He did not dare to look at the man to whom he had spoken. He looked at his uncle. But the latter was watching old Redwood.
Old Redwood's face was eloquent. When Elias had begun to speak, the old man had been smiling good-naturedly. Gradually his smile had faded to an expression of blank incomprehension; which, in its turn, had gradually changed to one of uttermost, indignant astonishment. But now, this too had departed, and his features had become set in a new smile—a smile which revealed the abyssmal contempt, the passionate, malignant scorn, at the bottom of his soul, far more clearly than the strongest words could have done. A grayish pallor had overspread his brow. His eyes blazed upon Elias. Between his drawn lips, his teeth gleamed savagely. He sat still, nodding his head, and smiling that unpropitious smile.
For a long while, painfully long, no one spoke.
Elias, though he dared not look, knew how fiercely old Redwood was eying him—felt the heat of old Redwood's gaze. His cheeks flaming, his body in a tremor, he sat still, afraid to stir. He could hear old Redwood breathe. He could hear the boisterous beating of his own heart, in dread apprehension of the brewing storm. He could hear the regular, metallic tick-tack of the rabbi's clock, which increased the stress, as it measured the duration, of his suspense. The rabbi, also, was smiling now—a smile of genial satisfaction.
At last old Redwood moved. He shifted in his chair. He cleared his throat. With a single jerk of his tall frame, he got upon his feet. He stood for a few seconds, silent. Presently, “Well, Elias Bacharach,” he said, in low, dry tones, vibrant with suppressed fury, “I understand that I am to inform my daughter from you, that, as you have said, on account of your difference of religion, she is to consider herself jilted and thrown over. I think that is the upshot of what you have said.”
“Say, rather, released from her engagement,” put in the rabbi, blandly. “And if you will permit me, I shall be happy to explain to you the circumstances which render this step unavoidable.”
“Pardon me,” returned old Redwood, with a grand bow and flourish. “I was not aware, sir, of having addressed you. I'm talking to Mr. Elias Bacharach. And now, Elias Bacharach, this is what I've got to say. I suppose you know what you air. I suppose you know the names I could call ye, if I had a mind to demean myself to calling names. You look in the dictionary, and you'll find them printed in black and white. But I guess you won't need to look so far. I guess it will do just as well if you look in your own conscience. You know what you've done. You know how you've taken a young, innocent girl, and won her heart, and got it set on you, so that she don't think of any thing or any body else; and then flung her overboard, and spoiled her life, and darkened her whole youth. And you know what honest people think of a man who's done that. That's all. You needn't be afraid. You needn't sit there, shaking. I ain't going to hurt you. I ain't going to touch you, even. I'll go home now. I'll go home, and tell the news to Christine. If it kills her, you know who'll have to answer for her death.” Thus far, the old man had spoken with great self-control; but here, suddenly, he forgot himself.—“But, by God,” he thundered out, “if it does kill her, I—I'd rather have it, by God! than have her married to you, now that I know what you are, you damn, miserable, white-livered Jew!”
With which, he stalked from the room; and next moment the street-door slammed behind him.
“Well, now, Elias,” said the rabbi, “now it's all over for good and all.”
“Yes, I dare say,” replied Elias; “but I feel somehow as though it had just begun—as though the worst of it were still to come.”