She read it again by the light of the candle.
"Good-night," they chorused politely, as they might to any stranger.
Rosie started in, then turned back. "And, Jarge, I forgot to tell you about Monday afternoon. I'm sorry I can't go with you but Tom Sullivan invited me first."
"That so?" George said, and from his tone, Rosie knew that he didn't understand what she was talking about. Worse still, he wasn't interested enough to find out.
Rosie dragged herself slowly upstairs. In the bedroom, when she felt for matches, she discovered that her hand was still clutching the note which George had given her earlier in the evening. She read it again by the light of the candle. "... Say, kid, I'm just crazy about you!..." Jackie turned over in his sleep and Rosie hastily blew out the candle for fear he should open his eyes and see her tears.
She groped her way to bed in the dark and wept herself miserably to sleep.
Thenext morning at breakfast Ellen declared herself. She addressed her mother, but what she had to say was for the whole family.
"I just want to tell you, Ma, I'm done with stenography forever. 'Tain't my line and I know it and I should have known it long ago. Now you needn't argue because that's all there is about it."
Mrs. O'Brien looked at Ellen blankly. "Why—why, Ellen dear," she stammered, "what's this I hear you saying?"
Ellen repeated her announcement slowly and distinctly.
"But, Ellen," Mrs. O'Brien protested, "how can you talk so and the beautiful way you've been getting on and the beautiful way Mr. Hawes has been treating you? And what will Mr. Hawes say—poor, kind-hearted gentleman that he is! Oh, Ellen dear, with your fine looks and your fine education I beg you not to throw it all away!"
Mrs. O'Brien mopped her eyes with her apron and pleaded on. It did not occur to her to ask the reason for Ellen's sudden decision. After all, sudden decisionswere merely characteristic of Ellen. Terence, however, peered at his sister sharply.
"Huh! Seems to me stenography was all right yesterday! What's happened to make you change your mind? Did that Hawes fellow say something to you last night at the Island?"
Ellen had decided that the family were not to know the details of the previous night's adventure and, before they came down in the morning, she had pledged Rosie to secrecy. Yet some sort of explanation had to be offered. She looked at Terry now with a candour that was new to her and that did much to win his support.
"Terry," she began slowly, with none of her usual aggressiveness, "you always thought my going to that business college and trying to do office work was foolish. You've said so all along. I didn't use to believe you were right but I do now. I'd never do decent office work in a hundred years. I'm sorry all the money you and dad had to put up and I'll pay you back if I can."
"Gee!" murmured Terry in astonishment, "you sure must have got some blowing up to make you feel that way about it!"
"Well, that's the way I do feel," Ellen said quietly.
"But, Ellen," Mrs. O'Brien wailed, "you don't mean it—I know you don't! Why, what'll you do if you throw up this fine position with Mr. Hawes? Nowadays a girl can't sit at home and do nothing!She's either got to work or get married." Mrs. O'Brien paused with a new idea which her own words suggested to her. "Is it—is it that you're getting married?"
Ellen spoke quickly: "Ma, I expect to work and I'm going to work. But I'm going to do something I can do well."
"That you can do well!" echoed Mrs. O'Brien. "I don't rightly catch your meanin', Ellen. Here you've landed a fine position and your boss is a nice friendly gentleman and now you're turning your back on it all to take up something else! I don't understand you at all, at all! And to think," Mrs. O'Brien concluded brokenly, "of the skirts and shirtwaists that I've stayed up all hours of the night to iron for you, just to keep you lookin' sweet and clean down at that office!"
"Ma, I'm sorry to disappoint you—honest I am. But, don't you see, it's just this way: I've made a bad mistake and the sooner I get out of it the better it will be for me. What I ought to do is something I can do."
"Something you can do, indeed! And will you tell me, me lady, what is it you can do so much better than stenography?"
Ellen flushed but answered firmly: "I can trim hats."
"Trim hats!" screamed Mrs. O'Brien. "What's this ye're sayin'? Do you mean to tell me that you're willing to be a milliner when you might bea stenographer? Why, anybody at all can go and be a milliner!"
"Anybody can't be a fine milliner. And you needn't think there isn't good money in millinery. The head of a big millinery department gets a couple of thousand a year!"
Mrs. O'Brien blinked her eyes. "Has some one been offering you that kind of a position?" Her tears ceased to flow. Once again she beamed on Ellen with all her old-time pride. "Ah, Ellen, you rogue, you're keeping something back! Come, tell me what's happened!"
Ellen sighed helplessly. "Ma, I'm trying to tell you, but you make it awful hard for me. You go off every minute and don't give me a chance to finish."
Mrs. O'Brien folded her hands complacently. "Ellen dear, I won't utter another syllable—I promise you I won't. Now tell me in two words what's happened."
"Well, Ma, it's this: I'm through with stenography and I'm going in for millinery, which I think I can do better."
"But where, Ellen, where are you going in for it? That's the great p'int!"
"I'm going to try Hattie Graydon's aunt first. She always says that not one of the girls in her shop begins to have the taste that I've got, and one time she told me if ever I wanted a job to come to her."
The happy look in Mrs. O'Brien's face slowly faded. Tears again filled her eyes. "And is that all you've got to tell me?"
"Yes, Ma, that's all. I'm going down to see Miss Graydon this morning."
"Oh, Ellen, Ellen, to think of your doing a thing like that without asking the advice of a soul! You're a foolish, headstrong girl!"
Ellen dropped her eyes. "George Riley thinks I'm doing right."
Mrs. O'Brien looked up sharply.
"Jarge Riley indeed! And may I ask what Jarge Riley's got to with it?"
"George and me are friends again. I thought I better tell you."
