Married?

Chapter I

MISS LIVINGSTON stepped into the foyer of the Toy Theatre. A low light burned there, and Miss Paul was talking earnestly with a girl in the box office. She looked up as the door closed and smiled. "Good evening, Marcia," she said. "Evening, Mary Jane. Is the rehearsal on?" "Yes — Sawyer has just called the first act." Miss Livingston went on into the darkened body of the house. A little nervous man paced up and down the aisle, listening to the actors who read their parts from script. He gave Miss Livingston a curt good evening. She scarcely responded, and seated herself well away from him, toward the front, nodding to the actors as she sat down.

The play was one of Dunsany's and in the first stages of rehearsal. The director halted them every few lines, suggesting different in-

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% MARRIED?

flection, another reading, or a different quality of voice. Miss Livingston bore it patiently for about half an hour, then she called Mr. Sawyer to her.

" Why do you bother with the way they inflect their lines, when it's obvious that they haven't got the idea of the play?" she demanded.

He sighed impatiently.

"We'll put the colour in later. We have to build the framework first," he answered.

"I consider that an old-fashioned and stupid way to go about it," she objected. "This is a study in terror. Unless every move and every word contributes to the expression of terror, the thing's a failure."

" Miss Livingston, I have been on the stage for twenty years."

" Mr. Sawyer, that is the one and only thing I have against you ! You belong to the old school which passed around parts on a typewritten slip and let the actors piece the story together at rehearsal as you do a picture puzzle. It utterly discounted any brain on the part of the actor."

"If you don't like the way I rehearse- " he

began.

"I don't! That's what I'm telling you. Get the company to understand the spirit of this play, and your inflections will take care of themselves."

"Of course, Miss Livingston, this is your theatre '

"It isn't because it's my theatre that I want you to use some common sense," she answered hotly.

Miss Paul slipped into the seat behind them.

"How is it going?" she asked diplomatically.

"Not at all, according to Miss Livingston," he said brusquely.

"I merely suggest that he is rehearsing from the wrong angle

"I will gladly hand the rehearsal over to you, Miss Livingston

"All right," she said, rose, and walked down the aisle to the stage.

The actors, sitting and standing about, turned at the sound of her voice.

"Friends, Mr. Sawyer and I disagree about the rehearsal of this play and he has most generously allowed me to try the act my way. I'm coming up "

She disappeared for a second and then came down stage among them.

"Has anybody read you the play aloud?"

"Well, sit down. I shall read my interpretation of the first act, and then we'll discuss it."

The company seated itself with a covert smile here and there. This eccentric lady entertained them highly with her revolutionary idea about the theatre.

Marcia Livingston began to read. The key in which she pitched her voice, the hush with which she impregnated the lines, the sense of impending doom which she built with every speech, rolled up and up, until her audience scarcely breathed; they dared not look out into the black theatre which held some monstrous thing. As she laid the last word upon the climax, somebody said: "Good Lord" so devoutly that the spell was broken and they all laughed, shivering slightly at the sound.

"My contention is that until everybody in the cast realizes that he must contribute to the terror of the audience, he's just wasting time. Now — does everyone disagree with my interpretation?"

"Don't you think Thibour might be played a little more as comedy relief?" asked the gentleman cast for Thibour.

"I do not. There mustn't be any relief— you must pile it up to the bursting point, 7 think. But maybe I'm wrong. We'll try it your way, and all decide it together. Now— let's begin. Never mind your lines — just try to give Mr. Sawyer and Miss Paul and the others out there cold shivers down the spine!"

They began again and in a crude way the play began to take shape and colour. One or two actors were so carried away that good, spontaneous business resulted, which Marcia seized and made permanent. She interrupted only once for lines — that was when "Thibour" repeatedly misquoted his lines.

"It's so awkward for me to say it that way, Miss Livingston. Can't I change it so it seems natural?"

"You may not! You change one word and I'll invent a new and terrible punishment. You've got no more right to change Dunsany's words than you have to take my pocketbook!" she said, decidedly. They all laughed at that, and the rehearsal proceeded.

