“To you everything is getting in money!” interposed Isaac-Naphtali, without even looking in the direction in which his wife was standing.
“And, I hope that we may never have a worse day than we had last Sunday,” said Moshe-Mendel, lifting his head from his account-book. “Why one should set out to belittle the fair, and to deny that it was a good fair, is more than I can make out.”
“Ah, that is the reason,” replied Youdel. “You never believe anyone else. When you see ten peasants coming into one’s booth together you at once imagine that there is a great deal of business going on. You will not believe that it is no such thing, and that the peasants only rob one right and left. You are filled with envy and malice.”
“Do you know what?” put in a young man who squinted very markedly. “Let us leave talking about the fair. We will be at it all day to-morrow. We will be dead tired of it long before the day is done. Let us talk about something altogether different.”
And, the people at once began to talk about worldly affairs — about the prospect of citrons for the festivals that were coming soon — about the happenings of the last week at the House of Learning, and naturally about war.
Everyone was talking and smoking. The samovar was hissing and bubbling, and the room was filled with smoke and steam. And, on the oven the supper was cooking — the usual Saturday-night Borst, and goodness only knows what else beside.
“Where were you?” asked Dvossa-Malka of her daughter-in-law.
“Only out on the Monastery Road.”
“How is it outside? I hope to God the weather will keep fine until the summer fairs are at an end. But, what is the matter with you, my daughter? Does your head ache that you are so pale? Rochalle, would you like to go and lie down on your bed?”
At these words the company turned round, and seeing Rochalle’s white face they all cried, as with one accord, that she had been made dizzy by the fumes that came from the charcoal of the samovar. She went to her won room to lie down, leaving the people deep in a discussion on the dangers of charcoal fumes — the fumes which were in themselves so trifling — a mere nothing, one might say — a little smoke, and which yet had the strange power of injuring a person that he died of the effects. Someone told a story which had happened at a house of a friend of his grandfather’s — peace be unto him! The whole family had almost been sent out of the world by the fumes of the charcoal.
Another told a more remarkable story — how the whole household belonging to an uncle of his had been very nearly poisoned through eating a certain fish, the name of which was “Marenka.” They were all so ill that the doctors could hardly manage to drag them back from the jaws of death.
They talked so long until they came at last to the old, inevitable subject of death.
“No matter what one starts talking about, one is sure to talk of death before long,” remarked someone.
“I must go and see what her ladyship is doing, said Moshe-Mendel, his voice breaking the silence which had suddenly fallen upon all present. He got up, and left the room.
XIV ROCHALLE GOES BACK TO THE RIGHT PATH
“Help! To the rescue, friends!” The words came from the room into which Moshe-Mendel had gone. The people rushed forward; and, when they were come into the room, they found that Rochalle was lying across her bed, her limbs stuff, her eyes staring and glazed, and beside her stood Moshe-Mendel, half dead with fear.
“What is it? Who has fainted? Water! Quick! Water, water!” everyone shouted together; but, no one stirred from his place.
“Oh, to the devil with you all!” cried Dvossa-Malka, bringing a pitcher of water from another room. She splashed the face of Rochalle, who was pale as death.
“Let us call in the doctor,” suggested Moshe-Mendel, in a voice that was quite unlike his own.
“The doctor, the doctor!” was repeated by each of the guests in turn, as they looked into each other’s eyes.
“You ought to tie her hands with a handkerchief, and pinch her nose!”
“Her nose — her nose!” they all cried; but, no one stirred a hand or foot.
“That’s right! Pinch it tighter, Dvossa-Malka, tighter!” The guests encouraged the mistress of the house in her work of rubbing Rochalle’s temples, pinching her nose, and sprinkling her with cold water. She persevered for so long until Rochalle was at last restored to consciousness.
“She looked around her in a dazed, stupefied way, as if she did not at all know where she was, and she asked: “Where am I? I am very hot — hot!”
“Go out of the way, everybody!” said Dvossa-Malka, driving them out of the room like sheep. And, she and Moshe-Mendel found themselves alone with Rochalle, who all this time had never taken her eyes from Moshe-Mendel’s face.
“What happened to you, daughter?” asked her mother-in-law.
“What ails you?” asked Moshe-Mendel, bending low over her, until his face was on a level with hers.
“Let your mother go out of the room,” was Rochalle’s whispered reply.
“Mother, excuse me, but would you be so kind as to leave us to ourselves?” said Moshe-Mendel. He went to the room door with his mother, and then returned to Rochalle’s beside.
“Tell me, what ails you, Rochalle?” asked he, in a voice that was full of real concern and tenderness, for the very first time.
“Oh, Moshe-Mendel, you must swear to me that you will tell no one, and that everything will remain a dead secret between us. Promise me you will forgive me for what I have done against you… If it had not been for Chaya-Ettel — peace be unto her — if it had not been for her reminder… Oh, if it had not been for Chaya-Ettel… Oh, Moshe-Mendel, my dear one!”
“Bethink you, Rochalle, of what you are saying. You are overheated, and are talking at random. Who and what is Chaya-Ettel?”
“My school-friend, Chaya-Ettel, the orphan girl — peace be unto her! — she has gone, long ago, to the world of Eternal Truth. But, I have seen her in my dreams many times of late. But, now to-day… Oh, Moshe-Mendel, bend down your head to me, lower and nearer. Ah, that’s right… I am afraid… I am filled with remorse… Oh, I am filled with the bitterest remorse.”
And, Rochalle nestled closer and closer to Moshe-Mendel until she was in his arms. The room was dark, only a single ray of light came in to them from the next room, through the door. Rochalle and Moshe-Mendel could barely make out one another’s faces. But, their eyes were riveted on each other; and, gradually a fire was enkindled in the hearts of both — a fire such as exists on the heart of a man or woman once in a lifetime, when the heart speaks, and not the tongue, when the eyes are eloquent and not the mouth.
“Tell me, Moshe-Mendel, my true one, am I so very dear to you!”
“What a question!” answered Moshe-Mendel. “You are rooted deep in the very fibres of my being, like a — I can’t say myself like what.” And, he could find no words in which to express his love for Rochalle. But, his sincerity was evident to her. It was beyond a doubt. He was quite as sincere and perhaps more sincere than the fine fellow who had the gift of expressing himself with ease and eloquence on every occasion.
But, this much was certain, the husband and wife who had been married for more than a year already were only now discovering that they really loved one another to distraction. This was the first opportunity they had ever had of talking freely and openly with one another, and they had found out that they were the very complement of one another. They were cooing like two doves in the mating season.