# Lippincott's Monthly Magazine/Volume 95/February 1915/The Undecided Woman

The Undecided Woman
By Frank Owen
It is a crime for some women to use cosmestics. It is a crime for others not to. A certain cynic has declared that old houses need new paint. But of course I do not agree with this statement. In fact I would not even repeat it. It sounds like the ranting of a jealous husband—jealous of the beauty of other men's wives.
At this point it seems fitting that I introduce my heroine, though why she should be called such I have never been able to discover. She had many names, but none suited her so perfectly as that of "The Undecided Woman."
Often the reputation of a pretty woman hangs upon the silence of her druggist. So great is this truth that it has almost become axiomatic. Had the auditor for "The Park and Tompkins' Drug Co." cared to take the trouble, he might possibly have created a scandal about Marcia Loring, for her yearly bill for cosmestics and lotions easily eclipsed the cost of a Baby Grand piano. It has often been said that any woman can be charming who "fixes up." The statement is not true, however, for you must have a foundation before you can build.
Now, if Marcia Loring rouged her cheeks a trifle, she did it so delicately as to cause but little offense even to the most puritanic of critics. She belonged to that class of women who, although endowed with more than the usual portion of good looks, nevertheless believe that with the aid of art they can improve upon Nature's handiwork. For my own part, I consider woman God's greatest creation; and as one would be shocked if an artist attempted to improve upon a masterpiece by Rembrandt or Da Vinci, one ought even more to be shocked at an attempt to improve upon the masterpiece of God. For how insignificant do these great paintings grow in comparison to a lovely, full-blooded, American woman? (Should this story ever be reprinted in foreign magazines, the nationality of the aforesaid beauty might be changed to French, English or German as the case may warrant.)
Marcia Loring was an enchantress, though unlike any that the world has ever known. She bore no resemblance to Ielen of Troy, Cleopatra, Ariadne, The Sirens or Diana. She was entirely original; not a common goddess made in some wornout mould. She was just Marcia Loring, T.U.W.—"The Undecided Woman."
She was tall and magnificent as a lily growing gloriously in a field of joy. She walked softly about, her head held high, with a certain stately grace which affected the hearts of all the men unattached and—it may be—attached also, with whom she came in contact. Had she so desired, she might have formed the apex in many a reproduction of the everlasting triangle, for her languid, jet black eyes, in contrast to her glistening golden hair could easily have secured her the position. However, she was not fond of geometry and absolutely disgusted with the everlasting triangle. In fact she never knew what she did like. She was always complaining, or regretting something she had not done. She was an "ifist" from A to Z and back again. Her ​complexion, she made up gloriously but she just simply could not make up her mind. Al her life she had had her own way and suitors by the dozen, all of whom gave in to her slightest whim. They spoilt her splendidly, and it was in this condition that Gordon Sloan found her.
"Found" is the word, for he came upon her unexpectedly in the heart of the Beechnut Woods. She lay stretched out languidly at full length, her chin upon her hand, gazing wistfully, thoughtfully into the softly gurgling water of a merry little brook. All about her stretched gloomy passages of shadowy forests, creating a perfect Elysian solitude. Somewhere, off in the wilds, a tiny song-bird was chirping out his anthems of gladness upon the air, as though he joved to be alive and to take part in this grand, old, glorious world. Down among the bushes, at the water's edge, huge frogs croaked monotonous plaints in marked contrast to the tones of the gay little singer. Even their view on life was different. They gazed down at the mud and slime of the waters, but he, above the glorious tree-tops, could look joyfully about in every direction to behold nothing but the marvellous blue of the sky, and wonderdrous, dazzling sunlight. But the notes of the little song-bird were louder and clearer than the dismal croaking of the frogs and seemed to predominate among that forest grandeur. Through a rift in the trees far above, a glorious shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom and fell softly on the glistening, golden head of Marcia Loring.