In Mrs. O'Brien amazement took the place of grief. "Ellen O'Brien, do you mean to tell me that you've took up with Jarge Riley when you might have had a gentleman like Mr. Hawes?"
The flush that her mother's words excited was one of anger as well as embarrassment. "Ma, you listen to me: I've never once told you that I might have Mr. Hawes! You've made that up yourself!"
"Made it up myself, indeed! when he's been taking you out night after night and treating you like a real lady!"
"And what's more," Ellen went on vehemently, "George Riley's worth twenty Philip Hawses!"
Mrs. O'Brien looked at her sharply. "Is it that you're going to marry Jarge Riley?"
Ellen, breathing hard, made answer a little unsteadily: "Yes."
Mrs. O'Brien dropped back limply into her chair. "Mercy on us!" she wailed, "and is this the end of your fine looks and your fine education—to marry a farmer like Jarge Riley! Why, you could have had him without any business college or nothing!"
Ellen stood up and Mrs. O'Brien, her face woe-begone and tragic, made one last appeal: "Ellen O'Brien, I ask you in all seriousness, are you determined to throw yourself away like that?"
Ellen was nothing if not determined. "I'm going down to Miss Graydon's now," she said in a casual tone which ended all discussion; "and me and George will probably get married in the spring."
Itwas several days before Mrs. O'Brien regained her usual complacency. "'Tain't that I've got anything against you, Jarge," she explained many times to her prospective son-in-law. "I'm really fond of you and I treat you like one of me own. But what with her fine looks and her fine education I was expecting something better for Ellen. Why, Jarge, she ought to be marrying a Congressman at least. Now I ask you frankly, don't you think so yourself?"
For George the situation was far from a happy one. To be the confidant of Mrs. O'Brien in this particular disappointment was embarrassing, to say the least. Moreover, certain of Mrs. O'Brien's objections were somewhat difficult to meet and yet they had to be met and met often, for Mrs. O'Brien harped on them constantly.
"And, Jarge dear, if you do go marry her and carry her off to the country, what will you do with her out there? Tell me that, now! For meself I can't see Ellen milkin' a cow."
To be the confidant of Mrs. O'Brien in this particular disappointment was embarrassing, to say the least.
George tried hard to explain that milking cows was not the only activity open to a farmer's wife; that, in all probability, Ellen would never be called on to milk a cow. His protests were vain, for, to Mrs. O'Brien, milking a cow stood not so much for a definite occupation as for a general symbol of country life. George might talk an hour and very often did and, at the end of that time, Mrs. O'Brien would sigh mournfully and remark: "Say what you will, Jarge, I tell you one thing: I can't see Ellen milkin' a cow."
Moreover, life with Ellen was not at once the long sweet song that George had expected. Not that she was the old imperious Ellen of biting speech and quick temper. She was not. All that was passed. She was quiet now, and docile, anxious to please and always ready for anything he might suggest. Would she like a street-car ride tonight? Yes, a street-car ride would be very nice. Or the movies or a walk? She would like whatever he wanted. Her gentleness touched him but caused him disquiet, too, because he could not help realizing that a great part of it was apathy. One thing pleased her as much as another, which is pretty nearly the same as saying one thing bored her as much as another.
"But, Ellen," he protested more than once, "you don't have to go if you don't want to!"
"Oh, I want to," she would insist in tones that were far from convincing.
George could not help recalling the eager joy with which Rosie used to greet each new expedition.Why wasn't Ellen the same, he wondered in helpless perplexity. He went through all the little attentions which Rosie had taught him and a thousand more, and Ellen received them with a quiet, "Thanks," or a half-hearted, "You're awful kind, George."
"Kind nuthin'!" he shouted once. "I don't believe you care one straw for me or for anything I do for you!"
His outburst startled her and, for a moment, she faltered. Then she said: "I don't see how you can say that, George. I think you're just as good and kind as you can be."
"Good and kind!" he spluttered. "What do I care about being good and kind? What I want is love!"
"Well, don't I love you?" She looked at him beseechingly and put her hand on his shoulder. Her caresses were infrequent and this one, slight as it was, was enough to fire his blood and muddle his understanding.
"You do love me, don't you?" he begged, pulling her to him, and she, as usual, submitting without a protest, said, yes, she did.
A word, a touch, and Ellen could always silence any misgiving. But such misgivings had a way of returning, once George was alone. Then he would wish that he had Rosie to talk things over with. He was used to talking things over with Rosie. For some reason, though, he never saw Rosie nowexcept for a moment when she handed him his supper-pail each evening at the cars. At other times she seemed always to be out on errands or on jaunts with Janet and Tom Sullivan. George looked upon Tom as a jolly decent youngster and he was pleased that the intimacy between him and Rosie was growing. But at the same time he could not help feeling a little hurt that Rosie should so completely forget him. True, he was bound up heart and soul in Ellen and now he was her accepted lover. That, it seemed to him, ought to be happiness enough and he told himself that it was enough. Then he would sigh and wonder why he wasn't as light-heartedly gay as he used to be when he and Rosie went about together. Rosie, apparently, had entirely forgotten what good chums they once had been. Well, after all, he couldn't blame her, for she was only a child.
George did not know and probably never would know that Rosie was watching him and watching over him with all the faithfulness of a little dog and that she knew all there was to know of the situation between him and Ellen.
George had set the latter part of September as the time for his return to the country. For four long years he had been working and saving for this very event. Several times before he had been about to leave but always, at the last moment, some untoward circumstance had crippled his finances and he had been forced to stay on in the city another few months. Now for the first time he could go andnow he was loath to go. But he had made his announcement and all his little world was standing about, waiting to see him off and to bid him god-speed.
He was ashamed to acknowledge even to himself the indecision that was tugging at his heart. "Don't you think, Ellen," he ventured at last, "it might be just as well if I waited till Christmas?"
