if he had not been a fool!  He smote his hands upon his forehead, cursing himself because he had ever allowed Ona to work where she had, because he had not stood between her and a fate which every one knew to be so common.  He should have taken her away, even if it were to lie down and die of starvation in the gutters of Chicago’s streets!  And now—­oh, it could not be true; it was too monstrous, too horrible.

It was a thing that could not be faced; a new shuddering seized him every time he tried to think of it.  No, there was no bearing the load of it, there was no living under it.  There would be none for her—­he knew that he might pardon her, might plead with her on his knees, but she would never look him in the face again, she would never be his wife again.  The shame of it would kill her—­there could be no other deliverance, and it was best that she should die.

This was simple and clear, and yet, with cruel inconsistency, whenever he escaped from this nightmare it was to suffer and cry out at the vision of Ona starving.  They had put him in jail, and they would keep him here a long time, years maybe.  And Ona would surely not go to work again, broken and crushed as she was.  And Elzbieta and Marija, too, might lose their places—­if that hell fiend Connor chose to set to work to ruin them, they would all be turned out.  And even if he did not, they could not live—­even if the boys left school again, they could surely not pay all the bills without him and Ona.  They had only a few dollars now—­they had just paid the rent of the house a week ago, and that after it was two weeks overdue.  So it would be due again in a week!  They would have no money to pay it then—­and they would lose the house, after all their long, heartbreaking struggle.  Three times now the agent had warned him that he would not tolerate another delay.  Perhaps it was very base of Jurgis to be thinking about the house when he had the other unspeakable thing to fill his mind; yet, how much he had suffered for this house, how much they had all of them suffered!  It was their one hope of respite, as long as they lived; they had put all their money into it—­and they were working people, poor people, whose money was their strength, the very substance of them, body and soul, the thing by which they lived and for lack of which they died.

And they would lose it all; they would be turned out into the streets, and have to hide in some icy garret, and live or die as best they could!  Jurgis had all the night—­and all of many more nights—­to think about this, and he saw the thing in its details; he lived it all, as if he were there.  They would sell their furniture, and then run into debt at the stores, and then be refused credit; they would borrow a little from the Szedvilases, whose delicatessen store was tottering on the brink of ruin; the neighbors would come and help them a little—­poor, sick Jadvyga would bring a few spare pennies, as she always did when people were starving, and Tamoszius Kuszleika would bring them the proceeds of a night’s fiddling.  So they would struggle to hang on until he got out of jail—­or would they know that he was in jail, would they be able to find out anything about him?  Would they be allowed to see him—­or was it to be part of his punishment to be kept in ignorance about their fate?