To Gordon Sloan, she seemed an intangible vision, a spirit of the woods, and for several charming moments he stood entranced, gazing down with hungry eyes upon this bewitching feast of womanhood. Finally, as though conscious of his concentered gaze, Marcia Loring turned her head slowly toward him and gazed shyly up into his face. Gordon Sloan was a man with not quite thirty-five years of existence, though fully fifty of experience, to his credit. He was tall, well-built, with a wealth of wavy chestnut hair which, as all too often happens, "wouldn't stay put." Liver and anon, it kept falling into his eyes, and he would brush it back again with an angry gesture of impatience. Experts in the art of short-story writing tell us that in describing characters, some little distinctive characteristic, oddity. or mannerism should be given which would enable the reader to discover the person described in a crowd as large as usually attends a Methodist Revival. Although it is my custom to adhere strictly to a set rule, I crave indulgence in this one instance on the plea of impossibility. There was nothing distinctive about Gordon Sloan; he was just a big, healthy, ordinary American,
Marcia Loring glanced at him for a moment, evidently well-pleased with his appearance, for she murmured presently, with a somewhat embarrassed little laugh, "Scarcely a conventional meeting."
Her words seemed to unseal Gordon's lips, for he responded quickly, "Though decidedly pleasing."
She frowned. "That sounds like a compliment."
"It is," he returned easily.
"It seems to me rather a privilege on so short an acquaintance!"
"Your statement is rather ambiguous," he smiled. "Do you mean for you to receive, or for me to take?"
"I refuse to answer," she declared softly,
"The only time a woman refuses to speak," said he complacently, "is when she is supposed to."
"That balances the account," said ​Marcia quickly. "The insinuation in your words more than offsets the previous compliment."
"I will give you another to make amends," responded Gordon, decisively. "You are the most charming girl I have ever met."
Marcia laughed softly, a merry little musical laugh which sent a thrill of ecstasy through Gordon Sloan's whole body,
"That's two," she murmured, confidingly. "Charming, and girl. For a woman to be called a girl is the sweetest of all pleasures. You have said that for which I can find no adequate words of thanks."
"Then I hope that it would not be overstepping the bounds of privilege for me to ask you a favor," said he.
"No," was the quick reply, "but it would rather detract from the value of the compliment." There was a roguish twinkle in Marcia Loring's eyes as she spoke.
"That settles it then!" he exclaimed. "I will certainly ask nothing."
"Your tone proves that you meant it," said she. "Therefore, in this instance, the rule will not apply."
He smiled, not a little bald, artificial, conventional thing, but a smile which made known to Marcia Loring his true feelings, as plainly as words could have done.
"I'm not selling lots," he said, deliberately, "nor canvassing patent medicines. The fact is, I've lost my way and have been walking around helplessly for hours in search of the road."
"That's odd," she murmured.
"What is?" he asked.
"Simply that that is the one favor which I cannot grant. In truth, I know no more in what direction the road lies than do you."
Gordon laughed. "Reminds me of Robinson Crusoe," said he.
"I refuse to be Friday," she declared, smiling.
His brow wrinkled as though in deep thought.
"Are you in pain?" she queried, roguishly.
"No," he grinned, "I was just wondering what we could do."
"Oh, it isn't so terrible," she affirmed. "When Stanley was in the African Jungle, he lived on roots for weeks at a time."
They looked into each other's eves and laughed like two children.
"I don't object to smoking weeds," said Gordon, in a serious tone, "'but I positively refuse to eat them."
"Well, then let's try to find the road," she suggested.
He helped her to her feet and they started off together. For an hour they roamed about, laughing and chatting merrily. First one chose a path and then the other, but none of them seemed to lead anywhere,
"What are we going to do?" she asked, in apparent anxiety, as the trail they were traversing ended in a fallen log.
"Don't know," he replied, slowly. "It seems as though we've walked a couple of thousand miles. It's a wonder we didn't notice Chicago as we passed by. Shouldn't be surprised if this forest connected with the Amazon Jungle."
