Rosa's Quest Part 1

Rosa's Quest.

by Anna Potter Wright.

I.

"HOW MUCH IS THE FARE?"

"Rosa! Rosa!"

"Yes'm, Mis' Gray, I'm coming."

"Well, fer land sakes then, hurry up, you lazy girl! I've been a-hollerin' till my throat's sore. You're always underfoot when you ain't wanted, then when you are wanted, you're no place to be found. If you wuz my girl, you'd be learnt to know more'n you know now, I can tell you that. I believe in young uns amountin' to somethin', but it's mighty little you know."

"But, Mis' Gray," faltered poor little Rosa, "mother was coughing awful, and I didn't hear you."

"Yes, your ma ag'in. I don't know what you'll have fer an excuse when she's gone, or what'll become of you either. I know one thing, though; I won't have you. But it'd be a heap sight better fer you if I would, and a real blessin', too."

"Why, where's mother going, Mis' Gray?" asked Rosa with wide-open and frightened eyes.

"There, there, Sary, don't talk to the child so! Never mind, Rosa dear, Sary don't mean it. Sary's a good woman, yes, a very good woman."

"I do too mean it, father, and I jest want you to keep still. You always take her part. Yes, I am a good woman, or I'd never kep' you after poor Tom got killed. I have to sew my finger ends off to git us enough to eat and to pay the rent. I always did have bad luck from the day I married Tom Gray. He would insist on keepin' you, and you wuz sick that summer he couldn't git no work. He'd walk all day a-tryin' to find somethin' to do, then set up all night with you, though I told him it wuzn't necessary. I washed and I sewed and I done everything, but our little home had to go. I thought then, and I think now, that we could a-kep'

it, if it hadn't been fer you. If Tom could git hold of a cent at all, it would go fer medicine, or somethin' fer you to eat. After you got well, he found a place to work, and wuz a-tryin' to git back the home, when he went and got killed, a-tryin' to keep a poor, good-fer-nothin'

beggar from bein' run over by the streetcar. All he left me wuz you to look after, and you ain't never had a bit of sense, since the day he wuz brought home to me all torn and bleedin'. There ain't many that's had as much to put up with as I have. I guess most daughters-in-law would jest have told you to leave, but no, I've been a-keepin' you fer the last five years, and no tellin' how much longer you'll live! And you didn't mind me this mornin', and I sprained my ankle a-goin'--"

"Grandpa," broke in Rosa, heedless of Mrs. Gray's irascible tongue, "what does she mean about mother going away?"

"Why, I don't know, child; I ain't heard no talk about her leavin', but then I git things so mixed up since Tom died."

"Rosa Browning, I didn't call you in here to ask foolish questions. I want you to deliver this package, and quick, too. If you hadn't talked so much, you could be well on your way by this time. It goes to that lady over on Lake Avenue, where I sent you once before."

"Oh, where I heard the beautiful music?"

"Yes, but don't you loiter on your way to listen to no music! Fine music ain't for the likes of us here on Burton street. It's a shame fer me to have to pay your carfare, but I 'spose you can't carry that big package so far. If you'd spend a little more time a-workin', and a little less a-lookin' after your ma, you'd have more strength, I won't have it said that I git work done fer nothin', so I'll give you ten cents besides.

You git a piece of beefsteak with it, and I'll broil it fer your ma's supper. You couldn't fix it fit to eat, nohow. I hope to goodness she won't cough all night and keep me awake."

"Oh, thank you, Mis' Gray, you are so kind," delightedly exclaimed Rosa, her wan little face lighting up with genuine pleasure at the thought that mother was going to have something good for supper.

"Now do be gone, and don't talk no more. You're enough to set me crazy, you and father."

"I'm off now, Mis' Gray. Goodby, grandpa dear," she affectionately said, kissing the old man's withered cheek, for these two children of the tenement, the one eight and the other eighty, were the best of friends.

"Rosa," called once again Mrs. Gray's shrill voice, as the child was making her way across the dark hall, "come back here!"

"Yes'm, Mis' Gray, here I am."

