ROSE O’NEIL
ELLEN awoke the following morning with a sense of relief. Rose’s
prattle had refreshed her soul. The girl’s happiness was so real, her
worship so sweet and soothing to her vanity, it was impossible to be
with the child and not catch the contagious happiness that bubbled from
her heart.
To her vivid young mind her aunt was the perfection of glorified
womanhood. Her mother’s praises had, of course, prepared her for this
opinion, yet the impression Ellen had made far surpassed in reality all
her mother had suggested.
This attitude of worship would make her education a joy. Ellen
determined to begin it at once before the roar of New York’s colossal
life could confuse her. She would begin, of course, by finding out her
attitude toward the cause of woman.
“We’ll devote the first hour every morning, dear,” Ellen announced at
breakfast, “to laying out your studies for the day.”
Rose’s eyes sparkled.
“Oh, that’s so sweet of you to give the first fresh hour of the day to
poor little me. I’m so proud, I’ll hardly speak to myself after this.”
Ellen shot her a look of sharp inquiry. Could she be posing with such
a speech? Impossible! The look out of her honest young eyes was too
sincere. Her resemblance to herself was so striking, it was unthinkable
to accuse her of posing. The thought was dismissed. She was honest, in
earnest, utterly frank, utterly sincere. It was worth one’s time to
teach her.
“You’ve read my book on ‘The Modern Woman Movement,’ dear?” Ellen asked
when they reached the library.
Rose blushed.
“I’m sorry I haven’t, auntie. But mama did and she says it’s the
greatest book anybody ever wrote. She’s so proud of it she shows it to
everybody that comes and shows them your autograph on the first leaf,
and you ought to hear her say:
“My sister’s the most stately and beautiful woman I ever saw!”
She imitated her mother’s tones in a way that made Ellen smile. She had
meant to express her surprise that she had not read her book carefully.
Rose apologized so skilfully, the intended rebuke ended in a glow of
personal vanity. She had been flattered before by men and women, but
there was something so frank and real in this unsophisticated girl’s
admiration it gave her new strength.
“Well, I’ll have you read that first, and we’ll be better acquainted
with each other.”
“I’ll read it right away,” was the eager response.
Ellen gently and skilfully set about to draw out her ideal of the woman
of to-day.
“Tell me, what is the dearest wish of your heart?”
Rose smiled.
“You’ll not laugh?”
“No.”
“Marry a fine man and have about six or seven children!”
“Is that all?”
“Isn’t that enough children?”
“Quite.”
“Well, maybe eight. But I think ten’s really too many. They seem to get
on top of one another if there’s that many, don’t you think?”
“I agree with you,” Ellen responded gravely.
“We had a neighbor in Texas who had ten and the mother could never keep
their faces washed all at one time. I think that’s awful, don’t you?”
“Very bad.”
The leader of the crusade was searching for a possible opening in which
to lodge a revolutionary idea. It would be cruel and unwise to strike
her in the face with the declaration of her creed.
“Aren’t you afraid of being the slave of a man if you marry?” Ellen
inquired cautiously.
“Gracious, no; I expect to be!”
“But don’t you want to develop yourself, dear?”
Rose studied her aunt’s question.
“You mean study and read and work as you tell me?”
“I mean more than that. I mean when you’ve finished your school days,
don’t you want to go on developing yourself?”
She shook her head promptly.
“No. I want to give all of myself to my home and the kids.”
Ellen broke into a hearty laugh. Her job was larger than she had
figured. Evidently this fair miniature of herself was a striking
example of a reversion to type. Probably her poor mother had felt the
task hopeless and took the radical step of breaking her environment at
home once and forever.
Grave misgivings of the outcome of her teaching Rose. The little
one had decided opinions of her own when put to the test. There was
no hesitation about her answers when she was sure of no offence. It
would be necessary to use the utmost care in approaching her positive
personality.
Ellen was gravely studying the fine face bent in earnest over her book
when Manning’s rap startled her.
“Run now, dear, and study in your room while Mr. Manning and I work.”
“Let me stay just a minute?” she pleaded.
“What for?”
“Just to say ‘howdy do’!”
Ellen hesitated.
“All right; just five minutes; and then to your work.”
Rose flushed with excitement as he rapped the second time.
“Oh, I think he’s just grand!” she murmured as Ellen opened the door.
She had been careful to give Manning the full view of the room, with
Rose in the background as he entered. A thoughtless word or kiss might
have been awkward.
His greeting was so carefully casual Ellen resented it and yet was
exactly as he should have made it.
He waved his arm toward Rose.
“Good-morning, little one!”
“Good-morning!” she responded cheerily.
“Ready for the typewriting?”
“When auntie gets the machine.”
“Well, she’ll be getting it soon. I feel like work to-day--and you,
Miss West?”
“Never more fit, sir,” was the prompt answer.
Again she resented the conventional “Miss” he had put before her name.
What else could he do? It irritated her to be compelled to recognize
the fact that he was doing the only thing that was possible under the
conditions.
Rose lingered.
Her aunt turned at last and said:
“Run along now, child, and read until I call you.”
“All right; but do let me help if I can!”
Manning waved to her retreating figure.
“The minute Act I is ready the typewriting begins.”
“I drew her out this morning,” Ellen said laughingly when she had
disappeared.
“On what?”
“The cause of woman.”
“I can tell you her views.”
“Yes?”
“Shall I?”
“Try.”
“She’s your miniature in face and budding form--a complete reversion to
type in character.”
“Correct.”
“Her one dream in life is hubby, home and baby.”
“No?”
“Babies! Seven!”
“Really?”
They both laughed.
“She had thought of eight, possibly, but drew the line at ten.”
“Well, I’m glad there’s some trace of restraint.”
