Semicircles of weariness hollowed Robert Osterhout's eyes as he opened
the door and entered Mona's room. It had been a hard night for him.
Memory had been delicately dissecting his nerves. Striving in vain to
lose himself in his experiments he had turned, early in the morning, to
his communion with the dead woman. The letter, that pitiful solace for
the unremitting pain of loss and loneliness, was in his hand now as he
closed the door behind him.
" ... As for Pat," he had written, "she is one of those born to trouble
the hearts of men and to take fire from their trouble. Of the tribe of
Helen! If I could see her safely married---- Safely! As if there were
any safety in marriage! Not under our present system. Look at Connie.
Though, for that matter, my misgivings about her and Cary Scott seem
to have been misplaced. That flame has flickered out. She will perhaps
settle down from sheer inertia. But hers is hardly what one would call
a safe or successful marriage. Dee's may be better. Not that she is
specially in love with James. But her training at sports will stand
her in good stead. She will go through with it. Dee is first and last
a good sport. Nevertheless, I sometimes wish she had waited for the
really right man, if there be any such for her.
"Mona, there are times when I could believe in trial marriage,
with suitable safeguards, of course, against children. If I were a
philosopher instead of a medical man I should certainly favour the
system. But my technical training prejudices my judgment. Of course, we
do have trial marriages, and commonly; or trial alliances, which is
the same thing without the same name. If the truth were known I suppose
that most men who marry the second time, marry their mistresses. How
many other experiments may previously have gone into the discard
as having proved unsuitable, is another question. Selection of the
fittest. The notion that men never marry the women who give themselves
is fictional cant, one of those many falsities which society propagates
under the silly delusion that they are safeguards of virtue.
"What an experiment it would be to bring up a young girl in an
atmosphere clear of all the common lies and illusions! You had begun
to do it with Pat, I think. I wish that I could carry on. But it is
too blind a venture for a worn and uncertain bachelor like myself.
Nevertheless, when Pat does put questions to me I give her the
truth. And she has a flair for truth. An enquiring and pioneering
sort of mind, too, which would be a fine equipment if only it were
trained and disciplined. As it is, it is a danger. She will explore,
and exploration, with her temperament--Pat ought to marry some man
much older than herself; a man of thirty at least, clever enough to
understand her, patient enough to bear with her caprices, and strong
enough to compel her respect. He could make something real of her, for
there is essential character in Pat. Or is it only the charm of her
personality that makes one think so? I could wish that Cary Scott were
not married. Though, of course, he is too old for her. He takes a great
deal of interest in her and has much influence over her mind; but his
interest is not that kind of interest, naturally. He has been talking
to me about her; very shrewdly, too. He thinks her of the dangerously
inflammable type. I fancy that she has been making a confidant of him.
He thinks that I should talk to her plainly. I feel rather alarmed at
the prospect; the modern flapper knows so formidably much!"
Opening the safe to add this letter to the accumulating pile in the
centre compartment, Osterhout was conscious of a subtle and troubling
impression. He felt that some alien hand had intruded there, some alien
eye had seen those words, so sacredly confidential, sealed in the
inviolable silences of death. Yet that, he knew, was impossible. No
one in the world except himself had the combination of the safe. Could
Mona herself, Mona's spirit, returning to the room she had so loved and
so permeated with her personality, have entered there to absorb the
essence of the confidences which she had demanded of him? But if that
were so, why should he feel that sense of invasion, since the letters
belonged more to Mona than to him? Nevertheless, the thought was a
blessed appeasement to the thirst of his heart. He clasped it to him.
But presently his underlying materialistic hard sense reasserted its
ascendancy. He set it all down to imagination; smiled tolerantly at
himself for a sentimental self-deluder.
For a long time Pat did not come to pay him the expected visit. But the
day before her return to school she appeared in his laboratory.
"Bobs," she announced pathetically, "I've got a sore throat."
"Let's have a look at it," he directed, leading her to the window.
She tilted back her face, while he explored the recesses of the accused
organ.
"Sore throat, eh?" he remarked. "At least your mouth is clean, which is
more than could have been said of it a year ago. You've got a breath
like a cow."
