great honor.

“Well, may be it was; but I didn't care a cent for it. I wanted to be Valedictory. I worked hard for it, for four years; and when I didn't get it, you can't imagine how horribly bad I felt.”

“Oh, yes; I can understand. It must have been very hard.”

“Florence Rosenbaum got it. She, and I, and an American girl named Redwood, had been rivals ever since we were freshmen. Some years one would lead, and some years another. But at the finish, Rosenbaum came in first, and Redwood third, and I second. I'd just as soon have come in last.”--Tillie paused; appeared puzzled; finally demanded, “Why, what you looking so queer about?”

“Why, nothing. I didn't know I was looking queer.”

“I thought something was choking you, you got so red in the face.”

“Been down to the beach this season, Mr. Bach-arach?” broke in Mr. Koch, having reference, presumably, to Coney Island. Elias replied in the negative. “Well, then, I tell you what let's do,” Mr. Koch proceeded, addressing the table at large; “let's make up a party to go down to the beach some afternoon this week, hey?”

After a clamorous debate, it was decided that they should dine at the beach on the following Wednesday evening, provided the elements were favorable.

Supper over, they went up stairs, and sat in the dusk, smoking their cigars, and looking out of the bay window, while Tillie played. “I'm going to give you a Chopin evening,” she had said. Elias, stretched in a great easy-chair, watching the moon float up red and swollen from behind the castellated prison on Blackwell's Island, and listening to the subtle, dreamy measures of the Berceuse, thought he had never before experienced such restful and satisfying pleasure. It got dark. The moon shrank and paled. A million diamonds sparkled upon the bosom of the river. Along the opposite embankment, the street lamps gleamed like fallen stars. A soft breeze, laden with the odors of lilac and wistaria, stole in at the window. The music, sweet and solemn, thrilled the darkness like the voice of a beautiful, sad, strange spirit. Suddenly it died away. Somebody lighted the gas. There was an outbreak of talk and laughter. The spell was broken. Elias started, got upon his feet, bade his friends good-night, went home.

XVIII.

THEY had a very noisy and jolly time down at the beach; a time which, they all agreed, was simply grand. They walked to and fro along the shore, and went in for a bath, and ate a capital dinner, and enjoyed the music, and met lots of their friends, and laughed and talked till their sides ached, and their throats were sore. Mrs. Blum, in her bathing costume, was the butt of many innocent jokes. Her husband said she resembled a _blaidder_. Elias had to think hard, before he caught the idea, and recognized its force. They returned to the city by the boat; and, having reached the Battery, Mr. Blum gave expression to the universal sentiment when he declared, “Vail, dot sail up the Bay, dot was maiknificent, dot was perfectly immense.”

“Come over soon now, won't you, Mr. Bach-arach?” Mrs. Morgenthau asked, as Elias was tearing himself away.

“Yes, do,” chimed in Miss Tillie.

And he promised that he would.

He redeemed his promise about a week later. Tillie played to him to his heart's content, and afterward she amused him with her conversation.

On his way home, “She's a good little thing,” he soliloquized; “thoroughly well-meaning and kind--hearted. Crude, of course, and uncultivated; but a fellow must make allowances for that sort of thing. She has plenty of mother-wit; and her dash--her abundance of animal spirits--it--it's positively stimulating. Then she plays--well, her playing is marvelous, masterly--such execution--such expression--really, no praise could do justice to her playing. And she's not at all bad-looking, either.”

He called pretty soon again; and after that he got into the habit of calling regularly at frequent intervals. He was invariably welcomed with exceeding warmth, and treated with a certain deference that no doubt tickled his vanity. Besides, a bay-window overlooking the East River is a pleasant place to spend a hot summer's night. And Tillie's music, it was worth traveling miles to hear.

In his hours of solitude he led a very useless and meaningless existence. He did not paint much; and when he did, his occupation proved neither profitable nor enjoyable. He read a good many light novels; he spent a good deal of time seated at his studio window, gazing off across the tree-tops, and lapsing into a state of mental vacuity, that approached as near to total unconsciousness as is compatible with sustained animation. He even went to the theater now and then, escorting Tillie and her mother. To Mrs. Morgenthau he had taken a genuine liking. There was something so hearty and vigorous about her, something almost manly. His palate was dulled. He craved strong flavors.

“They're going to the country before long, aren't they?” the rabbi asked one day.

“Yes; the first week in July.”

“Well, don't you think we ought to have them to dinner, before they go?”

“That wouldn't be a bad idea,” confessed Elias.

And on the following Sunday to dinner they all came; Mr. Koch expatiated in his oratorical style upon the charms of the Catskills; and the others unanimously joined him in urging Elias and the rabbi to “come along.” The rabbi replied that he positively couldn't. His professional duties were such as to compel him to remain in town.

“But there's no reason why _you_ shouldn't,” he concluded, turning to his nephew; “and I think decidedly you'd better.”

At this, they concentrated their fire upon Elias; and in the end, he said, well, perhaps he would run up for a week or two some time in August.

