The Real Adventure
"I don't believe Rose is worrying her head off about them." said Portia.
The flush in her mother's cheeks deepened a little, but it was no longer
apologetic.
"I don't think you're quite fair to Rose, about her studies," she said.
"The child may not be making a brilliant record, but really, considering
the number of her occupations, it seems to me she does very well. And if
she doesn't seem always to appreciate her privilege in getting a college
education, as seriously as she should, you should remember her youth."
"She's twenty," said Portia bluntly. "You graduated at that age, and you
took it seriously enough."
"It's very different," her mother insisted. "And I'm sure you understand
the difference quite well. Higher education was still an experiment for
women then--one of the things they were fighting for. And those of us by
whom the success of the experiment was to be judged ..."
"I'm sorry, mother," Portia interrupted contritely. "I'm tired and ugly
to-day, and I didn't mean any harm, anyway. Of course Rose is all right,
just as I said. And she'll probably get her note-books back Monday."
Then, "Didn't she say the man's name was Rodney Aldrich?"
"I think so," her mother agreed. "Something like that."
"It's rather funny," said Portia. "It's hardly likely to have been the
real Rodney Aldrich. Yet, it's not a common name."
"The _real_ Rodney Aldrich?" questioned her mother. But, without waiting
for her daughter's elucidation of the phrase, she added, "Oh, there's
Rose!"
The girl came shuffling into the room in a pair of old bedroom slippers.
She had on a skirt that she used to go skating in, and a somewhat
tumbled middy-blouse. Her hair was wopsed around her head anyhow--it
really takes one of Rose's own words to describe it. As a toilet
representing the total accomplishment of a morning, it was nothing to
boast of. But, if you'd been sitting there, invisibly, where you could
see her, you'd have straightened up and drawn a deeper breath than you'd
indulged in lately, and felt that the world was distinctly a brighter
place to live in than it had been a moment before.
She came up behind Portia, whom she had not seen before that day, and
enveloped her in a big lazy hug.
"Back to work another Saturday afternoon, Angel?" she asked
commiseratingly. "Aren't you ever going to stop and have any fun?" Then
she slumped into a chair, heaved a yawning sigh and rubbed her eyes.
"Tired, dear?" asked her mother. She said it under her breath in the
hope that Portia wouldn't hear.
"No," said Rose. "Just sleepy." She yawned again, turned to Portia, and,
somewhat to their surprise, said: "Yes, what do you mean--the _real_
Rodney Aldrich? He looked real enough to me. And his arm felt real--the
one he was going to punch the conductor with."
"I didn't mean he was imaginary," Portia explained. "I only meant I
didn't believe it was the Rodney Aldrich--who's so awfully prominent;
either somebody else who happened to have the same name, or somebody who
just--said that was his name."
"What's the matter with the prominent one?" Rose wanted to know. "Why
couldn't it have been him?"
Portia admitted that it could, so far as that went, but insisted on an
inherent improbability. A millionaire, a member of one of the oldest
families in the city--a social swell, the brother of that Mrs. Martin
Whitney whose pictures the papers were always publishing on the
slightest excuse--wasn't likely to be found riding in street-cars, in
the first place, and the improbability reached a climax during a furious
storm like that of last night, when, if ever during the year, the real
Rodney Aldrich would be saying, "Home, James," to a liveried chauffeur,
and sinking back luxuriously among the whip-cord cushions of a palatial
limousine.
I hasten to say that these were not Portia's words; all the same, what
Portia did say, formed a basis for Rose's unspoken caricature.
"Millionaires have legs," she said aloud. "I bet they can walk around
like anybody else. However, I don't care who he is, if he'll send back
my books."
Portia went back presently to the shop, and it wasn't long after that
that her mother came down-stairs clad for the street, with her _Modern
Tendencies_ under her arm in a leather portfolio.
It had turned cold overnight, and there was a buffeting gusty wind which
shook the windows and rattled the stiff branches of the trees. Her
mother's valedictory, given with more confidence now that Portia was out
of the house, was a strong recommendation that Rose stay quietly within
doors and keep warm.
The girl might have palmed off her own inclination as an example of
filial obedience, but she didn't.
"I was going to, anyway," she said. "Home and fireside for mine to-day."
Ordinarily, the gale would have tempted her. It was such good fun to
lean up against it and force your way through, while it tugged at your
skirts and hair and slapped your face.
But to-day, the warmest corner of the sitting-room lounge, the quiet of
the house, deserted except for Inga in the kitchen, engaged in the
principal sporting event of her domestic routine--the weekly baking; the
fact that she needn't speak to a soul for three hours, a detective story
just wild enough to make little intervals in the occupation of doing
nothing at all--presented an ideal a hundred per cent. perfect.
She hadn't meant to go to sleep, having already slept away half the
morning, but the author's tactics in the detective story were so
flagrantly unfair, he was so manifestly engaged trying to make trouble
for his poor anemic characters instead of trying to solve their
perplexities, that presently she tossed the book aside and began
dreaming one of her own in which the heroine got put off a street-car in
the opening chapter.