Twilight was beginning to fall before they again discovered the main road. They had been together for several hours, long enough in fact to build up a rather pleasing acquaintance. At the foot of the road, Marcia Loring stopped and held out her hand.
"Won't you let me walk home with you?" he pleaded.
"No," she replied, sweetly, "but if you care to, you may call at my home to-morrow afternoon, I live at '"The Oaks," Beechwood." As he ​took her hand, she said laughing, "Good-bye, Mr. Crusoe."
"Good-bye, Miss Friday," he returned.
A moment later she had left him and started merrily down the road. As he stood gazing after her, Gordon murmured wistfully, "I didn't intend to find the road so soon." And then his face broke into a whimsical smile. "That was the sweetest lie I ever told," he said, and commenced whistling an old English ballad. He seemed as light-hearted as a boy of twelve.
Meanwhile, Marcia Loring was talking to herself, as she made her way happily back toward "The Qaks," Beechwood.
"He thought I was lost," she mused. "If he only knew that I've roamed about in those woods for over fifteen years!"
For the first time in her life, the Undecided Woman had made up her mind in a hurry.
II.
True to his promise, Gordon Sloan called at "The Oaks," Beechwood, at precisely three o'clock on the following afternoon and enjoyed to the full the glory of the bright midsummer day. For the first time in his life he discovered how great was the joy of living, and also how perverse was the will of an undecided woman. But nevertheless he enjoyed both immensely, so much in fact that his first visit proved a forerunner of many others; a prologue as it were, preceding the chapter of a continued story—light but pleasing.
One afternoon, he came in a great red motor-car.
"That's the 'Red Devil," he explained, as Marcia cried out her enthusiastic approval.
"I never thought I should care for him if we met," she declared.
"If you really like him," said Sloan, "we'll go for a spin."
A little later he was helping her into the car. As he took the seat beside her, he murmured, "It is indeed a rare pleasure to ride with the 'Red Devil' and one of 'The Maids of Paradise' at the same time."
As he spoke, the chauffeur pulled a lever or something, the car gasped and choked for a moment, and then with a sigh of resigned fate, it went whizzing down the road. It sped on and on, straight for the trail through the Beechnut Woods, the cool retreat beneath the ever-shading branches, Marcia uttered a little sigh of rapture.
"It is exquisite!" she cried.
"Swell!" said he.
And then the engine started to give imitations of two fighting tomcats, with the result that there was a whizzle, a sizzle and a bang and the car came to a stop. The chauffeur rose from his seat majestically, climbed out, down and under where he remained for quite a while; so long in fact that Gordon climbed out to see if he had gone to sleep or died. As he reached the ground, the chauffeur returned from his voyage under the car. Then the two commenced to tinker, argue, hammer and suggest, much to the amusement of Marcia Loring, who smiled down upon them good-naturedly from her throne in the car. Finally Gordon climbed back to his seat again and the chauffeur set off up the road in the direction from which they had cone.
"He's gone to get a—," explained Gordon. (Dashes do not denote profanity. They stand for the missing part of the automobile, the name of which I have forgotten.)
Time drags like a wheeless wagon to a man stalled alone in a motor-car way off somewhere in the wilderness; but if he has a beautiful woman by ​his side, it flies by on woven wings.
Conversation between Marcia and Gordon neither lagged nor sagged, but managed to keep up with the hurrying flight of time and retain an interest element ever-present as well.
As Gordon Sloan gazed on the face of his lovely companion, the same old enraptured spell commenced to creep over him. He was enamored of her beauty, gloriously, unhappily in love, and he knew he was going to propose, he felt it coming on. Also, he was aware of a frightful dearth of appropriate words.
"It seems to me that chauffeur has been away a remarkably long time," said Marcia, thoughtfully.
"Are you getting impatient," he asked.
"No, I'm perfectly content, but his continued absence seems odd."
"I hope he doesn't get back for hours," vehemently burst out Gordon. "I'd rather have him die on the road than come back just now."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because—because—," his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. (What was the use of a college education if it didn't give him any better command over English than this?)