But he did not wait till August. After they were gone, he found the city intolerably dull. What to do with himself, how to divert himself, where to seek a substitute for the excitement that they had afforded him, he did not know. He began to realize that he had grown very dependent upon their society; likewise, that he possessed but very few and feeble resources within himself. He did not like this. It damaged his self-esteem. But he could not deny it, he could not get the better of it. He craved the sound of their voices; he craved Tillie's music; he craved the exuberant friendliness with which they treated him. The idleness, the monotony, the insipidity, of his daily life in the city, he could not endure. In the copious leisure that it left him, he would sometimes--despite his customary inanition--he would sometimes fall to thinking; and when he thought, he did not admire himself; he even sluggishly despised himself; a sense of his uselessness bore in upon him; he was anxious to escape himself. So, toward the middle of July, he packed his trunk, and went to Tanners-town. He had said that he would run up for a week or two. But he did not return to New York until the others did so, early in September.

He and Tillie were together a great deal. They sat next to each other at table. In the daytime they would take walks together, or lounge together about the piazza of the hotel, or play croquet together; or, haply, she would lie in a hammock, while he read to her, or sketched her. In the evening, if there was dancing, they would dance together; for she had taught him to dance. Or, perhaps, they would go together for a stroll by moonlight, or again sit together on the piazza in the dark. He liked her very much indeed. On closer acquaintance, her crudity became less conspicuous. Either he got accustomed to it, or it was eclipsed by her many and sterling virtues. She was a paragon of unselfishness--always doing something for somebody, always giving up something that somebody else might enjoy it. When they went for a drive, Tillie always took the least desirable seat. When there was an errand to be run, Tillie always ran it. When a letter had to be carried to the post, Tillie always carried it. Etc., etc. Her attitude toward her mother struck Elias as especially fine. Such filial respect, solicitude, obedience, unwearying devotion, he had never witnessed before. She was constantly looking after her mother's comfort, fetching and carrying for her mother, doing for her mother. If a pretty fan were for sale in the village, she must purchase it for mamma. If there were pretty wild flowers growing along the road-side, she must gather them for mamma. If mamma breathed a wish, Tillie would devote hours, if need were, to the execution of it. For hours, if mamma had a head-ache, Tillie would stand upon her feet, stroking mamma's forehead. Her mother appeared to be her passion, almost her religion. And how could Elias help admiring such a model daughter? And then, her music, and her pretty face. _Could_ anybody play like that, _could_ anybody possess such bright blue eyes, and not have a gentle soul, even a spark of divinity, glowing beneath the surface? What mattered faulty grammar, or too robust a voice? On the whole, he told himself, he had a genuine affection for Tillie. She was a rough diamond; rough, but susceptible of the highest degree of polish. She only needed time and refining influences, to make a charming lady. He liked her very much indeed, with a patronizing, brotherly sort of liking. What her sentiment for him might be, he never thought to ask himself, but tacitly assumed that it was one of cordial friendliness.

Mr. Koch and Mr. Sternberg staid but a fortnight apiece. Mr. Blum, the ladies, and Elias, staid till the beginning of September; when they all came back to town in company. Elias then resumed his frequent visiting in Beekman Place.

One evening after dinner the rabbi asked Elias to step into his study.

“I had a call from Mr. Koch this afternoon,” the rabbi said.

“Ah?” returned Elias.

“Yes. He stopped in on his way up-town.”

“That so? Any thing special?”

“Well, yes. That's why I wanted to see you, now. He spoke about you.” Emphasis on the “you.”

“About me? Indeed? Why, what could he have had to say about me?”

“Well, he thought it was strange that you didn't come to see him, and wanted to know why you were holding off.”

“Come to see him? Why, I went to see him only last week. Holding off? I don't know what he can mean.”

“No, no. You don't understand. He meant about declaring your intentions.”

“What intentions? Intentions? I don't know what you're driving at, I'm sure.”

“Why, your intentions in respect to his niece, of course.”

“My intentions in respect--Mercy!” gasped Elias, with honest astonishment, as the idea suddenly dawned upon him. “You don't mean to say that--that he imagines--that--that I--Good Lord!”

“Why, certainly,” said the rabbi. “How could he help it? You haven't taken Washington I. Koch for a fool, I hope. Besides, your attentions have been so very marked, that no great penetration was necessary. I'm not much at that sort of thing, but even I saw through them long ago. In fact, no man with half an eye open could have failed to do so.”

“Merciful Powers!” exclaimed Elias, and sat dumb.

“There's no use making so much ado about it, either,” pursued the rabbi. “It was bound to come out, you know, sooner or later; and, at any rate, you have no reason for feeling ashamed of it.”

“But--” began Elias.

“Oh, I dare say. I dare say, it's a little embarrassing. That's not unnatural. But then, you couldn't have kept it a secret forever. By its very nature, it was bound to come out.”

