The Rosie World Part 24

"Rosie dear, you're all pale and thin," her mother remarked, and Janet McFadden, looking at her affectionately, said: "Now, Rosie, why don't you let me deliver your papers for a couple of days? You're f.a.gged out."

"No," Rosie said. "If you'll keep on coming over in the afternoon while I'm away, that's help enough."

"But, Rosie, I could do your papers easy enough. I know all your customers."

"'Tain't that, Janet. Of course, you know them. And I thank you for offering, for it sure is the hottest time of the day. But it's my only chance to get away from home for a little while and I think I'd just die if I didn't go."

So she went, as usual, though her feet dragged heavily and her eyes throbbed with a dull headache.

On the better streets the houses were tight shut to keep out the heat; but the doors and windows of the tenements were open, and Rosie could see the inside of untidy rooms where lackadaisical women lounged about and dirty, whiny children played and wrangled. Hitherto Rosie's thrifty little soul had sat in hard judgment on the inefficient tenement-dwellers, but today she looked at them with a sudden tenderness.

Poor souls, perhaps if all were known they would not be altogether to blame. Perhaps they, too, had once longed to give their babies the chance of life that all babies should have. Perhaps it was their failure in this, through poverty and ignorance, that was the real cause of their apathy and indifference. Rosie felt that she was almost going that way herself. Then, too, the husbands of many of these women were selfish and brutal; and surely it was enough to break a woman's spirit to have the man she had loved and trusted turn on her like a fiend. Rosie knew!

Not that she herself was angry any longer with George Riley. Goodness, no! It wasn't a question of anger. She simply had no feeling for him one way or another. How could she, when it was as if the part of her heart he had once occupied had been cut out of her with a big, b.l.o.o.d.y knife!

She merely regarded him now as she would any stranger. She would be polite to him--she tried always to be polite to every one--polite, yes; but nothing more. So when she handed him his supper-pail that evening at the corner, she said, "Good-evening." Common politeness required that much, but she did not feel that it required her to hear or to understand his plaintive, "Aw, now, Rosie!" as she turned from him.

No! Without doubt all that should ever again pa.s.s between them was, "Good-morning" or "Good-evening." And it was all right that it should be so. She wouldn't have it otherwise if she could. She told herself this as she walked home, repeating it so often that she quite persuaded herself of its truth. Yet, when Terry happened upon her unexpectedly a few moments later, he looked at her in surprise.

"What's the matter, Rosie? What you cryin' about?"

"N-nuthin'," Rosie quavered. "I--I guess I'm worried about Geraldine."

"Aw, don't you worry about Geraldine," Terry advised kindly. "This weather's got to break soon and then Geraldine'll be all right."

CHAPTER XXI

THE STORM

Terry was right. The change came the very next afternoon. Rosie had finished her papers and was on her way home when suddenly the wind rose and great ma.s.ses of black storm-clouds came driving across the sky.

Thunder rumbled, lightning crackled, and in a few minutes rain came swishing down in great long, splashy drops.

Instead of running for shelter, Rosie obeyed the impulse of the moment and stood where she was. She clutched a lamp-post to keep from being blown away, and then, turning her face to the sky, let the sweet, comforting rain wash down upon her and soak her through and through.

It was like a great, cool, refreshing shower-bath: it washed the dusty earth clean once again; it brought back a crispness to the air; it loosened the nervous tension under which all living things had been straining for days.

The clouds broke as suddenly, almost, as they had gathered. Watching them, Rosie sighed and shivered. "Oh, but that was nice!" Her hair was plastered over her head in loose, wet little ringlets, and her clothes hung tightly about her body. When she walked, her old shoes oozed and gurgled with water. She hurried home; yes, actually hurried, for it was cool enough to hurry; and besides, her wet clothes were beginning to chill her.

Janet McFadden met her with shining eyes. "Oh, Rosie, what do you think?

She's asleep! And she's just took her bottle, too--all of it, without waking up! Oh, I'm so happy!"