"Oh, George!" Ellen looked at him with a shocked expression. "I don't see how you can say such a thing after the way you've been waiting all these years! Besides, what would your poor mother say if you didn't come now that you could? You've told me yourself how the burden of things has fallen on her more and more and how anxious you are to relieve her."
"I know," George acknowledged; "but, Ellen girl, don't you see I can't bear to leave you now I've got you. I've had you for such a little while!"
"Won't you have me just the same, even if you are in the country? Besides, you'll be getting things ready for me by spring."
George took a sharp breath. "But I want you now!"
Ellen looked at him gravely. "See here, George, there's no use talking that way. You've got to work and I've got to work, and if we don't get our work done this winter it'll be all the worse for both of us when spring comes. Your father's expecting to hand over the management of the farm to youthis fall and it's up to you to take it. Ain't I right?"
George sighed. "I suppose you are."
"Then don't be foolish. Besides you can come down and see me at Thanksgiving."
George gasped. "Why, Ellen, I expect to see you before that! I could come in and stay over Sunday 'most any week."
"No, George, you mustn't do that! I won't let you!" Ellen spoke vehemently. "It would only cost you money and you know perfectly well you need every cent of cash you've got! Once you're back in the country you won't be getting in three dollars a day ready money. No! You'll come to see me Thanksgiving and not before."
Ellen was right. It would be necessary for him to hoard like a miser his little stock of money until the farm should once again be on a paying basis.
George sighed gloomily and went about his preparations for departure.
Ellenand Rosie saw him off. Rosie wept openly.
"And, Jarge," she said, kissing him good-bye, "give your mother and your father my love, but especially your mother. Tell her that I love her and that I think of her every day. You won't forget, will you? And tell her that Geraldine is fat and well and has been ever since we got home from the country."
"Good-bye, George," Ellen said quietly. Her face was pale and there was a strained expression about eyes and mouth.
"Oh, Ellen!" George gave her one last wild kiss and rushed madly through the gate.
His coach was far down the train shed and Rosie and Ellen soon lost sight of his hurrying figure. They stood together at the gate and waited until the train started.
As it pulled away Ellen sighed deeply. "Thank goodness he's gone!" She leaned against the grating and laughed hysterically.
Rosie, who had been dabbing her eyes with a wet handkerchief, looked up blankly. "EllenO'Brien, what do you mean? Are you glad he's gone?"
"You bet I'm glad!" Ellen's silly high-pitched laugh continued until silenced by Rosie's look of scornful fury.
"Ellen O'Brien, you're worse than I thought you were!"
Ellen faltered a moment, then reached toward Rosie appealingly. "Don't be too hard on me, Rosie. You don't know the awful time I've had. I feel like I've been dead. I haven't been able to breathe. I don't mean it was his fault. I think as much of him as you do—really I do. He's good and he's kind and he's honest and he's everything he ought to be. But if he'd ha' stayed much longer I'd ha' smothered."
Rosie, accusing angel and stern judge rolled into one, demanded gravely: "And now that he's gone what are you going to do?"
"What am I going to do?" Ellen's laugh was still a little beyond her control, but it had in it a note of happy relief that was unmistakable. "I'm going to live again—at least for the little time that's left me."
"What do you mean by 'the little time that's left you'?"
"From now till Thanksgiving; from Thanksgiving till spring." For an instant Ellen's face clouded. Then she cried: "But I'm not going to think of spring! I'm going to have my fling now!"
Rosie looked at her without speaking and, as she looked, it seemed to her that the Ellen of other days rose before her. It was as though a pale nun-like creature had been going about in Ellen's body, answering to Ellen's name. Now, at George's departure as at the touch of a magic wand, the old Ellen was back with eyes that sparkled once again and cheeks into which the colour was returning in waves. Yes, she was the old Ellen, eager for life and excitement and thirsting for admiration. But the old Ellen with a difference. Now, instead of estranging Rosie utterly with careless bravado, she strove to win her understanding.
"You don't know how I feel, Rosie; you can't, because you and me are made differently. You're perfectly happy if you've got some one to love and take care of—you know you are! With me it's different. I don't want to take care of people and work for them and slave for them. I want to have a good time myself! I'm just crazy about it! I know I ought to be ashamed, but can I help it? That's the way I am. Do you think I'm very awful, Rosie?"
Rosie answered truthfully: "I'm not thinking of you at all. I'm thinking of poor Jarge."
Ellen gave a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness I can give up thinking of him for a while." She began patting her hair and arranging her hat. "Do I look all right, Rosie? I got to hurry back to the shop. A feather salesman is coming today andMiss Graydon wants me to take care of him. He'll probably invite me out to lunch."
"And are you going?" Rosie asked slowly.
Ellen took a long happy breath. "You bet I'm going!"
"Ellen O'Brien, if you do, I'll tell Jarge! I will just as sure!"
For an instant Ellen was staggered. Then she recovered. "No, Rosie, you'll do no such thing! What you'll do is this: you'll mind your own business!"
Rosie tried to protest but her voice failed her, for the look in Ellen's eye betokened a will as strong as her own and a determination to brook no interference.
Ellen started off, then paused to repeat: "You'll mind your own business! Do you understand?"
Ellen walked on and Rosie called after her, a little wildly: "I won't! I won't! I tell you I won't!"
But she knew she would.
Itis hard to be the self-appointed guardian of another's interests, for one's standing is not, as it were, official. In the weeks that followed Rosie felt this keenly. She gave up protesting to Ellen, for Ellen's curt answer to everything she might say was always: "You mind your own business!" Though she would not accept Ellen's dictum that George's business was not hers, yet she was soon forced to give up direct action and to seek her end through the interference of others. She tried her mother.