“But,” Elias began anew, “but it's not true. It's the most preposterous mistake I ever heard of. I never had any such idea, never dreamed of having any such idea. Intentions! Why, I always thought of her as--as scarcely more than a child. I don't see how anybody could have made such a stupid, ridiculous blunder. Well, I did give Mr. Koch credit for more intelligence.”

“Elias,” demanded the rabbi, with very great seriousness, “are you in earnest, or is this a comedy?”

“A comedy? I tell you it's outrageous. I never was more in earnest in my life.”

“And I am to understand that you have made Miss Morgenthau the object of your particular attentions--as you can't deny you have done--and in that way have necessarily endeared yourself more or less to her--I am to understand that you have deliberately done this, without meaning eventually to make her your wife?”

“Particular attentions! I've paid her no particular attentions. I took a friendly interest in the girl, and behaved toward her in a friendly way. My wife! The notion never entered my head--nor hers, either, I'll venture to say.”

“I can hardly believe it,” said the rabbi, shaking his head incredulously. “I don't like to believe it. I don't like to believe you capable of--of such--”

“Such what? What have I done? Is it my fault, if people jump to false conclusions? Am I to blame for their lack of sense? Can't a young man be ordinarily polite and decent to a young girl, without every body fancying that he is spoony over her?”

“No, he can't; not if you call it ordinarily polite and decent to visit a young lady regularly every week or so, and spend a couple of months at her side in the country. From that sort of politeness and decency, her parents always infer that he means matrimony. It gives the same impression to society, also, and frightens other young men away.”

“Well,” groaned Elias, “I suppose it's needless for me to say I'm sorry. I _am_ sorry; but that's neither here nor there. If I had at all foreseen--But what's the use of iffing? Now that you have opened my eyes, I'll stop visiting her. That's at once the least and most I can do. Well, I'm glad it went no further. So far, at any rate, no harm has been done.”

“No harm done! Well, I must say, your complacency astounds me. No harm done! You--you get a young girl's expectations all aroused--get her heart set on you--get her and her family to taking for granted that you want to marry her--get the whole world to talking about her as your sweetheart--and then coolly dismiss the matter with a No harm done! No harm done, forsooth!”

“Oh, come,” protested Elias; “you exaggerate. It's not so bad as all that. Whatever you and her uncle and the others may have suspected, _she_ never misconstrued my feeling for her. She has too much good sense. Why, I never spoke a word to her that could, by torturing it even, be interpreted as any thing more than friendly. As for her heart being set upon me, and her expectations aroused, that's rubbish, pure and simple rubbish.”

“Is it, though?” retorted the rabbi. “Her uncle didn't seem to think so.”

“What do you mean?” cried Elias.

“I mean that Mr. Koch gave me to understand that Miss Morgenthau is in love with you.”

“Gave you to understand? Oh, you _mis_understood.”

“I could scarcely have done that. He told me so in just so many words.”

“Well, then, he didn't know what he was talking about.”

“Perhaps not; but he had it directly from Mrs. Morgenthau. When he asked why you didn't pop the question, I said it might be that you were doubtful about what kind of an answer you'd get. Then he assured me that you could set your mind at rest on that score, for Mrs. Morgenthau had told him that Tillie thought all the world of you. The young girl has confided in her mother, as a young girl should.”

“Oh, this is horrible!” Elias gasped.

“Yes, horrible; I think that's the right name for it, if what you say about your own feeling is true. If you don't mean to marry her, I can't see how it could be much worse. But now, honestly, are you sure you don't?”

“Why, I tell you, I never thought of such a thing--never dreamed of it.”

“Well, it isn't too late to think of it, even now. It's a fine chance. I advise you to consider a little before you throw it away. She'd make you an excellent wife, and bring a snug sum of money with her. Mr. Koch mentioned something like twenty thousand dollars. You can have her for the asking. Such an opportunity may never occur again.”

“You speak as though it were a bargain--just as I should expect Mr. Blum to speak of what he calls a chop-lot. You don't suppose I want her twenty thousand dollars? I have more money than I've any right to, already; I, who do nothing to earn any. I think it ought to settle the question, when I say I don't love the girl.”

“What do you mean by love?”

“What is generally meant by love? I mean that I don't care for her in any way except a friendly one.”

“Well, what do you mean by friendly?”

“I mean that I like her--just as a fellow might like his sister.”

“You make a distinction without a difference. Or rather, no; the difference is against you. Love, in the sense in which you use the word, isn't what's wanted. A strong liking, an affection, is more to the point. I was struck the other day, when looking in the dictionary, to find, among its other definitions, _love_ defined as a 'thin silk stuff.' Well, affection is a stout woolen fabric. For matrimonial purposes, for daily wear and tear, the latter is by far the better.”

“There's room for two opinions about that. I may be allowed to have my own.”

“Certainly; though your opinion would coincide with mine, if you were wiser. But let us confine ourselves to the practical aspects of the case. You say you like the young lady very much?”

“Yes, but--”

“Not so fast. Now, if you like her very much, would you not wish, if possible, to spare her the pain and the mortification of having her hopes in your regard disappointed?”

“If possible, of course. But it isn't possible.”