Part 5
“Bah!” he exclaimed. “It is just as I expected. You have both been making as complete a mess of this business as you could without ruining it. What you both lack is sense. If becoming Americanised means becoming stupid, I must congratulate you upon the thoroughness of your work. To-morrow I shall hire a manager to run this store. He will arrange your hours of work. He will also pay you what you are worth. Not a cent more. How late have you been keeping this store open?”
“Until six o’clock,” said Abel.
“H’m! Well, beginning to-day, you both will stay here until eight o’clock. Then one of you can go. The other will stay until ten. You can take turns. I will have Marta send you some supper.”
* * * * *
To the amazement of Abel and Gottlieb the business of Shadrach Cohen began to grow. Slowly it dawned upon them that in the mercantile realm they were as children compared with their father. His was the true money-maker spirit; there was something wonderful in the swiftness with which he grasped the most intricate phases of trade; and where experience failed him some instinct seemed to guide him aright. And gradually, as the business of Shadrach Cohen increased, and even the sons saw vistas of prosperity beyond their wildest dreams, they began to look upon their father with increasing respect. What they had refused to the integrity of his character, to the nobility of his heart, they promptly yielded to the shrewdness of his brain. The sons of Shadrach Cohen became proud of their father. He, too, was slowly undergoing a change. A new life was unfolding itself before his eyes, he became broader-minded, more tolerant, and, above all, more flexible in his tenets. Contact with the outer world had quickly impressed him with the vast differences between his present surroundings and his old life in Russia. The charm of American life, of liberty, of democracy, appealed to him strongly. As the field of his business operations widened he came more and more in contact with American business men, from whom he learned many things—principally the faculty of adaptability. And as his sons began to perceive that all these business men whom, in former days, they had looked upon with feelings akin to reverence, seemed to show to their father an amount of deference and respect which they had never evinced toward the sons, their admiration for their father increased.
And yet it was the same Shadrach Cohen.
From that explosive moment when he had rebelled against his sons he demanded from them implicit obedience and profound respect. Upon that point he was stern and unyielding. Moreover, he insisted upon a strict observance of every tenet of their religion. This, at first, was the bitterest pill of all. But they soon became accustomed to it. When life is light and free from care, religion is quick to fly; but when the sky grows dark and life becomes earnest, and we feel its burden growing heavy upon our shoulders, then we welcome the consolation that religion brings, and we cling to it. And Shadrach Cohen had taught his sons that life was earnest. They were earning their bread by the sweat of their brow. No prisoner, with chain and ball, was subjected to closer supervision by his keeper than were Gottlieb and Abel.
“You have been living upon my charity,” their father said to them: “I will teach you how to earn your own living.”
And he taught them. And with the lesson they learned many things; learned the value of discipline, learned the beauty of filial reverence, learned the severe joy of the earnest life.
One day Gottlieb said to his father:
“May I bring Miriam to supper to-night? I am anxious that you should see her.”
Shadrach turned his face away so that Gottlieb might not see the joy that beamed in his eyes.
“Yes, my son,” he answered. “I, too, am anxious to see if she is worthy of you.”
Miriam came, and in a stiff, embarrassed manner Gottlieb presented her to his father. The girl looked in surprise at the venerable figure that stood before her—a picture of a patriarch from the Pentateuch, with a long, straggling beard, and ringlets of hair falling over the ears, and clad in the long gaberdine of the Russian Ghettos. And she saw a pair of grey eyes bent keenly upon her—eyes of shrewdness, but soft and tender as a woman’s—the eyes of a strong man with a kind heart. Impulsively she ran toward him and seized his hands. And, with a smile upon her lips, she said:
“Will you not give me your blessing?”
* * * * *
When the evening meal had ended, Shadrach donned his praying cap, and with bowed head intoned the grace after meals:
“We will bless Him from whose wealth we have eaten!” And in fervent tones rose from Gottlieb’s lips the response:
“Blessed be He!”
HANNUKAH LIGHTS
Somewhere in transit he had lost all his letters, papers, credentials, cards—all belongings, in fact, that might have established his identity. He said he was David Parnes, and that he had come from Pesth. And, as he was tall and straight, with fine black eyes and curling black hair, a somewhat dashing presence, and the most charming manners, he soon made friends, particularly among the women, for, in Houston Street, as elsewhere, the fair sex rarely looks behind a pleasing personality for credentials of character.
