ELLEN'S CAREER
Danny was a wise old bird whose chirpings were well worth listening to.
What he prophesied for George seemed likely enough of realization. The
new affair, though confessedly pseudo, was cheering from the first. This
was to be expected so long as Ellen, notwithstanding her scoffing, was a
little miffed. Rosie saw, though, that, in spite of being miffed, Ellen
was still perfectly sure that she did not want George for herself. The
only feeling she seemed to have in the matter was annoyance that he
should no longer be wanting her. At first Ellen was so outspoken in this
annoyance that Rosie was able to whisper triumphantly: "You see, Jarge!
Didn't I tell you!"
There were other things occurring just at this time which served to keep
Ellen irritable and sensitive. Her experience in stenography was,
throughout, unfortunate and was making her see in almost everything that
happened a slight to herself. To Mrs. O'Brien's prolonged amazement, the
heads of various firms continued their insulting treatment of Ellen,
discharging her on the slightest provocation or no provocation whatever,
and never giving the poor girl, so her mother declared, anything like a
fair trial.
"Now what I would like to know is this:" Mrs. O'Brien would begin in the
evening as soon as Jamie, poor man, was quietly settled for his bedtime
pipe; "how can they know what Ellen can do or what she can't do, never
giving her a decent show? The last six places she's been at they've only
kept her a day or two days at most. It's me own opinion they don't want
a good stenographer. I believe they're jealous of her! I tell you, Jamie
O'Brien, it's fair disgraceful, and if I was a man, which I'm thankful
to say I ain't, I'd go down there and give them fellas a piece of my
mind!"
To Ellen herself, Mrs. O'Brien was, as usual, both sympathetic and
voluble. "Don't you mind what them fellas say to you, Ellen dear," she
would advise at each fresh disappointment. "You've had as fine a
schoolin' as any of them and there'll come a day when they'll all have
to acknowledge it. And when they talk to you again about your spelling,
you can tell them for me they're mighty smart if they're able to prove
what's the right and what's the wrong way to spell a word nowadays. If I
was you I wouldn't worry me head one minute about a thrifle like
spelling. I'd just go ahead me own way and remember I was a lady and,
take me word for it, some of these days you'll hit an office that is an
office with fine men at the head of it, able to know good work when
they see it and willin' to give credit for it!"
Ellen shared to a great extent her mother's belief in her own ability,
and she tried to share likewise Mrs. O'Brien's firm conviction that
there was a deep-laid plot to keep her down. In her mother's presence it
was easy enough to believe this, but Ellen was too quick-witted to
deceive herself all the time and, as the days went by and her failure in
stenography grew more and more apparent, she began to lose her air of
aggressive confidence and to show in a new sullenness of manner the
chagrin and the disappointment she was feeling.
There was no dearth of trial places, as the supply of offices in need of
stenographers seemed to be unlimited. So, in the matter of actual
earnings, Ellen was doing pretty well. Indeed, her first experience was
repeated more than once and she was overpaid in order to be got rid of
more quickly. At such times she took the money greedily in spite of the
attendant mortification. Mrs. O'Brien saw no cause for mortification but
would declare complacently: "Ha, ha, the villians! 'Tis conscience
money, no less, that they're paying you! They know they haven't given
you a fair show! But don't you mind them, Ellen dear. The right office
is comin' yet--you can depend on that!"
Mrs. O'Brien's faith was steadfast and at length had its reward. Ellen
came home one evening flushed and triumphant. "Well," she announced,
"I've struck it right at last!" Her eyes sparkled with renewed
assurance. "No more running around for me, a day here and a day there!
I'm fixed! Eight dollars a week to begin on and fifty cents advance
every month!"
"I'm not one bit surprised!" Mrs. O'Brien cried. "I knew just how it
would be! Now tell us all about it!"
"It's a real estate office," Ellen explained; "Hawes & Cranch. Mr. Hawes
is my man. I'm to take his dictation in the morning and get the work out
in the afternoon and attend to his private phone. It's a big office.
They've got two other stenographers and a book-keeper. By tomorrow Mr.
Hawes is going to have my desk put into his room. He's an awful nice
man. He says he never had any one who took his dictation better and he
says I certainly do understand all about business punctuation."
"I'm sure you do!" Mrs. O'Brien agreed heartily.
"And I wasn't there more than a couple of hours when he said he knew I'd
suit and the position was mine if I wanted it."
"Do you hear that!" Mrs. O'Brien gasped. "I'm not one bit surprised!"
"And he apologized for starting me so low. He said it was a rule in
their office. He talked like I ought to be getting twenty a week
easily."
"And so you ought!" Mrs. O'Brien declared. "And I must say, Ellen dear,
if I'm any judge of men, this Mr. Hawes is a fine fella! Mind you're
always respectful to him!"
Ellen laughed. "He's not that kind of man at all! He's just as friendly
as he can be."