"I don't care what you say, Ma, Ellen's just as crooked as she can be, acting this way with other fellows when she doesn't even deny that she's engaged to Jarge. And you ought to stop it, too! There, the very first week he was gone, she went out three nights hand-running with that feather man from St. Louis. You know she did! And now she's got that new little dude with an off eye and, besides, Larry Finn's come back. I tell you it ain't fair to Jarge and you're to blame, too, if you don't stop it!"
Mrs. O'Brien shared with Rosie the convictionthat an engaged girl ought not so much as raise her eyes to other men. She was done forever with all men but one. Ellen, for some reason, did not feel this instinctively and, if a girl does not feel it instinctively, how is she to be made to feel it? Mrs. O'Brien sighed. Unknown to Rosie she had tried to speak to Ellen. Ellen had not let her go very far.
"Say, Ma, you dry up!" she had told her shortly. "I guess I know what I'm doing."
"I'm sure you do," Mrs. O'Brien had murmured in humble apology; "but, Ellen dear, be careful! There's a lot of people know you're engaged to Jarge and I'm afraid they'll be talkin'."
"Let 'em talk!" was Ellen's snappish answer.
So when Rosie approached her mother on the same subject, Mrs. O'Brien hemmed and hawed and ended by offering a defence of Ellen which sounded hollow even to herself. "As for that feather fella, Rosie dear, you mustn't get excited about him. It's a matter of business to keep him jollied. Miss Graydon wants Ellen to be nice to him. And, as I says to Ellen, 'If that's the case,' says I, 'of course you've got to accept his little attentions. Miss Graydon,' says I, 'is your employer and a girl ought always to please her employer.' As you know yourself, Rosie, Ellen's certainly getting on beautifully in that shop. Miss Graydon told me herself the other night that she had never had a girl so quick and tasty with her needle and whenI told her about me own poor dead sister, Birdie, she said that explained it."
"But, Ma," Rosie cried, "what about poor Jarge?"
"Jarge? Why, Jarge is all right. He's out there in the country and you know yourself he's crazy about the country. And more than that, Ellen writes him a picture postcard every week. She gave me her word she'd do it. I couldn't very well insist on her writing a letter, for you know her long hours at the shop and it wouldn't be right to ask her to use her eyes at night. 'But, Ellen dear,' says I to her, 'promise me faithfully you'll never let a week go by without sending him a picture postcard.' And she gave me her word she wouldn't."
Mrs. O'Brien could always be depended on to obscure reason in a dust of words, especially at times when it would be embarrassing to face reason in the open. After three or four attempts to arouse her mother to some sort of action, Rosie had to give up. She felt as keenly as ever that George was being basely betrayed, but she saw no way to protect him. She had not written to him since he left, but she wrote every week to his mother on the pretext that Mrs. Riley was deeply interested in Geraldine and must be kept informed of Geraldine's growth and health. Rosie always put in a sentence about Ellen: "Ellen's very busy but very well," or "Ellen's hours are much longer now than they used to be and she hasn't so very muchtime to herself, but she likes millinery, so it's all right,"—always something that would assure George of Ellen's well-being and excuse, if necessary, her silence. Rosie hated herself for thus apparently shielding Ellen but, in her anxiety to spare George, she would have gone to almost any length.
A sort of family pride kept her from confiding her worries to Janet McFadden. Soon after George's departure she had remarked to Janet: "You oughtn't to be surprised because you know the kind of girl Ellen is. She's just got to amuse herself. Besides, you can't exactly blame her because poor Jarge'd want her to have a good time." This attitude had not in the least deceived Janet, but Janet was too tactful to question it.
The reasons for not talking to Janet did not apply to Danny Agin, who, being old and of another generation, was philosophical rather than personal and had long since mastered the art of forgetting confidences when forgetting was more graceful than remembering. So at last Rosie opened her heart to Danny.
"Now take an engaged girl, Danny."
Rosie paused and Danny, nodding his head, said: "For instance, a girl like Ellen."
Rosie was glad enough to be definite. "I don't mind telling you, Danny, that it's Ellen I'm talking about. I just don't know what to do about it and maybe you'll be able to help me."
Danny listened carefully while Rosie slowly unfoldedher story. "And, Danny," she said, as she reached the present in her narrative, "that St. Louis fellow's just dead gone on her—that's all there is about it. He's sending her picture postcards every day or every other day. I can't help knowing because they come to the house. I suppose he doesn't like to send them to the shop where the other girls would see them. He used to sign the postcards with his full name but now he only signs 'Harry.' Now, Danny, do you think it's nice for a girl that's engaged to let another fella send her postcards and sign 'em 'Harry'?"
Danny ruminated a moment. "Well, if you ask me, Rosie, I don't believe that's so awful bad."
"But, Danny, that ain't all! Listen here: last week he sent a big box of candy from Cleveland and this morning another box came from Pittsburg. And there was a postcard this morning and what do you think it said? 'I just can't wait till Saturday night!' And it was signed, 'With love, Harry.' Now, Danny, what can that mean? I bet anything he's coming to spend Sunday with her and, if he does come, what in the world am I to do about it?"
Danny patted her hand gently. "Rosie dear, I don't see that you're to do anything about it. Why do you want to do anything? Isn't it Ellen's little party?"
Rosie shook off his hand impatiently. "I don't care about Ellen's side of it! I'm thinking aboutJarge! This kind of thing ain't square to him, and that's all there is about it!"
"Of course it ain't," Danny agreed. "But, after all, Rosie, if Ellen prefers Harry to Jarge, I don't see what we can do about it."
"But, Danny, she's engaged to Jarge!"
"Well, maybe she'll get disengaged."
