1
AT the end of the second day out on the Santa Fe, Felix had begun to
leave winter behind; the desert was blossoming with strange white and
scarlet flowers; and the next morning he rode past orange-groves golden
with fruit and white with bloom, and quaint little rose-gardens at the
way-stations, toward that purple infinite depth along the horizon which
began to lift itself into the white peaks of a mountain range. Felix had
been vaguely aware that the climate of southern California was supposed
to differ from that of the Great Lakes, but to be riding out of a world
of ice and snow straight into the heart of spring, seemed to him at once
miraculous and auspicious. The green and gold of this new world was
significant to him not as a fact of geography, but as a magical response
of nature to his heart’s impatience. It was a promise of happiness.
Felix was in need of some such happy auspice to hearten him. The
determination with which he had started out had been undermined by two
days and nights of solitary thought. Sometimes he felt like a martyr
going to the stake; and sometimes like a fool. But he was upheld by a
theory.
It was the latest of all his theories concerning life in general and
himself and Rose-Ann in particular; and he had resolved to act upon that
theory at all costs, no matter how absurd it might at any moment seem.
His theory was this: that he and Rose-Ann were married....
The question of _how_ married, whether by the authority of the State of
Illinois, or by their own free will and consent, was not permitted to be
raised; for if once one started in considering questions like that, one
got nowhere! The _how_ of anything in the world was a question one might
debate for ever. Plato and H. G. Wells—St. Paul and Bernard Shaw—Tolstoi
and Nietzsche—Dante and Milton—and Edward Bok ... the sages had never
agreed what marriage was. Some said it was a social arrangement, some an
agreement between two individuals, some a mystical sacrament; others
considered it a necessary evil; and still others a damned nuisance.
Felix himself had inclined to the view that it was a relic of barbarism,
connected in some way with those other barbaric institutions, Private
Property and the State. Perhaps it was; but that was not the point.
Whether as a survival of the barbaric idea of possession or by common
understanding and consent, whether by the majestic force of law or by
private agreement, whether by sensual habitude or as an outward and
visible sign of some inward and spiritual grace—they were man and wife.
That seemed to simplify the situation immensely. The relations of two
individuals, as such, were infinitely complex and incalculable; but the
relations of man and wife were something that the mind could comprehend.
Thus—what had happened, as an incident in the history of two human
bundles of emotions and ideas, was a mystery profound and unfathomable;
but as an incident in the history of a marriage, it was no mystery at
all—it was just a quarrel.... Married people often quarreled. Why?
Perhaps because they were married.... And—generally—they made up.
Perhaps for the same reason.
It was a comfort to merge the uniqueness of one’s woes in the ocean of
generality—to feel that in this very perturbation he was representative
of a vast class; that even here he was simply a husband!
And the solution of his difficulties was—this being the conclusion to
which his theory led—to try to behave like any other husband in the same
circumstances. Not—he was quite certain of this—not like Felix Fay. Not
like a young man who has read learned books on psychology. But like a
husband....
He had elaborated his theory in the spare moments of twenty-four hours
devoted to arranging his affairs at the office so that he could be gone
for an indefinite period. His first impulse had been to take the train
and let his job go hang; but a young man who has just discovered that he
is a husband realizes the significance of a job in its relation to his
marriage. If he failed in his errand, the job did not matter; but it
mattered very much if he succeeded.... And yet—he could not explain his
predicament to any one; his very dignity as a husband was bound up in
his not admitting that anything had gone wrong with his marriage. He had
to think up some plausible lie to tell the managing editor. His play—Los
Angeles—the moving pictures—five thousand dollars—a chance to direct it
personally ... a lie like that was the sort of thing people liked to
believe. The mention of five thousand dollars ought to convince any
managing editor.... And it did.
The afternoon before he took the train, Felix had gone to see old Mrs.
Perk at the Community House Theatre. She was still there, sewing
costumes. He threaded a needle for her. They gossiped for a while. Then
he asked her suddenly,
“Granny Perk, did you ever run away from your husband?”