At eleven o'clock she called an adjournment, and went out in front where Miss Paul and Mr. Sawyer were having a conversation.

"Well, Mr. Sawyer, did I get results, or not?"

"You got an effect, certainly, for to-night.

By the time they've rehearsed it for two or three weeks, their 'atmosphere of terror,' as you call it, will be perfectly mechanical — it will be as stale as old bread."

"I'm willing to stake anything on it that my way is right."

"I'll stake my job that it's wrong!"

"All right. Miss Paul will act as witness and hold the stakes," smiled Marcia.

"It will be necessary, of course, for you to conduct all the rehearsals in the experiment," he reminded her.

"Oh — I can't do that!" she objected.

"Then that settles it, so far as I'm concerned. If I'm to be the stage manager of the company, I must rehearse my own way "

;<You mean you won't go ahead on this idea I've blocked out?"

"It's not my way " he evaded.

"Oh, very well. I'll do it myself, then. I shall expect you to be present at all rehearsals, just as though you were conducting them."

"Very well," he said curtly.

"You see I make the punishment fit the crime, Mr. Sawyer."

"I believe death is the usual penalty for lesemajeste" was his reply.

She laughed, said good-night, and led Mary Jane Paul up the aisle with her.

"How that man does hate me! It's quite refreshing," she remarked.

"After all, you do hire him to stage manage the company, don't you?" asked Miss Paul.

"I do — and he does it stupidly. I show him that he's wrong "

"You haven't shown him yet " interrupted Miss Paul.

"But I intend to."

Miss Paul made no comment.

"I take it that you disapprove of my taking over the rehearsal," continued Marcia.

" It's your own business, of course. My opinion is that if you engage a man to do a certain thing and you dislike the way he does it, the proper sequel is to discharge him."

"I can't till I show him he's wrong."

"Why can't you?"

"He'll say it was just because it was my theatre that I had to have my way."

"But you worse than discharged him, you belittled his authority before the company he is supposed to direct."

"I'll make him handsome amends."

Miss Paul shook her head.

"You're generous, Marcia, always, but you're not just."

"Good heavens, Mary Jane, what is this tempest in a teapot?" demanded Marcia.

Miss Paul drew her into her office and closed the door.

" It isn't such a trifle as you think, Marcia. This is the third stage manager we've had this season."

"I know it — marvellous what fools they've all been!"

"Granted. But if you want to do the things you plan in this theatre, then you've got to face one fact. Either you must delegate the authority over productions to a director and stage manager, or you must make this theatre your business and do the directing yourself."

"I can't give all my time to it, Mary Jane, you know that."

"Well — I've mentioned what the alternative seems to be, from my point of view."

" But you're practically telling me to keep out of my own theatre!"

Mary Jane Paul looked her friend and her employer straight in the eye.

"What I am trying to tell you, Marcia, is this: This little theatre is a plaything to you — a toy, you play with it for a while and then you tire of it and go off to Europe. We get it to humming along quite well, when you come back, and like the greedy child in the fairy book, you snatch your toy back—

"Mary Jane Paul! I'm not like that!" Marcia burst out.

"I'm sorry to be disagreeable, because I'm so fond of you, Marcia. I'm not saying there are not plenty of reasons why you are like this. You're too rich and too pretty and too spoiled— but the fact is you cannot endure opposition, and you have to be boss."

"I seem to be getting a considerable dose of opposition to-night. You've cast yourself for Dutch Uncle apparently!" interposed Marcia, holding on to her temper with difficulty.

"I'm sorry to be nasty to an old friend, Marcia, and if you think I've said too much, I'll hand in my resignation."

"Rubbish, Mary Jane — don't be a goose!"

" I think you've got a good idea, a wonderful plant in the theatre, and a chance to do a valuable and constructive thing. I want to help with it. But I know we cannot accomplish anything the way we're doing now."

"You think I'm the whole trouble," said Marcia.

"I think you're the main trouble. Sawyer may not be the perfect director, but he gave an excellent production of The Cliff Dwellers, and if he's left alone, he may work out very well. If you think not, let's find someone else, but let's give full power to the man we appoint."

