Sometimes it is the problem of whether she wants to have children or not—sometimes the question of giving up a separate, wage-earning existence, sometimes a theory against the inequality of marital concessions, sometimes this, sometimes that. But questions of this sort have become such common experience that one wonders sometimes if the whole thing is not a development of the old feminine practice of playing with a man from behind a feather-fringed fan. Not that these women of today consciously concoct their problems to trouble their lovers or excite further ardor in them—far be it from the thoughts of most of them to so illegitimately fan a man’s flame, and perhaps the whole suggestion is unworthy and unfair. Still, so many girls have these preliminary problems before they marry—so many courtships are painful, harassed affairs these days—so many moonlit nights are spent in putting questions which do not read, “Will you love me always?” but “Will I be able to maintain my individuality?” or in the bewildering phrase of poor Lady Harmon, “my autonomy,” that this dwelling upon mating problems among women surely looks like a modern group movement. And no reflection either on the honesty or fervor of contemporary women. The same doubts stirring in their minds have always stirred in the minds of courted women—doubts as to whether such happiness, such devoted love as comes in the first fragrant period of love-making can endure and what will happen if it does not endure? Formerly women teased their lovers for assurances of perpetual love. The woman now, more wise, more honest, more skeptical too, about perpetual love, puts a different face on her questions. She asks—“And if this love does not turn out well, what then? Shall I be wrecked? Can I maintain enough of my independence, of my beauty and strength, to play the game through? Will this man be grasping and demanding? Is love an exhilaration worthy of the submission of my body and spirit?”
The woman of today is not miserly. She has no idea—not nearly so much as her old-fashioned sister of doling out her love. She is a marvelous spender. But she is not a spendthrift and she has had enough teaching in the economics of life to demand value received. If love is worth while she is capable of giving everything magnificently. If it is not, she grudges giving, having put permanently behind her the theory that woman’s lot is pitiful and one of resignation. And yet sometimes she does give everything, knowing it is a gamble, just as the girl of the old game gave everything often enough, even when her lover’s “love you always” rang false in her ears.
Horatia’s problem, of course, might have been one of a dozen. The incident of Mrs. Hubbell was analyzed rightly enough by Jim as being merely illustrative of a lack of faith in him. She had neither complete faith in him nor complete faith in marriage and her lack of faith was entirely in consonance with her time. Mrs. Hubbell loomed large in her mind while she was in the midst of her argument with Jim. But she was not in the country for a week before she thought of her problem in terms which almost eliminated Rose.
In the first flush of her love for Jim she had yielded to her temperamental love for romance and to emotional wonder at finding herself beloved and suddenly more important than ever before. But with the approach of the great question of marriage she had found that her mind began to question many things. She soon saw that what she was facing was not a minor point of whether Jim was to see Rose Hubbell or not, but whether her need of Jim and his of her was great enough to supersede all doubts, all fears, all worries about marriage. Little by little she postponed a final consideration of these questions. Life in the country was easy enough but none the less full of events. There was a great deal of lazy intercourse with people, a great deal of exercise, motoring—and Horatia found that she was able to give herself up quite happily to the enjoyment of natural beauty—fresh morning air, sunsets on the little lake and green afternoons in the woods. She was not ashamed of that. The sensations of beauty and the elevation of spirit that came with it were so far from trivial that they justified her for feeling happy so soon after her break with Jim. She withdrew a little from the memories of his love into contemplation of the fact of it.
At this distance it was peaceful to think of his love and in this calmer mood she did not question the depth of feeling of either of them. The questions of outcomes she laid aside for the present and she moved through this setting of natural beauty with heart and head held high. Some time she would move to a solution—not yet. Of course she did not realize how dangerous to her love for Jim all these distractions were nor how dangerous her friends meant them to be. She never thought of Anthony as a lover. A false step from him or Maud would have driven her away in those first days, but Anthony’s attitude was perfect. He was the admirable friend and companion just as Horatia had wished and just as she had asked him to be. He established her confidence in him again. They walked and rode and swam together. No excursion was complete without Anthony.
And they grew very close to one another. There was one silver night when they rode for endless hours under the moonlight—a white road stretching forward over the hill-tops and luring them always farther. The lights went out in the little villages and they became black and mysteriously still.
“Dead little houses,” said Anthony, “why are people so silly as to sleep inside them?”
He was full of life that night. Horatia was close to him—still—happy—his machine quivered and sped under his touch and he had all that he loved most in the world around him. Horatia’s own youth woke in answer to this appetite for life which showed in the man’s firm, vigorous handling of his wheel and the joyous lift of his head.
“Are you happy, Horatia?”
“Quite happy.” She was sincere. There were no problems or worries in her head, the moment was enough.