Eulie, the waitress and maid-of-all-work in Weiss’s coffee house, felt the blood surge to her face when first she beheld him, and when, for the first time, he gave her _Trinkgeld_ and a smile, all the blood rushed back to her heart. After that Eulie was his slave. All day long she waited for him to come. When he had gone the place seemed dark, and the music of the gipsy band grated upon her. While he was there—usually sitting alone and sipping coffee and staring into vacancy like a man whose mind is busy with many schemes—her heart beat faster, and life seemed glad. Eulie was plain—painfully plain—but there was a charm about her that had won the admiration of many of the patrons of the place, some of whom had even offered her marriage. But she had only laughed, and had declared that she would never marry.
Sometimes these incidents came to the ear of Esther, the daughter of the proprietor, and made her heart burn; for Esther was fair to look upon, and yet had reached and passed her twentieth year without a single offer of marriage. With all her beauty the girl was absolutely devoid of charm; there was something even in the tone of her voice that repelled men; probably a reflection of her arrogance and selfishness. Then, one day, Eulie beheld her talking to David; saw that her face was animated, and that David’s eyes were fastened intently upon her. In Esther’s eyes she read that story which, between woman and woman, is an open book. When her work was finished that night Eulie hastened to her room, and, throwing herself upon the bed, burst into a flood of weeping.
The affair progressed rapidly. There were times when Eulie, after serving him with coffee, would stand silently behind David, gazing upon him intently, yearning to throw her arms around that curly head and cry, “I love you! I am your slave!” But these became rarer and rarer, for Esther demanded more and more of his presence, and it was seldom that he sat alone in the coffee house. Eulie had never seen him manifest any of those lover-like demonstrations toward Esther that might have been expected under the circumstances, but she attributed this to his pride. Probably, she thought, when they were alone, beyond the reach of prying eyes, he kissed her and caressed her to her heart’s content. The thought of it wore on her spirit. And when, one day, Esther told her that they were to be married at the end of a month Eulie turned pale and trembled, and then hurried to her room.
A few days after this announcement had been publicly made, and congratulations had begun to pour in from the many patrons of the establishment, who had known Esther from childhood, Eulie observed a change in David’s demeanour. He seemed suddenly to have become worried. He would come to the coffee house late at night, after Esther had retired, and sit alone over his coffee, brooding. Eulie’s duties permitted her to leave at nine o’clock, but if David had not come at that hour, she continued to work, even until midnight, the closing time, in the hope that she would see him enter. He rarely spoke to her, rarely noticed her, in fact, but Eulie, in her heart, had established an intimacy between them. An intimacy? Rather a world of love and devotion, in which, alas! she lived alone with a shadow.
She was quick to see the change that had come over him, and she longed to speak to him—to implore him to confide in her. Was it money? She had led a frugal life, and had saved the greater part of her earnings for years. She would not trust her pittance to the banks. It was all in a trunk in her room, and he was welcome to it. Was it service that he needed? She was a slave ready to do his bidding. The tears came into her eyes to see that face upon which light and laughter sat so gracefully now cast down with gloom. But David worried on in silence, and left the place without a word.
Then, for several days, he did not come at all. Esther told her that he had been called out of town on business.
“Did—did he not look worried when last you saw him?” Eulie asked, timidly. Esther’s eyes opened in surprise.
“Why, no. I did not notice that he looked any different.”
Eulie sighed. That night there came to one of her tables a brisk, sharp-eyed little man, whose manner and accent betokened a new arrival from Hungary. He bowed politely to Eulie, praised her skill in waiting upon him, and complimented her upon her hair, which she wore flat upon her head after the fashion of the peasant girls of Hungary. He gave her liberal _Trinkgeld_, and bowed courteously when he departed. The next evening he returned and greeted her as a newly made acquaintance. They chatted pleasantly a while—he had much news from the mother country that interested her—and then, quite by-the-way—Did she happen to know a young man, tall and straight—quite good-looking, black eyes and curling hair, a very pleasant chap, extremely popular with the girls? A friend had told him that he would find this young man somewhere in the Hungarian colony—did she know anyone who answered that description? His eyes were turned from her—he was watching the gipsies playing—it was all quite casual.