"I'd rather give up the theatre! What fun is it for me to run it, if I'm to have no say about how things are done in it?" said Marcia hotly.

"I didn't suggest that. Certainly the director ought to carry out your ideas. My objection is to an autocratic authority which can interfere at any moment."

"You think the thing's a failure?"

"Far from it. It's an experiment in the first stages, of course. Why don't you get hold of Sawyer and make him like you "

"I don't care whether he likes me or not."

"How about asking young Brooks to direct the next production? He's the most intelligent actor in the company."

"I'll think about it."

"Do. It's nearly midnight now, my dear," Mary Jane said quietly.

Marcia rose.

"I ought to be raging mad at you and I think I am!"

"Why should you be raging mad at the frank opinion of a good friend who loves you?" said the other woman bluntly.

"It takes a very good friend to be so disagreeable!"

Mary Jane Paul laid her hand on Marcia's shoulder. "You don't think that, really, Marcia ?' '

"No — I suppose not," admitted Marcia. "I have had a perfectly horrid evening and I shall now go home and hate myself."

"You'll make me sorry I spoke."

"You needn't be. I suppose I hear the truth seldom enough, considering my needs!"

Mary Jane laughed.

"You're a good sort, Marcia," she said. "See you to-morrow?"

"Certainly. I called rehearsal at ten. I've got to work at the galley now to prove that I'm right. Extraordinary how many people in this world are all wrong "

"But how do you prove they are wrong, Marcia?" Mary Jane Paul inquired.

" I don't need to prove it. I know it. If they disagree with me, they're wrong," was Marcia's parting remark.

Mary Jane's laugh at her childishness turned into a sigh and a headshake.

Chapter II

ONE of the many contributors to the Livingston estate was a property known as the Santa Rosa Ranch. Thousands of acres of it spread over the mountains and through the fertile valleys, stretching almost to the imaginary line which divides California from its lower peninsula.

It was Marcia Livingston's grandfather, Henry Livingston, the sturdy pioneer, who had laid the foundations of the family wealth. He had bought up these many acres from the shiftless descendants of the old Spanish grandees, who once rode this country in gay cavalcade, spending their days in hunting, their nights in gambling and the wassail bowl. They had their lands by grants from the crown of Spain, and in their day they lived royally on the fat of the rich land.

The story ran that Henry Livingston was a good hater, and that he possessed one enemy worthy of his metal. This man was named Parnell Shawn, and he, too, was concerned with laying up for himself "treasures, upon earth." He was a brilliant Irishman, as witty as Henry Livingston was dour. The two men had come to the grappling point when Shawn was made president of the Great Western Railroad, in the face of Livingston's bitter opposition. The latter was a director in the road and a large stockholder. Upon Shawn's election Livingston resigned and sold his holdings. He immediately began to negotiate for great tracts in the Carmencita valley, where he intended to grow eucalyptus trees for railroad ties, and in time, corner the market and hold up the plans of the Great Western to triple its trackage.

By some turn of luck Shawn heard of Livingston's plan. He, too, began negotiations with the impoverished farmers in the valley. But Livingston had them tied up, so to speak. He had bought all the country for miles, and for little more than the proverbial song. His holdings were about twelve thousand acres, but he met one obstacle which he could not sweep aside. In the very heart of the Santa Rosa Ranch there was an estate belonging to a Spaniard, Don Padrasso, whose father had the original grant. It consisted of five thousand acres of fertile land, much of it in thriving eucalyptus forests. This old man and his granddaughter lived alone with a servant on this place. He refused absolutely to sell. He said that his granddaughter loved the place and it must descend to her. To all offers he was adamant.

Shawn discovered this situation and he entered into negotiation with old Padrasso. He outbid Livingston, and Livingston outbid Shawn, until a veritable fortune was offered the Spaniard, but he still refused. When the girl was twenty, old Padrasso died, and the bidding began again, but the girl was as obstinate as her grandfather, and continued to live in lonely grandeur upon her ancestral acres.