For a moment her mother was anxious. "I hope, Ellen dear, he's not too
friendly."
Ellen tossed her head. "Even if he was, I guess I know how to take care
of myself!"
In Mrs. O'Brien confidence was restored. "Of course you do, Ellen dear.
I trust you for that."
Terry looked at Ellen sharply. "Say, Sis, is this fellow married?"
"Er-a-not exactly," Ellen stammered. "I wasn't going to mention it, but
since you ask me I might as well tell. They say he's divorced."
"Divorced!" That was a word to startle Mrs. O'Brien's soul. "You don't
say so, Ellen! I'm sorry to hear it! I'm not so sure you ought to stay
with him."
Ellen laughed. "Ma, you make me tired! Divorce is so common nowadays, it
don't mean a thing! Besides, it wasn't his fault. Miss Kennedy, one of
the other stenographers, told me so."
Mrs. O'Brien was plainly relieved. "I must say I'm glad to hear that. I
suppose now she was one of them dressy, lazy, good-for-nuthin's that
nearly drove the poor fella mad with her extravagance. There are such
women and a lot of them!"
One of the first results of Ellen's new position was an utter
indifference to George Riley and Rosie and to their little comedy. It
was not so much that she intentionally ignored them as that she did not
see them even when she looked at them--at any rate, did not see them any
more than she would have seen two chairs that occupy so much space and
are not to be stumbled over. There was one subject now and one only that
filled her mind to the exclusion of all others. This was her new
employer. She talked about him constantly, first as Mr. Hawes, then as
Philip Hawes, and soon as Phil. It was "Phil this" and "Phil that"
throughout breakfast and supper.
In no one but her mother did Ellen arouse any great enthusiasm, but Mrs.
O'Brien was a host in herself and in questions and ejaculations more
than made up for the indifference of the others.
To his kindness to Ellen during office hours, Hawes was soon adding
social attentions outside office hours, inviting her to places of
amusement in the evening and taking her off on Sunday excursions.
"He is certainly a very kind-hearted gentleman," Mrs. O'Brien repeatedly
declared; "and it would give me much pleasure to take him by the hand
and tell him so."
This was a pleasure somewhat doubtful of realization as circumstances
kept preventing the kind-hearted gentleman from making an actual
appearance at the O'Brien home. He wanted to come; he was very anxious
to meet Ellen's family; but he was a busy man and could not always do as
he would like to do. Ellen had to explain this at length, for even Mrs.
O'Brien, easy-going as she was, protested against an escort who hadn't
time either to come for his lady or to bring her home.
"I don't see why you can't understand!" Ellen would exclaim petulantly.
"Now listen here: wouldn't it take him half an hour to come out here for
me, and another half hour for us to get back to town, and another half
hour for him to bring me home, and another half hour for him to get back
to town himself? That'd be two whole hours. Now I say it would be a
shame to make that poor man spend all that time on the cars just coming
and going."
At first Mrs. O'Brien would insist: "But, Ellen dear, beaux always do
that way! For me own part I don't think it's nice for you to be comin'
home so late alone. You've never done it before. I don't mind you to be
going downtown to meet him if he's a busy man, yet I must say, Ellen
dear, ..."
But Ellen was expert at making her mother see reason and Mrs. O'Brien
was soon explaining to George Riley or to any one who would listen: "I
do like to see a girl considerate of a poor tired man, especially if
he's a fine hard-workin' fella like this Mr. Hawes. So I says to Ellen,
'Ellen dear,' says I, 'it's all very well to be accepting the attentions
of a nice gentleman, but remember,' says I, 'he's a tired man with a
load of responsibility on his shoulders and he'd much better be resting
than spending all his time on the street cars just coming and going.
This is a safe neighborhood,' says I, 'and nowadays girls and women are
always coming home alone.' Now I ask you truthfully, ain't that so?"
It probably was; nevertheless the attitude of the rest of the family
continued to be rather cold and skeptical. "Ain't it a great beau we got
now?" Terry would remark facetiously. "Seems like he's afraid to show
himself, though. Say, Sis, do you have to pay your own carfare?"
To Rosie's surprise, George Riley paid no heed to the newcomer. Rosie
herself felt that Ellen's absorption in her employer marked very
definitely the failure of Danny Agin's experiment. Ellen never had and
never would care two straws about George Riley and now, with something
else to occupy her mind, she had forgotten even the slight pique which
Rosie's little affair had at first excited. Rosie wondered whether
honesty required her to point this out to George. She tried to once or
twice, but George was so slow at understanding what she was talking
about that at last she desisted.
The truth was, George was having so good a time playing his and Rosie's
little game that he was in a fair way of forgetting that it was a game.
