He pressed his hands hard against his brow, beneath which his brain seemed to have become a whirlpool, sucking into black confusion every faculty for thought he had. He repeated two or three times: “Let me think;” and kept crushing his brow between his hands, to subdue, if he could, that dizzy, stupid feeling. At last he went on, stammeringly, and in a voice which, from husky, had grown thin and feeble:—
“I must not go to see her at her house. No, that would not do. That would not be fair to her. What would people think, who saw me? They might overhear what I said to her. I might not be able to see her alone. I might—I might meet him there. No, I must not go to her house. But this is what I will do. I will write her a note—a little short note—asking her—begging her—to let me have five minutes' speech with her—to come and give me five minutes' speech with her—in Central Park—among our pine-trees in Central Park. She will do it. It is such a little thing, I am sure she will do it. She can't have the heart to refuse to do it. No, no!.... There! I will write the note, and send it at once. In half an hour she will receive it. She will come right away. Within two hours—within two hours from now—I—I shall—I shall see her!”
With about as clear a realization of what he was doing as he might have had if he had indeed been the worse for drink, so dazed and bewildered did he feel, he opened his trunk, and took from it the materials for writing. Then, seating himself at the table, with a drunken man's comprehension of what he wrote, upon paper that swayed boisterously up and down under his eyes, he dashed off the following note:—
“Christine: Just learned I have just learned that to-morrow morning that you are going to be married to-morrow morning. Please read this note through. There is nothing in it which will harm you to read. It is essential to my peace of mind that, before you are married, I should say something to you, see you and say something, five words, which it will not take me take five minutes for me to say, and which it will harm no one for you to hear, neither you, nor your future husband, but will be a great mercy to me. In mercy, in common pity to a suffering human being, I beg of you, let me see you, and say this to you. In mercy to one who is suffering all the agony of hell in life, which I know I deserve, only that does not make it any easier to bear, in mercy, give me a chance to speak with you. I don't come to your house, because it would not do, would not be fair to you, for if he should see me there, it would be unpleasant for you. So, at once, as soon as you receive this, come to the rock among the pines in Central Park, and give me five minutes' speech with you. It will be as great a mercy as if you were to give a cup of water to a man dying tortured by thirst. I promise to say nothing which it will be wrong for you to hear, or for me to say. Don't be afraid of me. I shall never hurt you any more, I shall not try to dissuade you from marrying him. On the contrary, marry him, and be happy, if you can. Any thing so long as you are happy. I dare say he will make you happy. I pray God that he may. Only, for pity's sake, you who have a kind and pitiful heart, for pity's sake, in mercy to me, for the sake of the love that was between us, Christine, grant me this one request, which will harm no living man or woman, neither him nor you, nor my wife, and come to the rock among the pines in Central Park. I shall be willing to die after I have seen you and spoken to you. God! I would rather die now than have you refuse. Come at once. I shall go there right away, immediately, and I shall wait there until you come. My soul is burning up with something which I must say to you, which you must let me say to you, Christine, and you can not be so hard, so cruel, as not to come, you who have such a tender, kind heart, Christine. My agony is so great, and you can relieve it so easily, by simply coming for five minutes. Look, you are going to give him your whole life—years and years. Can't you give me five minutes? He can afford to let me have five minutes, he who is going to have years and years. Come. It is the only favor I shall ever ask of you. My head is so confused, queer, as though all my wits were scattered, I don't know how to put it so as to move you to come. I seem to have it on the tip of my tongue, the thing to say that will persuade you, and then when I try to grasp it, and write it down, it is gone. If you understood why and how much I want you to come, I know you would come. I do not believe that you can be so hard as to refuse this to a man who is broken-hearted, and almost crazy with remorse, and who promises by all that is sacred, before God, gives you his solemn word of honor, not to say a thing which it would be wrong for you to hear, who are going to be married, or for me to say, who am married already. Gives you his solemn word of honor. Only, before you are married, and so eternally separated from me, worse than death, to-morrow, before that, come and let me speak five words. If there is any mercy in your heart, you won't disappoint me. Come at once. I am going there right away, now, to wait for you. The rock among the pines. You know. Christine! Christine! For God's sake!—Elias Bacharach.”
This note, without stopping to read it over, he enveloped, and addressed. Then, in great haste, donning his hat, he left his room, and, too impatient to wait for the elevator, ran down stairs to the office, where he bade the clerk summon a messenger.
“Yes, sir,” said the clerk; and, with a click-click-whir-r-r, off went the summons from the instrument. After which, the clerk returned to the dirty paper novel he had been reading. Elias wondered, in a dull, hazy way, how any body could have the heart to read a novel.
Pending the messenger's arrival, he paced restlessly hither and thither about the broad, marble-paved entrance-hall of the house, and tried to get the better of that queer, confused feeling in his head. Tried in vain, however; for, from moment to moment, it grew more pronounced: a feeling of congestion, as though his brain was solidifying, turning into stone; as though gradually and simultaneously his different senses were being sealed up.
By and by, as if through a deadening medium of some sort, as if through a thick blanket, he heard a lusty young voice shout: “Call?”
He looked. As if through a veil, he saw a boy in brass buttons standing in front of him.