In due course of time Livingston and Shawn were gathered to their fathers. But the fight between the Great Western and the Livingstons to possess the Padrasso Ranch, the fertile heart of Santa Rosa, descended to the next generation. Henry Livingston had established the beginning of a great fortune. His son was conservative, a careful investor, in whose care the money doubled. He handed on to his daughter Marcia a big inheritance. In his time it was that Senorita Padrasso was persuaded to rent her land to the Livingstons for cultivation, at a big rental, which kept her in luxury.

Parnell Shawn left a comfortable estate to his son, who inherited all of his father's wit and charm, but not a trace of his ability. He spent his last farthing before he died, donating to his son, Dennis, a frail constitution as his only inheritance. Dennis's mother, at the urgency of her doctor, brought the boy into Arizona, where she opened a boarding house, and by dint of hard labour, managed a living for them. She hated her life, but yet she was content because she saw Dennis growing stronger with each year.

She died when the boy was fifteen, leaving him her scant savings. Her death left him desolate. She had been his idol. His whole future had been built upon the hope of what he was to do for her, to make up for the hard years.

He left Arizona and drifted to California. There followed the ten wander-years, in which he travelled through the great Northwest, acting now as ranchman, now as clerk. It was life in the open that interested him. Cities he found stifling. He liked men and animals, but women he shunned.

It is not too surprising, since chance weaves such strange patterns, that young Shawn was foreman on a ranch in California when Judge Horace Tracey, one of the executors of the

Livingston estate, came to visit an old friend, the owner of this ranch. He was received by Shawn, in the enforced absence of his host and in two days of constant association with him, was greatly attracted by the Irishman. He discovered his relation to old Parnell Shawn, who had figured so largely in the history of the Livingston family.

So later, when the opportunity arrived, he offered Dennis an assistant foremanship on Santa Rosa, and in five years he became superintendent and manager there, as well as the trusted friend of Judge Tracey.

To some people Dennis Shawn's life on Santa Rosa would have seemed dull. But to him it was satisfactory in every respect. The old Spanish adobe house he occupied with his assistants crowned a high hill. On every side the mountains folded them in. Of a clear sunny morning you could see to the ends of the world, and at night the stars were so near that an outstretched hand could pluck one from the sky.

The house was hundreds of years old, with walls seven feet thick. It was built around a patio, where grapevines as thick as a man's arm trellised the walls. The single story contained living room and bedrooms in one wing, dining room and kitchen in another, all opening on to the patio. Shawn had planted gardens in front of the house which flourished the year round. He tended them himself and was very proud of them.

His household consisted of "Chuck" English, a young college boy, exiled by an irritated father in the hope that the West would make a man of him. English, senior, was a friend of Judge Tracey, and it was through his intercession that Dennis had taken the boy on as assistant. There was Harvey Williams, accountant and secretary, a silent, dignified young man, who lived with the other two. Then there was Wong, the Chinese cook.

Below and behind the house were the quarters where the Slavs and Poles and Italians and Frenchmen lived who worked on the ranch. Their foreman lived in a cottage near the men.

The Santa Rosa now provided the great transcontinental railroads with practically all their railroad ties. There were huge sawmills and a settlement of mill workers in a distant part of the ranch, and a railroad carried the ties to the main branch.

In the early morning Shawn and his associates ate their breakfast in the patio — and a hearty workingman's breakfast it was that Wong served them. Then he dictated letters to Williams for an hour, planned Chuck's job for the day, and by eight or half after he was on his horse, galloping off into the freshness of the sweet-smelling morning. He rode from morning until night, messing with the men at noon, wherever he happened to be. He was very popular with the men of the many races he employed, and he had very little trouble with them. They were too far from the nearest town to get off for a Saturday night drunk, and Shawn saw to it that the company store provided only enough drink to keep them happy. So as an international experiment it worked out pretty well.

In the late sunset Shawn rode back to his house. An hour in the garden, a swim in the pool they had made with the aid of a captured mountain brook, fresh white clothes, a cocktail from the expert hands of Chuck, a sumptuous dinner served by Wong, a pipe, the cool, silent, mysterious night, with the men singing down in "quarters" or Chuck twanging a guitar and shouting sentimental ballads, then sleep, dreamless and deep. Such were the days of Dennis Shawn.