A delicious smile of reminiscence stole over her plump old face.
“Yes, bless your heart, I did!” she said. It was as if he had recalled
to her some exquisite and delicious adventure.
She shook her head. “I was young,” she said, as if that explained much.
“I was a girl as liked to have my own way. And so,” she said proudly,
“one day, I took the bit in my teeth and ran away!”
She put her chin in her plump hand and contemplated her memories.
“It sounds very exciting,” said Felix.
“Exciting’s no name for it,” said Granny Perk. “It was just regular
sinful!”
“What did you do, Granny Perk?” he asked curiously.
She straightened up, and looked at him severely.
“I wouldn’t be putting ideas into the heads of young folks that are well
brought up and content with things as they find them,” she said.
“Nowadays the boys and girls talk as they should not, but they behave
proper enough. It was different in my time. I wouldn’t say Boo to a
goose—but I was a wild one for all that. But I’m not one to corrupt the
youth of the land. So ask me no questions!”
“Tell me one thing,” said Felix. “What did your husband do when you ran
away?”
“Why, he came after me, to be sure, and brought me home.”
“And you lived happily ever after?” asked Felix, laughingly.
“Oh, well now, I guess we got along as well as most,” she said. “I’ve
nothing to complain of....”
Did human life go to that pattern, Felix wondered. And if so, what was
the use of all his speculations and emotions? He wished he could go
after Rose-Ann in the mood of Granny Perk’s husband, to whom it had been
the most inevitable thing in the world. As it was, he had to brace
himself against intellectual doubts for two days and nights with an
intellectual theory: the theory that he was Rose-Ann’s husband after
all.
If he could just remember that—whatever happened!
How does a husband behave on such an occasion? With firmness? That
seemed rather absurd. With a tactful brutality? Felix sighed. It would
be hard to enact this difficult rôle....
But it was spring—miraculously spring in the dead of winter, and he was
going to Rose-Ann! Yucca-blooms and cactus-blossoms, roses and oranges,
warm sunlight and the green of riotous vegetation—spring!
It was noon on Saturday that he reached Los Angeles. He went to a hotel,
and lunched. Then he took the Pacific Electric to Santa Monica....
Rose-Ann lived in Santa Monica.
2
When Rose-Ann reached her apartment in Santa Monica, after a leisurely
lunch in Los Angeles, and turned her key in the lock, she heard some one
inside spring up and come to the door. It was opened for her, and Felix
stood there smiling.
“How did you get in?” she demanded in surprise.
“Never mind how I got in,” he said. “I’m here.”
“It’s a matter of some importance to me how you got in,” she retorted,
edging around him into the room and putting her purse on the little
table. “I am known here as Miss Prentiss. The people here suppose me to
be unmarried....” she paused. “How _did_ you get in?”
“I walked in.... You had left your door unlocked.”
“Oh!”
“Aren’t you glad to see me?”
She relaxed her attitude of defence, and came over to give him her hand.
“Forgive me, Felix, for being so sensitive. I _am_ glad to see you. As
well as surprised.”
Her last remark was a demand for explanations.... Should he tell her why
he had come? Or dissemble his intentions? Courage!
“You know why I came,” he said.
She was on guard again instantly at the challenge in his voice.
“No.... Why?”
“Guess!”
He had only his theory to uphold him. Never had she seemed more utterly
alien than she became in that moment. There was a cool surprise in her
manner, and he felt as though he had committed some stupid insolence.
She did not reply, but only looked at him. He was making up his mind....
Now was the time when any husband in the world would assert his mastery
of the situation. A contemptuous phrase came into his mind: “cave-man
stuff!”
As if she were reading the thoughts in his mind, her cheeks grew red and
then white, and her eyes blazed dangerously. Every muscle was taut.
He took one step toward her; and in that instant a wild frightened look
came into her eyes ... like that in an animal’s caught in a trap. He
turned away, saw a chair before him, and sat down, sick at heart. No, he
would rather fail, than succeed—that way.
When he looked up, she was standing, a little dizzily, beside the table,
steadying herself with her hand.
