"Meir!" exclaimed the great-grandmother--not in her usual whisper, but in a loud, almost piercing voice.
Meir crossed the room, stood before her and took the little wrinkled hand caressingly in his own. He looked at her eyes full of tenderness, and as if in mute entreaty. She seemed to feel his look, for her eyelids flickered tremulously and restlessly. Saul rose from the sofa.
"Raphael," he said. "Give me my cloak and hat."
"Where are you going, father?" asked both sons simultaneously.
"I am going to humble my head before the Rabbi; to ask him to delay his judgment on my headstrong child until the anger in the hearts of the people has subsided."
Presently the gray-headed patriarch of the greatest family in the town, dressed in his long cloak and tall shiny hat, was seen slowly and gravely crossing the market-place. The groups standing about made way for him, bowing respectfully.
Somebody said loudly
"Poor Reb Saul, to have such a grandson!" The old man did not reply, but pressed his lips closer together.
More than an hour had elapsed ere Saul returned from his errand. He found all the elder members of the family in the same position as he had left them. Meir sat close to the easy-chair of the great-grandmother, who tightly clutched him by the coat sleeve.
Sarah met her father and relieved him of his hat and cloak.
"What news do you bring, father?" asked Raphael.
Saul breathed heavily, and looked gloomily on the floor.
"What could I bring from there," he said after a momentary silence, "but shame and humiliation? The hearts of Todros rejoices over the misfortune of the house of Ezofowich. Smiles, like reptiles, are writhing and crawling over his yellow face."
"And what did he say?" asked several voices. "He said he had been far too forbearing towards my godless, insolent grandson--that Reb Moshe, Kamionker, and all the people were urging him to sit in judgment upon Meir; at my intercession he would put off the trial until to-morrow after sunset, and said if Meir humbled himself and asked his and his people's pardon, the sentence would be less severe."
All eyes turned towards Meir.
"What do you say to it?" asked a chorus of voices.
Meir looked thoughtfully down.
"Give me time--till to-morrow," he pleaded. "I may perhaps find a way out of it."
"How can you find a way?" they exclaimed. "Allow me not to answer you till to-morrow," repeated Meir.
They nodded and became silent. It was mute consent.
In all their hearts fear and anger were struggling with family pride.
They felt angry with Meir, yet trembled for his fate, and the very thought that a member of their family should humble himself publicly before the Rabbi and the people seemed unbearable.
"Who knows," whispered Raphael, "he may find a way to avoid it?"
"Perhaps his mother will appear to him in his sleep and tell him what to do," sighed Sarah.
The belated dinner, passed off in gloomy silence, interrupted only by the sighs of women and a smothered sob from the children, who had been forbidden to laugh and chatter.
The grieved and mournful faces looked now and then at Freida, who showed an unusual restlessness. She did not speak, neither did she doze during the meal; but moved uneasily in her chair, looked at Meir, then at the shattered window, and in the middle of the room on the spot where the stone had fallen.
"What ails her?" asked the members of the family of each other, in a perturbed voice.
"She is recalling something to her mind," others replied. "She is afraid of something. She wants to speak, but cannot find words."
When the dinner was over, two great-granddaughters wanted to help Freida into the next room and lay her down to rest as usual, but she planted her feet firmly on the floor and pointed to the easy-chair by the window. Presently the inmates of the room began gradually to disperse.
Raphael and Ber went driving away to a neighbouring estate, where they had some important business to transact. Abraham shut himself up in his room to look after his accounts, or perhaps to read. Saul gave orders to his daughter to keep the house quiet, and sighing wearily, lay down upon his bed. The women, after raking out the fire in the kitchen, shut the door of the sitting-room and betook themselves with their needlework to the courtyard, where they watched the children at play, and conversed together in a low voice. The great-grandmother remained alone in the sitting-room.
Strange to say, though perfect silence reigned in the house, she did not fall asleep or even doze for a moment.
She sat in the easy-chair with her eyes wide open, and looking at the broken window, her lips kept moving continually as if she were speaking to herself. Sometimes she rocked her head, heavy, with the voluminous turban, and the diamonds flashed out and glittered in the sudden motion, and the pendants jingled against the links of the golden chain. Her lips moved incessantly. Presently her hands also moved quickly. It seemed as if she spoke with somebody; with the spirits of the Past, who came forth from her clouded memory. Suddenly she rocked her head, and said aloud:
"It was the same way when my Hersh found the writing of the Senior--bad people threw stones at him."
She stopped; great tears gathered in her eyes and ran down her withered cheeks.
Meir rose from the bench where he had been sitting, crossed the room quickly, sat down on the low stool where the old woman rested her foot, and putting his folded hands upon her knee asked:
"Bobe! where is the writing of the Senior?"
At the sound of the voice which, as well as the face, reminded her of the man she had loved so well, and the days of her youth and happiness, she smiled. Her eyes full of tears did not look at her great-grandson, but somewhere far beyond, and she began to whisper:
"The day he quarrelled with Reb Nohim and angered the people, he came home and sat down sorrowful upon the bench and called his wife, Freida. Freida was then young and beautiful; she wore a white turban and stood before the kitchen fire, looking after the servants; but when she heard her husband's voice, she went at once and stood before him, waiting for his words. 'Freida!' he said, 'where the writing of the Senior?'"
Then suddenly the whisper ceased. The young man sitting at her feet pressed his hands convulsively together and asked again:
"Bobe! where is the writing of the Senior?"
The old woman gently swayed her head, and her lips moved.
"He asked: 'Where is the writing of the Senior? Did the Senior bury it in the ground? No! he could not have buried it, as dampness and worms would have destroyed it. Did he hide it in the walls? No! he knew that fire might destroy the walls. Where did he hide it?' Thus asked Hersh, and his wife Freida pondered over his words and then pointed at the bookcase where the Senior's old books were preserved, and said: 'Hersh my Hersh! the writing is there.' When Freida said that, Hersh rejoiced and said: 'You, Freida, have a wise head, and your soul is as beautiful as your eyes.'"
And smiling at the dim pictures of her youthful days, she whispered:
"Then he said: 'A virtuous woman is far above rubies and her husband doth trust her!'"
The young man looked at her with entreating eyes, and again asked:
"Bobe! what did Hersh do with the writing?"
The old woman did not answer at once, but her lips moved silently as if she spoke with an invisible being, and then took up the thread of her tale again:
"Hersh came back from a long journey, deeply grieved, and said to Freida: 'Everything is lost. We must bide the Senior's writing again; it is no use now.' Freida asked: 'Hersh! where will you hide the writing?' Hersh replied: 'I will hide it where it was before, and you alone, Freida, will know the secret.'"
Meir's eyes sparkled with sudden joy.
"Bobe! is the writing there?" And he pointed at the old bookcase.