He found entire satisfaction in Chuck and Williams. They were unlike as any two men could be — the boy noisy, happy, full of laughter, the older man silent, a little grim, perhaps. He laughed at Chuck's antics as Dennis did, but he was a man who preferred books to people. He never spoke of his past, he spent most of his salary for books, which were sent him from Los Angeles, and in his silent way he loved Dennis. He occasionally persuaded him to read a book, and then they discussed it for hours

Dennis found him bitter about women. He suspected a tragedy in his past, but Williams made no confession. They were talking about Weininger's "Sex and Character" one night, as they smoked in front of the house.

"He has it in for women, hasn't he?" said Dennis.

"I thought it was a fair estimate," replied Williams.

"Oh, come now — all women aren't the brainless fools he makes of them."

"Have you had much experience with women, Dennis?"

" No — not much. I don't like them."

"Wise man — keep away."

"I don't understand them — much."

"Men don't— usually."

"I never felt the need of women in my life. I suppose it's no credit to me I've kept clear of them."

"Be thankful and let it go at that."

"What are you two chinning about?" demanded Chuck, appearing from the house.

Dennis laughed.

"Your specialty — women!"

"Gosh, I wish we had some of 'em here! It's the only drawback to this life, Denny, old man!"

"Humph!" said Williams.

"S'truth, old sour ball, a good sprightly girl would liven you up all right."

"Heaven forbid!"

"And as for Dennis, I don't get him. Goodlookin' big buck like that could have any girl he crooked his finger to, and he won't even go down to Los Angeles and see a girl show."

"I should say not."

"Well, you're makin' a great mistake, my boy. I tell you a man needs the ladies — sometimes I jolly well feel I'm wasting my life up here in this — this "

"Eveless Eden!"

"Yes, that's it."

"Don't Shawn and I provide you with intellectual companionship, Chuck?" inquired Williams.

"Intellectual — yes. I don't want clever women. I want 'em pretty and silly !"

"Williams, we must see that Chuck gets 'a raise' so he can marry and bring his wife out. It would be so good for us to have something * pretty and silly' around the place."

"Why not get a parrot?" asked Williams, strolling down into the garden.

"Poor old Williams! Some girl must have given him a nawsty wallop! Isn't he the crab on women!"

"He's apparently not a * ladies' man,'" smiled Dennis.

"All right for him — but you

"Oh, let up on me, kid. You amuse me more than any wife could."

"I'm going to form an alliance with Kate, that beautiful Mexican demi-mondaine, old Pinto's daughter "

"None of that, Chuck!" from Dennis sternly.

The boy laughed.

"I'm off to court her now, with my trusty guitar and a knife in my Boston garter."

He sauntered off.

"I mean what I say! I'll bounce you if you try any of that native wife stuff," Dennis called after him.

He sat on alone, smoking and thinking. He did not wish to be different from other men. He had decided long ago, in his days of ranching, that some men must be less highly sexed than others, just as some men lacked a hunger for drink. That some fastidious sense, of which he was rather ashamed, had kept him from enjoying the Saturday night debauches of his companions, was a fact. He wondered if there was some woman in the world who could arouse his need of her. Then he recalled Williams's "Wise man — keep away," and smiling, he went out to join the misogynist in the garden.

Presently a motor car wound its way below them.

"Car down there," commented Williams. "Going to Senorita Padrasso's, isn't it?"

"Hm. She doesn't usually have evening visitors. Probably those damned Great Western agents again," said Dennis. "Let's get on our horses and call on the old lady ourselves."

"Take Chuck. I've got a book I want to read."

Dennis went in pursuit of Chuck and ten minutes later they galloped down toward the Padrasso ranch.