Rosie shook her head. "You don't know Jarge. Jarge is a fighter. And I'll tell you something else: once he gets a thing he never gives it up. Now he's got Ellen or he thinks he's got her and he's going to keep her, too. You just ought to see him when he's around Ellen. He's awful, Danny, honest he is! He's so crazy about her that he forgets everything else. If he thought she was fooling him, I think he might kill her—really, Danny. And she's afraid of him, too. Why, if she wasn't afraid of him, she'd break her engagement in a minute and tell him so. I know that as well as I know anything. She expects to marry him. She's scared not to now. But that don't keep her from letting those other fellows act the fool with her. And if Jarge hears about them, I tell you one thing: there's going to be the deuce to pay. Excuse the language, Danny, but it's true."
Danny was impressed but not as impressed as Rosie expected. "That's worse than I thought," he admitted; "but I don't see that there's any great danger. Jarge is in the country and not likely to pop in on her, is he?"
"No," Rosie answered, "he's not coming till Thanksgiving."
"Thanksgiving, do you say? Well, that's four weeks off. Plenty of things can happen in four weeks."
In spite of herself, Rosie began to feel reassured. "But, Danny," she insisted, "even if it's not dangerous, don't you think it's crooked for a girl that's engaged to let other men give her presents and take her out?"
"Maybe it is and maybe it ain't. I dunno. It's hard to make a rule about it. You see it's this way, Rosie: When a girl's engaged she's usually in love with the fella she's engaged to, or why is she engaged to him? Now, when she's in love, she don't want presents from any but one man. Presents from other fellas don't interest her. So, you see, there's no need to be makin' a rule, for the thing settles itself. Now if Ellen is getting presents from this new fella, Harry, it looks to me like she ain't very much in love with Jarge."
"That's exactly what I'm telling you, Danny. She's not."
"So the likelihood is, she's not going to marry Jarge." Danny concluded with a smile that was intended to cheer Rosie.
"I wish she wasn't," Rosie murmured. Then she added hastily: "No, I don't mean that, because it would break Jarge's heart!"
Danny scoffed: "Break Jarge's heart, indeed!Many a young hothead before Jarge has had a broken heart and got over it!"
"But, Danny," Rosie wailed, "you don't know Jarge!"
There were such depths of tenderness in Rosie's tone that Danny checked the smile which was on his lips and made the hearty declaration: "He sure is a fine lad, this same Jarge!"
"Well, Danny, listen here: if Harry comes on Saturday, shall I tell Jarge?"
Danny looked at her kindly. "Mercy on us, Rosie, what a worryin' little hen you are! If you ask me advice, I'd say: Let Saturday take care of itself."
Rosie wiped her eyes slowly. "It's all very well for you to talk that way. But I tell you one thing: if Jarge was your dear friend like he's mine, you wouldn't want to stand by and see this Harry fella cut him out."
Danny gave a non-committal sigh and looked away. "I don't know about that, Rosie. I think it might be an awful good thing for Jarge if Harry did cut him out."
"But, Danny," Rosie cried, "think how it would hurt Jarge!"
Danny's answer was unfeeling. "There's worse things can happen to a man than being hurt."
Rosie's manner stiffened perceptibly. "Very well, Mr. Agin, if that's how you feel about it, I guess I better be going."
"Ah, don't go yet," Danny begged.
Rosie, already started, turned back long enough to say, with frigid politeness: "Good-bye, Mr. Agin."
At the gate, her heart misgave her. Danny, after all, had spoken according to his lights. It was not his fault so much as his limitation that he should judge George Riley by the standard of other young men. Rosie would be magnanimous.
"I got to go anyhow, Danny," she called back sweetly.
Danny's chuckle reached her faintly. "But you're coming again, Rosie dear, aren't you? You know I'll be wanting to hear about Saturday."
Danny was old and half sick, so Rosie felt she must be patient. "All right," she sang out; "I'll come."
Thatnight at supper, Ellen remarked casually: "Harry's coming to town on Saturday, and if he comes up here, I want you all to treat him nice."
Mrs. O'Brien glanced at Rosie a little nervously. "But, Ellen dear," she asked, "why does he want to be coming up here?"
Ellen smiled on her mother patronisingly. "It looks like he wants to call on me."
Mrs. O'Brien lifted hands in vague protest. "But tell me, now, do you think Jarge——" She hadn't courage to finish her sentence.
Terence looked over to Rosie with a sudden chuckle. "Say, Rosie, wouldn't it be fun if Jarge happened in? Let's drop him a line. Gee! Maybe he wouldn't do a thing to that St. Louis guy!"
"Ma!" Ellen admonished, sharply.
"Terry lad," Mrs. O'Brien began, obediently, "I'm surprised at you talkin' this way about the young gentleman that's coming to see your poor sister Ellen on Saturday night."
Terence pushed away his plate and began writing an imaginary postcard with a spoon. "Dear Jarge," he read slowly; "Won't you please comein on Saturday night? We're arranging a little surprise for Ellen. Yours truly, Terence O'Brien. Gee!" Terry murmured thoughtfully, "I wish he would come! It sure would be worth seeing!"
"Now, Terry," Mrs. O'Brien begged, "promise me you'll do nuthin' so foolish as that! You know yourself the awful temper Jarge has on him, an' if he was to come I'm afeared there'd be something serious. Don't you think, Ellen dear," she went on a little timidly, "that perhaps you'd better tell Mr. Harry not to come this week?"
Ellen looked at her mother defiantly. "I don't see why. This week's as good as any other for me."
"Well, then, don't you think that perhaps he'd better make you a little call down at the shop? With so many children and things the house is a wee bit untidy."
"It's his own idea to come up here." Ellen paused, a trifle embarrassed. "He says he wants to meet the family."
