CHAPTER I

SPRING ON EAST BROADWAY

Spring on East Broadway. The air is winey, the heavens are radiant blue and full of fire. A sparrow chirps on the window-sill, fluttering before the milk-glass sign: “Doctor Rast.” Down toward the East the wet pavement is golden with sun, and through the splendor wades an ancient people on their way to work. For it is early morning; early April; the waters of river and bay flash about that shining floating city of towers; and, though the great Earth is buried beneath paving stone and brick and steel and granite, her mighty yearning exhales through the cool white air, and four million human beings are dazzled and smelted in the fires of Spring.

The big dark Doctor was shaving before a tiny wall-mirror over the kitchen wash tub. He was in shirt and trousers, and his face was white with lather. Nell had the oatmeal cooking on the hot stove, and glided here and there singing snatches of song. Her eager olive-tinted face was flushed, her brown eyes afire. The little boy David, now nearly three, tugged at her skirts.

“Mother! Mother! Mother!”

She swung him up in her arms and laughed in his beautiful face; for he was a rosy new boy-god, straight and breathing health, overrunning with virility.

“Well!” she shook him. “Well, Blinkers!”

“I’m not Blinkers--I’m Davy,” he said indignantly.

“You’re Blinkers!” she shook him again.

“I’m not--_you’re_ Blinkers!”

“Then give me a kiss.”

“No--I can’t love you.”

“Whom do you love?”

“Daddy!”

The Doctor danced up and down with joy.

“Mother,” he cried, “the boy has genius!”

“No, I haven’t,” said Davy, “I’ve got a new nose.”

The Mother and Father laughed, and looked at each other.

“Where?” Nell gave him a squeeze.

“Here!” he delicately touched his nose with one finger.

“And where did you get it?”

“I bought it.”

“Where?”

“I bought it in the store.”

“With what?” cried the Doctor.

“A dollar,” said Davy calmly.

“And who gave you a dollar, you rascal?”

“Mother gave me a dollar.” The little imagination was set at work, and the little lips poured a wild stream of words, a breathless recitation: “I got a dollar and I went to the store and I said give me a new nose, and I gave the man a dollar and he gave me a nose. Isn’t that funny? And then I went to another store, and what do you think happened?”

“What?” cried his parents.

Three times he told his story, winding up, “Isn’t that funny? And then I went to another store, and what do you think happened?”

Nell and the Doctor laughed till the tears came, for they were the Mother and the Father and only they shared the secret of the miracle.

Then Nell put the boy down, and while he capered with excitement, put a wooden bowl on a chair, filled it with cut vegetables, and gave him a chopper. He set to work with a will, chopping the vegetables, a tiny mite laboring like a man. He looked up.

“I’m a helper, Mother, I’m a helper!”

Nell whispered to the Doctor:

“Just watch!”

And they put their arms round each other, and leaned close, smiling:

“Look,” said Nell, “he does it just as I do--scrapes round the side and chops in toward the center. Isn’t it wonderful?”

The Doctor sighed:

“And to think that he came to the world through us! That we had a hand in creating him! Pretty good work, Nell!”

The little fellow ran to the cupboard, obtained imaginary salt with his hand, and hurried back to sprinkle his hash. He could not contain himself for joy. He turned to his mother and cried in a wild treble music:

“Oh, I love you so much, I don’t know what to do!”

The Doctor shouted; the young Mother snatched up her baby and hugged him to her heart.

Truly it was Springtime; joy was in the air, and new life; and the Earth had her way with the stone city. That little kitchen, with its shafts of bright light through the window, sang like a clearing in a wilderness. And even as the Earth enfolded with love and tenderness her young buds, her song-stricken birds, her singing waters, even so this man and woman enfolded their living child.

“He is like a little bird,” said the Doctor, “so full of song; so fresh; so sweet. And like a little blossom.”

