The Island of Faith

by Margaret E. Sangster

  IX

  AND ANOTHER

  As the days crept into weeks, Rose-Marie no longer felt the dull unrestof inaction. She was busy at the Settlement House--her clubs for mothersand young girls, her kindergarten for the little tots, had grownamazingly popular. And at the times when she was not busy at theSettlement House, she had the Volsky family and their many problems tooccupy her.

  The Volsky family--and their many problems! Rose-Marie would have foundit hard to tell which problem was the most important! Of course Lily camefirst--her infirmities and her sweetness made her the central figure. Butthe problem of Ella was a more vital one to watch--it was, somehow, moreimmediate. Rose-Marie had found it hard to reach Ella--except when Lilywas the topic of conversation; except when Lily's welfare was to beconsidered, she stayed silently in the background. But the flashings ofher great dark eyes, the quiverings of her too scarlet mouth, wereominous. Rose-Marie could see that the untidiness of the flat, thedrunken mutterings of Pa, and her mother's carelessness and dirt hadstrained Ella's resistance to the breaking point. Some day there would bea crash and, upon that day Ella would disappear like a gorgeous butterflythat drifts across the road, and out of sight. Rose-Marie was hoping topush that day into the background--to make it only a dim uncertaintyrather than the sword of Damocles that it was. But she could only hope.

  Bennie, too, was a problem. But it was Bennie who cheered Rose-Marie whenshe felt that her efforts in behalf of Ella were failing. For Bennie'sbrain was the fertile ground in which she could plant ideals, and dreams.Bennie was young enough to change, and easily. He got into the way ofwaiting for her, after his school had been dismissed, in the little park.And there, seated close together on an iron bench, they would talk; andRose-Marie would tell endless stories. Most of the stories were aboutknights who rode upon gallant quests, and about old-time courtesy, andabout wonderful animals. But sometimes she told him of her home in thecountry--of apple trees in bloom, and frail arbutus hiding under thesnow. She told him of coasting parties, and bonfires, and trees to climb.And he listened, star-eyed and adoring. They made a pretty picturetogether--the slim, rosy-cheeked girl and the ragged little boy, with thepale, city sunshine falling, like a mist, all about them.

  Lily and Ella and Bennie--Rose-Marie loved them, all three. But JimVolsky was the unsolvable problem--the one that she tried to push to theback of her mind, to avoid. Mrs. Volsky and Pa she gave up as nearlyhopeless--she kept, as much as possible, out of Pa's way, and Mrs. Volskycould only be helped in the attaining of creature comforts--her spiritseemed dead! But Jim insisted upon intruding upon her moments in theflat; he monopolized conversations, and asked impertinent questions, andstared. More than once he had offered to "walk her home" as she wasleaving; more than once he had thrust himself menacingly across her path.But she had managed, neatly, to avoid him.

  Rose-Marie was afraid of Jim. She admitted it to herself--she evenadmitted, at times, that the Young Doctor might be of assistance if anyemergency should arise out of Jim's sleek persistence. She had noticed,from the first, that the doctor was an impressive man among men--she hadseen the encouraging swell of muscles through the warm tweed of his coatsleeve. But to have asked his help in the controlling of Jim would havebeen an admission of deceit, of weakness, of failure! To prove her owntheory that the people were real, underneath--to prove that they had somesort of a code, and worth-while impulses--she had to make the reformationof the Volsky family her own, individual task.

  Yes--Rose-Marie was busy. Almost she hated to give up moments of her timeto the letters she had to write home--to the sewing that she had to do.She made few friends among the teachers and visitors who thronged theSettlement House by day--she was far too tired, when night came, to meetwith the Young Doctor and the Superintendent in the cosy littleliving-room. But often when her activities lasted well along into theevening, often when her clubs gave sociables or entertainments, she wasforced to welcome the Young Doctor (the Superintendent was alwayswelcome); to make room for him beside her own place.

  It was during one of these entertainments--her Girls' Sewing Society wasgiving a party--that she and the Young Doctor had their first real talk.Before the quarrel at the luncheon table they had had little timetogether; since the quarrel the Young Doctor had seldom been able tocorner Rose-Marie. But at the entertainment they were placed, by the handof circumstance, upon a wooden settee in the back of the room. And there,for the better part of two hours--while Katie Syrop declaimed poetry andHelen Merskovsky played upon the piano, and others recited long andmonotonous dialogues--they were forced to stay.

