The Real Adventure
Rose with a look of dumb frozen agony in her face. The one idea he'd
clung to since starting for Dubuque, had been that he mustn't frighten
her. She must see, with her first glance at him, that she had nothing
to fear from a repetition of his former behavior. She must see that the
brute in him--that was the way he put it to himself--was completely
tamed.
Their meeting was a shock to both of them; an incredible mocking sort of
anti-climax.
He was standing near the foot of the stairs when she came down, with a
raincoat on, and a newspaper twisted up in his hands, and at sight of
her, he took off his soft wet hat, and crunched it up along with the
newspaper. He moved over toward her, but stopped two or three feet away.
"It's very good of you to come," he said, his voice lacking a little of
the ridiculous stiffness of his words, not much. "Is there some place
where we can talk a little more--privately than here? I shan't keep you
long."
"There's a room here somewhere," she said. "I noticed it this morning
when we came in. Oh, yes! It's over there."
The room she led him to, was an appropriately preposterous setting for
the altogether preposterous talk that ensued between them. It had a
mosaic floor with a red plush carpet on it, two stained glass windows in
yellow and green, flanking an oak mantel, which framed an enormous
expanse of mottled purple tile, with a diminutive gas log in the middle.
A glassy looking oak table occupied most of the room, and the chairs
that were crowded in around it were upholstered in highly polished
coffee-colored horse-hide, with very ornate nails. A Moorish archway
with a spindling grill across the top, gave access to it. The room
served, doubtless, to gratify the proprietor's passion for beauty. The
flagrant impossibility of its serving any other purpose, had preserved
it in its pristine splendor. One might imagine that no one had ever been
in there, barring an occasional awed maid with a dust cloth, until
Rodney and Rose descended on it.
"It's dreadfully hot in here," Rose said. "You'd better take off your
coat." She squeezed in between the table and one of the chairs, and
seated herself.
Rodney threw down his wet hat, his newspaper, and then his raincoat, on
the table, and slid into a chair opposite her.
If only one of them could have laughed! But the situation was much too
tragic for that.
"I want to tell you first," Rodney said, and his manner was that of a
schoolboy reciting to his teacher an apology that has been rehearsed at
home under the sanction of paternal authority, "I want to tell you how
deeply sorry I am for ... I want to say that you can't be any more
horrified over what I did--that night than I am."
He had his newspaper in his hands again and was twisting it up. His eyes
didn't once seek her face. But they might have done so in perfect
safety, because her own were fixed on his hands and the newspaper they
crumpled.
He didn't presume to ask her forgiveness, he told her. He couldn't
expect that; at least not at present. He went on lamely, in broken
sentences, repeating what he'd said, in still more inadequate words. He
was unable to stop talking until she should say something, it hardly
mattered what. And she was unable to say anything. There was a reason
for this:
The thing that had amazed her by crowding up into her mind, demanding to
be said, was that she forgave him utterly--if indeed she had anything
more to forgive than he. She'd never thought it before. Now she realized
that it was true. He was as guiltless of premeditation on that night as
she. If he had yielded to a rush of passion, even while his other
instincts felt outraged by the things she had done, hadn't she yielded
too, without ever having tried to tell him certain material facts that
might change his feeling? They'd both been victims, if one cared to put
it like that, of an accident; had ventured, incautiously, into the rim
of a whirlpool whose irresistible force they both knew.
She fought the realization down with a frantic repression. It wasn't--it
couldn't be true! Why hadn't she seen it was true before? Why must the
reflection have come at a moment like this, while he sat there, across
the table from her in a public room, laboriously apologizing?
The formality of his phrases got stiffer and finally congealed into a
blank silence.
Finally she said, with a gasp: "I have something to ask you to--forgive
me for. That's for leaving you to find out--where I was, the way you
did. You see, I thought at first that no one would know me, made up and
all. And when I found out I would be recognizable, it was too late to
stop--or at least it seemed so. Besides, I thought you knew. I saw Jimmy
Wallace out there the opening night, and saw he recognized me, and--I
thought he'd tell you. And then I kept seeing other people out in front
after that, people we knew, who'd come to see for themselves, and I
thought, of course, you knew. And--I suppose I was a coward--I waited
for you to come. I wasn't, as you thought, trying to hurt you. But I can
see how it must have looked like that."
He said quickly: "You're not to blame at all. I remember how you offered
to tell me what you intended to do before you went away, and that I
wouldn't let you."
Silence froze down on them again.
"I can't forgive myself," he said at last, "for having driven you
out--as I'm sure I did--from your position in the Chicago company. I
went back to the theater to try and find you, three days after--after
that night, but you were gone. I've been trying to find you ever since.
I've wanted to take back the things I said that night--about being
disgraced and all. I was angry over not having known when the other
people did. It wasn't your being on the stage. We're not so bigoted as
that.
