personalities out of this!" she said primly.
Jim was laughing, but there was a sinister note in his mirth.
"Not much we won't!" he told her. "I like you--see? You're th' best
lookin' girl in this neck o' woods--even if you do live at the Settlement
House! If you'd learn to dress more snappy--t' care more about hats than
yer do about Bible Classes--you'd make a big hit when yer walked out on
Delancy Street. There ain't a feller livin' as wouldn't turn t' look at
yer--not one! Say, kid," he leaned still closer, "I'm strong fer yer when
yer cheeks get all pink-like. I'm strong fer yer any time a-tall!"
Rose-Marie was more genuinely shocked than she had ever been in her life.
The flush receded slowly from her face.
"You'd like me to be more interested in clothes than in Bible Classes!"
she said slowly. "You'd like me to go parading down Delancy Street ..."
she paused, and then--"You're a fine sort of a man," she said
bitterly--"a fine sort of a man! Oh, I know. I know the sort of people
you introduce to Ella--and she's your sister. I've seen the way you look
at Lily, and she's your sister, too! You wouldn't think of making things
easier for your mother; and you'd give Bennie a push down--instead of a
boost _up_! And you scoff at your father--lying dead in his coffin!
You're a fine sort of a _man_.... I don't believe that you've a shred of
human affection in your whole make-up!"
Jim had risen slowly to his feet. There was no anger in his face--only a
huge amusement. Rose-Marie, watching his expression, knew all at once
that nothing she said would have the slightest effect upon him. His
sensibilities were too well concealed, beneath a tough veneer of conceit,
to be wounded. His soul seemed too well hidden to be reached.
"So that's what you think, is it?" he asked, and his voice was almost
silky, it was so smooth, "so that's what you think! I haven't any 'human
affection in my make-up,'" he was imitating her angry voice, "I haven't
any 'human affection'!" he laughed suddenly, and bent with a swift
movement until his face was on a level with her face. "Lot yer know about
it!" he told her and his voice thickened, all at once, "lot yer know
about it! I'm crazy about you, little kid--just crazy! Yer th' only girl
as I've ever wanted t' tie up to, get that? How'd yer like t' marry me?"
For one sickening moment Rose-Marie thought that she had
misunderstood. And then she saw his face and knew that he had been
deadly serious. Her hands fluttered up until they rested, like
frightened birds, above her heart.
XVII
AN ANSWER
There was eagerness--and a hint of something else--in Jim's voice as he
repeated his question.
"Well," he asked for the second time, "what d' yer say about it--huh?
How'd yer like ter marry me?"
Rose-Marie's fascinated eyes were on his face. At the first she had
hardly believed her ears--but her ears had evidently been functioning
properly. Jim wanted to marry her--to marry _her_! It was a possibility
that she had never dreamed of--a thought that she had never, for one
moment, entertained. Jim had always seemed so utterly of another
world--of another epoch, almost. He spoke a language that was far removed
from her language, his mind worked differently--even his emotions were
different from her emotions. He might have been living upon another
planet--so distant he had always seemed from her. _And yet he had asked
her to marry him_!
Like every other normal girl, Rose-Marie had thought ahead to the time
when she would have a home and a husband. She had dreamed of the day when
her knight would come riding--a visionary, idealized figure, always, but
a noble one! She had pictured a hearth-fire, and a blue and white kitchen
with aluminum pans and glass baking dishes. She had even wondered how
tiny fingers would feel as they curled about her hand--if a wee head
would be heavy upon her breast.
Of late her dreams, for some reason, had become a little less misty--a
little more definite. The figure of her knight had been a trifle more
clear cut--the armour of her imagination had given place to rough tweed
suits and soft felt hats. And the children had looked at her, from out of
the shadows, with wide, dark eyes--almost like real children. Her
thoughts had shaped themselves about a figure that was not the romantic
creation of girlhood--that was strong and willing and very tender. Dr.
Blanchard--had he not been mistaken upon so many subjects--would have
fitted nicely into the picture!
But Jim--of all people, _Jim!_ He was as far removed from the boundaries
of her dream as the North Pole is removed from the South. His patent
leather hair--she could not picture it against her arm--his mouth,
thin-lipped and too red.... She shuddered involuntarily, as she thought
of it and the man, bending above her, saw the shudder.
"Well," he questioned for the third time, "what about it? I'm a reg'lar
guy, ain't I? How'd you like to marry me?"
Rose-Marie moistened her lips before she answered. Her voice, when it
came, was very husky.
