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.