"You're so awful careless, you see to it that you don't lose that money I give you. If you do, you'll be sorry. You won't git the pay fer the work; I wouldn't trust you with that, nohow. Now hurry up and don't waste another minute! Wait! can't you give me a chance to tell you what I want? You're so provokin'. Be sure to tell your ma where you're goin', and that it'll take you about an hour and a half. I don't want her a-gettin' scared and a-hollerin' 'round and a-sendin' some one after you, like she did that day you didn't git home till dark. She acted ridiculous, as if she thought you never would come back. I couldn't fer the life of me see what made her do so; it was real silly, and I told her so at the time. I did think, though, that you'd ought to be licked fer not hurryin' up more, but she jest kissed you and cried all the more when I said so. Go and tell her now, and be sure you don't drop that package in the dirt."

This time Rosa started on a run, lest she might be called back once more. She feared the tyrant, but vainly endeavored to love her for grandpa's sake. He so often told her that "Sary was a good woman, yes, a very good woman."

"Mother dear," she said, upon entering their one poverty-stricken, but scrupulously neat, little room, "I'm going to deliver a package over on Lake Avenue for Mis' Gray, and will not be back for about an hour and a half, she told me to tell you; and she gave me ten cents, too. Ain't that nice? I'm going to get some beefsteak, and she'll broil it.

"But, mother, she said something about your going away, and didn't know what would become of me. You won't move, will you, without taking me along? I don't know what she could have meant. What did she mean, anyhow? Why do you cry, mother dear?" tremulously inquired the child, rushing impulsively up to the side of the bed.

"We'll talk when you come back, darling. Kiss me, my precious"; and the sufferer fell back upon her pillow, coughing violently, and moaning for very agony of spirit.

With a heart heavier than the huge package, Rosa sped down the steep stairway, out into the bitter December weather.

"Oh," she said, half audibly, "how cold it is! I'm glad I haven't far to go to take the car."

Quickly her nimble feet carried her, and in a few minutes she was scrutinizing the faces of her fellow-pa.s.sengers. Sitting across the aisle from her was a young lady, who to Rosa seemed the embodiment of beauty and elegance. While intently studying the fair face and neat costume, this object of her admiration suddenly crossed the car and sat down by her side. The sweet smile and cordial greeting made the child forget her timidity, and soon the two were conversing most familiarly.

"And so you are going to deliver that package over on Lake Avenue, are you?"

"Yes'm, and Mis' Gray gave me ten cents fer it, too. I'm going to get some steak, and she will broil it for mother's supper. Ain't that nice?

I'd think I'd be happy, but I ain't a bit. I keep wondering what she meant about mother going away, and she didn't know what would become of me. Why, lady, mother just can't move now; she's sick and has a dreadful cough! She hasn't even been in to see grandpa and Mis' Gray for a long time. Then I know, anyhow, she'd never go and leave me. Of course she wouldn't, for we're always together. She couldn't get along without me, 'cause I take care of her, and I know I couldn't get along without her at all. Mis' Gray ought to know that, for we've lived by her a long time. What do you 'spose she meant? I can't think about anything else."

"Why, my little girl," replied the stranger, while Rosa was more mystified than ever to see the blue eyes fill with tears, "sometimes when people are sick, they go to a better country than this. Do you know about heaven?"

"Not much, ma'am. When Mis' Gray goes away and mother's working, grandpa gets his old violin and sings to me about the beautiful land. He says that's heaven, but he can't explain it much to me. He says he can't think right since Tom got killed. You know Tom was his boy. Grandpa is so good. When mother moves, I know she will take me, and I wish he could go too. But, lady, do you 'spose that's the place where mother's going?"

"I hope so, dear, for she would not cough any more there."

"Oh, wouldn't she? I'll tell her about it, then. But how much is the fare? We're poor, you know."

"You do not have to pay any fare to go to that beautiful land, because Jesus paid it all long ago."

"Oh, how kind! He must be so good. Last night I wakened, and mother kissed me and said that Jesus surely would take care of me. Are you real sure He paid the fare for everybody?"

"Yes, I know it, for G.o.d so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life."

"Ain't that pretty! But where do you start from to get there?"

"Your mother could go right from your home."

"But she just ain't able to go any place; she can't sit up much now.

I'll tell her about it, though, then when she's better, we'll both go.

Does it take long to get there?"

"No, not so very."

"I wish we'd known it before it got so cold. It might make her cough worse to go out now. Are there many people in this land?"

"Yes, a great many."

"Are there more going?"