"Why, Jim," she said faintly, "what an idea! How did you ever come to
think of it?"
The man's face was flushed. His words tumbled, quickly, from his
unsteady mouth.
"I'm crazy about yer, kid," he said, "crazy about yer! Don't think that
bein' married t' me will mean as you'll have ter live in a dump like
this-there"--the sweep of his arm was expressive--"fer yer won't! You'll
have th' grandest flat in this city--anywhere yer say'll suit me! Yer'll
have hats an' dresses, an' a car--if yer want it. Yer'll have
everything--if yer'll marry me! What d' yer say?"
Rose-Marie's face was a study of mixed emotions--consternation struggling
with incredulity for first place. The man saw the unbelief; for he
hurried on before she could speak.
"Yer think that I'm like my pa was"--he told her--"livin' on measly
wages! Well, I ain't. Some nights I make a pile that runs inter
thousands--an' it'll be all fer yer! All fer yer!"
Of a sudden, Rose-Marie spoke. She was scarcely tactful.
"How do you make all of this money, Jim?" she questioned; "do you come by
it honestly?"
A dark wave of colour spread over the man's face--dyeing it to an
ugly crimson.
"What's it matter how I get it," he snarled, "long's I get it! What
business is it of yers how I come by my coin? I ain't stagin' a
investergation. And"--his face softened suddenly, "an' yer wouldn't
understand, anyhow! Yer only a girl--a little kid! What's it matter how I
gets th' roll--long as I'm willin' ter spend it on m' sweetie? What's it
matter?" He made a movement as if to take her into his arms--"_What's it
matter_?" he questioned again.
Like a flash Rose-Marie was upon her feet. With a swing of her body she
had evaded his arms. Her face was white and drawn, but her mind was
exceptionally active--more active than it had ever been in all of her
life. She knew that Jim was in a difficult mood--that a word, one way or
the other, would make him as easy to manage as a kitten or as relentless
as a panther, stalking his prey. She knew that it was in her power to say
the word that would calm him until the return of his mother and his
sister. And yet she found it well-nigh impossible to say that word.
"I'm tired of deceit," she told herself, as she stepped back in the
direction of the door. "I'll not say anything to him that isn't true! ...
Nothing can happen to me, anyway," she assured herself. "This is the
twentieth century, and I'm Rose-Marie Thompson. This is a civilized
country--nothing can hurt me! I'm not afraid--not while God is taking
care of me!"
Jim had straightened up. He seemed, suddenly, to tower.
"Well," he growled, "how about it? When'll we be married?"
Rose-Marie raised her head gallantly.
"We won't ever be married, Jim Volsky!" she told him, and even to her own
surprise there was not the suggestion of a quaver in her voice. "We won't
ever be married. I'm surprised at you for suggesting it!"
The man stared at her, a moment, and his eyes showed clearly that he did
not quite understand.
"Yer mean," he stammered at last, "that yer t'rowing me down?"
Rose-Marie's head was still gallantly lifted.
"I mean," she said, "that I won't marry you! Please--we'll let the matter
drop, at once!"
The man came a step nearer. The bewilderment was dying from his face.
"Not much, we won't let the matter drop!" he snarled. "What's yer reason
fer turnin' me down--huh?"
It was then that Rose-Marie made her mistake. It was then that she ceased
to be tactful. But suddenly she was tired, desperately tired, of Jim's
persistence. Suddenly she was too tired even to be afraid. The lift of
her chin was very proud--proud with some ingrained pride of race, as she
answered. Behind her stood a long line of ancestors with gentle blood,
ancestors who had known the meaning of chivalry.
Coolly she surveyed him. Dispassionately she noticed the lack of breeding
in his face, the marks of early dissipation, the lines that sin had
etched. And as she looked she laughed with just the suggestion of
hauteur. For the first time in her life Rose-Marie was experiencing a
touch of snobbishness, of class distinction.
"We won't discuss my reason," she told him slowly; "it should be quite
evident to _any one_!"
Not many weeks before, Rose-Marie had told the Young Doctor--in the
presence of the Superintendent--that she loved the people of the slums.
She had been so sure of herself then--so certain that she spoke the
truth. More recently she had assured the Superintendent that she could
cope with any situation. And that very afternoon she had told Ella that
they were alike, were just young girls--both of them--with all of life in
front of them, with the same hopes and the same fears and the same
ambitions.