"H'm!" murmured Terry. "He's not like your old friend, Mr. Hawes, is he, Ellen?"
Ellen flushed. "No, Terry, he's not a bit like Mr. Hawes."
Small Jack piped up unexpectedly. "Is he like Jarge, Ellen?"
"No, he's not like George, either."
"Can he fight?"
Ellen tossed her head. "I should hope not! Harry Long is a gentleman!" Seeing that thiswas not a very strong recommendation to her brothers, she added: "But, unless I'm very much mistaken, he's plenty able to take care of himself. He's a fine swimmer, too."
"Is he a sport, Ellen?" Terry asked.
"He's certainly an elegant dresser, if that's what you mean. Just you wait and see."
Friday's letter put Ellen into something of a flurry.
"Ma, Harry thinks it would be awful nice if you would invite him to supper tomorrow night. He's coming to the shop in the morning. Then he'll take me out to lunch and we'll go somewheres in the afternoon, and he wants to know if we can't come back here for supper. He thinks that would be a good way for him to meet the whole family."
"Mercy on us!" Mrs. O'Brien wailed. "With all I've got to do, how can I get up a fine supper for a sporty young gent like Mr. Harry? Can't you keep him out, Ellen? I don't see why he's got to meet the family. We're just like any other family: a father, a mother, and five children."
"But, Ma, he makes such a point of it. I don't see how we can refuse. Besides, you know he's been pretty nice to me taking me out to dinner and things."
"If he was only Jarge Riley now," Mrs. O'Brien mused, "I wouldn't mind him at all, at all, for he wouldn't be a bit of trouble. Poor Jarge was always just like one of the family, wasn't he?"
Ellen drew her mother back to the subject of the moment. "So can I tell him to come?"
Mrs. O'Brien sighed. "Oh, I suppose so. That is, if Rosie'll help me. I tell you frankly, Ellen, I simply can't manage it alone."
Mrs. O'Brien called Rosie to get the promise of her assistance. Rosie listened quietly, then, instead of answering her mother, she turned to her sister.
"Ellen, I want to know one thing: Have you told this Harry about Jarge Riley?"
Ellen frowned. "I don't see what that's got to do with tomorrow's supper."
Rosie took a deep breath. "It's got a lot to do with it if I'm going to help."
For a moment the sisters measured each other in silence. Then Ellen broke out petulantly:
"Well, then, Miss Busybody, if you've got to know, I haven't! And, what's more, I'm not going to!"
"You're not going to, eh? We'll see about that." Rosie turned to her mother. "Ma, I'll help you tomorrow night. We'll have a good supper. But I want to give you both fair warning: if Ellen don't tell this Harry about Jarge Riley, I will! She's trying to make a goat of both of them and I'm not going to stand for it."
"Ma!" screamed Ellen, "are you going to let her meddle with my affairs like that? You make her mind her own business!"
"Rosie dear," begged Mrs. O'Brien, "don't go excitin' your poor sister Ellen by any such foolish threats. You'd only be causin' trouble, Rosie, and I'm sure you don't want to do that. And, Ellen dear, don't raise your voice. The neighbours will hear you."
"I don't care!" Ellen shouted. "She's nothing but George's little watch-dog, and I tell you I'm not going to stand it!"
"Perhaps, Ellen dear," Mrs. O'Brien ventured timidly, "it might be just as well if you did tell him about Jarge."
Ellen burst into tears. "You're all against me, every one of you—that's what you are! You're so afraid I'll have a good time! Isn't George coming on Thanksgiving and aren't we to be married in the spring? I should think that would suit you! But, no, you've got to spoil my fun now and it's a mean shame—that's what it is!"
"Ah, now, Ellen dear, don't you cry!" Mrs. O'Brien implored. "I'm sure Rosie is not going to interfere, are you, Rosie?"
Rosie regarded her sister's tears unmoved. "I'm going to do exactly what I say I am, and Ellen knows I am."
Ellen straightened herself with a shake. "Very well," she said shortly. "I guess I can be mean, too! You just wait!"
Rosiewas more than true to her promise. She prepared a good supper and, in addition, made the kitchen neat and presentable, scrubbed Jack until his skin and hair fairly shone with cleanliness, and, long before supper time, had Mrs. O'Brien and Geraldine, both in holiday attire, seated in state on the front porch to receive Ellen and her admirer.
When Jack, who was perched on the front gate as family lookout, saw them coming, he rushed back to the kitchen to give Rosie warning and Rosie had time to slip behind the front door and, through the crack, to witness the arrival.
"And, Ellen dear," Mrs. O'Brien exclaimed in greeting, "do you mean to tell me that this is your friend, Mr. Harry Long! If I do say it, Mr. Long, I'm mighty pleased to see you! As I've said to Ellen, many's the time, 'Why don't you bring your friend out to see me? Bring him any time,' says I, 'for the friends of me children are always welcome in this house.' And himself says the same thing, Mr. Long."
The florid well-built young man who gave Rosiethe impression of bright tan shoes, gray spats, a fancy vest, and massive watchfob, waited, smiling, until Mrs. O'Brien was done and then remarked in friendly, cordial tones: "Just call me Harry, Mrs. O'Brien. I'm plain Harry to my friends."
"Well, I'm sure you're among friends when you're here," Mrs. O'Brien said with a downcast look of melting coyness. "But I fear you won't think so if I keep you standing much longer. Won't you sit down, Mr.—I mean, won't you sit down, Harry? You see, Harry," she continued, "I'm taking you at your word. And now I must introduce Jackie to you. Jackie's me second b'y. Now, Jackie dear, shake hands with Mr. Long and tell him you're glad to see him. The baby's name, Harry, is Geraldine. Besides her, I've got Terence who's a fine lad—oh, I know you'll be glad to meet Terry!—and Rosie who's next to Terry and who's helping me with the supper tonight so's to give me a chance to say 'How do you do' to you. Ah, if I do say it, I've a fine brood of children and never a word of bickering among them.... Now, Jackie dear, like a good b'y, will you run upstairs and tell your da to come down this minute, that we're waiting for him, and then run into the kitchen and ask sister Rosie if the supper's ready."
