University of Virginia Library

7.
VII. PAULINE AWAKENS.

In the last week of March came a succession of warm rains. The leaves burst from their impatient hiding just within the cracks in the gray bark. And on Monday the unclouded sun was irradiating a pale green world from a pale blue sky. The four windows of Pauline and Olivia's sitting-room were up; a warm, scented wind was blowing this way and that the strays of Pauline's red-brown hair as she sat at the table, her eyes on a book, her thoughts on a letter—Dumont's first letter on landing in America. A knock, and she frowned slightly.

“Come!” she cried, her expression slowly veering toward welcome.

The door swung back and in came Scarborough. Not the awkward youth of last October, but still unable wholly to conceal how much at a disadvantage he felt before the woman he particularly wished to please.

“Yes—I'm ten minutes early,” he said, apology in his tone for his instinct told him that he was

interrupting, and he had too little vanity to see that the interruption was agreeable. “But I thought you'd be only reading a novel.”

For answer she held up the book which lay before her—a solemn volume in light brown calf.

“Analytical geometry,” he said; “and on the first day of the finest spring the world ever saw!” He was at the window, looking out longingly— sunshine, and soft air washed clean by the rains; the new-born leaves and buds; the pioneer birds and flowers. “Let's go for a walk. We can do the Vergil to-night.”

“You—talking of neglecting work!” Her smile seemed to him to sparkle as much in the waves of her hair as in her even white teeth and gold-brown eyes. “So you're human, just like the rest of us.”

“Human!” He glanced at her and instantly glanced away.

“Do leave that window,” she begged. “We must get the Vergil now. I'm reading an essay at the society to-night—they've fined me twice for neglecting it. But if you stand there reminding me of what's going on outside I'll not be able to resist.”

“How this would look from Indian Rock!”

She flung open a Vergil text-book with a relentless

shake of the head. “I've got the place. Book three, line two forty-five—

“ `Una in praecelsa consedit rupe Celaeno—' ”

“It doesn't{sic} matter what that hideous old Harpy howled at the pious Æneas,” he grumbled. “Let's go out and watch the Great God Pan dedicate his brand-new temple.”

“Do sit there!” She pointed a slim white forefinger at the chair at the opposite side of the table —the side nearer him. “I'll be generous and work the dictionary to-day.” And she opened a fat, black, dull-looking book beside the Vergil.

“Where's the Johnnie?” he asked, reluctantly dropping into the chair.

She laid Dryden's translation of the Aeneid on his side of the table. They always read the poetical version before they began to translate for the class-room—Dryden was near enough to the original to give them its spirit, far enough to quiet their consciences. “Find the place yourself,” said she. “I'm not going to do everything.”

He opened the Dryden and languidly turned the pages. “ `At length rebuff'd, they leave their mangled—' ” he began.

“No—two or three lines farther down,” she interrupted. “That was in the last lesson.”

He pushed back the rebellious lock that insisted on falling down the middle of his forehead, plunged his elbows fiercely upon the table, put his fists against his temples, and began again:
“ `High on a craggy cliff Celæno sate
And thus her dismal errand did relate—' Have you got the place in the Latin?” he interrupted himself.

Fortunately he did not look up, for she was watching the waving boughs. “Yes,” she replied, hastily returning to the book. “You do your part and I'll do mine.”

He read a few lines in an absent-minded sing-song, then interrupted himself once more: “Did you ever smell anything like that breeze?”

“Never. `Bellum etiam pro caede bovum'—go on—I'm listening—or trying to.”

He read:

“ `But know that ere your promised walls you build, My curse shall severely be fulfilled. Fierce famine is your lot—for this misdeed, Reduced to grind the plates on which you feed.' ”

He glanced at her. She was leaning on her elbow, obviously weaving day-dreams round those boughs as they trembled with the ecstasy of spring.

“You are happy to-day?” he said.

“Yes—happier than I have been for a year.” She smiled mysteriously. “I've had good news.” She turned abruptly, looked him in the eyes with that frank, clear expression—his favorite among his memory-pictures of her had it. “There's one thing that worries me—it's never off my mind longer than a few minutes. And when I'm blue, as I usually am on rainy days, it makes me— horribly uncomfortable. I've often almost asked your advice about it.”

“If you'd be sorry afterward that you told me,” said he, “I hope you won't. But if I can help you, you know how glad I'd be.”

“It's no use to tell Olivia,” Pauline went on. “She's bitterly prejudiced. But ever since the first month I knew you, I felt that I could trust you, that you were a real friend. And you're so fair in judging people and things.”

His eyes twinkled.

“I'm afraid I'd tilt the scales—just a little— where you were concerned.”

“Oh, I want you to do that,” she answered with a smile. “Last fall I did something—well, it was foolish, though I wouldn't admit that to any one else. I was carried away by an impulse. Not that I regret. In the only really important way, I wouldn't undo it if I could—I think.” Those last two words came absently, as if she were debating the matter with herself.

“If it's done and can't be undone,” he said cheerfully, “I don't see that advice is needed.”

