"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 a.s.sured 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 sanct.i.ty. 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 pa.s.sing 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 a.s.surance--_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 circ.u.mstance--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.