Rosie slipped hurriedly back to the kitchen and then, through Jack, summoned the family in.
When she was presented to the newcomer, she added to her first impressions the smooth pinkishface of a city-bred man who had never been exposed to the real violence of sun and wind, a cravat pin and seal ring that were fellows to the watchfob, and hands that bore themselves as if a little conscious of a recent visit to the manicure.
As Rosie gathered in these details, she saw, in contrast, the figure of George Riley: the roughened weatherbeaten face, the cheap ill-fitting clothes, the big hands coarsened with work, the heavy feet. Ellen, of course, and girls like Ellen would be taken in by the new man's flashy appearance and easy confident manner, but not Rosie. Rosie hated him on sight! She knew the difference between tinsel and solid worth and she longed to cry out to him: "You needn't think you can fool me, because you can't! Any one can dress well who spends all he makes on clothes! But how much money have you got salted away in the bank? Tell me that, now!"
She had to shake hands with him, but when he stooped down to kiss her, she jerked away and glared at him like an angry little cat.
"Why, Rosie!" Mrs. O'Brien exclaimed in shocked tones, "is that the way you treat a family friend like Mr. Harry?"
"Family friend!" stormed Rosie; "I've never laid eyes on him before and neither have you!"
Mrs. O'Brien's embarrassment deepened. "Rosie, I'm ashamed of you! Is that the way for you to be treatin' a gentleman who's taking supper with us? I tell you frankly I'm ashamed of you!"
Jamie O'Brien cleared his throat. "See here, Maggie, Rosie's perfectly right. There's no call for her to be kissing a stranger. She's too big a girl for that."
Mrs. O'Brien looked at her husband blankly. "Jamie O'Brien, how you talk! Do you think it's becoming to call a man a stranger who's sitting down with you at your own table?"
Jamie turned to his guest politely. "I'm sure, Mr. Long, I don't know what all this noise is about. I'm like Rosie here. I've never seen you before to me knowledge. But that's neither here nor there. You're here now and you're welcome, and I hope we'll be friends. So let us drop the argument and sit down."
It was an awkward beginning, but Jamie refused to be embarrassed and, after a moment of silence, the others tried hard to follow his example.
Harry was evidently bent on pleasing.
"Ever been in St. Louis, Mr. O'Brien?" He spoke with a proprietorial air as one might of a household pet, pronouncing the name of his city Louie. "Fine place, St. Louie!"
"For meself," Jamie answered unexpectedly, "I never much cared for it. It's a hot hole!"
Ellen flushed. "Why, Dad!"
Jamie looked up impatiently. "What's the matter now?"
"Dad, don't you know that St. Louie is where Harry lives?"
"I do not!" Jamie answered truthfully. "And, if you ask me, Ellen, I don't see why I should."
"Jamie O'Brien!" Mrs. O'Brien gasped, "what's come over you? I haven't heard you talk so much at table in ten years!" She turned to her guest. "Would you believe me, Harry, there are weeks on end when I never get a word out of him! Sometimes I think I'll forget how to talk meself for lack of some one to exchange a word with! And to think," she concluded, "that Jamie's been in St. Louie! I give you me word of honour I never heard that before! Tell me, Jamie, when was it?"
Jamie ruminated a moment. "It must have been before we were married."
Mrs. O'Brien nodded her head. "That just proves what I always say: little a woman can know about a man before she marries him."
She talked on and Harry gave her every encouragement, laughing heartily at her anecdotes, asking further details, and making himself so generally pleasant that, before supper was half done, the opening embarrassment was forgotten and Mrs. O'Brien was exclaiming: "Well, Harry, I must say one thing: I feel like I'd known you forever!"
Harry glanced at Ellen. "Shall we tell them?"
Ellen drew a quick breath. "We've got to sometime," she murmured.
Harry beamed on Mrs. O'Brien. "I'm mighty glad to hear you say that, Mrs. O'Brien. There's nothing would please me better than to have you likeme. In fact, I'm hoping you like me well enough to take me for a son-in-law!"
Mrs. O'Brien gasped: "What's this you're saying, Harry?"
Rosie, pale and tense, stood up. "Ellen," she said, looking straight at her sister, "have you told him about Jarge Riley?"
Ellen laughed a little unsteadily. "Yes, Rosie, I told him. And I see now you were right. It wasn't fair to Harry not to tell him. And I want to apologize for getting so mad."
"Yes, Rosie was right," Harry repeated, smiling at her kindly. "Rosie must have known I was dead gone on Ellen and meant business."
Rosie was not to be taken in by any such palaver as that. "No, Mr. Long, you're mistaken. I was only thinking about Jarge Riley. Ellen's going to marry him in the spring."
Harry still smiled at her ingratiatingly. "She's not going to marry him now, Rosie. She can't because, don't you see, she married me this afternoon!"
"What!" Rosie, feeling suddenly sick and weak, crumpled down into her chair, a nerveless little mass that gaped and blinked and waited for the world to come to an end.
There was a pause broken at last by an hysterical laugh from Ellen. "Don't look at me like that, Rosie! I should think you'd be glad I was married to some one else!"
Ellen's words brought Rosie to her senses. "I am glad!" she cried. "You never cared two straws about Jarge, anyhow! But why did you have to be so crooked with him? When he finds out the way you've done this, it'll just break his heart! I guess I know!"
