"It is not what it used to be, Jake," she said in tones of complaisant earnestness. "Now that I know you are a married man it is all gone.
_Yes_, Jake, it is all gone! You should have cared for me when she was still there. Then you could have gone to a rabbi and sent her a writ of divorce. It is too late now, Jake."
"It is not too late!" he protested, tremulously. "I will get a divorce, _anyhoy_. And if you don"t take me I will hang myself," he added, imploringly.
"On a burned straw?" she retorted, with a cruel chuckle.
"It is all very well for you to laugh. But if you could enter my heart and see how I _shuffer_!"
"Woe is me! I don"t see how you will stand it," she mocked him. And abruptly a.s.suming a grave tone, she pursued vehemently: "But I don"t understand; since you sent her tickets and money, you must like her."
Jake explained that he had all along intended to send her rabbinical divorce papers instead of a pa.s.sage ticket, and that it had been his old mother who had pestered him, with her tear-stained letters, into acting contrary to his will.
"_All right_," Mamie resumed, with a dubious smile; "but why don"t you go to f.a.n.n.y, or Beckie, or Beilke the "Black Cat"? You used to care for them more than for me. Why should you just come to me?"
Jake answered by characterizing the girls she had mentioned in terms rather too high-scented for print, protesting his loathing for them.
Whereupon she subjected him to a rigid cross-examination as to his past conduct toward herself and her rivals; and although he managed to explain matters to her inward satisfaction, owing, chiefly, to a predisposition on her own part to credit his a.s.sertions on the subject, she could not help continuing obdurate and in a spiteful, vindictive mood.
"All you say is not worth a penny, and it is too late, _anyvay_," was her verdict. "You have a wife and a child; better go home and be a father to your _boy_." Her last words were uttered with some approach to sincerity, and she was mentally beginning to give herself credit for magnanimity and pious self-denial. She would have regretted her exhortation, however, had she been aware of its effect on her listener; for her mention of the boy and appeal to Jake as a father aroused in him a lively sense of the wrong he was doing. Moreover, while she was speaking his attention had been attracted to a loosened pillowcase ominously fluttering and flapping a yard or two off. The figure of his dead father, attired in burial linen, uprose to his mind.
"You don" vanted? Alla right, you be shorry," he said half-heartedly, turning to go.
"_Hol" on!_" she checked him, irritatedly. "How are you going to _fix_ it? Are you _sure_ she will take a divorce?"
"Will she have a choice then? She will have to take it. I won"t live with her _anyhoy_," he replied, his pa.s.sion once more welling up in his soul. "Mamie, my treasure, my glory!" he exclaimed, in tremulous accents. "Say that you are _shatichfied_; my heart will become lighter." Saying which, he strained her to his bosom, and fell to raining fervent kisses on her face. At first she made a faint attempt at freeing herself, and then suddenly clasping him with mad force she pressed her lips to his in a fury of pa.s.sion.
The pillowcase flapped aloud, ever more sternly, warningly, portentously.
Jake cast an involuntary side glance at it. His spell of pa.s.sion was broken and supplanted by a spell of benumbing terror. He had an impulse to withdraw his arms from the girl; but, instead, he clung to her all the faster, as if for shelter from the ghostlike thing.
With a last frantic hug Mamie relaxed her hold. "Remember now, Jake!"
she then said, in a queer hollow voice. "Now it is all _settled_. Maybe you are making fun of me? If you are, you are playing with fire. Death to me--death to you!" she added, menacingly.
He wished to say something to rea.s.sure her, but his tongue seemed grown fast to his palate.
"Am I to blame?" she continued with ghastly vehemence, sobs ringing in her voice. "Who asked you to come? Did I lure you from her, then? I should sooner have thrown myself into the river than taken away somebody else"s husband. You say yourself that you would not live with her, _anyvay_. But now it is all gone. Just try to leave me now!" And giving vent to her tears, she added, "Do you think my heart is no heart?"
A thrill of joyous pity shot through his frame. Once again he caught her to his heart, and in a voice quivering with tenderness he murmured: "Don"t be uneasy, my dear, my gold, my pearl, my consolation! I will let my throat be cut, into fire or water will I go, for your sake."
"Dot"s all right," she returned, musingly. "But how are you going to get rid of her? You von"t go back on me, vill you?" she asked in English.
"_Me?_ May I not be able to get away from this spot. Can it be that you still distrust me?"
"Swear!"
"How else shall I swear?"
"By your father, peace upon him."
"May my father as surely have a bright paradise," he said, with a show of alacrity, his mind fixed on the loosened pillowcase. "_Vell_, are you _shatichfied_ now?"
"All right," she answered, in a matter-of-fact way, and as if only half satisfied. "But do you think she will take money?"
"But I have none."
"n.o.body asks you if you have. But would she take it, if you had?"
"If I had! I am sure she would take it; she would have to, for what would she gain if she did not?"
"Are you _sure_?"
"_"F cush!_"
"Ach, but, after all, why did you not tell me you liked me before she came?" she said testily, stamping her foot.
"Again!" he exclaimed, wincing.
"_All right_; wait."
She turned to go somewhere, but checked herself, and facing about, she exacted an additional oath of allegiance. After which she went to the other side of the chimney. When she returned she held one of her arms behind her.
"You will not let yourself be talked away from me?"
He swore.
"Not even if your father came to you from the other world--if he came to you in a dream, I mean--and told you to drop me?"
Again he swore.
"And you really don"t care for f.a.n.n.y?"
And again he swore.
"Nor for Beckie?"
The ordeal was too much, and he begged her to desist. But she wouldn"t, and so, chafing under inexorable cross-examinations, he had to swear again and again that he had never cared for any of Joe"s female pupils or a.s.sistants except Mamie.
At last she relented.
"Look, piece of loafer you!" she then said, holding out an open bank book to his eyes. "But what is the _use_? It is not light enough, and you can not read, _anyvay_. You can eat, _dot"s all_. _Vell_, you could make out figures, couldn"t you? There are three hundred and forty dollars," she proceeded, pointing to the balance line, which represented the savings, for a marriage portion, of five years" hard toil. "It should be three hundred and sixty-five, but then for the twenty-five dollars you owe me I may as well light a mourner"s candle, _ain" it_?"
When she had started to produce the bank book from her bosom he had surmised her intent, and while she was gone he was making guesses as to the magnitude of the sum to her credit. His most liberal estimate, however, had been a hundred and fifty dollars; so that the revelation of the actual figure completely overwhelmed him. He listened to her with a broad grin, and when she paused he burst out:
"Mamiele, you know what? Let us run away!"
"You are a fool!" she overruled him, as she tucked the bank book under her jacket. "I have a better plan. But tell me the truth, did you not guess I had money? Now you need not fear to tell me all."
He swore that he had not even dreamt that she possessed a bank account.
How could he? And was it not because he had suspected the existence of such an account that he had come to declare his love to her and not to f.a.n.n.y, or Beckie, or the "Black Cat"? No, may he be thunderstruck if it was. What does she take him for? On his part she is free to give the money away or throw it into the river. He will become a boss, and take her penniless, for he can not live without her; she is lodged in his heart; she is the only woman he ever cared for.