It is said that love creates a sixth sense. In a flash Eulie’s whole nature shrank from this man, and stood at arms ready for battle. This was no friend in search of a boon companion. This was an enemy—a mortal enemy of David. She felt it, knew it as positively as if she had seen him fly at David’s throat. Fortunately the man had not observed the pallor that overspread her countenance.
“No. I do not remember having seen such a man. He never comes here, or I would have remembered him.”
That night was the beginning of the feast of Hanukkah—the only feast at which the penitential psalms are omitted, lest they might mar the joyfulness of the celebration. Esther was away, and it was Eulie’s duty to light the candles in the living room overhead. The sun was fast sinking, but the light of day still lingered in the sky. Eulie felt that it might be sacrilegious to hasten so holy a function, but a sudden nervous dread had come over her, and there was fear in her heart.
“I will light the candles now,” she said. “Then I will wait outside in the street, and if he comes I will warn him.”
Swiftly, lightly, she sped up the stairs to the living room. The door was open, and the light from the hall lamp shone dimly into the furthest corner, where, with his back turned to the door, stood, or rather knelt, David Parnes before a desk in which the coffee house proprietor kept his money. Eulie recoiled, shocked, horrified. Then, swift as a lightning stroke came full revelation. He was a thief! She had always suspected something like that. And she loved him—adored him more than ever at this moment! Eulie was an honest girl, an honest peasant girl, descended from a long line of peasants, all as honest as the day. But the world was against the man she loved. Honesty? To the winds with honesty! With a rush she was at his side.
“Listen!” she whispered, excitedly. “There is the key. Over there on the wall. The money is in the top drawer. Take it and fly. There is a man below from Hungary looking for you. I told him you did not come here. You can get away before he finds you. I will never tell. I swear I will never tell. Quick! You must fly!”
The young man had turned quickly when she entered, but after that he had not moved. He was still upon one knee. Had a thunderbolt fallen from the ceiling he could not have been more astonished. He looked at Eulie in bewilderment.
“Wait!” she cried. “I will be back in a second. Open the desk and take all the money, and then I will be back.”
It seemed to him but an instant—Eulie had gone and had returned. He was still kneeling—almost petrified with amazement. Eulie held out an old, stained, leather pocketbook.
“It is all mine,” she whispered. “Take it. Run! You must not wait!”
Slowly he rose to his feet. Once or twice he passed his hand over his eyes as if he feared he was dreaming.
“Eulie?”
There was a world of incredulity, of bewilderment, of questioning in his voice.
“Oh, do not stay!” cried the poor girl. “They will be looking for you. Go, before it is too late. Go far away. They will never find you.”
“I do not understand,” he said, slowly. “What does it mean?”
A sudden weakness overcame Eulie, and she burst into tears. He advanced toward her.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked. Eulie could not speak. Her frame was convulsed with sobbing; the tears were streaming down her cheeks; David, open-mouthed, stood gazing at her. The pocketbook had fallen from her hand, and a small heap of bank notes had slipped from it. David looked at them; then at her. Slowly he advanced to where she stood. As gently as he could he drew her hands from her face and turned her head toward the light in the hall.
“Eulie?”
The blood coursed to her cheeks. Her gaze fell. She tore herself from his clasp.
“For God’s sake, go!” she cried. He restored the money to the pocketbook and placed it in her hands. Then he started toward the door.
“You will not take it?” she asked, piteously. “It is all mine. I give it to you freely. Borrow it if you like. Some day you can send it back.”
He shook his head, stood irresolute for a moment, then returned to her.
“Eulie,” he whispered. “My mother is dead. But in heaven she is blessing you!”
Then he kissed her upon the forehead and walked determinedly out of the room. Eulie stood swaying to and fro, for a moment, then tottered and fell to the floor. David stood on the stairs a full minute, breathing heavily, like a man who has been running. Then his teeth clicked tightly together, he drew a long breath, walked briskly down the steps, and strode into the brilliantly lighted coffee house.
He knew the man at once. He had never seen him before, but unerring instinct pointed out his pursuer. He walked straight toward him.
“When do we start for Pesth?” he asked.
The man eyed him narrowly, gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment, then his face lit up.
“By the next steamer, if you like,” was all he said.
David nodded.
“Good,” he said. Then, after a moment’s hesitation:
“Will you come upstairs with me for a moment?”
Without a word the man accompanied him. They found Eulie, pale as a ghost, standing at the mantel, lighting the Hannukah candles. When she beheld David with his captor, she screamed, and would have fallen had not David sprung forward and caught her in his arms.