He went on and finished his dressing, and the boy toiled and sang aloud, and the Mother prepared breakfast. Then the Doctor touched Nell on her shoulder.

“Shall I tell you a secret, Mother?”

“Yes. What is it?”

He seized both her arms and looked in her face.

“Spring is here!”

They smiled at one another.

“What does it remind you of?” he went on.

“Us.”

And then she whispered:

“I’m always full of yearning in the Spring. Remember the nights we used to walk together?”

“Moonlight nights!”

“Oh, I wish we were in love again!”

He smiled and drew her close.

“Let’s be, then,” he whispered. “Let’s have the old enchantment again--the old witchery. A kiss in secret--a walk through deserted streets--a quarrel--romance!”

“And let’s elope!” she cried.

“Yes,” he said with a grin, “but we’ll be original, sweetheart. We’ll take the boy with us!”

Whereupon they laughed, and the scene turned human again, and they sat and ate a hearty breakfast, and were glad that life was so full of commonplaces. For what more can a man ask than to eat breakfast with his wife and his son on a Spring morning?

Then, after breakfast, the Doctor felt too happy to work, so Davy was shoved into a coat and hat, and his father took him out into the street, and they went wandering together. The first breath of that cool pure air, the first sight of golden pave and clear blue sky, the first thrill of sun, changed the Doctor into a young boy. He and Davy babbled together like closest chums.

Many passing nodded to the Doctor. Old women in wigs and shawls, old men bearded and wrinkled, mothers leading children, young men on the way to work, cheerily spoke a good morning and passed. The old-fashioned red street, with a horse-car passing, with the Educational Alliance lifting yellow opposite and a crowd of children lined up at the door, was beautiful to the Doctor. Every step was rich with associations, bloody almost with the life of the past. For the Doctor had been working in the Ghetto for years now; he had come down with his young wife to serve his own people--serve them not with drug and knife alone, but rather with understanding, with wisdom and with love. And so his name had gone out to thousands, his face in the doorway made the sick strong, his counsel was sought in matters of birth and of life and death. He was the best-loved man in the East Side.

And so, as he and Davy babbled together through the joyous morning, he was greeted by many as they passed. Suddenly a young voice cried:

“Good morning!”

The Doctor looked up. It was Edith Kroll, a girl of seventeen--young as the morning. A faint flush was in her fresh cheeks, her blue eyes were full of soft light, her light-brown hair went out in strands that fluttered in the stirring air. She was graceful, slim, exquisite, her little blue hat contrasting with the blue of her eyes. As she cried “good morning” her face was lit with soft laughter, and she leaned quickly and kissed Davy on the cheek.

Davy shrieked: “Don’t do that!”

The Doctor laughed, and took her little cool hand in both of his.

“Well! Edith!” he cried. “Nun ya, how goes it?”

The girl’s cheeks burned, and she looked down shyly.

“Oh,” she said hastily, and withdrew her hand, “I was just going to stop in a moment.”

His voice took on concern.

“Is anything the matter?”

“Nothing much,” she murmured, “Mother isn’t so well again. Do you want to go and see her?”

“Surely!” he said heartily, and snatched at Davy who was bound for the gutter.

“Well,” he went on, “how are you?”

“Oh, I’m all right.”

“And the job?”

“It’s good.” She looked up, smiling, “I got a raise last month.”

“A raise!” he whistled, “why, splendid!”

“I’m getting twelve a week now.”

He spoke tenderly:

“Edith, I’m glad. But I’m not surprised. All my girls are wonders!”

She flushed hotter with the praise, and her eyes shone as she looked down on the pavement and played with her hands.

The Doctor smiled softly:

“How you’ve changed, how you’ve grown! Tut, I’m getting to be an old man.”

She looked up sharply:

“No, you’re not!”

He groaned.

“But are you sure?”

“Yes,” she cried “sure.”

He murmured absently:

“I just wonder if Edith is in love.”

She seemed startled and surprised:

“No! never!” she spoke vehemently “I’m never going to marry.”