She had believed the statement that she had made, so emphatically, to the
Young Doctor--she had believed it very strongly. She had been utterly
sure of herself when she begged the Superintendent to let her know more
of life. And, during her talk with Ella, she had felt a real kinship to
the whole of the Volsky family! But now that she had come face to face
with a crisis--now that she was meeting her big test--she knew that her
strong beliefs were weakening and that she was no longer at all sure of
herself! And as for being kin to the Volskys--the idea was quite
unthinkable.
Always, Rose-Marie had imagined that a proposal of marriage would be
the greatest compliment that a man could pay a girl. But the proposal
of the man in front of her did not seem in the least complimentary.
She realized--with the only feeling of irony she had ever known, that
this proposal was her very first. And she was looking upon it as an
insult. With a tiny curl of her lips she raised her eyes until they
met Jim's eyes.
"It should be quite evident," she repeated, "to any one!"
Jim Volsky's face had turned to a dark mottled red. His slim, well
manicured hands were clenched at his sides.
"Y' mean," he questioned, and his voice had an ugly ring, "y' mean I
ain't good enough fer yer?"
All at once the snobbishness had slipped, like a worn coat, from the
shoulders of the girl. She was Rose-Marie Thompson again--Settlement
worker. She was no better, despite the ancestors with gentle blood,
than the man in front of her--just more fortunate. She realized that
she had been not only unkind, but foolish. She tried, hurriedly--and
with a great scare looking out of her wide eyes--to repair the mistake
that she had made.
"I don't mean that I am better than you, Jim," she said softly, "not in
the matter of family. We are all the children of God--we are all brothers
and sisters in His sight."
Jim Volsky interrupted. He came nearer to Rose-Marie--so near that only a
few inches of floor space lay between them.
"Don't yer go sayin' over Sunday-school lessons at me," he snarled. "I
know what yer meant. Yer think I ain't good enough--t' marry yer.
Well"--he laughed shortly, "well, maybe I ain't good enough--t' marry
yer! But I guess I'm good enough t' kiss yer--" All at once his hands
shot out, closed with the strength of a vise upon her arms, just above
her elbows. "I guess I'm good enough t' kiss yer!" he repeated
gloatingly.
Rose-Marie felt cold fear creeping through her veins. There was
something clammy in Jim's touch, something more than menacing in his
eyes. She knew that her strength was nothing to be pitted against
his--she knew that in any sort of a struggle she would be easily
subdued. And yet she knew that she would rather die than feel his lips
upon hers. She felt an intense loathing for him--the loathing that some
women feel for toads and lizards.
"Jim," she said slowly and distinctly, "let go of me _this instant_!"
The man was bending closer. A thick lock of his heavy hair had shaken
down over his forehead, giving him a strangely piratical look.
"Not much I won't," he told her. "_So I ain't good enough_--"
All at once Rose-Marie felt the blindness of rage--unreasoning, deadly
anger. Only two things she knew--that she hated Jim and that she would
not let him kiss her. She spoke sudden defiant words that surprised
even herself.
"No," she told him, and her voice was hysterically high, "no, you're not
good enough! You're not good enough for _any_ decent girl! You're
bad--too bad to lay your fingers upon me. You're--you're unclean! Let go
of me or I'll"--her courage was oozing rapidly away, "or I'll _scream_!"
Jim Volsky's too red lips were on a level with her own. His voice came
thickly. "Scream, if you want to, little kid!" he said. "Scream t' beat
th' band! There ain't no one t' hear yer. Ma an' Ella an' Bennie are at
the hospital--givin' Pa th' once over. An' th' folks in this house are
used t' yellin'. They'd oughter be! Scream if yer want to--but I'm
a-goin' ter have my kiss!"
Rose-Marie could feel the warmth of his breath upon her face. Knowing the
futility--the uselessness of it--she began to struggle. Desperately she
tried to twist her arms from the slim, brutal hands that held them--but
the hands did not loosen their hold. She told herself, as she struggled,
that Jim had spoken the truth--that a scream, more or less, was an
every-day occurrence in the tenement.
All at once she realized, with a dazed, sinking feeling, that the Young
Doctor had had some foundation of truth in certain of his statements.
Some of the slum people were like animals--very like animals! Jim was all
animal as he bent above her--easily holding her with his hands. Nothing
that she said could reach him--nothing. She realized why the Young Doctor
had wanted her to leave the Settlement House before any of her dreams had
been shattered, before her faith in mankind had been abused! She realized
why, at times, he had hurt her, and with the realization came the
knowledge that she wanted him, desperately, at that minute--that he, out
of all the people in the world, was the one that her heart was calling to
in her time of need. She wanted his strength, his protection.
