THE HAPPY LOVER
It was 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."
[Illustration: 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 now
except 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 and now 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 you this 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.