tubs, Lily was standing in almost the same place in which she had been
left. With hurried steps Rose-Marie crossed the room, and took the
child's slim, little hand in her own.
"Come with me, honey," she said, almost forgetting that Lily could not
hear her voice. "Come with me," and she led her gently back to the
inner room.
Ella was sitting on the floor, her face still wan, her attitude
unconsciously tragic. But as the child, clinging to Rose-Marie's hand,
came over to her side, she was suddenly galvanized into action.
"Oh, darlin', darlin'," she sobbed wildly, "Ella was a-goin' ter leave
you! Ella was a-goin' away. But she isn't now--not now! Darlin'," her
arms were flung wildly about the little figure, "show, some way, that you
forgive Ella--who loves you!"
Rose-Marie was crying, quite frankly. All at once she dropped down on the
floor and put her arms about the two sisters--the big one and the little
one--and her sobs mingled with Ella's. But, curiously enough, as she
stood like a little statue between them, a sudden smile swept across the
face of Lily. She might, almost, have understood.
XIV
PA STEPS ASIDE
They wept together for a long time, Ella and Rose-Marie. And as they
cried something grew out of their common emotion. It was a something that
they both felt subconsciously--a something warm and friendly. It might
have been a new bond of affection, a new chain of love. Rose-Marie, as
she felt it, was able to say to herself--with more of tolerance than she
had ever known--
"If I had been as tempted and as unhappy as she--well, I might, perhaps,
have reacted in the same way!"
And Ella, sobbing in the arms of the girl that she had never quite
understood, was able to tell herself: "She's right--dead right! The
straight road's the only road...."
It was little Lily who created a diversion. She had been standing, very
quietly, in the shelter of their arms for some time--she had a way of
standing with an infinite patience, for hours, in one place. But
suddenly, as if drawn by some instinct, she dropped down on the floor,
beside the cheap suit-case, and her small hands, shaking with eagerness,
started to take out the clothes that had been flung into it.
It was uncanny, almost, to see the child so happily beginning to unpack
the suit-case. The sight dried Rose-Marie's tears in an almost
miraculous way.
"Let's put away the things," she suggested shakily, to Ella. "For you
won't be going now, will you?"
The face that Ella Volsky lifted was a changed face. Her expression was a
shade more wistful, perhaps, but the somber glow had gone out of her
eyes, leaving them softer than Rose-Marie had supposed possible.
"No, Miss," she said quietly, "I won't be going--away. You're right, it
ain't worth the price!" And the incident, from that moment, was closed.
They unpacked the garments--there weren't many of them--quietly. But
Rose-Marie was very glad, deep in her soul, and she somehow felt that
Ella's mind was relieved of a tremendous strain. They didn't speak
again, but there was something in the way Ella's hand touched her
little sister's sunny hair that was more revealing than words. And
there was something in the way Rose-Marie's mouth curved blithely up
that told a whole story of satisfaction and content. It seemed as if
peace, with her white wings folded and at rest, was hovering, at last,
above the Volsky flat.
And then, all at once, the momentary lull was over. All at once the calm
was shattered as a china cup, falling from a careless hand, is broken.
There was a sudden burst of noise in the front room; of rough words; of a
woman sobbing. There was the sound of Mrs. Volsky's voice, raised in an
unwonted cry of anguish, there was a trickle of water slithering down
upon an uncarpeted floor--as if the wash-tub had been overturned.
It was the final event of an unsettling day--the last straw. Forgetting
Lily, forgetting the unpacking, Rose-Marie jumped to her feet, ran to the
door. Ella followed. They stood together on the threshold of the outer
room, and stared.
The room seemed full of people--shouting, gesticulating people. And in
the foreground was Jim--as sleek and well groomed as ever. Of all the
crowd he seemed the only one who was composed. In front of him stood Mrs.
Volsky--her face drawn and white, her hands clasped in a way that was
singularly and primitively appealing.
At first Rose-Marie thought that the commotion had to do with Jim. She
was always half expecting to hear that he had been apprehended in some
sort of mischief, that he had been accused of some crime. But she
dismissed the idea quickly--his composure was too real to be born of
bravado. It was while her brain groped for some new solution that she
became conscious of Mrs. Volsky's voice.
"Oh, he ain't," the woman was moaning, "say he ain't! My man--he could
not be so! There ain't no truth in it--there can't be no truth.... Say as
he ain't been done to so bad! Say it!"
