THE SUBSTITUTE LADY
Rosie now entered upon a season of unparalleled gaiety. It was as if she
were being rewarded for her generosity in thinking not of herself nor of
her dislike for the object of George's fancy but only of George and of
his happiness. It had been something of a struggle in the first place to
advise a course of action which really might awaken in Ellen an
appreciation of George's worth. Well, Rosie had advised it in all
frankness and sincerity. That the putting into practice of this advice
was working out to Rosie's own advantage is neither here nor there. If,
in the campaign which she and Danny had planned, there had to be a
substitute lady, why, as an after-thought, should not Rosie herself be
that lady?
With George, Rosie never forgot that the relationship was a substitute
one. Whenever he did something particularly lover-like, she would
commend him as a teacher commends an apt pupil: "Jarge, you certainly
are learning!" or, "I don't care what you say, Jarge, but if you were
really making love to me and acted this beautiful, you sure could have
me!"
In giving him hints about new attentions, she never made the matter
personal. She would say, casually: "Now there's one thing a girl just
loves, Jarge, and you ought to know it. It's to have her beau do
unexpected things for her. I mean if he's used to giving her candy every
night, it just tickles her to death to get up some morning and find a
little package waiting for her. And if he goes to the trouble of
sticking in a little note that says:
"'My dearest Sweetheart, I couldn't wait until to-night to give
you this....'
why, she just goes crazy about him. Whatever you do, Jarge, you mustn't
forget that girls love to get notes all the time."
This particular instruction Rosie had frequently to repeat before George
put it into execution. "Aw, now, Rosie," he used to plead, "you know
perfectly well I ain't nuthin' of a letter-writer."
But Rosie was firm. "Do as you like," she would say, "but you can take
it from me they ain't nuthin' like letters to make a girl sit up. You're
practising on me, so you might as well practise right. Besides, it's not
hard, really it's not. You don't have to be fancy. Why, I once heard a
girl tell about a letter that she thought was great and all it said was,
'Say, kid, maybe I ain't crazy about you!' Now is it so awful hard to
tell a girl you're crazy about her if you are? And that's all that any
love-letter says anyhow."
"Seems to me," George grumbled one day, "for a kid you know an awful lot
about love-letters."
"Of course I do," Rosie told him. "I know just the kind I'd like to get
and that's the kind every girl would like to get."
All such discussions took place in the privacy of their
pseudo-courtship. Who would have the heart to be censorious if, to the
outside world, Rosie began to bear herself with something of the air of
a lady who has a knight, of a girl who has a beau? It would have been
beyond human nature for Rosie not to remark periodically to Janet
McFadden: "What do you suppose it is that makes Jarge Riley treat me so
kind? He just seems to lie awake nights to think up nice things to do."
Janet, being a true friend, would give a long sigh and murmur: "Don't it
beat all, Rosie, the way some girls have beaux from the beginning and
some don't. I suppose it runs in your family. You know Tom Sullivan is
always asking about you. Whenever I go to Aunt Kitty's or when Tom comes
to our house, the first thing he says is, 'How's Rosie O'Brien these
days?' If only he wasn't so bashful, he'd invite you to the movies--you
know he would. Of course he asks me because we're cousins, but I tell
you one thing, Rosie: you're the one he'd like to take."
What Janet was always saying about Tom Sullivan's devotion to Rosie was
perfectly true but, nevertheless, it was so generous in Janet to
acknowledge it that Rosie was always ready to declare: "Aw, now, Janet,
you needn't go jollyin' me like that! Tom likes you awful well and you
know he does."
Rosie never talked to Janet about her own round of pleasure without
stopping suddenly with a feeling of compunction and the quick question:
"But, Janet dear, how are things going with you? How's your poor mother
and is your father still on the water wagon?"
News about Mrs. McFadden was slow in changing. For days she lay in the
hospital, weak and broken, not wishing to come back to life and without
interest in herself or her husband or even her child. A case like this
takes a long time, the nurse would tell Janet and Janet had only this to
repeat in answer to Rosie's inquiries.
With Dave McFadden it was different. There the unexpected was happening.
It was a week before Janet risked speaking of it. Then, in awe-struck
tones, she confided to her friend.
"Say, Rosie, what do you think? He hasn't had a drink since the day you
stayed all night with me. I don't know how long he can stand it. He
looks awful and he makes me give him about ten cups of tea at night. I
don't believe he sleeps more than half an hour." Not relief so much as a
new kind of fear showed in Janet's face and sounded in her voice. "And,
Rosie, he's just terrible to live with, because he never says a word....
Don't it beat all the way you long and long for a thing and then, when
you get it, it turns out entirely different! There I used to suppose I'd
be perfectly happy if only he'd stop boozing but now, when I wake up at
night and hear him rolling around and groaning, why, do you know, Rosie,
it scares me to death. It's just like he's fighting something that I
can't see. And the worst is I can't do anything to help him but get up
and make him some more tea."
Both Rosie and Janet were too familiar with Dave's type to hail as a
happy reformation those first days of struggle. They stood back and
waited, grateful for each day won but as yet not at all confident of the
morrow.
"He certainly is trying," Rosie would say, and Janet would repeat, a
little dubiously, "Yes, he's trying."
