LITMIR.BIZ

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The Founder of your creed would abhor you, for He, they say, was pitiful. I spit upon ye, and I curse ye. Be accursed!” And flinging up his hands, like St. Paul at Lystra, he rose to double his height and towered at his insulter with a sudden Eastern fury that for a moment shook even the iron Meadows. “Be accursed!” he yelled again. “Whatever is the secret wish of your black heart Heaven look on my gray hairs that you have insulted, and wither that wish. Ah, ah!” he screamed, “you wince. All men have secret wishes—Heaven fight against yours. May all the good luck you have be wormwood for want of that—that—-that—that. May you be near it, close to it, upon it, pant for it, and lose it; may it sport, and smile, and laugh, and play with you till Gehenna burns your soul upon earth!”

      The old man's fiery forked tongue darted so keen and true to some sore in his adversary's heart that he in turn lost his habitual self-command.

      White and black with passion he wheeled round on Isaac with a fierce snarl, and lifting his stick discharged a furious blow at his head.

      Fortunately for Isaac wood encountered leather instead of gray hairs.

      Attracted by the raised voices, and unseen in their frenzy by either of these antagonists, young George Fielding had drawn near them. He had, luckily, a stout pig-whip in his hand, and by an adroit turn of his muscular wrist he parried a blow that would have stopped the old Jew's eloquence perhaps forever. As it was, the corn-factor's stick cut like a razor through the air, and made a most musical whirr within a foot of the Jew's ear. The basilisk look of venom and vengeance he instantly shot back amounted to a stab.

      “Not if I know it,” said George. And he stood cool and erect with a calm manly air of defiance between the two belligerents. While the stick and the whip still remained in contact, Meadows glared at Isaac's champion with surprise and wrath, and a sort of half fear half wonder that this of all men in the world should be the one to cross weapons with and thwart him. “You are joking, Master Meadows,” said George coolly. “Why the man is twice your age, and nothing in his hand but his fist. Who are ye, old man, and what d'ye want? It's you for cursing, anyway.”

      “He insults me,” cried Meadows, “because I won't have him for a tenant against my will. Who is he? A villainous old Jew.”

      “Yes, young man,” said the other, sadly, “I am Isaac Levi, a Jew. And what is your religion” (he turned upon Meadows)? “It never came out of Judea in any name or shape. D'ye call yourself a heathen? Ye lie, ye cur; the heathen were not without starlight from heaven; they respected sorrow and gray hairs.”

      “You shall smart for this. I'll show you what my religion is,” said Meadows, inadvertent with passion, and the corn-factor's fingers grasped his stick convulsively.

      “Don't you be so aggravating, old man,” said the good-natured George, “and you, Mr. Meadows, should know how to make light of an old man's tongue; why it's like a woman's, it's all he has got to hit with; leastways you mustn't lift hand to him on my premises, or you will have to settle with me first; and I don't think that would suit your book or any man's for a mile or two round about Farnborough,” said George with his little Berkshire drawl.

      “He!” shrieked Isaac, “he dare not! see! see!” and he pointed nearly into the man's eye, “he doesn't look you in the face. Any soul that has read men from east to west can see lion in your eye, young man, and cowardly wolf in his.”

      “Lady-day! Lady-day!” snorted Meadows, who was now shaking with suppressed rage.

      “Ah!” cried Isaac, and he turned white and quivered in his turn.

      “Lady-day!” said George, uneasily, “Confound Lady-day, and every day of the sort—there, don't you be so spiteful, old man—why if he isn't all of a tremble. Poor old man.” He went to his own door, and called “Sarah!”

      A stout servant-girl answered the summons.

      “Take the old man in, and give him whatever is going, and his mug and pipe,” then he whispered her, “and don't go lumping the chine down under his nose now.”

      “I thank you, young man,” faltered Isaac, “I must not eat with you, but I will go in and rest my limbs which fail me, and compose myself; for passion is unseemly at my years.”

      Arrived at the door, he suddenly paused, and looking upward, said:

      “Peace be under this roof, and comfort and love follow me into this dwelling.”

      “Thank ye kindly,” said young Fielding, a little surprised and touched by this. “How old are you, daddy, if you please?” added he respectfully.

      “My son, I am threescore years and ten—a man of years and grief—grief for myself, grief still more for my nation and city. Men that are men pity us; men that are dogs have insulted us in all ages.”

      “Well,” said the good-natured young man soothingly—“don't you vex yourself any more about it. Now you go in, and forget all your trouble awhile, please God, by my fireside, my poor old man.”

      Isaac turned, the water came to his eyes at this after being insulted so; a little struggle took place in him, but nature conquered prejudice and certain rubbish he called religion. He held out his hand like the king of all Asia; George grasped it like an Englishman.

      “Isaac Levi is your friend,” and the expression of the man's whole face and body showed these words carried with them a meaning unknown in good society.

      He entered the house, and young Fielding stood watching him with a natural curiosity.

      Now Isaac Levi knew nothing about the corn-factor's plans. When at one and the same moment he grasped George's hand, and darted a long, lingering glance of demoniacal hatred on Meadows, he coupled two sentiments by pure chance. And Meadows knew this; but still it struck Meadows as singular and ominous.

      When, with the best of motives, one is on a wolf's errand, it is not nice to hear a hyena say to the shepherd's dog, “I am your friend,” and see him contemptuously shoot the eye of a rattlesnake at one's self.

      The misgiving, however, was but momentary; Meadows respected his own motives and felt his own power; an old Jew's wild fury could not shake his confidence.

      He muttered, “One more down to your account, George Fielding,” and left the young man watching Isaac's retreating form.

      George, who didn't know he was gone, said:

      “Old man's words seem to knock against my bosom, Mr. Meadows—Gone, eh?—that man,” thought George Fielding, “has everybody's good word, parson's and all—who'd think he'd lift his hand, leastways his stick it was and that's worse, against a man of three score and upward—Ugh!” thought George Fielding, yeoman of the midland counties—and unaffected wonder mingled with his disgust.

      His reverie was broken by William Fielding just ridden in from Farnborough.

      “Better late than never,” said the elder brother, impatiently.

      “Couldn't get away sooner, George; here's the money for the sheep, 13 pounds 10s.; no offer for the cow, Jem is driving her home.”

      “Well, but the money—the 80 pounds, Will?”

      William looked sulkily down.

      “I haven't got it, George! There's your draft again, the bank wouldn't take it.”

      A keen pang shot across George's face, as much for the affront as the disappointment.

      “They wouldn't take it?” gasped he. “Ay, Will, our credit is down, the whole town knows our rent is overdue. I suppose you know money must be got some way.”

      “Any way is better than threshing out new wheat at such a price,” said William sullenly. “Ask a loan of a neighbor.”

      “Oh, Will,” appealed George, “to ask a loan of a neighbor, and be denied—it is bitterer than death. You can do it.”

      “I! Am I master here?” retorted the younger. “The farm is not

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