“Never?”

“Why should I?”

Again he spoke absently, his lips twitching with smiles:

“Davy, it’s a habit girls have, isn’t it? Wait, till she meets the right man, eh, Davy?”

Davy laughed knowingly, though he had to force himself to do it, and the sound resembled a cackle.

“See?” triumphed the Doctor.

But Edith only darted down and kissed the young fellow, cried a “good-by,” and ran off laughing. The Doctor watched her lovingly as she swung down the block and round the corner, a graceful young girl, light on her feet as a faun, dancing over the April earth like a flame in the blue morning.

She hurried through the playground park. Just a hint of fresh green tipped the boughs of the glistening trees, and here and there in the branches blackbirds loosed their dark raucous cries; sparrows crowded the walk where an old man was scattering bread crumbs; and troops of little children, laughing, chattering, walked and ran toward the big white public school. They seemed like human sparrows, or, rather, blackbirds and redbirds, overrunning with laughter and song. Higher rose the sun over the swarming city; the air was white haunted with gold; the heavens seemed to dream and yearn, they were so blue, and steeped in these mysterious fires the heart of the young girl seemed to empty with yearning. What she wanted she hardly knew. Was it to leave the city, and go out beyond the horizon into some enchanted wilderness? Did she long to sit at the side of some wild water and brood and dream? Or did she want people? Did she crave human words, human touch, human faces? No, she wanted something wilder, sweeter. How could she know that she was in the throes of adolescence, that she was awaking to sex, that hereafter there would be two miracles on Earth: man and woman? How could she know what the word love meant as between girls and boys? The Doctor had whispered of marriage, but looking on the young men that passed, she saw no glamour. The Doctor was her ideal of a man--and these were very unlike him.

Sweet Edith! Just seventeen--seventeen years in the heart of the deep city--and yet a simple and innocent and quiet life. Public school, shorthand school, the job in the clothing business--her few friends, her two brothers, her ailing mother. She had had a taste of theater; she had gone to night school; she sometimes attended a lecture, or a meeting of the people at Cooper Union. But thus far, though the wild city whirled like a cyclone about her, with its Broadway, its Bowery, its crime and commerce, its toil and struggle and tragicomedy of millions of living people, Edith had lived in the quiet center of the storm, a life immured, innocent, and had grown naturally as flower unfolding from bud.

She was at the perilous age. From unconscious childhood she had emerged, and found that she, too, was a miracle--a human being capable of the depths and heights of life, packed with all sweet possibilities. All the world was new; a wonder was everywhere. Romance lurked in familiar corners, transfiguring them. Anything might break open in her heart now and sweep her with the passions that drive a life to divine heights or ruin it.

Sweet Edith! There she was that young Spring morning, living, breathing, hurrying through the crowds of children, innocent as they, fresh as a new wild-rose, light on her feet, and full of the yearning fire of the blue. Can’t you see her, her little blue hat stuck with a black feather, her bending blue-eyed face, her lithe little body gracefully gliding through the cool air? Surely she was made for happiness, for motherhood and home, and all the quiet round of human life!

She turned into shining Grand Street; she walked down the street to a tall loft-building, entered, climbed a flight of stairs, and pushed open a door into the “factory.” There in twilight were the garment-makers, stitching, cutting, and crazily racing the machines. She passed through the hubbub to the front, opened a door of a partition, and stepped into the offices. There were four of these, partitioned from each other, and connected by doors. The center one was the show-room, with large oak-table, and racks. Two young men were chatting at the open window and gazing down at the street. Edith did not notice them, but passed into the adjoining office, took off hat and coat, opened the window, pulled the cover from the typewriter, and set to work busily cleaning the machine. The hum of the young men’s voices reached her, but she paid no heed to their words.

