As Helen Pierson disappeared from their sight, Loney turned to Morris
Goldberg, saying:
“Mr. Goldberg, how can you help that poor lady when you are so poor
yourself? It takes a lot of money, don’t it, to go West? I heard some
of the boys at the asylum say it takes more ’n fifteen dollars, and
that’s an awful lot. That is more than you have, isn’t it?”
“Vell, Loney, somedimes you make me t’ink you vos got more sense as
meinselluf. You say such schmart t’ings, but dot’s a goot investment,
Loney, alvays. Der good Gott, He pays it back. For efery dollar I gif
avay in charity I gets me two und a halluf back again. I haf vorked
hart und safed, und so I will help her.”
“But I am a burden on you, ain’t I?”
“Burten noding! Vot do you got? A place to sleep, mit somedimes
somedings good to eat, und somedimes nodings but preat und milluk. If
you vos not here I should haf to pay a poy t’ree dollars a veek. Make
you no mistake on dot. I am a peezness man, mit mine eye open for der
matsuma.”
While Loney was trying to ponder over this statement, Dora came dancing
into the room, holding out a tiny blue baby’s shoe, saying, joyfully:
“Oh see, papa. See! I found it. I found it in mama’s old cedar chest.
The first shoe I ever wore. We thought it was lost, but I found it. Oh,
I’m so glad!”
The shoemaker took the tiny thing in his hand and looked at it through
misty eyes, and with a laugh that was half a sob, he said:
“Vell, vot do you t’ink of dot for a shoe? It is a number nodings. You
cannot vear dot now, mein child.”
“Hardly,” laughed Dora, holding out a plump and pretty foot.
“How shall I forget der time I maket dot shoe? Dere you vos in der bed,
mit your mudder, und ven I dit showed it to her she dit laugh und cry
at der same time. Den she vent avay to sleep, mit der little shoe py
her lips, vere she kiss it. Now she sleep dot long sleep dot vill know
no vaking. I vill put dis vere it vill not get lost again, until I can
get Somolus Levinsky to put it in his safe for me.”
More moved than Dora had ever seen her father, she watched him as he
put the precious little shoe in his breast pocket and walked back and
forth, struggling with his emotion. He had loved his wife with a deep
and strong affection, and her death had never found him comforted. Dora
resembled her mother, and all the lonely man’s love centered upon her
now. And the child loved him, and was in one, daughter and companion,
loving, obedient and worthy in every way.
Just as Dora was beginning to feel half-alarmed at her father’s strange
actions, there was a light step on the cellar-steps and a gay and
pleasant voice heard, saying:
“Hello, Mr. Goldberg! Hello, Dora! Hello, Loney! How are you all?”
The shoemaker brightened up at once and turned to greet the newcomer--a
handsome and alert young Jew. Neatly dressed and self-respecting he
was, and full of joy at his reception and the news he had to impart.
Morris held out his hand heartily.
“Ah, de Bennie. I’m glad to see you, Bennie. Vot’s der matter vit’ your
face, Dora? It is red, like de roses.”
“Nothing, papa,” answered Dora, who had modestly and shyly drawn
backward to the darkest corner.
“Good news, Mr. Goldberg! Good news!” cried Bennie, dancing about
lightly, but with his eyes fixed upon the pretty Dora.
“Vell, tell it, Bennie. Dere has been noding in de shop to-day but
troubles, und heartaches, und sorrows.”
“I have been promoted to assistant foreman of the cigar factory, with
my wages doubled.”
This was said with an anxious glance in the direction of Dora, which
was met by a radiant smile.
“Goot! Goot! Vat are you smiling at, like dot, Dora? Vot you got to do
mit Bennie’s goot fortune?”
“Oh, papa,” said Dora, hiding her face, while Bennie manfully took his
stand beside her. The father was suddenly enlightened, and, after a
brief second, he drew himself together and said:
“Vell, I am not plint. I can see dot two is company and four is a
procession. Come, Loney, I vant you to go mit me to de oder rooms und
help me to sweep de Oriental rugs.”
“Mr. Goldberg, can I take Dora--and Loney--up de street for a treat? It
is up to me now.”
“To treat de Dora and de Loney? Sure, treat dem--but treat dem right.”
“And you, too, Mr. Goldberg. Won’t you come?” said Bennie, anxious to
gain Mr. Goldberg’s good graces.
“Not so. I cannot leafe. I must fix a pair of prize-fighting shoes for
de Kid Broad, und if I get dem not done my name will be--vat you call
it, Bennie? Oh, yes, a dead von, Bennie!”
“Yes, Mr. Goldberg.”
“Bring it me von fife-cents stogies und I vill smoke you de goot luck.
Come, Loney, let us go und bolish de piano.”
Saying this, the shoemaker took the child’s hand and started to the
upper room, leaving Bennie and Dora alone. Ben was too clever to allow
such an opportunity for a heart-to-heart talk to pass, so he said:
“Are you glad, Dora, that it has come at last?”
“Yes, Bennie; very glad for your sake.”
“And aren’t you glad just a little for _our_ sakes?”
“Yes, Bennie,” whispered Dora, shyly.
“You know that you promised, when my wages were raised--that--if the
father consents, you would be my wife.”
“Did you ask him, Bennie? But it is not because your pay is raised----”
“I know that, Dora. But, you know, I would not want you until I could
take good care of you. So, if it wasn’t for the wages, why did you
promise, Dora?”
“I promised because I love you, Bennie,” said Dora, simply and sweetly,
at the same time holding out both her hands, which Bennie took and
held; and then, growing bolder, he put one arm around her and drew her
to him and reverently kissed the upturned brow so confidingly raised.
At that moment the father entered the shop, thinking they had gone, and
stood a second looking at them, with many emotions struggling on his
honest face, but he rallied and said, lightly:
“I might make you marry her for dot, Bennie.”
“Oh do, Mr. Goldberg. Please do. You know I have loved Dora ever
since I came here a little boy and she was a baby. It would be no
punishment--or else it would be a sweet one. Eh, Dora?”
“Den you shall be punished, Bennie. You are a good, hard-working poy,
und some day, in a year or two, ven you are both a little older, you
shall have mein chilt.”
“I thank you, Mr. Goldberg--father--more than I can say.”
“Dank Dora, not me. She chooset you. I could see by de red on her
cheeks. But, my poy, guard her like de eyepalls, for she is all I haf.
She is like de mudder ofer again, und if anyt’ings happen mein Dora
it vill prake mein heart. Yes, I gif my little Dora to you. I vill
announce de betrothal at vonce.”
Loney peeped in the door, uncertain as to his welcome, asking if he
could come in. The shoemaker said, huskily, for this betrothal, while
it assured his daughter a happy home, a good husband, and protection,
still seemed to him to sever the dear tie that had so bound them
together--the chain was broken, to let in another link:
“Yes; come along, Loney; ve vassen’t long gone, but it vos long enough.”
Then the long-deferred “treat” was brought up for discussion, and
Bennie hurried his pretty little Dora--his now--and Loney, and they
went happily up the steps, leaving the father alone in the dim shop,
with a heavy load of--was it joy or sorrow--in his heart? He scarcely
knew himself.