“But, Christine—”
“No, no, no! Unless you want to make me very unhappy, you'll promise to tell him right away. That letter by the pilot! I don't understand how you could have thought of such a thing! It would be cruel and—and it would be cowardly! There!”
Elias tried to argue the matter. But Christine put her foot down, and vowed, with a look of inflexible determination upon her gentle face, that she would never, never, forgive him, unless he made a clean breast of it to the rabbi that very night.
“But it is late. What if he should have gone to bed?” he suggested feebly.
“Then wake him up.”
Of course, before they parted, he had pledged himself to do exactly as she wished; and she, pacified, went off to bed, whether to sleep or to lie awake, in either case, we may be sure, to dream of the happiness that was ripening for her in the womb of time.
Elias did not enjoy his journey home that night. His frame of mind was by no means such as, on general principles, one would expect of a man in his position—a man who had just said his last farewell to the lady whom he loved, and whom the morrow was to make his bride. His imagination running on ahead of his person, entered the rabbi's study, and rehearsed the scene that would there shortly have to be enacted in very truth. Elias was surprised at the excessive dread he felt. He strove to reason it away, repeating to himself, “He can do nothing, absolutely nothing. He can only talk; and talk doesn't hurt.” But all the same, when he arrived in front of his house, and realized that the long-deferred moment was actually at hand, his heart quaked within him, and a sudden perspiration broke out upon his forehead. However, there was no help for it. He had promised; and he was bound to keep his promise. So, drawing a deep breath, and swallowing his reluctance he opened the rabbi's study door.