“Listen,” he said, speaking rapidly. “I am going back. My name is not David Parnes. I will write in a few days and tell you everything. They will send me to prison. In two or three years I shall be free. Then I am coming back for you.”
He held her in his arms for one brief moment, kissed her again on the forehead, and was gone. Then the tears came afresh to Eulie’s eyes. But through her veins coursed a tumult of joy.
A SWALLOW-TAILER FOR TWO
“Isidore? Bah! Never again do I want dot name to hear!
“Isidore? A loafer he iss! Sure! Ve vas friends vunce, unt don’t I know vot a loafer he iss? Ven a man iss a loafer nobody knows it better as his best friend.
“Don’t you remember by der night uf der two Purim balls? Vot? No? Yes! Dere vas two Purim balls by der same night; der one vas across der street from der odder. Yes. Der one, dot vas der Montefiore Society. I vas der president. Der odder, dot vas der Baron Hirsch Literary Atzociation. Isidore vas der vice-president.
“Isidore unt I lived together. Oh, ve vas such friends! David unt Jonathan dey vas not better friends as me unt Isidore. Everyt’ing vot Isidore had could belong also to me. Unt if I had somet’ing I always told Isidore dot I had it. I did not know vot a loafer he vas.
“So it comes der day of der Montefiore ball, unt I ask Izzy if he iss going. ‘No, Moritz,’ he says, ‘I am going by der Baron Hirsch ball.’ ‘But anyway,’ I says, ‘let us go by der tailor unt hire for rent our evening-dress swallow-tails.’ ‘Sure,’ he says. Unt ve vent by der tailor’s. But dot vas such a busy times dot every tailor ve vent to said he vas so sorry but he had already hired out for rent all der swallow-tails vot he had, unt he didn’t haf no more left. Ve vent from every tailor vot ve know to every odder tailor. Der last vun he vas a smart feller. He says: ‘Gents, I got vun suit left, but it iss der only vun.’ Den Izzy unt me looked into our faces. Vot could ve do?
“‘Id iss no use,’ I says, unt Izzy says it vas no use, unt ve vas just going away, ven der smart tailor says: ‘Vy don’t you take der suit unt each take a turn to wear it?’ So Izzy says to me, ‘Moritz, dot’s a idea. You can wear der suit by der Montefiore ball, unt I can wear it by der Baron Hirsch ball. Der dancing vill be all night. You can have it from nine o’clock until it is elefen o’clock. Dot iss two hours. Den you can excuse yourself. Den I put on der suit und wear it by der Baron Hirsch ball from elefen o’clock until id iss vun o’clock in der morning. Den I excuse myself. Den, Moritz, you can haf it again by der Montefiore ball until id iss t’ree o’clock. Dot iss two more hours, unt if I want it after t’ree o’clock I can haf it for two hours more.’
“Say! Dot Izzy iss a great schemer. He has a brain like a Napoleon. He iss a loafer, but he iss a smart vun. So, anyvay, ve took der suit. Der tailor charged us two dollars—oh, he vas a skin!—unt Izzy unt I said ve would each pay half, unt ve each gave der tailor a gold watch to keep for der security uv der suit. Unt den—I remember it like if it vas yesterday—I looked into Isidore’s eye unt I said: ‘Isidore, iss it your honest plan to be fair unt square?’ Because, I vill tell you, der vas somet’ing in my heart dot vas saying, he vill play some crooked business! But Isidore held out his hand unt said, ‘Moritz, you know _me_!’ Unt I trusted him!
“So ve went to der room ve lived in unt I put der suit on. It fitted me fine. I look pretty good in a evening swallow-tail unt Isidore says I looked like a regular aritztocrat.
“‘Be careful, Moritz,’ he says, ‘unt keep der shirt clean.’ I forgot to tell you dot ve hired a shirt, too, because it vas cheaper as two shirts. ‘Come, Moritz,’ he says, ‘let us go!’ ‘Us!’ I says, astonished. ‘Are you coming by der Montefiore ball, too?’ ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘You are der president, unt you can get me in without a ticket. I don’t have to wear a swallow-tail evening dresser because I ain’d a member.’
“It took me only a second to t’ink der matter over. I am such a qvick t’inker. If he comes to my ball, I says to myself, I vill come by his! ‘Sure, Izzy,’ I says. ‘As my friend you are velcome.’ So ve vent to der Montefiore ball.
