A FEVERED WORLD
It was a sultry, oppressive night, hard enough for adults to endure and
fearfully weakening to teething babies. The next day the heat continued
and Geraldine fretted and drooped until Rosie was frantic with anxiety.
"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 fagged 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, bloody 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 pass 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."