“But—you don't understand.” She seemed to be casting about for words. “As I said, it was last fall—here. In Saint X there was a man— and he and I—we'd cared for each other ever since we were children. And then he went away to college. He did several things father didn't like. You know how older people are—they don't make allowances. And though father's the gentlest, best—at any rate, he turned against Jack, and—”

Scarborough abruptly went to the window and stood with his back to her.

After a pause Pauline said, in a rush, “And he came here last fall and we got married.”

There was a long silence.

“It was dreadful, wasn't it?” she said in the

tone of one who has just made a shocking discovery.

Scarborough did not answer.

“I never realized till this minute,” she went on after a while. “Not that I'm sorry or that I don't —don't care—just as I always did. But somehow, telling it out loud to some one else has made me see it in a different light. It didn't seem like treachery to them—to father and mother— then. It hasn't seemed like a—a marriage really marriage-until now.”

Another long silence. Then she burst out appealingly: “Oh, I don't see how I'm ever going to tell them!”

Scarborough came back to his chair and seated himself. His face was curiously white. It was in an unnatural voice that he said: “How old is he?”

“Twenty-five,” she replied, then instantly flared up, as if he had attacked Dumont: “But it wasn't his fault—not in the least. I knew what I was doing—and I wanted to do it. You mustn't get a false impression of him, Hampden. You'd admire and respect him. You—any one—would have done as he did in the same circumstances.” She blushed slightly. “You and he are ever so

much alike—even in looks. It was that that made me tell you, that made me like you as I have— and trust you.”

Scarborough winced. Presently he began: “Yet you regret—”

“No—no!” she protested—too vehemently. “I do not regret marrying him. That was certain to be sooner or later. All I regret is that I did something that seems underhanded. Perhaps I'm really only sorry I didn't tell them as soon as I'd done it.”

She waited until she saw he was not going to speak.

“And now,” she said, “I don't know how to tell them.” Again she waited, but he did not speak, continued to look steadily out into the sky. “What do you think?” she asked nervously. “But I can see without your saying. Only I—wish you'd say it.”

“No, I don't condemn you,” he said slowly. “I know you. You couldn't possibly do anything underhanded. If you'd been where you'd have had to conceal it directly, face to face, from some one who had the right to know—you'd never have done it.” He rested his arms on the table and looked straight at her. “I feel I must tell you

what I think. And I feel, too, it wouldn't be fair and honest if I didn't let you see why you might not want to take my advice.”

She returned his gaze inquiringly.

“I love you,” he went on calmly. “I've known it ever since I missed you so at the Christmas holidays. I love you for what you are, and for what you're as certain to be as—as a rosebud is certain to be a full-blown rose. I love you as my father loved my mother. I shall love you always.” His manner was calm, matter-of-fact; but there was in his musical, magical voice a certain quality which set her nerves and her blood suddenly to vibrating. She felt as if she were struggling in a great sea—the sea of his love for her—struggling to reach the safety of the shore.

“Oh—I wish you hadn't told me!” she exclaimed.

“Suppose I hadn't; suppose you had taken my advice? No”—he shook his head slowly—“I couldn't do that, Pauline—not even to win you.”

“I'm sorry I said anything to you about it.”

“You needn't be. You haven't harmed yourself. And maybe I can help you.”

“No—we won't talk of it,” she said—she was pressing her hand on her bosom where she could

feel her wedding ring. “It wouldn't be right, now. I don't wish your advice.”

“But I must give it. I'm years and years older than you—many, many years more than the six between us. And—”

“I don't wish to hear.”

“For his sake, for your own sake, Pauline, tell them! And they'll surely help you to wait till you're older before you do anything—irrevocable.”

“But I care for him,” she said—angrily, though it could not have been what he was saying so gently that angered her. “You forget that I care for him. It is irrevocable now. And I'm glad it is!”

“You like him. You don't love him. And —he's not worthy of your love. I'm sure it isn't prejudice that makes me say it. If he were, he'd have waited—”

She was on her feet, her eyes blazing.

“I asked for advice, not a lecture. I despise you! Attacking the man I love and behind his back! I wish to be alone.”

He rose but met her look without flinching.

“You can send me away,” he said gently, “but you can't send away my words. And if they're

true you'll feel them when you get over your anger. You'll do what you think right. But— be sure, Pauline. Be sure!” In his eyes there was a look—the secret altar with the never-to-be-extinguished flame upon it. “Be sure, Pauline. Be sure.”

Her anger fell; she sank, forlorn, into a chair. For both, the day had shriveled and shadowed. And as he turned and left the room the warmth and joy died from air and sky and earth; both of them felt the latent chill—it seemed not a reminiscence of winter past but the icy foreboding of winter closing in.

When Olivia came back that evening from shopping in Indianapolis she found her cousin packing.

“Is it something from home?” she asked, alarmed.

Pauline did not look up as she answered:

“No—but I'm going home—to stay—going in the morning. I've telegraphed them.”

“To stay!”

“Yes—I was married to Jack—here—last fall.”

“You—married! To John Dumont—you, only seventeen—oh, Pauline—” And Olivia gave

way to tears for the first time since she was a baby.

Scarborough was neither at supper nor at breakfast—Pauline left without seeing him again.