His theory had been wrong.... It wasn’t husband and wife—it was himself
and Rose-Ann.
And yet—was she despising him? Well, let her.
“How long have you been in town?” she asked, quite naturally.
“I arrived this noon,” he answered quietly.
“Then you haven’t seen anything yet.”
“No.”
“There are some lovely places.”
“I suppose so.”
“I’ll show you about, if I may. I’d like to.”
“I sha’n’t be here long,” he said. “Only a few days.” Since he had
failed, he might as well go back quickly.
“I’m sorry you can’t stay longer,” she said—wistfully, it seemed.
That silly lie he had told to the managing editor to save his dignity,
came into his mind. It would save his dignity here too.
“I came to see the moving picture people about my play,” he said.
“Oh, did Winters write you about it?”
“Winters? No.”
“I told him about it, and he was very much interested.”
How utterly absurd! His play a movie!... Still, under the circumstances,
he could hardly say that to her....
“You haven’t settled anything finally, have you?” she went on. “Because
you really ought to see Winters. I’ll introduce you, if you wish.”
“That will be fine,” he said mechanically. He wished he could tell her
it was a lie; but that would be a confession of his purpose in
coming—and his failure.
“What are you doing this afternoon?” she pursued.
“Nothing,” he said.
She laughed. “You might be sociable and invite me to tea!”
He pulled himself together. He must play this thing out somehow. It was
only for a few days.
“Tea?” he repeated stupidly.
“Can’t you come? Then how about dinner?—No—” she bit her lip. “I
forgot—I’ve an engagement for dinner. But—I suppose I can break it ...
if you’d like me to.”
“No, don’t break your dinner engagement. I can come to tea,” he said.
She hesitated, and then said appealing, “I want to be good friends with
you, Felix!”
“I see no reason why we shouldn’t be,” he said.... That wasn’t very well
done—he ought to be able to do better than that.... “It will be very
nice to have tea with you.”
“Have you seen the Palisades?” she asked.
“No.”
“No, of course not....”
“The Palisades?” He appeared inquiringly interested.
“Pergolas and palm-trees. You’ll like it. We’ll go there for a walk.”
He smiled. “That will be lovely!”
Rose-Ann put on her hat, and looked at it in the mirror. It did not
satisfy her, and she went to a closet for another. She viewed herself
with dissatisfaction, and then turned to him and said lightly,
“Wait for me downstairs, Felix, while I change into some fresh things—I
get so tired of my work-clothes.”
He was swept with a sudden uncontrollable anger, so that he trembled as
he stood up.... It was strange that this petty humiliation, and not the
thought of losing her for ever, should destroy his self-possession! He
was ashamed of himself. He went toward the door.... Once outside, he
would go away and go home and never see her again....
She followed him to the door and put her hands on his shoulders; and
then they were in one another’s arms.
3
Rose-Ann began to cry.
“We’ve spoiled it all,” she said.
“How have we spoiled it?” he asked tenderly but troubledly. “You love
me....”
“I love you.... I think so. Or at least I was terribly lonely for you.
But—”
“But what?”
“This only makes it so much harder. This—_this_ hasn’t changed my mind,
Felix.” She sat up on the couch.
“I shall never let you leave me now.”
“I’m afraid—you’ll have to find some other way of keeping me.”
“I shall,” he said defiantly.
“I—hope so, Felix.... I wish I could feel that I was really and truly
your wife. I don’t—yet.”
“Then,” he said slowly, “play at being my wife—for a while. Can you do
that?”
“I’ve played at it for nearly two years. It was nice enough. I guess I
can—a little longer. Do you suppose that is what it will come to?—just
playing at being married, Felix?”
“No. Never. We’ll find the answer this time.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to talk everything out....”
“We’ve talked so often, Felix!”
“Once more!”
“Yes ... but not now. Let’s play at being happy first. Shall we go
outdoors?”
“Yes.”
“And have our tea.... Felix, you will love the palm-trees! I’ll put on
my prettiest frock—for you.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------