We, the undersigned, exonerate Edwin Brigham of cheating in the poker game in Hampden Scarborough"s rooms on Sat.u.r.day evening, February 20, 18--. And we pledge ourselves never to speak of the matter either to each other or to any one else.
"I"ve signed first," said Scarborough, rising and holding the pen toward Chalmers. "Now, you fellows sign. Chalmers!"
Chalmers signed, and then Wilton.
"Take Chalmers away with you," said Scarborough to Wilton in an undertone. "I"ve something to say to Brigham."
When they were gone he again seated himself at his desk and, taking his check-book, wrote a check and tore it out.
"Now, listen to me, Brig," he said friendlily to Brigham, who seemed to be in a stupor. "I"ve won about six hundred dollars from you, first and last--more, rather than less. Will that amount put you in the way of getting straight?"
"Yes," said Brigham, dully.
"Then here"s a check for it. And here"s the paper exonerating you.
And--I guess you won"t play again soon."
The boy choked back his sobs.
"I don"t know how I ever came to do it, Scarborough. Oh, I"m a dog, a dog! When I started to come here my mother took me up to her bedroom and opened the drawer of her bureau and took out a savings-bank book--it had a credit of twelve hundred dollars. "Do you see that?" she said. "When you were born I began to put by as soon as I was able--every cent I could from the b.u.t.ter and the eggs--to educate my boy. And now it"s all coming true," she said, Scarborough, and we cried together. And----" Brigham burst into a storm of tears and sobs. "Oh, how could I do it!" he said. "How COULD I!"
"You"ve done wrong," said Scarborough, shakily, "but I"ve done much worse, Eddie. And it"s over now, and everything"ll be all right."
"But I can"t take your money, Scarborough. I must pay for what I"ve done."
"You mean, make your mother pay. No, you must take it back, Brigham.
I owe it to you--I owe it to your mother. This, is the b.u.t.ter and egg money that I--I stole from her."
He put the papers into the boy"s pocket. "You and I are going to be friends," he went on.
"Come round and see me to-morrow--no, I"ll look you up." He put out his hand and held Brigham"s hand in a courage-giving grasp. "And--I hope I"ll have the honor of meeting your mother some day."
Brigham could only look his feelings. Soon after he left Pierson came.
His anger had evaporated and his chief emotion was dread lest Scarborough might still be angry. "I want to take back----" he began eagerly, as soon as his head was inside the door.
"I know you do, but you shan"t," replied Scarborough. "What you said was true, what Olivia said was true. I"ve been acting like a blackguard."
"No," said Pierson, "what I said was a disgraceful lie. Will you try to forget it, Scarborough?"
"FORGET it?" Scarborough looked at his friend with brilliant eyes.
"Never! So help me G.o.d, never! It"s one of three things that have occurred to-day that I must never forget."
"Then we can go on as before. You"ll still be my friend?"
"Not STILL, Fred, but for the first time."
He looked round the luxurious study with a laugh and a sigh. "It"ll be a ghastly job, getting used to the sort of surroundings I can earn for myself. But I"ve got to grin and bear it. We"ll stay on here together to the end of the term--my share"s paid, and besides, I"m not going to do anything sensational. Next year--we"ll see."
While Pierson was having his final cigarette before going to bed he looked up from his book to see before him Scarborough, even more tremendous and handsome in his gaudy pajamas.
"I wish to register a solemn vow," said he, with mock solemnity that did not hide the seriousness beneath. "Hear me, ye immortal G.o.ds!
Never again, never again, will I engage in any game with a friend where there is a stake. I don"t wish to tempt. I don"t wish to be tempted."
"What nonsense!" said Pierson. "You"re simply cutting yourself off from a lot of fun."
"I have spoken," said Scarborough, and he withdrew to his bedroom.
When the door was closed and the light out he paused at the edge of the bed and said: "And never again, so long as he wishes to retain his t.i.tle to the name man, will Hampden Scarborough take from anybody anything which he hasn"t honestly earned."
And when he was in bed he muttered: "I shall be alone, and I may stay poor and obscure, but I"ll get back my self-respect--and keep it--Pauline!"
X.
MRS. JOHN DUMONT.
And Pauline?--She was now looking back upon the first year of her married life.