Ella, with a movement that was all at once love-filled, stepped quickly
to her mother's side. As she faced the crowd--and Jim--her face was also
drawn; drawn and apprehensive.
"What's up?" she queried tersely of her brother. "What's up?"
The face of Jim was calm and almost smiling as he answered. Behind him
the shrill voices of the crowd sounded, like a background, to the blunt
words that he spoke.
"Pa was comin' home drunk," he told Ella, "an' he was ran inter by a
truck. He was smashed up pretty bad; dead right away, th' cop said. But
they took him ter a hospital jus' th' same. Wonder why they'd take a
stiff ter a hospital?"
Mrs. Volsky's usually colourless voice was breaking into loud, almost
weird lamentation. Ella stood speechless. But Rose-Marie, the horror of
it all striking to her very soul, spoke.
"It can't be true," she cried, starting forward and--in the excitement of
the moment--laying her hand upon Jim's perfectly tailored coat sleeve.
"It can't be true.... It's too terrible!"
Jim's laugh rang out heartlessly, eerily, upon the air.
"It ain't so terrible!" he told Rose-Marie. "Pa--he wasn't no good! He
wasn't a reg'lar feller--like me." All at once his well-manicured white
hand crept down over her hand. "_He wasn't a reg'lar feller_," he
repeated, "_like me_!"
XV
A SOLUTION
As Rose-Marie left the Volsky flat--Ella had begged her to go; had
assured her that it would be better to leave Mrs. Volsky to her
inarticulate grief--her brain was in a whirl. Things had happened, in the
last few hours, with a kaleidoscopic rapidity--the whirl of events had
left her mind in a dazed condition. She told herself, over and over, that
Ella was saved. But she found it hard to believe that Ella would ever
find happiness, despite her salvation, in the grim tenement that was her
home. She told herself that Bennie was learning to travel the right
road--that the Scout Club would be the means of leading him to other
clubs and that the other clubs would, in time, introduce him to
Sunday-school and to the church. She told herself that Mrs. Volsky was
willing to try; very willing to try! But of what avail would be Bennie's
growing faith and idealism if he had to come, night after night, to the
home that was responsible for men like Jim--and like Pa?
Pa! Rose-Marie realized with a new sense of shock that Pa was no longer a
force to reckon with. Pa was dead--had been crushed by a truck. Never
again would he slouch drunkenly into the flat, never again would he throw
soiled clothing and broken bottles and heavy shoes into newly tidied
corners. He was dead and he had--after all--been the one link that tied
the Volskys to their dingy quarters! With Pa gone the family could seek
cleaner, sweeter rooms--rooms that would have been barred to the family
of a drunkard! With Pa gone the air would clear, magically, of some of
its heaviness.
Rose-Marie, telling herself how much the death of Pa was going to benefit
the Volsky family, felt all at once heartless. She had been brought up in
an atmosphere where death carries sorrow with it--deep sorrow and
sanctity. She remembered the dim parlours of the little town when there
was a funeral--she remembered the singing of the village choir and the
voice of the pastor, slightly unsteady, perhaps, but very confident of
the life hereafter. She remembered the flowers, and the mourners in their
black gowns, and the pure tears of grief. She had always seen folk meet
death so--meet it rather beautifully.
But the passing of Pa! She shuddered to think of its cold cruelty--it was
rather like his life. He had been snuffed out--that was all--snuffed out!
There would be for him no dim parlour, no singing choir, no pastor with
an unsteady voice. The black-robed mourners would be absent, and so would
the flowers. His going would cause not a ripple in the life of the
community--it would bring with it better opportunities for his family,
rather than a burden of sorrow!
"I can't grieve for him!" Rose-Marie told herself desperately. "I can't
grieve for him! It's the only chance he ever gave to his
children--_dying_! Perhaps, without him, they'll be able to make
good...."
She was crossing the park--splashed with sunshine, it was. And suddenly
she remembered the first time that she had met Bennie in the park. It
seemed centuries away, that first meeting! She remembered how she had
been afraid, then, of the crowds. Now she walked through them with a
certain assurance--_she belonged_. She had come a long distance since
that first meeting with Bennie--a very long distance! She told herself
that she had proved her ability to cope with circumstance--had proved her
worth, almost. Why, now, should the Superintendent keep her always in the
shadow of the Settlement House--why should the Young Doctor laugh at her
desire to help people? She had something to show them--she could flaunt
Bennie before their eyes, she could quote the case of Ella; she could
produce Mrs. Volsky, broken of spirit but ready to do anything that she
could. And--last but not least--she would show Lily to them, Lily who had
been hidden away from the eyes of the ones who could help her--Lily who
so desperately needed help!