Not that he was falling in love with Rosie. Rosie was only a little girl
of whom he was tremendously fond and to his northern mind, as to
Rosie's, the idea that a man should fall in love with a little girl was
a preposterous one. His affection for her was founded solidly on the
approval of reason. It had not in it one bit of the wild unreason which
characterized his feeling for Ellen. They were pals, he and Rosie, who
understood and appreciated each other and who enjoyed going off on
little larks together. Since these larks had become a regular thing,
life for George had regained its normal zest, as it does for any man
once fresh interests begin to occupy the leisure moments heretofore
given up to a fruitless passion. A look, a word, would have awakened the
old passion, but for the present no look was being given, no word
spoken.
So Rosie, seeing George happy, could only sigh, hoping it wasn't
cheating on her part not to tell him the truth. Except for this scruple
of conscience, she was very happy herself. Her little world was jogging
comfortably along: Geraldine was well; for Janet McFadden life seemed to
be brightening; and for Janet as well as Rosie the waning summer was
affording many treats. Janet's cousin, Tom Sullivan, was making a good
deal of money on summer jobs and was squandering his earnings lavishly
on his two lady friends.
"Just think, Rosie," Janet announced one day, "Tom wants to give us
another picnic! You know I've always told you how generous he is."
"I know he is," Rosie agreed. "Tom sure is nice. It wouldn't surprise me
one bit if he grows up as nice as Jarge Riley. What's this new picnic,
and when is it to be?"
"For Labour Day. He says he'll pay Jackie to take your papers and that
you and me and him will all go downtown to the parade. After the parade
we'll eat supper at a restaurant and after that we'll go to the movies."
Janet paused, then concluded impressively: "He made two whole dollars
last week and he's willing to blow in every cent of it on us!"
"You don't say so!" Rosie shook her head and clucked her tongue in
amazement as deep as Janet's own.
"You'll come, won't you, Rosie?"
Rosie hesitated. "I'll come if I can. I mean I will if Jarge Riley
hasn't something on. If he's off on Labour Day afternoon, of course
he'll want me and I'll have to be with him."
"Of course," Janet agreed. "But maybe he won't get off. I wonder how
soon he'll know?"
"I'll ask him tonight," Rosie promised. "Let's see: today's Thursday and
Labour Day's next Monday. I ought to be able to let Tom know early on
Saturday."
"I think I'm going to be off," George told her that night in answer to
her inquiry. "I switch around to a late run tomorrow night, but I won't
know until tomorrow whether I'm going to keep it regular. What do you
want to do tomorrow night? Ride down with me on my last trip? Then we'd
stop and get a soda on the way home."
"Thank you, Jarge, I think that would be very nice. And you can write me
a little note about Labour Day and hand it to me when I get on the
car."
George's face fell. "Won't talking be good enough?"
"No, Jarge, it'll be better to write. You're doing beautifully in your
letters but you must keep them up."
George sighed but murmured an obedient: "All right."
The next evening Rosie was at the corner in good time and, promptly to
the minute, George's car came by. It was an open summer car with seats
straight across and an outside running board. Rosie climbed into the
last seat, which was so close to the rear platform where George stood
that it was almost as good as having George beside her. When there were
no other passengers on the same seat, George could lean in and chat
sociably.
"Here's a letter for you," he announced, as Rosie settled herself. He
gave her a little folded paper and at the same time slipped a dime into
her hand with which, in all propriety, she was to pay her carfare.
"I'll answer your note tomorrow," Rosie said.
Duty called George to the front of the car and Rosie peeped hastily into
his letter. "_My dear little Sweetheart,_" it ran; "_Say, what do you
think? I'm off Labour Day afternoon, so we can go to the Parade. Say,
kid, I'm just crazy about you. George._"
So that settled the Tom Sullivan business. Rosie felt a little sorry
about Tom because Tom did like her. It couldn't be helped, though, for a
girl simply can't divide herself up into sections for all the men that
want her. She would let Tom down as easily as possible. It might comfort
him to take her to the movies. Rosie could easily manage that by
suggesting a time when George Riley was busy.
The car was pretty well filled on the down trip, so George had little
time for chatting. Rosie was patient as she knew that, on the return
trip, the car would be empty or nearly so.
"All out!" George cried at the end of the route, and everybody but Rosie
meekly obeyed.
George was about to pull the bell, when Rosie called: "Wait, Jarge!
There comes a girl!"
The girl was half running, half staggering, and George stepped off the
car to help her on. As the light of the car fell on the girl's face,
Rosie jumped to her feet, crying out in amazement: "Ellen!"
Yes, it was Ellen, but not an Ellen they had ever seen before--an Ellen
with hat awry and trembling hands and a face red and swollen with
weeping.
"George!" she sobbed hysterically, "is that you! I'm so glad! You'll
take me home, won't you? I haven't got a cent of carfare!"
George helped her into the seat beside Rosie and started the car. Then
he leaned in over Rosie and demanded:
"What's the matter, Ellen? What's happened?"