"'Snice," purred Pat. "I'm a good little dieter. But what about my
throat?"
"Well," answered the physician judicially, "it might be diphtheria or
it might be scarlet fever, but _I_ think it's that guilty feeling that
comes of telling lies about itself. Your throat is no more sore than my
pipe."
"I know it isn't," admitted the unabashed Pat. "But I'm kind of wrong
inside. Way-way inside, I mean."
"The patient must be more specific if the physician is to be of use."
"Bobs, am I a fool?"
"I suppose so. Most people are."
"Am I a dam' fool?"
"As to degree we come to a consideration of definition which----"
"Mr. Scott thinks I am."
"Hello! Who's making this diagnosis? Cary Scott, or you, or I?"
"Do you think I ought to go to college?"
"Too late. You couldn't get in now, thanks to that infernal,
mind-coddling, brain-softening school of yours."
"It isn't! I love the school. They let you do whatever you like."
"Which is, of course, the best possible course for a finished product
like you."
"Oh, _well_! Who cares? I don't."
"Then why come to me?"
"I don't think I'm getting everything out of--of things that I might,"
said Pat plaintively.
"That's the beginning of wisdom. Why this divine discontent? Have the
movies begun to pall?"
"Oh, _have_ you seen Doug Fairbanks in his last? He's _too_ flawless."
"Evidently they haven't begun to pall. If I could be assured of its
being his last I would gladly go to see the too-flawless Doug. But my
dull artistic appreciations do not rise above Charley Chaplin. But we
wander. We were discussing your way-way inside, weren't we? Why its
sudden discomposure?"
"I thought you could tell me. You know so much, Bobs. I'm getting bored
with the things I used to like. I think it's talking with Mr. Scott.
He's so different, and he makes the rest seem dull."
"Yes; Scott is a bit of a prig," said Osterhout with intention.
"He isn't!" flashed Pat indignantly. "He's the best dressed man at the
club. Jimmie James says so." As the physician smiled at this naïve
refutation she added: "Well, a man can't be a prig and look the way Mr.
Scott always does, can he?"
"Obviously not."
"It's only because he's been about the world so much and knows such a
lot about music and art and books and--and things."
"Well, you've had the advantages of a liberal and ladylike education
yourself. Kindred spirits. Don't fall in love with Cary Scott, Infant.
Remember he's a married man," smiled Osterhout.
"Fall in _love_ with him? Why, I'd as soon think of falling in love
with you! He's old enough to be my grandfather! But I think he's
awfully good for me," she added naïvely. "Don't you love to talk with
Mr. Scott, Bobs?"
"Oh, I just _adore_ it!" simpered the doctor, clasping fervent hands.
"Now you're laughing at me," she pouted. "He's always laughing at me.
That doesn't help much."
"Sometimes it does, Bambina. It might even teach you to laugh at
yourself."
"I do that, too. And sometimes I cry at myself. All night."
"Do you?" He scrutinised her. "At your age? What do you cry about?"
"Just about myself. Because nothing seems worth while except--except
queer things."
"That's morbid. Or else it's a pose."
"It isn't a pose. I even don't like school as much as I did. Bobs, I
want to leave after this term. D'you think if you went to Dad you could
talk him into letting me?"
"Much more likely that you could. What's your plan? Launch yourself
socially on a waiting world?"
"Don't be spit-catty; it doesn't suit you. No; I want to come back home
and run the house for Dad and have some fun. I've been taking domestic
science, and I know I could do it better than Con. She'd be glad to be
rid of the bother, anyway. I thought I'd work at music, too. Do you
think I could do anything with my voice, Bobs?"
"Don't ask me. Any crow knows more music than I do. I think it would be
good for you to tackle anything steady and regular. It would keep you
from being too introspective."
"Nice Bobs, to give me all the big words for nothing! That means
that I think too much about myself, doesn't it? I know I do. And I
talk too much about myself, too. I came over here just to talk about
myself and to get you to talk about me," she confessed simply. With an
air of considered maturity, she added: "It isn't much fun for me to
talk to boys of my own age. They're always wanting to tell you about
themselves, or else to make love to you. Generally it's love-stuff."