All at once Rose-Marie was weary of deceit. She would be glad--ever so
glad--to tell her story to the Superintendent! She was tired of going out
furtively of an afternoon to help these folk that she had come to help.
She wanted to go in an open way--with the stamp of approval upon her. The
Superintendent had said, once, that she would hardly be convincing to the
people of the slums. With the Volsky family to show, she could prove that
she had been convincing, very convincing!
With a singing heart she approached the Settlement House. With a smile on
her lips she went up the brownstone steps, pushed wide the door--which
was never locked. And then she hurried, as fast as her feet could hurry,
to the Superintendent's tiny office.
The Superintendent was in. She answered Rose-Marie's knock with a cheery
word, but, when the girl entered the room, she saw that the
Superintendent's kind eyes were troubled.
"What's the matter?" she questioned, forgetting, for a moment, the
business of which she had been so full. "What's the matter? You look ever
so worried!"
The Superintendent's tired face broke into a smile.
"Was I looking as woe-begone as that?" she queried. "I didn't realize
that I was. Nothing serious is the matter, dear--nothing very serious!
Only Katie's sister in the old country is ill--and Katie is going home to
stay with her. And it's just about impossible to get a good maid,
nowadays--it seems as if Katie has been with me for a lifetime. I expect
that we'll manage, somehow, but I don't just fancy cooking and sweeping,
and running the Settlement House, too!"
All at once an idea leaped, full-blown, into the brain of Rose-Marie. She
leaned forward and laid her hand upon the Superintendent's arm.
"I wonder," she asked excitedly, "if you'd consider a woman with a
family to take Katie's place? The family isn't large--just a small boy
who goes to school, and a small girl, and an older girl who is working.
There's a grown son, but he can take care of himself..." the last she
said almost under her breath. "He can take care of himself. It would be
better, for them--"
The Superintendent was eyeing Rose-Marie curiously.
"We have plenty of sleeping-rooms on the top floor," she said slowly,
"and I suppose that the older girl could help a bit, evenings. Why, yes,
perhaps a family might solve the problem--it's easier to keep a woman
with children than one who is," she laughed, "heart-whole and fancy free!
Who are they, dear, and how do you happen to know of them?"
Rose-Marie sat down, suddenly, in a chair beside the Superintendent's
desk. All at once her knees were shaky--all at once she felt strangely
apprehensive.
"Once," she began, and her voice quivered slightly, "I met a little boy,
in the park. He was hurting a kitten. I started to scold him and then
something made me question him, instead. And I found out that he was
hurting the kitten because he didn't know any better--think of it,
_because he didn't know any better_! And so I was interested, ever so
interested. And I decided it was my duty to know something of him--to
find out what sort of an environment was responsible for him."
The Superintendent's tired face was alight She leaned forward to ask
a question.
"How long ago," she questioned, "did you meet this child, in the park?"
Rose-Marie flushed. The time, suddenly, seemed very long to her.
"It was the day that I came home bringing a little gray cat with me," she
said. "It was the day that I quarreled with Dr. Blanchard at the luncheon
table. Do you remember?"
The Superintendent smiled reminiscently. "Ah, yes, I remember!" she
said. And then--"Go on with the story, dear."
Rose-Marie went on.
"I found the place where he lived," she said hurriedly. "Yes--I know that
you wouldn't have let me go if you'd known about it! That's why I didn't
tell you. I found the place where he lived; an unspeakable tenement on an
unspeakable street. And I met, there, his family--a most remarkable
family! There was a mother, and an older sister, and an older brother,
and a drunken father, and a little crippled girl...."
And then, shaking inwardly, Rose-Marie told the story of the Volskys. She
told it well; better than she realized. For the Superintendent's eyes
never left her face and--at certain parts of the story--the
Superintendent's cheeks grew girlishly pink. She told of the saving of
Ella--she told of Bennie, explaining that he was the same child whom the
Young Doctor had met in the hall. She told of Mrs. Volsky's effort to
better herself, and of Jim's snake-like smoothness. And then she told of
Lily--Lily with her almost unearthly beauty and her piteous physical
condition. As she told of Lily the Superintendent's kind eyes filled with
tears, and her lips quivered.