She had been so brought up that at seventeen, within a few weeks of eighteen, she had only the vaguest notion of the meaning of the step she was about to take in "really marrying" John Dumont. Also, it had never occurred to her as possible for a properly const.i.tuted woman not to love her husband. It was clearly her duty to marry Jack; therefore, the doubting thoughts and the ache at the heart which would not ease were merely more outcroppings of the same evil part of her nature that had tempted her into deceiving her parents, and into entangling herself and Scarborough. She knew that, if she were absolutely free, she would not marry Jack. But she felt that she had bartered away her birthright of freedom; and now, being herself, the daughter of HER father and HER mother, she would honorably keep her bargain, would love where she ought to love--at seventeen "I will" means "I shall." And so--they were "really married."
But the days pa.s.sed, and there was no sign of the miracle she had confidently expected. The magic of the marriage vow failed to transform her; Pauline Dumont was still Pauline Gardiner in mind and in heart. There was, however, a miracle, undreamed of, mysterious, overwhelming--John Dumont, the lover, became John Dumont, the husband.
Beside this transformation, the revelation that the world she loved and lived in did not exist for him, or his world for her, seemed of slight importance. She had not then experience enough to enable her to see that transformation and revelation were as intimately related as a lock and its key.
"It"s all my fault," she told herself. "It must be my fault." And Dumont, una.n.a.lytic and self-absorbed, was amused whenever Pauline"s gentleness reminded him of his mother"s half-believed warnings that his wife had "a will of her own, and a mighty strong one."
They were back at Saint X in August and lived at the Frobisher place in Indiana Street--almost as pretentious as the Dumont homestead and in better taste. Old Mrs. Dumont had gone to Chicago alone for the furnishings for her own house; when she went for the furnishings for her son"s house, she got Mrs. Gardiner to go along--and Pauline"s mother gave another of her many charming ill.u.s.trations of the valuable truth that tact can always have its own way. Saint X was too keen-eyed and too interested in the new Mrs. Dumont to fail to note a change in her. It was satisfied with the surface explanation that Europe in general and Paris in particular were responsible. And it did not note that, while she had always been full of life and fond of company, she was now feverish in her restlessness, incessantly seeking distraction, never alone when she could either go somewhere or induce some one to come to her.
"You MUST be careful, my dear," said her mother-in-law, as soon as she learned that she had a grandmotherly interest in her daughter-in-law"s health. "You"ll wear yourself out with all this running about."
Pauline laughed carelessly, recklessly.
"Oh, I"m disgustingly healthy. Nothing hurts me. Besides, if I were quiet, I think I should--EXPLODE!"
Late in September Dumont had to go to New York. He asked her to go with him, a.s.suming that she would decline, as she had visitors coming.
But she was only too glad of the chance to give her increasing restlessness wider range. They went to the Waldorf--Scarborough and Pierson had been stopping there not a week before, making ready for that sensational descent upon Battle Field which has already been recorded. The first evening Dumont took her to the play. The next morning he left her early for a busy day down-town--"and I may not be able to return for dinner. I warned you before we left Saint X," he said, as he rose from breakfast in their sitting-room.
"I understand," she answered. "You needn"t bother to send word even, if you don"t wish. I"ll be tired from shopping and shan"t care to go out this evening, anyhow."
In the afternoon she drove with Mrs. Fanshaw, wife of one of Jack"s business acquaintances--they had dined at the Fanshaws" when they paused in New York on the way home from Europe. Pauline was at the hotel again at five; while she and Mrs. Fanshaw were having tea together in the palm garden a telegram was handed to her. She read it, then said to Mrs. Fanshaw: "I was going to ask you and your husband to dine with us. Jack sends word he can"t be here, but--why shouldn"t you come just the same?"
"No you must go with us," Mrs. Fanshaw replied. "We"ve got a box at Weber and Fields", and two men asked, and we need another woman. I"d have asked you before, but there wouldn"t be room for any more men."
Mrs. Fanshaw had to insist until she had proved that the invitation was sincere; then, Pauline accepted--a distraction was always agreeable, never so agreeable as when it offered itself unannounced. It was toward the end of the dinner that Mrs. Fanshaw happened to say: "I see your husband"s like all of them. I don"t believe there ever was a woman an American man wouldn"t desert for business."
"Oh, I don"t in the least mind," replied Pauline. "I like him to show that he feels free. Why, when we were in Paris on the return trip and had been married only two months, he got tangled up in business and used to leave me for a day--for two days, once."
At Pauline"s right sat a carefully dressed young man whose name she had not caught--she learned afterward that he was Mowbray Langdon. He was now giving her a stare of amused mock-admiration. When he saw that he had her attention, he said: "Really, Mrs. Dumont, I can"t decide which to admire most--YOUR trust or your husband"s."