"Indeed! Do you go in much for that particular indoor sport, Pat?"
"Oh, it isn't all indoors. There's porch swings, and limousines; all
that helps. Are you shocked, Bobs?"
"I'm interested. The habits of the young of the species are bound to be
interesting to a scientist."
"You said something when you said 'habits.' Everybody does it. Didn't
you when you were young?"
"It's so long ago that I've forgotten. But I don't think my sisters
did. Not promiscuously."
"If they did you'd be the last one that knew about it," the sapient Pat
informed him. "And I hate the word 'promiscuously.' Besides, it isn't
true. I don't. Not any more."
"Great grief, Infant! You talk as if you'd been at this sort of thing
for uncounted years!"
"I've been over twelve for some time, you know," she observed lightly.
"Perhaps it's as well that you reminded me. You seem so permanently
young to me. However, speaking medically, I should say cut it out,
Infant. Cut it out for good. It's no good for you. It's no good for any
young girl; but particularly not for you."
She knitted her pretty brows at him, thinking it through. "I get you,
Stephen," she said presently. "Though I'm not so different from other
girls, only a little more so than some, maybe. But you're right.
Sometimes I've felt like a nervous wreck. I wish that I didn't know so
much about myself. Or else that I knew a little more."
"You know quite enough. At any rate you spend quite enough time
thinking about yourself. Where do you suppose all this leads to, Pat?"
"I don't know. Lots of time to think about that, isn't there? I suppose
I'll get married and have a lot of kids some day. I like kids."
"It would probably be the best thing for you."
"Do you think so? But I'd be a rotten wife, Bobs," she added, a cloud
settling down upon her expressive face. "What kind of a training have I
had to marry and have children to bring up?"
"About the same as most of your set, haven't you?"
"Yes; and look at them! There isn't one of them that's true to her
husband."
"Great Lord, Pat----"
"Now, I _have_ shocked you."
"Yes, you have. Not the fact--though it isn't a fact so sweepingly--but
that you at your age should know it or think it."
"Oh, I don't mean necessarily that they go the limit. But they're all
out for a flutter with any attractive suitor that comes along. Bobs,
tell me something; if a married woman goes necking around isn't she
more likely to--to go farther than a girl is?"
"Depends on the individual. It isn't the safest of pastimes for anyone,
as I've suggested to you."
"But it's such fun to make 'em crazy," returned the irrepressible Pat.
"Only," she added pensively, "it isn't such fun when you feel kind
of crazy yourself. Yet it is, too. When I get married I'm going to
everlastingly settle down and never look sideways at any other man.
Bobs, what makes you think I ought to marry a man thirty years old?"
"It's about the right age for you. It will take a man of some wisdom
and self-control to manage you, little Pat."
"More grandfather stuff!" she muttered fretfully. "I don't want to
marry a settled old thing. I want someone with some fun left in him."
"Two or three years from now thirty won't look so senile."
"Probably not. Dee's marrying a man over thirty. Bobs, do you like
Dee's engagement?"
"No; I don't," he answered, and straightway wished that he had not been
betrayed into that frankness.
"Neither do I. Jimmie James thinks he's first cousin to the Almighty.
Dee won't stand for that."
"She seems devoted to him."
"Oh, she'll see it through. Dee's a good old girl. But I wish she
wouldn't. Have you told her what you think about it?"
"Certainly not!"
"Well, don't bite me. Would you have if she'd asked you?"
"Perhaps. I doubt it."
"I'd have thought she'd have come to you. Dee's awfully impressed with
you, Bobs. Lots more than I am. Would you tell _me_ if I came to you?"
"Of course."
"Why the difference, I wonder? Never mind, old dear. I'll make you a
promise right here that I won't marry anyone without your consent.
Only, you'll have to give your consent if I want it very much, you
know. Won't you, Bobs?"
"Probably," he said.
She waved him a kiss and was gone. He returned to his interrupted task.
In the midst of a test which should have absorbed all his attention a
sudden query jarred itself into his brain. How had Pat known that he
thought it desirable for her to marry a man of thirty? Certainly he had
never told her so. He had never told anyone so. Except Mona.