At these words Drabkin was strongly impelled to raise his head. Chashke herself had really said that it couldn’t be otherwise. But at once he recalled what else she had said, and again he felt ashamed and remained seated, his head closely applied to his task, dumb.
Chyenke began to tell how she had sent off the workingmen, and how Drabkin had disappeared from home early that same morning——“He simply didn’t have the heart to witness it.”
“And now,” she concluded, “I alone hire help and settle things as I see fit.”
She looked triumphantly at Chashke. Drabkin said nothing.
“Come, mamma. Let’s be going home!” urged Chashke, rising.
“What’s your hurry?” asked Drabkin.
Chashke would have been delighted to spit square into his face. The old woman answered that their boarder would come and the door was locked.
They left.
Drabkin felt that Chashke had been there for the last time, and the thought was somewhat disquieting. But this unpleasantness was soon lost in the great contentment that overwhelmed him. He felt more free, more independent; a yoke fell from his neck; there would be no one before his eyes as a continual reminder of his former years and his former talk.
Gone forever,—gone—and forgotten.