And Yetta translated into the vernacular.
"It means: 'Wherever you go, I'll go too, where you sleep, I'll sleep wid you, your folks will be my folks and I'll pray to your God; when you die, I'll die too and be buried beside you. And God can do more to me, if I leave you before I die.' My father taught it to me. Ain't it a swell thing to say when you're engaged?"
When at last the significance of Yetta's avowal had penetrated Harry's thick skull, he moved uneasily on his chair. The business side of him said he was wasting time. It had been a foolish precaution to bring her to this respectable restaurant. He might have taken her straight to the Second Avenue "hang-out"—with its complaisant proprietor and the rooms upstairs. But there was a sweetness—even to him—in such innocent, confiding love. He had acted the part with her so long that it seemed something more than bald pretence. There was a residue of "original decency" left under the hard shell, which living in this world of ours had given him. And this part of him—God knows it was small and weak—wished that it was true. It was strong enough to make him prolong the make-believe. He ordered only a half bottle of champagne—as a really, truly lover would have done. It was nine o'clock when they left.
They walked along Grand Street towards the Bowery. A sudden wave of tenderness flooded Harry.
"Yetta," he said, "you've never kissed me."
Her feet on the roseate clouds, she was quite unconscious of the passers-by; she turned her face up to him unquestioningly. But Harry never lost consciousness of such things. He did not dare to risk the jibes of onlookers. He tightened his grip on her arm and led her into a dark doorway. The late March wind was cold, and no loiterers sat on the steps nor stood about in the hall. Yetta—a bit surprised at his prudence—gave herself freely into his arms. When he kissed her, the last faint shadow of a doubt disappeared. She was sure he really loved her. The blood pounding in her head under his caresses dizzied her—but she was not afraid. Only somehow, the flush in his face and the husky tone of his voice seemed unfamiliar.
"Yetta," he said in a hot whisper. "Did you mean what you said—that stuff your father taught you? Will you come with me to-night—to my room and—never go away?"
This was a new idea to Yetta; she had not thought out the literal meaning of the ancient vow. For a moment she looked into his face, then turned her head aside. After all, that was what her father had told her to do.
"I'll marry you," he said, "as soon as they take me into the firm. It won't be long."
But this aspect of it had not worried Yetta. She did not question his good intentions. She was trying to picture to herself what such a change in her life would mean. There had been so little joy for her that now it was hard to accept it.