"I've come to ask a favor of you, though, and that is that you'll let
me--let us all, help you. I can't--bear having you live like this,
knocking about like this, where all sorts of things can happen to you.
And going under an assumed name. I've no right to ask a favor, I know,
but I do. I ask you to take your own name again, Rose Aldrich. And I
want you to let us help you to get a better position than this; that is,
if you haven't changed your mind about being on the stage; a position
that will have more hope and promise in it. I want you to feel that
we're--with you."
"Who are 'we'?" She accompanied that question with a straight look into
his eyes; the first since they had sat down across this table.
"Why," he said, "the only two people I've talked with about
it--Frederica and Harriet. I thought you'd be glad to know that they
felt as I did."
The first flash of genuine feeling she had shown, was the one that broke
through on her repetition of the name "Harriet!"
"Yes," he said, and he had, for about ten seconds, the misguided sense
of dialectical triumph. "I know a little how you feel toward her, and
maybe she's justified it. But not in this case. Because it was Harriet
who made me see that there wasn't anything--disgraceful about your going
on the stage. It was her own idea that you ought to use your own name
and give us a chance to help you. She'll be only too glad to help. And
she knows some people in New York who have influence in such matters."
During the short while she let elapse before she spoke, his confidence
in the conviction-carrying power of this statement ebbed somewhat,
though he hadn't seen yet what was wrong with it.
"Yes," she said at last, "I think I can see Harriet's view of it. As
long as Rose had run away and joined a fifth-rate musical comedy in
order to be on the stage, and as long as everybody knew it, the only
thing to do was to get her into something respectable so that you could
all pretend you liked it. It was all pretty shabby, of course, for the
Aldriches, and in a way, what you deserved for marrying a person like
that. Still, that was no reason for not putting the best face on it you
could.--And that's why you came to find me!"
"No, it isn't," he said furiously. His elaborately assumed manner had
broken down, anyway. "I came because I couldn't help coming. I've been
sick--sick ever since that night over the way you were living, over the
sort of life I'd--driven you to. I've felt I couldn't stand it. I wanted
you to know that I'd assent to anything, any sort of terms that you
wanted to make that didn't involve--this. If it's the stage, all
right.--Or if you'd come home--to the babies. I wouldn't ask anything
for myself. You could be as independent of me as you are here...."
He'd have gone on elaborating this program rather further but the look
of blank incredulity in her face stopped him.
"I say things wrong," he concluded with a sudden humility that quenched
the spark of anger in her eyes. "I was a fool to quote Harriet, and I
haven't done much better in speaking for myself. I can't make you see."
"Oh, I can see plainly enough, Roddy," she said, with a tired little
grimace that was a sorry reminder of her old smile. "I guess I see too
well. I'm sorry to have hurt you and made you miserable. I knew I was
going to do that, of course, when I went away, but I hoped that after a
while, you'd come to see my side of it. You can't at all. You couldn't
believe that I was happy in that little room up on Clark Street; that I
thought I was doing something worth doing; something that was making me
more nearly a person you could respect and be friends with. And, from
what you've said just now, it seems as if you couldn't believe even that
I was a person with any decent _self_-respect. The notion that I could
blackmail your family into lending me their name and social position to
get me a better job on the stage than I could earn! Or the notion that
I could come back to your house and pretend to be your wife without
even ...!"
The old possibility of frank talk between them was gone. She couldn't
complete the sentence.
"So I guess," she concluded after a silence, "that the only thing for
you to do is to go home and forget about me as well as you can and be as
little miserable about me as possible. I'll tell you this, that may make
it a little easier: you're not to think of me as starving or miserable,
or even uncomfortable for want of money. I'm earning plenty to live on,
and I've got over two hundred dollars in the bank. So, on that score at
least, you needn't worry."
There was a long silence while he sat there twisting the newspaper in
his hands, his eyes downcast, his face dull with the look of defeat that
had settled over it.
In the security of his averted gaze, she took a long look at him. Then,
with a wrench, she looked away.
"You will let me go now, won't you?" she asked. "This is--hard for us
both, and it isn't getting us anywhere. And--and I've got to ask you not
to come back. Because it's impossible, I guess, for you to see the thing
my way. You've done your best to, I can see that."
He got up out of his chair, heavily, tiredly; put on his raincoat and
stood, for a moment, crumpling his soft hat in his hands, looking down
at her. She hadn't risen. She'd gone limp all at once, and was leaning
over the table.
"Good-by," he said at last.
She said, "Good-by, Roddy," and watched him walking across the lobby and
out into the rain. He'd left his newspaper. She took it, gripped it in
both hands, just as he'd done, then, with an effort, got up and mounted
the stairs to her room. Dolly, fortunately, had gone out.
The violent struggle she had had to make during the last few moments in
her effort to retain her self-control, had pretty well exhausted her.
Only, had it been self-control, after all? That question shook her. Had
she meant to be merciless to him like that; to send him away utterly