"Because—"" he continued to splutter like an embarrassed schoolboy. "Because I want you to marry me first!"
To say she was surprised would scarcely have begun to express her true condition. She was astonished, amazed and thunderstruck all in one. But in spite of herself, she could not help laughing.
"That is impossible," she replied. "There isn't a minister within twenty miles.
"I mean I want you to promise to marry me," he corrected, his face the latest shade of tango-red.
"I'm serious," he continued, more calmly. "I loved you the first day I found you alone in these woods. I would have proposed then only it would have seemed odd."
"Decidedly so," she conceded, smiling.
Gordon seized her hands. you will marry me," he said.
Marcia shook her head and her lips formed themselves into a delicious pout.
"How do I know I love you?" she asked.
"I don't know," he replied eagerly. "But you do, and you're going to be my wife!"
She shook her head. "I cannot decide," she faltered. "I admit, I care a great deal for you, but I hardly think it is love."
"Then your answer is 'no'?" he said wistfully.
She bowed her head in affirmation. "But not an emphatic 'no'," she qualified. "I want to be sure that I love, before I marry."
"Then you'll never marry," he exclaimed, a trifle angrily, "because you will never be able to make up your mind. You're the most undecided woman I ever met."
"I wish the chauffeur would come back," she murmured, in order to change the subject.
"He isn't coming back!" blazed Gordon. "I sent him away purposely so that I could have you alone. There was only one thing the matter with this car. It had a chauffeur. Which fault was easily remedied."
Marcia turned her head so that he could not see her face and they rode back to "The Oaks" in silence.
III.
For the next six months Gordon Sloan proposed to Marcia Loring regularly twice a week, but ever with the same result. The ​Undecided Woman did not know whether or not she loved him. She could not make up her mind. Gordon gradually began to lose heart and finally gave up all hope of ever marrying her. He was unutterably miserable. He knew not which way to turn. Only one thing still contributed toward his meagre allowance of pleasure—riding out into the country in the red automobile by the side of Marcia Loring.
I have never heard of a poet writing a sonnet on the glory of Beechwood, and yet the atmosphere was romantic to a degree worthy of Saadi himself. Great spruce, pine and weeping-willow trees bordered the avenues, standing as erect and stately as the magnificent columns in an Egyptian Temple. A beauteous atmosphere of peace seemed to prevail everywhere throughout the quiet little town. There was no disturbing element of discord; all Nature seemed in tune with God.
As Gordon and Marcia motored down a certain splendid avenue one cool, moon-lit summer evening, she noticed that he was unusually quiet. As a rule he was ultra-talkative, but to-night he uttered scarcely a word, and that only in reply to a direct question. She gazed wonderingly up into his worried face.
"You are very grave to-night," she whispered.
"I am tired, very tired," he returned, "and worried."
"Worried?" she repeated, with puzzled inflection.
"Yes," said he.
"Why?"
"Because I am going away. It is not of my own free will," he went on, quickly. "If I could choose for myself I should remain with you till the end of time. But there are times when we must obey a higher law than our own will, and this is one of them. The need of my going is imperative." His voice grew soft, and there was a wistful note of yearning in his tone, as he continued: "I am glad now, for your sake, that you did not accept my offer of marriage, because, had you done so, we would have come to the parting of the ways, unless—"
"Unless what?" she broke in.
"Unless you cared to go with me."
She made no reply but gazed listlessly off toward the distant meadow-land bathed in moonlight, her chin upon her hand, her elbow resting on the side of the automobile.
Presently he spoke again, and his voice was so soft that it fell upon her ear like the echo of the softly sighing breeze among the tree-tops.