They found the old woman entertaining a strange man, who spoke Spanish. She was thought to be more than a hundred years old, and she was very deaf. She was friendly with Dennis, who did her many a favour, but she adored Chuck who sang to her, made love to her, and made her shake with laughter. The strange gentleman, who was called Roderiguez, did not welcome the newcomers. He tried to engage their hostess in Spanish conversation, but she had no eyes for any one but Chuck. While the latter played monkey-shines, Dennis inquired of the stranger, in excellent Spanish, how long he had been in the employ of the Great Western Railroad, and when he denied it hotly, Dennis laughed. By staying until the old lady went to sleep, they sat him out. They saw him off the place before they rode home.

"Reg'lar movie stuff, isn't it?'* said Chuck. "Two great corporations held at bay by old Spanish heiress with the keystone acres."

" Great mistake to have grown our best forest on the old lady's land, I should say," commented Dennis.

"Will be if the Great Western grabs her ranch in the end. Some day one of their agents will get her to make a cross to a document, he'll choke her a bit, and we'll find her dead and the land gone!" prophesied Chuck.

"I think I'll just establish a guard over her. After all, we rent her land and cultivate it — we can say we're guarding our property," Dennis mused aloud.

"You dote on this ranch, don't you, Dennis?"

"Yes."

"Miss Livingston couldn't hire many such managers."

"Miss Livingston didn't hire me — Judge Tracey is my boss."

"He's only executor. She's the whole cheese. Ever see her?"

"I have. Beauty! Regular spoiled, papa's darling of a beauty. Say her father never refused her anything in her life. You ought to see her, Dennis."

"Not I! I never think of her as a person. She's just the human appendage to the Livingston estate. That's all I want to know about her."

"Lord, you are some humorist! Fancy calling Marcia Livingston the human appendage to the Livingston estate!" laughed Chuck mightily.

"I wish we'd threatened that fellow to-night."

"Can't keep the old girl from having callers, I suppose. I'd better marry her, Denny, and sell you the land the minute she dies. One of these days she'll fall to pieces like the one-hoss shay, and one of us has got to be on hand."

Dennis laughed, touched his horse, and galloped the last half mile to the ranch house, with Chuck at his heels hallooing wildly, with echoes answering on all sides.

"Shut up!" begged Dennis, whereupon silence closed down like a huge lid upon the world.

Chapter III

MARCIA LIVINGSTON devoted herself entirely to the rehearsals of the Dunsany play. It was characteristic of her that, given an object and sufficient incentive, nothing could stop her attainment of it. She refused all invitations during the day, and if she did accept a dinner, she ran away as soon as the coffee was served. Back to "my job" as she phrased it. Her friends all laughed at her, but the vagaries of Marcia were always amusing to them.

For three weeks she thought, ate, slept, and waked in the atmosphere of Dunsany. Her enthusiasm and tirelessness urged the actors to the same devotion. Finally the night of the premier came and the little theatre scored its greatest success. The critics were congratulatory. The Sunday supplement burst out with special illustrated articles about Miss Livingston and her Toy Theatre. Poor Mr. Sawyer admitted his defeat and tendered his resignation. "You see, Marcia, you really have a talent for this if you would only stick at it," said Mary Jane Paul at the end of the week.

"I hate sticking at things — it bores me." "Doesn't the success of this play please you?" "Oh, yes, I intended to succeed, but I'm tired to death, and after all, is it worth getting so tired for?"

"Dear old Marcia, that what's-the-use spoils everything for you, doesn't it?'

" Yes ! I suppose so. Beastly tiresome world, Mary Jane."

"It isn't to people who have to work." "Rubbish! I don't believe it. That's just a sham — that work-and-you'11-be-happy business. Everybody naturally hates work. The dream of every living creature is to get money enough so he will not have to work."

"There are lots of people whose work is the thing they live for. They don't care about money at all. Giving up work would be Hades to them."

Marcia smiled.

"Mary Jane, I've been hearing about those mythical busy bees all my life and I've never met one that I believed in."

" I can take you to a whole bee-hive of them ! " "For goodness sake, do! I'd like to be convinced that I am wrong. The whole thing seems to me a vicious circle. To get the work of the world done leisure and money are dangled as a bait. But the rich know that leisure and money spell boredom."