A day came when she looked tenser and more breathless than usual. "What
do you think, Rosie? He handed me over fifteen dollars this week and ten
last week that I didn't tell you about. I didn't want to too soon. All
he said was, 'You take care of this till your mother comes home.' I'm
paying up the back rent and I've started a savings account at the
Settlement."
Rosie's eyes opened wide. "Well now, Janet, he certainly does deserve
credit!" As Janet made no comment, Rosie demanded: "Don't you think he
does?"
Janet's answer was disconcerting. "Why does he deserve credit for doing
what he ought to do?"
Rosie was a little hurt. "When a person does right, I don't see why
you're so afraid of giving them a little credit."
"Rosie O'Brien, you're just like all the women! Let a good-for-nothing
drunk sober up for a day or two, and they all go saying, 'The poor
fellow! Ain't he fine! Ain't he noble! He certainly does deserve
credit!' But do you ever hear them giving any credit to the decent
hard-working men who support their families every day of the year? I've
never heard you say that your father deserved credit!"
This was rather startling and Rosie could only answer stiffly, though
somewhat lamely: "My father's different!"
"I should think he was different! And when he hands over money which
goes to support his own family, I see you and your mother and the rest
of you falling down on your knees and saying: 'Oh, thank you, dear
father! You are so noble!' Well, that's what you expect me to do to my
old man and that's what he expects, too, because for a week or so he's
been paying the bills he ought to pay. And when I don't say it I wish
you'd see how injured he looks."
Rosie could not meet the logic of Janet's position, but logic is not
everything in this life. "I don't care what you say, Janet," she
persisted, "I don't think it would hurt you one bit to say 'Thank you'
to him."
Janet started to answer again, then stopped with a laugh. "Tell you
what, Rosie, I promise you this: I'll say 'Thank you' to him as soon as
you say 'Thank you' to your father for the three meals you eat every
day, for the clothes you wear, for the house you live in."
It was Rosie's turn to flare up. "Janet McFadden, you're crazy! Haven't
I a right to all those things? Don't I do my share of work in the
family?"
"Yes, Rosie, you do and I'm not saying that you haven't every right to
them. But why don't you see that I've got the same right? Don't I work
as hard as you? And hasn't my poor mother worked harder than your mother
has ever worked? My father's got out of the way of supporting us, so I'm
not surprised that he thinks he's a wonder when he does it for a couple
of days, but search me if I see why you should think so, too, when your
father has always supported you without saying a word about it." Janet
paused, then ended with a rush: "Oh, don't you see, it would choke me to
say 'Thank you' to him with ma lying there in the hospital like a dead
woman! Why hasn't he always done this? There's nothing he can do now to
make up for all those years. It's too late! Even if she does get well,
she'll never be the same. The nurse told me." Janet hid her face in her
arm and dry gasping sobs began to shake her body.
"Aw, now, Janet, don't!" Rosie begged. "I see what you mean and I don't
blame you--honest I don't."
The issue that Janet had raised was a little beyond Rosie's
understanding, but Rosie did realize that Janet was right. Janet's point
of view often startled and dismayed her. As on this occasion she would
always begin disputing it vehemently and end meekly accepting it.
If Rosie did not make Janet her confidante in regard to the attentions
she was receiving from George, it was because the true inwardness of
that affair was in the nature of a secret between her and Danny Agin.
Rosie was tremendously fond of Janet but, after all, Janet was not her
only friend. Danny Agin, too, had certain rights that must not be
forgotten. Besides, it must be confessed, it was sweet to hear Janet's
"Ohs!" and "Ahs!" over what seemed to be each new evidence of George's
devotion.
Danny Agin was watching as keenly as Janet the little comedy which he
himself had set in motion.
"So she looked at you like a black thunder-cloud, did she?" he had said,
with a chuckle, when Rosie had related Ellen's surprise and involuntary
chagrin at George's deflection.
"Yes," Rosie told him. "And, do you know, Danny, when she tried to guy
Jarge, he was able for her. She called him a craddle-robber and he says:
'I'm not so sure of that. Let's see: I'm about six years older than
Rosie. That means when she's eighteen I'll be twenty-four. That ain't
so bad.' And oh, Danny," Rosie ended, "I wish you could have seen how
mad Ellen was!"
Danny laughed. "I do see her this minute!" He mused awhile, his eyes
blinking rapidly. "It's this way, Rosie: in any case it's a fine
arrangement for Jarge, for it has a sort of double-barrelled action.
Maybe it'll bring Ellen around. That would suit him fine. But, by the
same token, if it don't bring her around, it won't very much matter,
for, before he knows what he's about, Jarge'll be wakin' up to the fact
that he's havin' just as good a time with another girl as he'd ever be
havin' with Ellen and, once he knows that, good-bye to Ellen and her
tantrums!"
"Do you really think so, Danny?" Rosie put the question anxiously.
"Do I think so? I do. What else could I think with the sight I've had of
all the lads I've ever known fallin' in love and most of them fallin'
out again?"
As usual, Danny's words gave Rosie something to cogitate. "Are you
perfectly sure, Danny, they do sometimes fall out again?"
Danny raised his right hand to heaven. "I'd be willin' to take me oath
they do! In fact, Rosie darlint, it would shame me to tell you how often
they do!"