Rosie looked at Janet affectionately. "You've been awful good, Janet, helping me this way."

"Good--nuthin'!" Janet scoffed. "Aren't you paying me good money?...

But, Rosie, listen here about Geraldine: I wouldn't be a bit surprised if things'd be all right now. Those old teeth are certainly through. I let her bite my finger on both sides, just to see."

Perhaps Janet was right. Perhaps things were arranging themselves.

Rosie's heart sang a tremulous little song of happiness as she rubbed herself dry and put on fresh clothes. The world wasn't such a bad place after all, and the people in it weren't so bad, either. There was Janet--good, kind Janet--and Terry, and nice old George Riley--Rosie stopped short to scowl at herself in amazement. Then she repeated, defiantly, _nice old George Riley_. For he _was_ nice! And he always had been nice, too! What if he had forgotten himself once? Hadn't other people as well? Hadn't everybody, Rosie herself included, been crazy with the heat?

As Rosie looked at things now her only surprise was that George hadn't forgotten himself oftener! Come to think of it, he had kept his temper better than any one else in the family.... Dear old George! Rosie wanted to put her arms about his neck that instant and tell him how much she loved him.

Her first way of doing this was by saying to him as she handed him his supper-pail at six o'clock: "Oh, Jarge, what do you think? Geraldine's been asleep all afternoon!" This was a greeting very different from a cold, "Good-evening, Jarge," and George would understand the difference.

He did. His face beamed with understanding. "I'm awful glad, Rosie; honest I am!" Then as he ran back to his car he called out: "Rosie, wait up for me tonight. I've got something to tell you--something fine!"

"All right, Jarge, I will!" Rosie spoke with all her old-time enthusiasm, and waved him a frantic farewell.

CHAPTER XXII

A CHANCE FOR GERALDINE

After finishing her household duties and preparing Geraldine's last bottle, Rosie had nothing more to do but to enjoy the cool of the evening with the rest of the family. They were seated on the little front porch, Mrs. O'Brien and Jamie on chairs and Terence on the porch steps. Rosie took her place opposite Terence to await the arrival of George Riley.

In good time he came, bursting with his bit of news. "h.e.l.lo, Rosie!

h.e.l.lo, everybody!" he called out before he was inside the gate. He had a letter in his hand which he waved excitedly in Rosie's face.

"See this, Rosie? It's from mother; and what do you think? You and Geraldine are to go out to the country for two weeks and maybe three!

What do you say to that?"

For a moment Rosie had nothing to say. Then she gasped: "Why, Jarge, what do you mean?"

"And you're to start tomorrow, Rosie, on the eleven o'clock train, and dad'll be at the station to meet you. You'll know him 'cause he looks just like the farmers in the Sunday papers, with a big straw hat and thin whiskers. And he drives an old white horse--Billy's his name."

"Mercy on us, Jarge Riley, how you talk!" Mrs. O'Brien leaned forward in excitement. "What's this ye're sayin'?"

George laughed and started over again. "You see, Mis' O'Brien, Rosie and me was talking the other day about babies and the country, and then Geraldine began crying and I thought to myself, 'Well, I'll just write to mother and see.' I wrote that morning, and here's the answer. The postman gave it to me as I was starting out this afternoon."

"That's it, is it?" Mrs. O'Brien seemed to understand perfectly. To Rosie, however, the news still sounded too good to be true.

"Jarge, do you mean your mother has invited Geraldine and me out to the country for a couple o' weeks?"

"Sure, that's what I mean. And you're to start tomorrow----"

"Oh, Jarge, and can Geraldine sleep on the upstairs porch where the breeze always blows and they's no mosquitoes or flies?"

"O' course she can, and you can, too!"

Rosie was laughing and crying together. "Do you hear that, Ma? She's going to have a chance to sleep and get back her strength and then she'll be able to pull over this horrible teething time, and then she won't--she won't have to die!"

Rosie put her arms about George's neck and covered his cheek with tears and kisses. Then suddenly she paused.

"But, Jarge, I don't know whether I can go! What about my papers?"