"Oh," she breathed, "if only something could be done for her--if only
something could be done! Billy Blanchard must see her at once--he's done
marvellous things with the crippled children of the neighbourhood!"
With a feeling of sudden confidence Rose-Marie smiled. She realized that
she had caught the Superintendent's interest--and her sympathy. It would
be easier, now, to give the family their chance! Her voice was more calm
as she went on with the narrative. It was only when she told of the death
of Pa that her lips trembled.
"You'll think that I'm hard and callous," she said, "taking his death so
easily. But I can't help feeling that it's for the best. They could never
have broken away--not with him alive. _You_ would never have taken them
in--if he had had to be included! You couldn't have done it.... But now,"
her voice was aquiver with eagerness, "now, say that they may come! Say
that Mrs. Volsky may take Katie's place. Oh, I know that she isn't very
neat; that she doesn't cook as we would want her to. But she can learn
and, free from the influence of her husband and son, I'm sure she'll
change amazingly. Say that you'll give the family a chance!"
The Superintendent was wavering. "I'm not so sure," she began, and
hesitated. "I'm not so sure--"
Rose-Marie interrupted. Her voice was very soft.
"It will mean," she said, "that Lily will be here, under the doctor's
care. It will mean that she will get well--perhaps! For her sake give
them a chance...."
The Superintendent's eyes were fixed upon space. When she spoke, she
spoke irrelevantly.
"Then," she said, "that was where you went every afternoon--to the
tenement. You weren't out with some man, after all?"
Rose-Marie hung her head. "I went to the tenement every afternoon," she
admitted, "to the _tenement_. Oh, I know that you're angry with me--I
know it. And I don't in the least blame you. I've been deceitful, I've
_sneaked_ away when your back was turned, I've practically told lies to
you! Don't think," her voice was all a-tremble, "don't think that I
haven't been sorry. I've been tremendously sorry ever so many times. I've
tried to tell you, too--often. And I've tried to make you think my way.
Do you remember the talk we had, that night when we were both so tired,
in your sitting-room--before Dr. Blanchard came? I was trying to scrape
up the courage to tell you, then, but you so disagreed with me that I
didn't dare!"
The Superintendent seemed scarcely to be listening. There seemed to be
something upon her mind.
"Rose-Marie," she said with a mock sternness, "you're evading my
questions. Answer me, child! Isn't there any one that you--care for?
Weren't you out with some man?"
Rose-Marie was blushing furiously.
"No," she admitted, "I wasn't out with a man. I never had any sort of a
sweetheart, not ever! I just let you all think that I was with some one
because--if I hadn't let you think that way--you might have made me stay
in. I wouldn't have made a point of deliberately telling you a
falsehood--but Dr. Blanchard gave me the idea and "--defiantly--"I just
let him think what he wanted to think!"
The Superintendent was laughing.
"What he _wanted_ to think!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Rose-Marie--you've a lot
to answer for! What he wanted to think...." Suddenly the laugh died out
of her voice, all at once she was very serious. "Perhaps," she said
slowly, "your idea about the Volsky family is a good one. We'll try it
out, dear! There was a MAN, once, Who said: 'Suffer the little children
to come--'Why, Rose-Marie, what's the matter?" For Rose-Marie, her face
hidden in the crook of her elbow, was crying like a very tired child.
XVI
ENTER--JIM
It was with a light heart that Rose-Marie started back to the tenement.
The tears had cleared her soul of the months of evasion that had so
worried her--she felt suddenly free and young and happy. It was as if a
rainbow had come up, tenderly, out of a storm-tossed sky; it was as if a
star was shining, all at once, through the blackness of midnight. She
felt a glad assurance of the future--a faith in the Hand of God,
stretched out to His children. "Everything," she sing-songed, joyously,
to herself, "will come right, now. Everything will come right!"
