Part 80 (2/2)

Found him--fit climax of horror--with the ”strange woman” of _The Proverbs_, for whom the faithful Jew has a hereditary hatred.

His son--his. Reb Shemuel's! He, the servant of the Most High, the teacher of the Faith to reverential thousands, had brought a son into the world to profane the Name! Verily his gray hairs would go down with sorrow to a speedy grave! And the sin was half his own; he had weakly abandoned his boy in the midst of a great city. For one awful instant, that seemed an eternity, the old man and the young faced each other across the chasm which divided their lives. To the son the shock was scarcely less violent than to the father. The _Seder_, which the day's unwonted excitement had clean swept out of his mind, recurred to him in a flash, and by the light of it he understood the puzzle of his father's appearance. The thought of explaining rushed up only to be dismissed.

The door of the restaurant had not yet ceased swinging behind him--there was too much to explain. He felt that all was over between him and his father. It was unpleasant, terrible even, for it meant the annihilation of his resources. But though he still had an almost physical fear of the old man, far more terrible even than the presence of his father was the presence of Miss Gladys Wynne. To explain, to brazen it out, either course was equally impossible. He was not a brave man, but at that moment he felt death were preferable to allowing her to be the witness of such a scene as must ensue. His resolution was taken within a few brief seconds of the tragic rencontre. With wonderful self-possession, he nodded to the cabman who had put the question, and whose vehicle was drawn up opposite the restaurant. Hastily he helped the unconscious Gladys into the hansom. He was putting his foot on the step himself when Reb Shemuel's paralysis relaxed suddenly. Outraged by this final pollution of the Festival, he ran forward and laid his hand on Levi's shoulder. His face was ashen, his heart thumped painfully; the hand on Levi's cloak shook as with palsy.

Levi winced; the old awe was upon him. Through a blinding whirl he saw Gladys staring wonderingly at the queer-looking intruder. He gathered all his mental strength together with a mighty effort, shook off the great trembling hand and leaped into the hansom.

”Drive on!” came in strange guttural tones from his parched throat.

The driver lashed the horse; a rough jostled the old man aside and slammed the door to; Leonard mechanically threw him a coin; the hansom glided away.

”Who was that, Leonard?” said Miss Wynne, curiously.

”n.o.body; only an old Jew who supplies me with cash.”

Gladys laughed merrily--a rippling, musical laugh.

She knew the sort of person.

CHAPTER IX.

THE FLAG FLUTTERS.

The _Flag of Judah_, price one penny, largest circulation of any Jewish organ, continued to flutter, defying the battle, the breeze and its communal contemporaries. At Pa.s.sover there had been an illusive augmentation of advertis.e.m.e.nts proclaiming the virtues of unleavened everything. With the end of the Festival, most of these fell out, staying as short a time as the daffodils. Raphael was in despair at the meagre attenuated appearance of the erst prosperous-looking pages. The weekly loss on the paper weighed upon his conscience.

”We shall never succeed,” said the sub-editor, shaking his romantic hair, ”till we run it for the Upper Ten. These ten people can make the paper, just as they are now killing it by refusing their countenance.”

”But they must surely reckon with us sooner or later,” said Raphael.

”It will he a long reckoning. I fear: you take my advice and put in more b.u.t.ter. It'll be _kosher_ b.u.t.ter, coming from us.” The little Bohemian laughed as heartily as his eyegla.s.s permitted.

”No; we must stick to our guns. After all, we have had some very good things lately. Those articles of Pinchas's are not bad either.”

”They're so beastly egotistical. Still his theories are ingenious and far more interesting than those terribly dull long letters of Henry Goldsmith, which you will put in.”

Raphael flushed a little and began to walk up and down the new and superior sanctum with his ungainly strides, puffing furiously at his pipe The appearance of the room was less bare; the floor was carpeted with old newspapers and sc.r.a.ps of letters. A huge picture of an Atlantic Liner, the gift of a Steams.h.i.+p Company, leaned c.u.mbrously against a wall.

”Still, all our literary excellencies,” pursued Sampson, ”are outweighed by our shortcomings in getting births, marriages and deaths. We are gravelled for lack of that sort of matter What is the use of your elaborate essay on the Septuagint, when the public is dying to hear who's dead?”

”Yes, I am afraid it is so.” said Raphael, emitting a huge volume of smoke.

”I'm sure it is so. If you would only give me a freer hand, I feel sure I could work up that column. We can at least make a better show: I would avoid the danger of discovery by s.h.i.+fting the scene to foreign parts. I could marry some people in Born-bay and kill some in Cape Town, redressing the balance by bringing others into existence at Cairo and Cincinnati. Our contemporaries would score off us in local interest, but we should take the s.h.i.+ne out of them in cosmopolitanism.”

”No, no; remember that _Meshumad_” said Raphael, smiling.

”He was real; if you had allowed me to invent a corpse, we should have been saved that _contretemps_. We have one 'death' this week fortunately, and I am sure to fish out another in the daily papers. But we haven't had a 'birth' for three weeks running; it's just ruining our reputation. Everybody knows that the orthodox are a fertile lot, and it looks as if we hadn't got the support even of our own party. Ta ra ra ta! Now you must really let me have a 'birth.' I give you my word, n.o.body'll suspect it isn't genuine. Come now. How's this?” He scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to Raphael, who read:

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