The Jungle - Upton Sinclair (books to read in your 20s female .txt) 📗

brief interval. Christmas was almost come; and because the snow still held, and the searching cold, morning after morning Jurgis half carried his wife to her post, staggering with her through the darkness; until at last, one night, came the end.

It lacked but three days of the holidays. About midnight Marija and Elzbieta came home, exclaiming in alarm when they found that Ona had not come. The two had agreed to meet her; and, after waiting, had gone to the room where she worked, only to find that the ham-wrapping girls had quit work an hour before, and left. There was no snow that night, nor was it especially cold; and still Ona had not come! Something more serious must be wrong this time.

They aroused Jurgis, and he sat up and listened crossly to the story. She must have gone home again with Jadvyga, he said; Jadvyga lived only two blocks from the yards, and perhaps she had been tired. Nothing could have happened to her⁠—and even if there had, there was nothing could be done about it until morning. Jurgis turned over in his bed, and was snoring again before the two had closed the door.

In the morning, however, he was up and out nearly an hour before the usual time. Jadvyga Marcinkus lived on the other side of the yards, beyond Halsted Street, with her mother and sisters, in a single basement room⁠—for Mikolas had recently lost one hand from blood-poisoning, and their marriage had been put off forever. The door of the room was in the rear, reached by a narrow court, and Jurgis saw a light in the window and heard something frying as he passed; he knocked, half expecting that Ona would answer.

Instead there was one of Jadvyga’s little sisters, who gazed at him through a crack in the door. “Where’s Ona?” he demanded; and the child looked at him in perplexity. “Ona?” she said.

“Yes,” said Jurgis, “isn’t she here?”

“No,” said the child, and Jurgis gave a start. A moment later came Jadvyga, peering over the child’s head. When she saw who it was, she slid around out of sight, for she was not quite dressed. Jurgis must excuse her, she began, her mother was very ill⁠—

“Ona isn’t here?” Jurgis demanded, too alarmed to wait for her to finish.

“Why, no,” said Jadvyga. “What made you think she would be here? Had she said she was coming?”

“No,” he answered. “But she hasn’t come home⁠—and I thought she would be here the same as before.”

“As before?” echoed Jadvyga, in perplexity.

“The time she spent the night here,” said Jurgis.

“There must be some mistake,” she answered, quickly. “Ona has never spent the night here.”

He was only half able to realize her words. “Why⁠—why⁠—” he exclaimed. “Two weeks ago, Jadvyga! She told me so⁠—the night it snowed, and she could not get home.”

“There must be some mistake,” declared the girl, again; “she didn’t come here.”

He steadied himself by the doorsill; and Jadvyga in her anxiety⁠—for she was fond of Ona⁠—opened the door wide, holding her jacket across her throat. “Are you sure you didn’t misunderstand her?” she cried. “She must have meant somewhere else. She⁠—”

“She said here,” insisted Jurgis. “She told me all about you, and how you were, and what you said. Are you sure? You haven’t forgotten? You weren’t away?”

“No, no!” she exclaimed⁠—and then came a peevish voice⁠—“Jadvyga, you are giving the baby a cold. Shut the door!” Jurgis stood for half a minute more, stammering his perplexity through an eighth of an inch of crack; and then, as there was really nothing more to be said, he excused himself and went away.

He walked on half dazed, without knowing where he went. Ona had deceived him! She had lied to him! And what could it mean⁠—where had she been? Where was she now? He could hardly grasp the thing⁠—much less try to solve it; but a hundred wild surmises came to him, a sense of impending calamity overwhelmed him.

Because there was nothing else to do, he went back to the time-office to watch again. He waited until nearly an hour after seven, and then went to the room where Ona worked to make inquiries of Ona’s “forelady.” The “forelady,” he found, had not yet come; all the lines of cars that came from downtown were stalled⁠—there had been an accident in the powerhouse, and no cars had been running since last night. Meantime, however, the ham-wrappers were working away, with someone else in charge of them. The girl who answered Jurgis was busy, and as she talked she looked to see if she were being watched. Then a man came up, wheeling a truck; he knew Jurgis for Ona’s husband, and was curious about the mystery.

“Maybe the cars had something to do with it,” he suggested⁠—“maybe she had gone downtown.”

“No,” said Jurgis, “she never went downtown.”

“Perhaps not,” said the man.

Jurgis thought he saw him exchange a swift glance with the girl as he spoke, and he demanded quickly, “What do you know about it?”

But the man had seen that the boss was watching him; he started on again, pushing his truck. “I don’t know anything about it,” he said, over his shoulder. “How should I know where your wife goes?”

Then Jurgis went out again, and paced up and down before the building. All the morning he stayed there, with no thought of his work. About noon he went to the police station to make inquiries, and then came back again for another anxious vigil. Finally, toward the middle of the afternoon, he set out for home once more.

He was walking out Ashland Avenue. The streetcars had begun running again, and several passed him, packed to the steps with people. The sight of them set Jurgis to thinking again of the man’s sarcastic remark; and half involuntarily he found himself watching the cars⁠—with the result that he gave a sudden startled exclamation, and stopped short in his tracks.

Then he broke into a run. For a whole block he tore