Part 95 (1/2)

”Pinchas!” he said, recovering himself. Pinchas would not look up. His face was still hidden in his hands. ”Pinchas, listen! You are appointed editor of the paper, instead of me. You are to edit the next number.”

Pinchas's head shot up like a catapult. He bounded to his feet, then bent down again to Raphael's coat-tail and kissed it pa.s.sionately.

”Ah, my benefactor, my benefactor!” he cried, in a joyous frenzy. ”Now vill I give it to English Judaism. She is in my power. Oh, my benefactor!”

”No, no,” said Raphael, disengaging himself. ”I have nothing to do with it.”

”But de paper--she is yours!” said the poet, forgetting his English in his excitement.

”No, I am only the editor. I have been dismissed, and you are appointed instead of me.”

Pinchas dropped back into his chair like a lump of lead. He hung his head again and folded his arms.

”Then they get not me for editor,” he said moodily.

”Nonsense, why not?” said Raphael, flus.h.i.+ng.

”Vat you think me?” Pinchas asked indignantly. ”Do you think I have a stone for a heart like Gideon M.P. or your English stockbrokers and Rabbis? No, you shall go on being editor. They think you are not able enough, not orthodox enough--they vant me--but do not fear. I shall not accept.”

”But then what will become of the next number?” remonstrated Raphael, touched. ”I must not edit it.”

”Vat you care? Let her die!” cried Pinchas, in gloomy complacency. ”You have made her; vy should she survive you? It is not right another should valk in your shoes--least of all, _I_.”

”But I don't mind--I don't mind a bit,” Raphael a.s.sured him. Pinchas shook his head obstinately. ”If the paper dies, Sampson will have nothing to live upon,” Raphael reminded him.

”True, vairy true,” said the poet, patently beginning to yield. ”That alters things. Ve cannot let Sampson starve.”

”No, you see!” said Raphael. ”So you must keep it alive.”

”Yes, but,” said Pinchas, getting up thoughtfully, ”Sampson is going off soon on tour vith his comic opera. He vill not need the _Flag_.”

”Oh, well, edit it till then.”

”Be it so,” said the poet resignedly. ”Till Sampson's comic-opera tour.”

”Till Sampson's comic-opera tour,” repeated Raphael contentedly.

CHAPTER XVI.

LOVE'S TEMPTATION.

Raphael walked out of the office, a free man. Mountains of responsibility seemed to roll off his shoulders. His Messianic emotions were conscious of no laceration at the failure of this episode of his life; they were merged in greater. What a fool he had been to waste so much time, to make no effort to find the lonely girl! Surely, Esther must have expected him, if only as a friend, to give some sign that he did not share in the popular execration. Perchance she had already left London or the country, only to be found again by protracted knightly quest! He felt grateful to Providence for setting him free for her salvation. He made at once for the publishers' and asked for her address. The junior partner knew of no such person. In vain Raphael reminded him that they had published _Mordecai Josephs_. That was by Mr.

Edward Armitage. Raphael accepted the convention, and demanded this gentleman's address instead. That, too, was refused, but all letters would be forwarded. Was Mr. Armitage in England? All letters would be forwarded. Upon that the junior partner stood, inexpugnable.

Raphael went out, not uncomforted. He would write to her at once. He got letter-paper at the nearest restaurant and wrote, ”Dear Miss Ansell.”

The rest was a blank. He had not the least idea how to renew the relations.h.i.+p after what seemed an eternity of silence. He stared helplessly round the mirrored walls, seeing mainly his own helpless stare. The placard ”Smoking not permitted till 8 P.M.,” gave him a sudden shock. He felt for his pipe, and ultimately found it stuck, half full of charred bird's eye, in his breast-pocket. He had apparently not been smoking for some hours. That completed his perturbation. He felt he had undergone too much that day to be in a fit state to write a judicious letter. He would go home and rest a bit, and write the letter--very diplomatically--in the evening. When he got home, he found to his astonishment it was Friday evening, when letter-writing is of the devil. Habit carried him to synagogue, where he sang the Sabbath hymn, ”Come, my beloved, to meet the bride,” with strange sweet tears and a complete indifference to its sacred allegorical signification. Next afternoon he haunted the publishers' doorstep with the brilliant idea that Mr. Armitage sometimes crossed it. In this hope, he did _not_ write the letter; his phrases, he felt, would be better for the inspiration of that gentleman's presence. Meanwhile he had ample time to mature them, to review the situation in every possible light, to figure Esther under the most poetical images, to see his future alternately radiant and sombre. Four long summer days of espionage only left him with a heartache, and a specialist knowledge of the sort of persons who visit publishers. A temptation to bribe the office-boy he resisted as unworthy.

Not only had he not written that letter, but Mr. Henry Goldsmith's edict and Mrs. Henry Goldsmith's invitation were still unacknowledged.