Once before, earlier in the afternoon, she had realized that there was
much of the cat in Jim. Now she realized it again, with a new sense of
fear and dislike. For Jim was not claiming the kiss that he wanted, in a
straight-forward way--he was holding her gloatingly, as a cat tortures a
mouse. He was letting her know, without words, that she was utterly
helpless--that he could kiss her when he wanted to, and not until he
wanted to. There was something horribly playful in his attitude. She
struggled again--but more weakly, her strength was going. If there were
only somebody to help--somebody!
And then, all at once, she remembered--with a blinding sense of
relief--what she had been forgetting. She remembered that there was
Somebody--a Somebody Who is always ready to help--a Somebody who watches
over the fate of every little sparrow.
"If you hurt me," she said desperately, to Jim, "God will know! Let go of
me--or I'll--"
Jim interrupted.
"Yer'll scream!" he chuckled, and there was cruel mirth in the chuckle.
"Yer'll scream, an' God will take care o' yer! Well--scream! I don't
believe as God can help yer. God ain't never been in this tenement--as
far as I know!"
Despite her weight of fear and loathing, Rose-Marie was suddenly sorry
for Jim. There was something pitiful--something of which he did not
realize the pathos--in his speech. God had never been in the
tenement--_God had never been in the tenement_! All at once she realized
that Jim's wickedness, that Jim's point of view, was not wholly his
fault. Jim had not been brought up, as she had, in the clean
out-of-doors; he--like many another slum child--had grown to manhood
without his proper heritage of fresh air and sunshine. One could not
entirely blame him for thinking of his home--the only home that he had
ever known--as a Godless place. She stopped struggling and her voice was
suddenly calm and sweet as she answered Jim's statement.
"God," she said slowly, "_is_ in this tenement. God is everywhere,
Jim--everywhere! If I call on Him, He will help me!"
All at once Jim had swung her away from him, until he was holding her at
arm's length. He looked at her, from between narrowed lids, and there was
bitter sarcasm in his eyes.
"Call on Him, then," he taunted, "call on Him! Lotta good it'll do yer!"
The very tone of his voice was a sacrilege, as he said it.
Rose-Marie's eyes were blurred with tears as she spoke her answer to his
challenge. She was remembering the prayers that she had said back
home--in the little town. She was remembering how her aunts had taught
her, when she was a wee girl, to talk with God--to call upon Him in times
of deep perplexity. She had called upon Him, often, but she had never
really needed Him as she did now. "Help me, God!" she said softly, "_Help
me, God_!"
The Volsky flat was still, for a moment. And then, with surprising
quickness, the door to the inner room swung open. Jim, who was
standing with his back to the door, did not see the tiny,
golden-haired figure that stood in the opening, but Rose-Marie caught
her breath in a kind of a sob.
"I had forgotten Lily--" she murmured, almost to herself.
Jim, hearing her words, glanced quickly back over his shoulder. And then
he laughed, and there was an added brutality in the tone of his laughter.
"Oh--Lily!" he laughed. "Lily! She won't help yer--not much! I was sort
of expectin' this God that yer talk about--" The laughter died out of his
face and he jerked her suddenly close--so close that she lay trembling in
his arms. "Lily can't hear," he exulted, "'r see, 'r speak. _I'll take my
kiss--now_!"
It was then that Rose-Marie, forgetting herself in the panic of the
moment, screamed. She screamed lustily, twisting her face away from his
lips. And as she screamed Lily, as silently as a little wraith, started
across the room. She might almost have heard, so straight she came. She
might almost have known what was happening, so directly she ran to the
spot where Rose-Marie was struggling in the arms of Jim. All at once her
thin little hands had fastened themselves upon the man's trouser leg, all
at once she was pulling at him, with every bit of her feeble strength.
Rose-Marie, still struggling, felt an added weight of apprehension. Not
only her own safety was at stake--Lily, who was so weak, was in danger of
being hurt. She jerked back, with another cry.
"Oh, God help me!" she cried, "God help _us_!"
Silently, but with a curious persistence, the child clung to the man's
trouser leg. With an oath he looked back again over his shoulder.
"Leave go of me," he mouthed. "Leave go o' me--y' little brat! 'r I'll--"
And "Let go of him, Lily," sobbed Rose-Marie, forgetting that the child
could not hear. "Let go of him, or he'll hurt you!"
The child lifted her sightless blue eyes wistfully to the faces above
her--the faces that she could not see. And she clung the closer.