The telephone bell roused her once or twice, far enough to observe that
Inga was attending to it, so when the front door-bell rang, she left
that to Inga, too--didn't even sit up and swing her legs off the couch
and try, with a prodigious stretch, to get herself awake, until she
heard the girl say casually:
"Her ban right in the sitting-room."
So it fell out that Rodney Aldrich had, for his second vivid picture of
her,--the first had been, you will remember, when she had seized the
conductor by both wrists, and had said in a blaze of beautiful wrath,
"Don't dare to touch me like that!"--a splendid, lazy, tousled creature,
in a chaotic glory of chestnut hair, an unlaced middy-blouse, a plaid
skirt twisted round her knees, and a pair of ridiculous red bedroom
slippers, with red pompons on the toes. The creature was stretching
herself with the grace of a big cat that has just been roused from a nap
on the hearth-rug.
If his first picture of her had been brief, his second one was
practically a snap-shot, because at sight of him, she flashed to her
feet.
So, for a moment, they confronted each other about equally aghast,
flushed up to the hair, and simultaneously and incoherently, begging
each other's pardon--neither could have said for what, the goddess out
of the machine being Inga, the maid-of-all-work. But suddenly, at a
twinkle she caught in his eye, her own big eyes narrowed and her big
mouth widened into a smile, which broke presently into her deep-throated
laugh, whereupon he laughed too, and they shook hands, and she asked him
to sit down.
CHAPTER VI
THE BIG HORSE
"It's too ridiculous," she said. "Since last night, when I got to
thinking how I must have looked, wrestling with that conductor, I've
been telling myself that if I ever saw you again, I'd try to act like a
lady. But it's no use, is it?"
He said that he, too, had hoped to make a better impression the second
time than the first. That was what he brought the books back for. He had
hoped to convince her that a man capable of consigning a half-drowned
girl to a ten-mile ride on the elevated, instead of walking her over to
his sister's, having her dried out properly, and sent home in a motor,
wasn't permanently and chronically as blithering an idiot as he may have
seemed. It was a great load off of his mind to find her alive at all.
She gave him a humorously exaggerated account of the prophylactic
measures her mother had submitted her to the night before, and she
concluded:
"I'm awfully sorry mother's not at home--mother and my sister Portia.
They'd both like to thank you for--looking after me last night. Because
really, you did, you know."
"There never was anything less altruistic in the world," he assured her.
"I dropped off of that car solely in pursuit of a selfish aim. And I
didn't come out here to-day to be thanked, either. I mean, of course,
I'd enjoy meeting your mother and sister very much, but what I came for
was to get acquainted with you."
He saw her glance wander a little dubiously to the door. "That is," he
concluded, "if you haven't something else to do."
She flushed and smiled. "No, it wasn't that," she said, "I was trying to
make up my mind whether it would be better to ask you to wait here ten
minutes while I went up and made myself a little more presentable.... I
mean, whether you'd rather have me fit to look at, or have me like this
and not be bored by waiting. It's all one to me, you see, because even
if I did come down again presentable, you'd know--well, that I wasn't
that way naturally."
Whereupon he laughed out again, told her that a ten-minute wait would
bore him horribly, and that if she didn't mind, he much preferred her
natural.
"All right," she said, and went on with the conversation where she had
interrupted it.
"Why, I'm nobody much to get acquainted with," she said. "Mother's the
interesting one--mother and Portia. Mother's quite a person. She's Naomi
Rutledge Stanton, you know."
"I know I ought to know," Rodney said, and her quick appreciative smile
over his candor rewarded him for not having pretended.
"Oh," she said, "mother's written two or three books, and lots of
magazine articles, about women--women's rights and suffrage, and all
that. She's been--well, sort of a leader ever since she graduated from
college, back in--just think!--1870, when most girls used to
have--accomplishments--'French, music, and washing extra,' you know."
She said it all with a quite adorable seriousness and his gravity
matched hers when he replied:
"I would like to meet her very much. Feminism's a subject I'm blankly
ignorant about."
"I don't believe," she said thoughtfully, "that I'd call it feminism in
talking to mother about it, if I were you. Mother's a suffragist,
but"--there came another wave of faint color along with her
smile--"but--well, she's awfully respectable, you know."
She didn't seem to mind his laughing out at that, though she didn't join
him.
"What about the other interesting member of the family," he asked
presently, "your sister? Which is she, a suffragist or a feminist?"
"I suppose," she said, "you'll call Portia a feminist. Anyway, she
smokes cigarettes. Oh, can't I get you some? I forgot!"
He had a case of his own in his pocket, he said, and got one out now
and lighted it.
"Why," she went on, "Portia hasn't time to talk about it much. You see,
she's a business woman. She's a house decorator. I don't mean painting
and paper-hanging. She tells you what kind of furniture to buy, and then
sells it to you. Portia's terribly clever and awfully independent."
"All right," he said. "That brings us down to you. What are you?"
She sighed. "I'm sort of a black sheep, I guess. I'm just in the
university. But I'm to be a lawyer."
Whereupon he cried out "Good lord!" so explosively that she fairly
jumped.
Then he apologized, said he didn't know why her announcement should have