Part 24 (1/2)
”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 swis.h.i.+ng 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, refres.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+vered. ”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 s.h.i.+ning 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.