"Many years ago, at Bedford Village, there lived two lads who loved each other like David and Jonathan. Most of their days were spent together roaming joyfully about the country-side. They were very happy. Life for them was just a beautiful song of mingled youth and friendship. One day while romping in a deserted barn, the two made a compact that they would always be ready to go to each other's aid in time of peril or trouble. Like Penn's treaty with the Indians, it was never sworn to and never broken. Years rolled by and the paths of the two boys lay far apart, although their hearts remained together. One entered college, the other became an explorer. He was in his element when off in search of unknown places, and made several expeditions into unknown Labrador. But although he enjoyed these to the full, nevertheless he longed to get out into the heart of the tropic wilds. Finally the great day came and he sailed for Africa. After a trifle over three weeks, he beheld the beauty of Mombassa as he came on deck one fiery, molten morning. At last he stood at the gate of his ambition. From ​Mombassa he went by rail inland to the end of the road, a distance of about five hundred miles. In the party were a score of native carriers and three other white men, a doctor, a botanist, and a geologist. That night they slept on the very border of the great forest. In the morning they lifted the curtain of verdure and disappeared into the mysterious realms beyond. From that day to this nothing has been heard from them." Gordon paused for a moment, then he said: "I was the boy who entered college, the explorer was my friend."
"And you think he is lost?" she asked anxiously.
"I fear so," he replied. "The jungle is full of dangers—fevers, wild animals, poisonous snakes, deadly insects and hideous hunger-craved savages. But of course there is always hope. Unless the worst is known, the best may be expected. Therefore I am organizing an expedition, and sail for Marseilles Saturday."
"You are going into the heart of the jungle?" she asked breathlessly.
"Yes," said he.
For a moment she was silent, then she held out her hands to him in lovely appeal.
"Oh, Gordon," she whispered, "I know my own mind at last. I love you and cannot bear to have you go."
He stopped the automobile, and softly, longingly out in the moon-kissed roadway he took her into his arms. He held her unprotesting, to his breast and for the next few moments time ceased to be.
"My love, my love," she breathed, and in those few words she expressed the sum of human happiness.
"If you had only told me this before," said he, "we might have had a longer period of happiness together. But as it is, all will be over Saturday."
"Unless," she began slowly.
"Unless what?" he cried eagerly.
"We are married Thursday," she suggested demurely.
"You mean—" He got no further. Words failed him, he was choked with a joyful gladness.
"I mean that I will go with you to Africa and wait at Mombassa until you return to me from the heart of the jungle."
If kisses had a market value, Marcia Loring could have paid her passage to the moon with the fortune she received within the next few moments.
On the following Thursday morning there was a wedding at the picturesque little country church at Beechwood. Only Marcia Loring's relatives and a few very intimate friends attended. I am not going to say how beautiful the bride looked, nor with what a wonderful light of happiness the groom's face shone. It has ever been my custom not to rave over other men's wives. It is true that I think, but wisely keep my thoughts to myself.
After the ceremony they all repaired to "The Oaks" and partook of a rather elaborate, though informal, luncheon.
It was evening before the happy couple found themselves at last alone. And probably it would have been even later than that, had they not stolen quietly out, unnoticed, to a little summer-house in the garden.
"I never knew I could be so happy!" she exclaimed, and then he took possession of her lips and made her happier.
"I have a confession to make," said he, at length.
"So soon?" she asked sweetly.
"Yes," he replied.
"Which is—?"
"That we are not going to Mombassa Saturday. Instead, we sail for Bermuda."
​For a moment she was silent, but she did not appear angry.
"You mean the story you told me was not true, that you have no friend who is an explorer?"
"Yes, and no," he replied smiling. "The story was really a trap to get you to marry me. I knew you loved me, but did not know it yourself. And vet the tale was not entirely fictitious, for it is all true except the ending which was an anachronism. It happened over two years ago."
"You went to the jungle and found your friend?" she asked, softly.
"Yes," said he, simply.
She nestled into his arms. "Now I love you better than ever," she declared. "But what would you have done if I hadn't offered to become your wife?"
"Then I would have gone to Mombassa," said he, emphatically.
And that's all of the story except that by gaining a wife. Gordon Sloan lost a good customer, for he was the president of The Park and Tompkins Drug Co.