Jim was swearing, steadily--swearing with a dogged, horrible regularity.
Of a sudden he raised his heavy foot and kicked viciously at the child
who clung so tenaciously to his other leg. Rose-Marie, powerless to help,
closed her eyes--and opened them again almost spasmodically.
"You brute," she screamed, "_you utter brute_!"
Lily, who had never, in all of her broken little life, felt an unkind
touch, wavered, as the man's boot touched her slight body. Her sightless
eyes clouded, all at once, with tears. And then, with a sudden piercing
shriek, she crumpled up--in a white little heap--upon the floor.
XVIII
AND A MIRACLE
For a moment Rose-Marie was stunned by the child's unexpected cry. She
hung speechless, filled with wonderment, in Jim's arms. And then, with a
wrench, she was free--was running across the floor to the little huddled
bundle that was Lily.
"You beast," she flung back, over her shoulder, as she ran. "You beast!
You've killed her!"
Jim did not attempt to follow--or to answer. He had wheeled about, and
his face was very pale.
"God!" he said, in a tense whisper, "_God_!" It was the first time that
the word, upon his lips, was neither mocking nor profane.
Rose-Marie, with tender hands, gathered the child up from the hard floor.
She was not thinking of the miracle that had taken place--she was not
thinking of the sound that had come, so unexpectedly, from dumb lips. She
only knew that the child was unconscious, perhaps dying. Her trembling
fingers felt of the slim wrist; felt almost with apprehension. She was
surprised to feel that the pulse was still beating, though faintly.
"Get somebody," she said, tersely, to Jim. "Get somebody who
knows--something!"
Jim's face was still the colour of ashes. He did not stir--did not seem
to have the power to stir.
"Did yer hear her?" he mouthed thickly. "She _yelled_. I heard her. Did
yer hear--"
Rose-Marie was holding Lily close to her breast. Her stern young eyes
looked across the drooping golden head into the scared face of the man.
"It was God, speaking through her," she said. "It was God. And you--you
had denied Him--_you beast_!"
All at once Jim was down upon the floor beside her. The mask of passion
had slipped from his face--his shoulders seemed suddenly more narrow--his
cruel hands almost futile. Rose-Marie wondered, subconsciously, how she
had ever feared him.
"She yelled," he reiterated, "_did yer hear her--_"
Rose-Marie clutched the child tighter in her arms.
"Get some one, at once," she ordered, "if you don't want her to die--if
you don't want to be a murderer!"
But Jim had not heard her voice. He was sobbing, gustily.
"I'm t'rough," he was sobbing, "t'rough! Oh--God, fergive--"
It was then that the door opened. And Rose-Marie, raising eyes abrim with
relief, saw that Ella and Mrs. Volsky and Bennie stood upon the
threshold.
"What's a-matter?" questioned Mrs. Volsky--her voice sodden with grief.
"What's been a-happenin'?" But Ella ran across the space between them,
and knelt in front of Rose-Marie.
"Give 'er t' me!" she breathed fiercely; "she's my sister. Give
'er t' me!"
Silently Rose-Marie handed over the light little figure. But as Ella
pillowed the dishevelled head upon her shoulder, she spoke directly
to Bennie.
"Run to the Settlement House, as fast as ever you can!" she told him.
"And bring Dr. Blanchard back with you. Hurry, dear--it may mean Lily's
life!" And Bennie, with his grimy face tear-streaked, was out of the door
and clattering down the stairs before she had finished.
Ella, her mouth agonized and drawn, was the first to speak after Bennie
left the room. When she did speak she asked a question.
"Who done this t' her?" she questioned. "_Who done it_?"
Rose-Marie hesitated. She could feel the eyes of Mrs. Volsky, dumb with
suffering, upon her--she could feel Jim's rat-like gaze fixed, with a
certain appeal, on her face. At last she spoke.
"Jim will tell you!" she said.
If she had expected the man to evade the issue--if she had expected a
downright falsehood from him--she was surprised. For Jim's head came up,
suddenly, and his eyes met the burning dark ones of his sister.
"I done it," he said, simply, and he scrambled up from the floor, as he
spoke. "I kicked her. She come in when I was tryin' t' kiss"--his finger
indicated Rose-Marie, "_her_. Lily got in th' way. So I kicked out
hard--then--she," he gulped back a shudder, "she _yelled_!"
Ella was suddenly galvanized into action. She was on her feet, with one
lithe, pantherlike movement--the child held tight in her arms.