“Der moment ve got into der ballroom I seen vot a nasty disposition Isidore got. ‘Izzy,’ I says, ‘go get acqvainted mit a nice lady, unt dance unt enjoy yourself unt I vill see you again at elefen o’clock.’ ‘No, Moritz,’ he says. ‘I vill stick by you.’ I am a proud man, so I said, very dignified, ‘All right, if you vill have it so.’
“Unt Isidore stuck. Efry time I looked around me I seen his eyes keepin’ a look-out on der swallow-tail evening dress. Such big eyes Isidore had dot night! ‘Don’t vatch me like dot, Izzy,’ I said. ‘Dey vill t’ink you are a detectif, unt dot I stole somet’ing.’ Efrytime I drops a leetle tiny bit from a cigar ashes on my swallow-tail shirt Izzy comes running up mit a handkerchief unt cleans it off. Efry time I sits down on a chair Izzy comes up unt vispers in my ear, ‘Moritz, please don’t get wrinkles in der swallow-tail. Remember, I got to wear it next.’ Efry time I took a drink Moritz comes unt holds der handkerchief under der glass so dot der beer should not drop on der swallow-tail shirt. ‘Izzy,’ I says to him, ‘I am astonished.’
“So a hour vent by unt den comes in Miss Rabinowitz. Ven I see her I forget all about Isidore, unt about everyt’ing else. Oh, she is nice! I says, ‘Miss Rabinowitz, can I haf der pleasure uv der next dance?’ ‘No,’ she says, ‘I ain’d dancing to-night because my shoes hurts me. But ve can haf der pleasure of sidding out der next dance togedder.’ Den she says to her mamma, ‘Mamma, I am going to sid out der next dance mit dis gentleman friend of mine. You can go somevere else unt enjoy yourself.’ Dot gave me a idea. ‘Isidore,’ I says—Isidore was right on top uv my heels—‘gif Miss Rabinowitz’s mamma der pleasure of your company for a half-hour, like a good friend.’
“Isidore looks a million daggers in my eye, but he couldn’t say nodding.
“He had to do it. Unt I found a qviet place where it vas a little dark, unt Miss Rabinowitz sat close by me unt I vas holding her hand unt I vas saying to myself, ‘Moritz, dis is der opportunity to tell her der secret of your life—to ask her if she vill be yours! Her old man has a big factory unt owns t’ree houses!’ Unt den I looked up, unt dere vas Isidore.
“‘V’y did you leave Mrs. Rabinowitz?’ I asked. He gafe me a terrible look. ‘Moritz,’ he says, ‘Id iss elefen o’clock unt der time has come.’ ‘Vot time?’ asked Miss Rabinowitz. ‘Oh, Moritz knows vot I mean,’ he says. So I excused myself for a minute unt I vispered in Izzy’s ear, ‘Izzy,’ I says, ‘if you love me, if you are a friend of mine, if you vant to do me der greatest favour in der vorld—I ask you on my knees to gif me a extra half-hour! Dis iss der greatest moment uv my life!’ But Isidore only shooked his head. ‘Elefen o’clock,’ he said. ‘Remember der agreement!’ ‘A qvarter of a hour,’ I begged. I had tears in my eyes. But Isidore only scraped a spot off my swallow-tail shirt unt den he said, ‘Moritz, I vill tell you vot I’ll do. I vouldn’t do dis for nobody else in der, vorld except my best friend. You can wear der suit ten minutes longer for fifty cents. Does dot suit you?’ Vot could I do? I looked at him mit sorrow. ‘Isidore,’ I said, awful sad, ‘I didn’t know you could be such a loafer! But you haf der advantage. I will do it.’
“He even made me pay der fifty cents cash on der spot, unt den he vent off to a corner where he could keep his eyes on der clock unt vatch me at der same time. Dose fifty cents vas wasted. How could I ask a lady to marry me mit dem big eyes of Isidore keeping a sharp watch on der clothes I had on?
“‘Id iss no use, Miss Rabinowitz,’ I says. ‘I had a matter uv terrible importance vot I vanted to tell you, but my friend iss in great trouble, unt ven Isidore has troubles in his heart, my heart iss heavy!’ ‘Oh,’ she says, so sveet, ‘you are such a nobleman! It makes der tears come to my eyes to hear of such friendships!’