The young men were chatting amiably. One of them was Frank Lasser, the new traveling salesman, territory Pennsylvania--a smartly dressed fellow, almost insolently handsome. He had large black eyes, a little brown mustache, and black hair smoothly plastered on a high forehead. His chin was weak. He spoke volubly and cynically. His companion was Jonas Zug, salesman for New York State, young, but almost bald. As they talked trade and territory, a barrel organ in the street below loosed a wild waltz-music. The young men leaned out of the window. Four little school-girls had handed their books to others and were dancing in the center of an absorbed circle of people. They executed, not a waltz, but a wild street-dance, passionate, swift, their whole bodies playing rhythmically. One forgot tattered shoes and torn aprons and thin cheeks--so wild a magic was wrought by the dance. All the fresh glory of the morning, all the yearning and fire of the sun and the air, seemed to pulse through the world from them.

Zug spoke grimly:

“That’s where the chorus girls come from, eh? My! but they dance!”

Frank laughed, and pointed:

“See that one with the red sweater? Ain’t she a peach, though?”

She was a strange creature--a girl with fiery black eyes, glossy black hair flying wild. She danced with a weird fury, throwing back her head now and then, shaking out her curls; her little feet flew, kicked, whirled; her thin arms and hands darted snakily, out, up, under. Something of the burning desert was in the face, something of the tropical in her motions; she seemed like the ominous fire-shot smoke-plume of a volcano. The crowd was fascinated, drawing closer; there was a queer feeling that mighty destinies hung on the dance; that it was leading _somewhere_; that it was moving toward some crisis.

Zug breathed fast and watched sharply. And then the music ceased and the girl stopped short. A noise of many voices went up about her.

“Gee!” said Frank, “in a few years that girl will be worth trapping.”

Zug turned angrily, and raised his voice:

“Quit it, will you? Can’t you think of anything else, Lasser?”

“Well, well!” Frank whistled. “We’re getting virtuous in our old age, ain’t we?”

Zug spoke with uncalled-for passion:

“I’m getting decent, Lasser, and you----”

Frank laughed:

“So you’ve finished sowing your wild oats--Congratulations! Have you set the date?”

“What do you mean?”

Suddenly the air grew electric, as with two souls grappling in a death struggle. Frank was amazed, startled; but he spoke lightly.

“I mean, when’s the wedding, eh?”

“Whose wedding?”

“Oh, come off,” said Frank cynically, “how should I know her name.”

“Whose name?”

“The lady’s. Is she on the premises? Is she a sweatshop lady?”

Zug squared a fist, and his voice rose and rang with passion:

“Now, see here, Lasser, I say you’ll cut this out. Understand?”

“Oh, that’s it!” laughed Frank easily. “You’ve got it bad, Jonas.”

Zug’s voice rose higher, and he raised his fist:

“Damn you----”

Then, suddenly, he dropped his hand, and stood back, abashed, ashamed, his face very pale. At the same moment a light delicate hand touched Frank’s arm, and a low sweet voice quivered at his ear:

“You must both stop this--both.”

Frank turned, and looked into Edith’s face. The light of the blue eyes went into him, running after the music of the voice. He saw the lips quiver; he saw the wisps of light-brown hair; the wild-rose cheeks. Strength went out of him; cynicism left him. And then he heard Zug speaking in a low, humble voice:

“I didn’t mean it, Miss Edith, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry--awfully sorry.”

Edith spoke sadly:

“I’m sure you only forgot yourself, Mr. Zug.”

And she was gone--vanishing like a startled fawn.

Truly it was the Springtime--and Earth was yearning as she enfolded her creatures with strength and love; the air was cool; the heavens utterly blue; and the fires touched a heart here and there and woke it to dream and mystery and wild enchantment. Frank Lasser was young in years, but far from the pure beauty of this world. He did not know girls of this type. As he stood helpless, he felt as if a new Power was clutching at his heart.

And then he looked at Zug and saw a remorseful face and tear-stained eyes--a man stricken down.

“Oh,” he murmured, “I see! I see!”