  The Young Doctor was in a chastened mood. He applauded heartily whenevera part of the program came to a close; the comments that he made behindhis hand were neither sarcastic nor condescending. He praised the workthat Rose-Marie had done and then, while she was glowing--almost againsther will--from the warmth of that praise, he ventured a remark that hadnothing to do with the work.

  "When I see you," he told her very seriously, "when I see you, sittinghere in one of our gray coloured meeting rooms, I can't help thinking howappropriate your name is. Rose-Marie--there's a flower, isn't there,that's named Rosemary? I like flowery names!"

  Rose-Marie laughed, as lightly as she could, to cover a strange feelingof embarrassment.

  "Most people don't like them," she said--"flowery names, I mean. I don'tmyself. I like names like Jane, and Anne, and Nancy. I like names likePhyllis and Sarah. I've always felt that my first name didn't fit my lastone. Thompson," she was warming to her subject, "is such a matter-of-factname. There's no romance in it. But Rose-Marie--"

  The Young Doctor interrupted.

  "But Rose-Marie," he finished for her, "is teeming with romance! Itsuggests vague perfumes, and twilight in the country, and gay littlelights shining through the dusk. It suggests poetry."

  Rose-Marie had folded her hands, softly, in her lap. Her eyes were bentupon them.

  "My mother," she said, and her voice was quiet and tender, "loved poetry.I've heard how she used to read it every afternoon, in her garden. Sheloved perfumes, too, and twilight in the country. My mother was the sortof a woman who would have found the city a bit hard, I think, to live in.Beauty meant such a lot--to her. She gave me my name because she thought,just as you think, that it had a hint of lovely things in it. And, eventhough I sometimes feel that I'd like a plainer one, I can't be sorrythat she gave it to me. For it was a part of her--a gift that was builtout of her imagination," all at once she coughed, perhaps to cover theslight tremor in her voice, and then--

  "To change the subject," she said, "I'll tell you what Rosemary reallyis. You said that you thought it was a flower. It's more than a flower,"she laughed shakily, "it's a sturdy, evergreeny sort of little shrub. Ithas a clean fragrance, a trifle like mint. And it bears small blueblossoms. Folk say that it stands for remembrance," suddenly her eyeswere down, again, upon her clasped hands. "Let's stop talking aboutflowers and the country--and mothers--" she said suddenly. Her voicebroke upon the last word.

  The Young Doctor's understanding glance was on the girl's down-bent face.After a moment he spoke.

  "Are you ever sorry that you left the home town, Miss Rose-Marie?" hequestioned.

  Rose-Marie looked at him, for a moment, to see whether he was serious.And then, as no flicker of mirth stirred his mouth, she answered.

  "Sometimes I'm homesick," she said. "Usually after the lights are out, atnight. But I'm never sorry!"

  The Young Doctor was staring off into space--past the raised platformwhere the girls of the club were performing.

  "I wonder," he said, after a moment, "I wonder if you can imagine what itis to have nothing in the world to be lonesome for, Miss Rose-Marie?"

  Rose-Marie felt a quick wave of sympathy toward him.

  "My mother and my father are dead, Dr. Blanchard--you know that," shetold him, "but my aunts have always been splendid," she added honestly,"and I have any number of friends! No, I've never felt at all alone!"

  The Young Doct
or was silent for a moment. And then--

  "It isn't an alone feeling that I mean," he told her, "not exactly! It'srather an empty feeling! Like hunger, almost. You see my father andmother are dead, too. I can't even remember them. And I never had anyaunts to be splendid to me. My childhood--even my babyhood--was spent inan orphan asylum with a firm-fisted matron who punished me; with nobodyto give me the love I needed. I came out of it a hard man--at fourteen.I--" he broke off, suddenly, and then--

  "I don't know why I'm telling you all this," he said; "you wouldn't be inthe least interested in my school days--they were pretty drab! And youwouldn't be interested in the scholarship that gave me my profession.For," his tone changed slightly, "you aren't even interested in theresult--not enough to try to understand my point of view, when I attemptto tell you, frankly, just what I think of the people down here--barringgirls like these," he pointed to the stage, "and a few others who areworking hard to make good! You act, when I say that they're like animals,as if I'm giving you a personal insult! You think, when I suggest thatyou don't go, promiscuously, into dirty tenements, that I'm trying tocurb your ambition--to spoil your chances of doing good! But I'm not,really. I'm only endeavouring, for your own protection, to give you thebenefit of my rather bitter experience. I don't want any one so young,and trusting and--yes, beautiful--as you are, to be forced by experienceinto my point of view. We love having you here, at the Settlement House.But I almost wish that you'd go home--back to the place and the peoplethat you're lonesome for--after the lights are out!"