Jamie O'Brien cleared his throat. "Rosie, you talk too much! Will you just hold your tongue a minute while I find out what all this clatter's about. Mr. Long, sir, will you be so good as to explain things?"
There was no smile on Jamie's face and Harry, looking at him, seemed to realize that it was not a time for pleasantries.
"I hope, Mr. O'Brien," he began soberly, "that you'll forgive me for not taking things more slowly. I expected to until this morning when Ellen told me about this Riley fellow. Then I sort of lost my head. I was afraid of delays and misunderstandings. I've been just crazy about Ellen. The first time I saw her I knew she was the girl for me and I came to town today to tell her so. I suppose she knew what I was going to say and down at the shop, the very first thing, she began telling me about Riley. Mighty straight of her, I call it. She had got herself engaged to him but she didn't want to marry him, and it just seemed to me that the easiest way out of things was for us to get married right quick. So we hustled over the river and got to thecourthouse just before closing time. It was really my fault, Mr. O'Brien. I made Ellen do it."
Jamie looked at Ellen thoughtfully. "I don't believe you'd have made her do it if she hadn't wanted to do it."
"You're right, Dad," Ellen said; "I did want to. I didn't know how little I cared about George or any one else until Harry came along. George is good and kind and all that, but we'd never have made a team. I knew it perfectly well and I was wrong not to tell him so."
Jamie nodded his head. "You're right, Ellen. You've treated him pretty badly."
Her father's apparent blame of Ellen brought Mrs. O'Brien back to life and to speech. "Jamie O'Brien, I don't see how you can talk so about poor Ellen! You know yourself many's the time I've said to you, 'I can't see Ellen milkin' a cow.' For me own part I think she's wise to choose the life she has."
"Do you know the life she's chosen?" Jamie asked quietly. "I'm frank to say I don't." He turned to Harry. "Since you're me son-in-law, Mr. Long, perhaps you'll be willing to tell me who you are."
"Oh, Dad!" Ellen murmured, and Mrs. O'Brien whispered, "Why, Jamie!"
Harry flushed but answered promptly: "I'm twenty-six years old. I'm a St. Louie man. I'm a travelling salesman for the Great Ostrich FeatherCompany, head office at St. Louie. I'm on a twenty dollar a week salary with commissions that usually run me up to thirty dollars."
Harry paused and Jamie remarked: "Plenty for a single man. You might even have saved a bit on it, I'm thinking."
Harry hesitated. "No," he said slowly; "I'll tell you the truth. I've been kind of a fool about money. I haven't saved a cent."
Rosie sat up suddenly. "I knew it!" she cried.
"Rosie!" whispered Mrs. O'Brien. "Shame on you!"
"Well, I just did!" Rosie insisted.
Her father, paying no heed to her, went on with his catechism: "But even if you didn't save anything, I'm thinking with that salary you're not in debt."
"Dad!" murmured Ellen in an agony of embarrassment.
"Be quiet, Ellen, and let your husband talk."
The flush on Harry's face deepened. "I'm sorry to say I have a few debts—not many. I've been paying them off since I've known Ellen."
"There!" cried Mrs. O'Brien in triumph. "Do you hear that, Jamie!"
"Since you've known Ellen," Jamie repeated. "How long may that be?"
"I think it's nearly a month."
"H'm! Nearly a month.... Well, now, Mr. Long, since you've got a wife and a few debts,is it your idea, if I might ask you, to start housekeeping?"
"Dad!" Ellen cried; "I don't see why you put it that way! We've got everything planned out."
Jamie was imperturbable. "I'd like to hear your plans, Ellen."
"We're not going housekeeping. I hate housekeeping, anyway. We're going boarding."
"Boarding, do you say?" Jamie ruminated a moment. "If you were to ask me, Mr. Long, I'd tell you that twenty dollars won't go far in supporting a wife in idleness."
"Ellen don't want to be idle, Mr. O'Brien. It's her own idea to keep on with millinery, and of course I can get her into a good shop in St. Louie."
It was Mrs. O'Brien's turn to feel dismay. "Do you mean to tell me, Ellen, that, as a married woman, you're keeping on working?"
Ellen's answer was decided. "I'd rather do millinery than housekeeping. Millinery ain't half as hard for me. I told Harry so this afternoon and he said all right."
"But, Ellen dear," wailed Mrs. O'Brien, "people'll be thinking that your husband can't support you!"
Ellen laughed. "As long as I know different, that won't matter."
Jamie gave Ellen unexpected support. "Maggie, I think Ellen's right. It'll be much better to be a good milliner than a poor housekeeper." Jamiepaused and looked at the young people thoughtfully. "Well, you're married now, both of you, and perhaps you're well matched. I dunno. Ellen's been a headstrong girl, never thinking of any one but herself and, from your own account, Harry, you're much the same. You've both jumped into this thing without thinking, but you'll have plenty of time for thinking from now on. Well, it's high time you both had a bit of discipline. It'll make a man and a woman of you. I don't altogether like the way you've started out, but you're started now and there's no more to say. So here's my hand on it, Harry, and may neither of you regret this day!"
Jamie reached across the table and the younger man, in grateful humility, grasped his hand. "Thank you, Mr. O'Brien," he said simply. "You've made me see a few things."
Ellen got up and went around to her father's chair. "I have been thoughtless and selfish, Dad. I see that now. I hope you'll forgive me." There were tears in her eyes, and her lips, as she put them against her father's cheek, trembled a little.
Harry turned himself to the task of winning his mother-in-law. "Is it all right, Mrs. O'Brien?"
All right, indeed! Who could resist so handsome a son-in-law? Certainly not Mrs. O'Brien. She broke out in tears and laughter.