The Rosie World Part 17

Mrs. O'Brien looked at her daughter in patient despair.

"My, my, Rosie, what a child ye do be! Wouldn't it be awful of me to go insultin' poor little Janet by saying: 'Ho, ho, Janet, that's a fine black eye yir da has given you!'"

Rosie squirmed in exasperation. "But why do you got to say anything? Why do either of you got to say anything?"

"Why do I got to say anything?" In Mrs. O'Brien, surprise had now turned to amazement. "Why, Rosie dear, what's this ye're askin' me? Haven't I always got to say somethin'? Wasn't it for talkin' purposes that the Lord put a tongue in me head?"

"But couldn't you talk about something else besides that black eye?"

"I could not. Take me word for it, Rosie, that black eye was the one thing of all to talk about. Don't you see, dear, 'twas that was taking up Janet's entire attention, for it was on her mind as well as on her face. So not to make it awkward for the poor child, I simply had to talk and let her talk."

Rosie still shook her head obstinately. "Even if it was on her mind, I don't see why she had to go make up that silly story that n.o.body believes, and that she don't believe herself. She always does."

Mrs. O'Brien's face broke into a smile of understanding.

"Ah, Rosie, I see now what's troublin' you. You don't see why poor Janet wants to cover up that brute of a Dave."

This was exactly what was troubling Rosie, as she agreed readily enough.

"And, Ma," she continued, "do you suppose if my father beat me, I'd go around pretending he was the best ever? Well, I wouldn't!"

"Your poor da, did you say, Rosie? May G.o.d forgive you for havin' such a thought! Why, that poor lamb wouldn't hurt a fly--he's that gentle! Ah, Rosie, it's on yir knees ye ought to be every night of yir life, thankin' G.o.d for the kind o' father I picked out for you!"

"I am thankful, but I wouldn't be if he was like Dave McFadden. And I wouldn't pretend I was, either."

"Ah, it's little ye know about that, Rosie, for just let me tell ye--ye'd be exactly like Janet if ye were in Janet's shoes."

"I bet I wouldn't!"

"Rosie, ye couldn't help yirself. Ye'd have to stand up for him even if he was a brute."

"Why would I have to?"

"Because he's your da. Is it possible, Rosie dear, that ye don't yet know 'tis a woman's first duty to stand up for a man if he's her da, or her brother, or her husband, or her son? Mercy on us, where would we be if she didn't? Have ye ever heard me, all the years of your life, breathe a whisper against Jamie O'Brien?"

"I should think not!" To Rosie this seemed a very poor example of the principle in question. "How could you? Dad never even beats the boys, let alone you and me!"

Mrs. O'Brien smacked her lips pensively. "No, he don't beat me." She sighed slowly. "I mean _now_ he don't."

Rosie looked at her mother with startled eyes. "Ma, what do you mean?"

Mrs. O'Brien sighed again, and took up her darning. "Nuthin' at all, Rosie. I don't know what I'm sayin'. I can't gab another minute, for I must finish this sock. So run off, like a good child, and don't bother me."

"But, Ma"--Rosie's voice dropped to a whisper, and a look of horror came into her face--"do you mean he used to--beat you?"

"Rosie dear, stop pesterin' me with your questions. Far be it from me to set child against father, and, besides, as you know yourself, he's behavin' now. What's past is past. I've said this much to you, Rosie, so's to give you a hint of the ragin' lions that these here quiet, soft-spoken little lambs of men keep caged up inside o' them. Oh, I tell you, Rosie dear, beware o' that kind of a man, for you never know when the lion in him is goin' to break loose and leap out upon you. Ah, I know what I'm sayin' to me everlastin' sorrow!"

"Why, Ma, are you crazy! Dad has never laid a finger on you, or on any one else, and you know he hasn't!"

Rosie scanned her mother's face in hope of discovering a little family joke, but Mrs. O'Brien met her gaze with sad, truthful eyes as guileless as a baby's.

"All right, Rosie dear, maybe your poor ma is crazy. But I wonder now ye've never noticed the scar on me right shoulder, nor asked the cause of it."

"What scar?"

"Have you never seen it, Rosie?"

Mrs. O'Brien began unb.u.t.toning her waist to exhibit the scarred shoulder. Then she paused, thought a moment, and changed her mind.

"No. As ye've never noticed it, Rosie, it wouldn't be right of me to show it to you now. The sight of it might make you bitter. But you surprise me that you've never seen it. It's a foot long at least, and two fingers deep, and itches in rainy weather."

"Why, Ma!" Rose's eyes were fixed, and her mouth a round, blank question mark.

"Upon me word of honour, Rosie!"

For a moment Rosie was too shocked to go on. Then she gasped: "How--how did it happen?"

"How did it happen, do you ask? That, Rosie, is a secret that'll go with me to the grave. This much I'll tell you--'twas made with a butcher-knife. But who gave the blow, I wouldn't confess under torture.

Now, Rosie dear, don't tempt me to say another word, for I'm done."

Mrs. O'Brien lifted her head high, took a long breath, and began a serious attack on the sock.

Rosie questioned further, but in vain.

CHAPTER XV

THE BRUTE AT BAY

Her own father!... All afternoon as she went about delivering papers, Rosie's mind kept going over this amazing revelation. Not for an instant did she question the truth of it. An exuberance of imagination very often led her mother to embroider fancifully the details of a story, but surely not this time. This time that scar, that awful scar, was evidence enough of what had taken place.

To think that Rosie had never even suspected that side of her father's nature! She shuddered at her own innocence. To her, her father had always seemed all gentleness and meekness. Gentleness and meekness, indeed! Why, with that raging lion ramping and tearing about inside of him he was little better than a wolf in sheep's clothing!

At first Rosie dreaded ever seeing him again. She doubted whether, at sight of him, she could conceal sufficiently the abhorrence that she felt. Then she began to want to see him, as one wants to see the animals in the carnivora building at feeding time. It is a racking experience, but one likes to go through it. Rosie's final decision was to take one look at the beast, hear for herself the sound of its roar, then flee it forever.

A good time to see Jamie O'Brien was after supper, in the cool of the evening, when he slipped off his shoes, unloosened his suspenders, and sat him down in the peace and quiet of the back yard. He had a broken-down old arm-chair, which he knew how to prop against the ancient little apple-tree and support with a brick at its shortest leg. For one-half hour every summer evening, when the old chair was properly braced, and his sock feet were stretched out at ease on a soap-box, Jamie O'Brien knew comfort, utter and absolute. It was the moment when, like old King Cole, he called for his pipe.

"Rosie dear, like a good child, will you bring me me pipe and a few matches?"

Rosie, busied in the kitchen over the supper dishes, always knew just when this call was coming, and always had her answer ready: "All right, Dad. Just wait till I dry my hands and I will."

Tonight she gave the usual answer in the usual cheerful tone, for she felt that it behooved her to meet deceit with deceit if she was to catch the beast unaware. So she got Jamie his pipe, and later came out again and perched on the arm of his chair.

"Say, Dad," she began.