  Rose-Marie, watching the play of expression across his keen dark face,was struck, first of all by his sincerity. It was only after a momentthat she began to feel the old resentment creeping back.

  "Then," she said at last, very slowly, "then you think that I'm worthlesshere? It seems to me that I can help the people more, just because I amfresh, and untried, and not in the least bitter! It seems to me that bydirect contact with them I may be able to show them the tender, guidinghand of God--as it has always been revealed to me. But you think that I'mworthless!"

  There was a burst of loud singing from the raised platform. The girls ofthe sewing club loved to sing. But neither Rose-Marie nor the YoungDoctor was conscious of it.

  "No," the Young Doctor answered, also very slowly, "no, I don't thinkthat you are worthless--not at all.-But I'm almost inclined to think thatyou're _wasted_. Go home, child, go home to the little town! Go homebefore the beautiful colour has worn off the edge of your dreams!"

  Again Rose-Marie felt the swift burst of anger that she had felt uponother occasions. Why did he persist in treating her like a child? But hervoice was steady as she answered.

  "Well," she said, "I'm afraid that I'll have to disappoint you! For Icame here with a definite plan to carry out. And I'm going to stay hereuntil I've at least partly made good!"

  The Young Doctor was watching her flushed face. He answered almostregretfully.

  "Then," he said, "I'm glad that you have a sweetheart--you didn't denyit, you know, the other night! He'll take you away from the slums, Ireckon, before very long! He'll take you away before you've been hurt!"

  Rose-Marie, looking straight ahead, did not answer. But the weight ofdeceit upon her soul made her feel very wicked.

  Yes, the weight of deceit upon her soul made her feel very wicked! Butlater that night, after the club members had gone home, dizzy with manyhonours, it was not the weight of deceit that troubled her. As she creptinto her narrow little bed she was all at once very sorry for herself;and for a vanished dream! Dr. Blanchard could be so nice--when he wantedto. He could be so understanding, so sympathetic! There on the bench inthe rear of the room they had been, for a moment, very close together.She had nearly come back, during their few minutes of really intimateconversation, to her first glowing impression of him. And then he hadchanged so suddenly--had so abruptly thrust aside the little house offriendship that they had begun to build. "If he would only let me," shetold herself, "I could teach him to like the things I like. If he wouldonly understand I could explain just how I feel about people. If he wouldonly give me a chance I could keep him from being so lonely."

  Rose-Marie had known few men. The boys of her own town she scarcelyregarded as men--they were old playmates, that was all. No one stood outfrom the other, they were strikingly similar. They had carried her booksto school, had shared apples with her, had played escort toprayer-meetings and to parties. But none of them had ever stirred herimagination as the Young Doctor stirred it.

  There in the dark Rose-Marie felt herself blushing. Could it be possiblethat she felt an interest in the Young Doctor, an interest that was morethan a casual interest? Could it be possible that she liked a man whoshowed plainly, upon every possible occasion, that he did not like her?Could it be possible that a person who read sensational stories, who didnot believe in the greatness of human nature, who refused to go tochurch, attracted her?

  Of a sudden she had flounced out of bed; had shrugged her slender littlebody into a shapeless wrapper--the parting gift of a girl friend--fromwhich her small flushed face seemed to grow like some delicate springblossom. With hurried steps--she might almost have been running away fromsomething--she crossed the room to a small table that served as acombination dresser and writing desk. Brushing aside her modest toiletarticles, she reached for a pad of paper and a small business-likefountain pen. Her aunts--she wanted them, all at once, and badly. Shewished that she might talk with them--writing seemed so inadequate.

  "My dears," she began, "I miss you very much. Often I'm lonely enough tocry. Of course," she added hastily (for they must not worry), "of course,every one is nice to me. I like every one, too. That is, except Dr.Blanchard. I guess I told you about him; he's the resident physician.He's awfully good looking but he's not very pleasant. I never hated anyone so--" she paused, for a moment, as a round tear splasheddevastatingly down upon the paper.