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.
"Yer kicked her," she said softly—and the gentleness of her voice was ominous. "Yer kicked her! An' she yelled—" For the first time the full significance of it struck her. "She yelled?" she questioned, whirling to Rose-Marie; "yer don't mean as she made a sound?"
Rose-Marie nodded dumbly. It was Jim's voice that went on with the story.
"She ain't dead," he told Ella, piteously. "She ain't dead. An'—I promise yer true—I'll never do such a thing again. I promise yer true!"
Ella took a step toward him. Her face was suddenly lined, and old. "If she dies," she told him, "if she dies…" she hesitated, and then—"Much yer promises mean," she shrilled, "much yer promises—"
Rose-Marie had been watching Jim's face. Almost without meaning to she interrupted Ella's flow of speech.
"I think that he means what he says," she told Ella slowly. "I think that he means … what he says."
For she had seen the birth of something—that might have been soul—in
Jim's haggard eyes.
The child in Ella's arms stirred, weakly, and was still again. But the movement, slight as it was, made the girl forget her brother. Her dark head bent above the fair one.
"Honey," she whispered, "yer goin' ter get well fer Ella—ain't yer? Yer goin' ter get well—"
The door swung open with a startling suddenness, and Rose-Marie sprang forward, her hands outstretched. Framed in the battered wood stood Bennie—the tears streaking his face—and behind him was the Young Doctor. So tall he seemed, so capable, so strong, standing there, that Rose-Marie felt as if her troubles had been lifted, magically, from her shoulders. All at once she ceased to be afraid—ceased to question the ways of the Almighty. All at once she felt that Lily would get better—that the Volskys would be saved to a better life. And all at once she knew something else. And the consciousness of it looked from her wide eyes.
"You!" she breathed. "You!"
And, though she had sent for him, herself, she felt a glad sort of surprise surging through her heart.
The Young Doctor's glance, in her direction, was eloquent. But as his eyes saw the child in Ella's arms his expression became impersonal, again, concentrated, and alert. With one stride he reached Ella's side, and took the tiny figure from her arms.
"What's the matter here?" he questioned sharply.
Rose-Marie was not conscious of the words that she used as she described Lily's accident. She glossed over Jim's part in it as lightly as possible; she told, as quickly as she could, the history of the child. And as she told it, the doctor's lean capable hands were passing, with practiced skill, over the little relaxed body. When she told of the child's deaf and dumb condition she was conscious of his absolute attention—though he did not for a moment stop his work—when she spoke of the scream she saw his start of surprise. But his only words were in the nature of commands. "Bring water"—he ordered, "clean water, in a basin. A clean basin. Bring a sponge"—he corrected himself—"a clean rag will do—only it must be clean"—this to Mrs. Volsky, "you understand? Where," his eyes were on Ella's face, "can we lay the child? Is there a clean bed, anywhere?"
Ella was shaking with nervousness as she opened the door of the inner room that she and Lily shared. Mrs. Volsky, carrying the basin of water, was sobbing. Jim, standing in the center of the room, was like a statue—only his haunted eyes were alive. The Young Doctor, glancing from face to face, spoke suddenly to Rose-Marie.
"I hate to ask you," he said simply, "but you seem to be the only one who hasn't gone to pieces. Will you come in here with me?"
Rose-Marie nodded, and she spoke, very softly. "Then you think that I'll be able—to help?" she questioned.
The Young Doctor was remembering—or forgetting—many things.
"I know that you will!" he said, and he spoke as softly as she had done.
"I know that you will!"
They went, together, with Lily, into the inner room. And as the Young Doctor closed the door, Rose-Marie knew a very real throb of triumph. For he had admitted that her help was to be desired—that she could really do something!
But, the moment that the door closed, she forgot her feeling of victory, for, of a sudden, she saw Dr. Blanchard in a new light. She saw him lay the little figure upon the bed—she saw him pull off his coat. And then, while she held the basin of water, she saw him get to work. And as she watched him her last feeling of doubt was swept away.
"He may say that he's not interested in people," she told herself joyously, "but he is. He may think that he doesn't care for religion—but he does. There's love of people in every move of his hands! There's something religious in the very way his fingers touch Lily!"
Yes, she was seeing the Young Doctor in a new light. As she watched him she knew that he had quite forgotten her presence—had quite forgotten the little quarrels that had all but ruined their chance at friendship. She knew that his mind was only on the child who lay so still under his hands—she knew that all the intensity of his nature was concentrated upon Lily. As she watched him, deftly obeying His simple directions, she gloried in his skill—in his surety.
And then, at last, Lily opened her eyes. She might have been waking from a deep slumber as she opened them—she might have been dreaming a pleasant dream as she smiled faintly. Rose-Marie had a sudden feeling—a feeling that she had experienced before—that the child was seeing visions, with her great sightless eyes, that other, normal folk could not see. All at once a great dread clutched at her soul.
"She's not dying—?" she whispered, gaspingly. "Her smile is so very—wonderful. She's not dying?"
The Young Doctor turned swiftly from the bed. All at once he looked like a knight to Rose-Marie—an armourless, modern knight who fought an endless fight against the dragons of disease and pain.
"Bless your heart, no!" he answered. "She isn't dying! We'll bring her around in a few minutes. And now"—a great tenderness shone out of his eyes, "tell me all about it. You were very sketchy," his gesture indicated the other room, "out there! How did the child really get hurt—and how did you come to be here? How—Why, Rose-Marie…. Sweetheart!"
For Rose-Marie had fainted very quietly—and for the first time in all of her strong young life.