It was strange how she suddenly loved all of the people, the almost
mongrel races of people, who thronged the streets! She smiled brightly at
a mother, pushing a baby-buggy--she thrust a coin into the withered hand
of an old beggar. On a crowded corner she paused to listen to the vague
carollings of a barrel organ, to pat the head of a frayed looking little
monkey that hopped about in time to the music. All at once she wanted to
know a dozen foreign languages so that she could tell those who passed
her by that she was their friend--_their friend!_
And yet, despite her sudden feeling of kinship to these people of the
slums, she did not loiter. For she was the bearer of a message, a message
of hope! She wished, as she sped through the crowded streets, that her
feet were winged so that she might hurry the faster! She wanted to see
the expression of bewilderment on Mrs. Volsky's face, she wanted to see a
light dawn in Ella's great eyes, she wanted to whisper a message of--of
life, almost--into Lily's tiny useless ear. And, most of all, she wanted
to feel Bennie's warm, grubby little fingers touching her hand! Jim--she
hoped that Jim would be out when she arrived. She did not want to have
Jim throw cold water upon her plans--which did not include him. Well she
knew that the arrangement would make no real difference to him--it was
not love of family that kept him from leaving the dirty, crowded little
flat. It was the protection of a family, with its pseudo-respectability,
that he wanted. It was the locked room, which no one would think of
prying into, that he desired.
She went in through the mouth-like tenement door--it was no longer
frightful to her--with a feeling of intense emotion. She climbed the
narrow stairs, all five flights of them, with never a pause for breath.
And then she was standing, once again, in front of the Volskys' door. She
knocked, softly.
Everything was apparently very still in the Volsky flat. All up and down
the hall came the usual sounds of the house; the stairs echoed with
noise. But behind the closed door silence reigned supreme. As Rose-Marie
stood there she felt a strange mental chill--the chill of her first
doubt. Perhaps the Volskys would not want to come with her to the
Settlement House, perhaps they would resent her attitude--would call it
interference. Perhaps they would tell her that they were tired of
her--and of her plans. Perhaps--But the door, swinging open, cut short
her suppositions.
Jim stood in the doorway. He was in his shirt sleeves but--even divested
of his coat--he was still too painfully immaculate--too well groomed.
Rose-Marie, looking at him, felt a sudden primitive desire to see him
dirty and mussed up. She wished, and the wish surprised her, that she
might sometime see him with his hair rumpled, his collar torn, his eye
blackened and--she could hardly suppress a hysterical desire to laugh as
the thought struck her--his nose bleeding. Somehow his smooth, hard
neatness was more offensive to her than his mother's dirty apron--than
his small brother's frankly grimy hands. She spoke to him in a cool
little voice that belied her inward disturbance.
"Where," she questioned, "are your mother and Ella? I want to see them."
With a movement that was not ungraceful Jim flung wide the door. Indeed,
Rose-Marie told herself, as she stepped into the Volsky flat, Jim was
never ungraceful. There was something lithe and cat-like in his slightest
movement, just as there was something feline in the expression of his
eyes. Rose-Marie often felt like a small, helpless mouse when Jim was
staring at her.
"Where are your mother and Ella?" she questioned again as she stepped
into the room. "I _do_ want to see them!"
Jim was dragging forward a chair. He answered.
"Then yer'd better sit down 'n' make yourself at home," he told her, "fer
they've gone out. They're down t' th' hospital, now, takin' a last slant
at Pa. Ma's cryin' to beat th' band--you'd think that she really liked
_him_! An' Ella's cryin', too--she's fergot how he uster whip her wit' a
strap when she was a kid! An' they've took Bennie; Bennie ain't cryin'
but he's a-holdin' to Ma's hand like a baby. Oh," he laughed sneeringly,
"it's one grand little family group that they make!"
Rose-Marie sat down gingerly upon the edge of the chair. She did not
relish the prospect of spending any time alone with Jim, but a certain
feeling of pride kept her from leaving the place. She would not let Jim
know that she feared him--it would flatter him to think that he had so
much influence over her. She would stay, even though the staying made her
uneasy! But she hoped, from the bottom of her heart, that the rest of the
family would not be long at the hospital.
"When did they go out?" she questioned, trying to make her tone casual.
"Do you expect them back soon?"
Jim sat down in a chair that was near her own. He leaned forward as
he answered.
"They haven't been gone so awful long," he told her. "An'--say--what's
th' difference _when_ they gets back? I never have no chance to talk wit'
you--not ever! An'," he sighed with mock tragedy, "an' I have so much t'
say t' yer! You never have a word fer me--think o' that! An' think o' all
th' time yer waste on Bennie--an' him too young t' know a pretty girl
when he sees one!"