Manning caught Ellen’s keen eyes studying him intently. His laughter
had been real, his enjoyment of the joke genuine, and yet she wondered
if he had quite concealed his admiration for the lovely, fresh young
girl and her appealing ideal.
He dropped his eyes unconsciously before her gaze. She had uncanny
intuitions. There was no doubt of her ability at times to read his
thoughts. He was not surprised when she said musingly:
“You admire her?”
“I think she’s adorable,” was the frank reply.
“Because she’s so much like me or unlike me?”
“Both.”
“Oh----!”
“When I look at her I see you in the first dawn of an exquisite
girlhood. When she begins to talk I hear the old-fashioned songs and
lullabies. But we must get to work. Come; that plot has been deviling
the soul out of my body the past night. I can’t get it right.”
Her eyes were still searching him. She was puzzled. An ugly fear had
suddenly gripped her. It was too ugly to be real. It was too ugly to
frame into speech. She could only shiver at the thought of it. Her
first impulse was to send Rose O’Neil packing home on the next train.
It was too mean and cowardly for a serious consideration. Besides, the
child had caught her heart with a queer tenderness. She had been happy
to feel her near. She had slept sounder because she was in the next
room.
With an effort she threw off the morbid fancy and hurried to the table,
on which were piled their papers of the play.
In the rush of work she forgot the ugly thought, absorbed in the
problems of the drama. At the end of two hours they were no nearer the
solution than at the beginning.
“Let’s call Rose down and try the story on her?” Manning suggested.
Ellen threw him a startled look.
“Absurd!”
“Not at all, I assure you,” he insisted.
“A twenty-year-old school girl--you must think her inspired.”
“Far from it. On the other hand, her mind is precisely the medium
through which we must put our story if addressed to an audience. I
haven’t studied the technique of playwriting as you have. But I have
studied the mind of the mob. I did some public speaking, and the thing
interested me enormously. Some great books have been written on the
psychology of the crowd. It’s entirely different from the mind of the
individual reader.”
“Nonsense.”
“It’s true. You can only get into the head of an audience what will
get into the head of the lowest intelligences in it. If you have a
thousand college professors before you and mix among them a hundred
chamber-maids, you have poured a gallon of ink into a barrel of clear
water. The mixture is the medium through which you must pass your rays
of light to make your mental impression in the crowd. You can cut any
sort of mental gymnastics in a story that is written for an individual
reader who sits alone by the fire and reads at his leisure. When you
address an audience your proposition must be simple, your process of
reasoning elemental.”
Ellen had received the suggestion of submitting the plot to Rose with
a quick return of her morbid fancy. She had watched Manning begin his
philosophic explanation with even greater suspicions. At the end of his
long speech she not only found herself convinced, but was heartily
ashamed of her foolish fears and her unfair suspicions.
She made up her mind, once for all, to put jealous suspicions out of
her heart forever, otherwise there would be no end of unhappy bickering
and quarrelling.
She smiled admiringly.
“Really, man,” she said banteringly, “you speak with almost human
intelligence.”
He bowed humbly.
“Thanks.”
“We’ll call Rose at once and try it on her.”
“Of course the experiment can only be approximately correct.”
“We should have a crowd of Roses?”
“Exactly.”
Ellen called and the girl appeared on the balcony.
“Come down, dear, and help us now.”
There was the swish of a skirt and she seemed to clear the narrow
stairs at a bound.
In a moment she stood before them flushed and excited.
“What’ll I do--what’ll I do?” she cried.
Manning caught the eager longing for service in the tones of her soft
rich voice. Whatever there might be of selfish purpose in the warp
and woof of this adorable little creature, there was no thought of
self-development.
“Thank God for that!” he muttered to himself.
“Sit down, dear,” Ellen said. “We want you to hear the story of our
play and tell us what you think of it.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know enough.”
“You don’t have to know anything, child,” Manning assured her. “Just
sit there and enjoy it, if you can.”
Rose smiled her relief, switched her gingham skirts deftly and sat down.
“Oh, is that all? I can do that, I’m sure.”
Ellen read the story of the play with all the feeling and delicate
shading of thought which her fine voice could give to its words.
Manning slouched low in his chair and watched the face of the girl. A
more sensitive and exquisite mouth he had never imagined. In its lines
it was the reproduction of Ellen’s, but about it lingered a charm the
older woman had never known. The slightest shade of wit registered
with unerring accuracy on the delicate lips. The slightest touch of
excitement in the story flashed from her eyes redoubled in intensity.
Her whole personality radiated faith, worship, tenderness, and the
spirit of self-effacement.
Manning felt the pangs of the old heart-hunger for a home and babies
with cruel force. The sight of her eager face fired his imagination. He
forgot the story of the play and waked with a start as Rose leaped from
her seat clapping her hands.
“It’s beautiful, Aunt Ellen! It’s wonderful!”
“You really think so, dear? What did you like about it?”
“Oh, I think the hero’s grand!”
Manning winked at Ellen.
“And the heroine?”
“She’s a little queer.”
Manning laughed and Ellen frowned.
“But it’s so exciting. I almost screamed once. Did you hear me?”
She turned her question to Manning.
“No, but I saw you crying.”
“That wasn’t the time I was so excited--I cried three times.”
Manning smiled.
“All right, little audience, we thank you very much for your kind
assistance at our opening performance. I’ll send a machine down at once
and you can give us three copies of this story to-night--will you?”
“Will I? I’m just dying to get at it!”
The girl’s faith was contagious. The writers took new courage.
“To-morrow we’ll begin the dialogue of the first act,” Ellen said
enthusiastically.
[Illustration: ELLEN READ THE STORY OF THE PLAY.]
“Good. I’ll come early,” Manning responded.
And all the way back to his apartment he saw the flashing, mobile,
sensitive face of the miniature of Ellen.