With the first glance into Olivia's dark gray eyes Pauline ceased to
resent her as an intruder. And soon she was feeling that some sort of
dawn was assailing her night.
Olivia was the older by three years. She seemed--and for her years,
was--serious and wise because, as the eldest of a large family, she was
lieutenant-general to her mother. Further, she had always had her own
way--when it was the right way and did not conflict with justice to her
brothers and sisters. And often her parents let her have her own way
when it was the wrong way, nor did they spoil the lesson by mitigating
disagreeable consequences.
"Do as you please," her mother used to say, when doing as she pleased
would involve less of mischief than of valuable experience, "and
perhaps you'll learn to please to do sensibly." Again, her father
would restrain her mother from interference--"Oh, let the girl alone.
She's got to teach herself how to behave, and she can't begin a minute
too young." This training had produced a self-reliant and
self-governing Olivia.
She wondered at the change in Pauline--Pauline, the light-hearted, the
effervescent of laughter and life, now silent and almost somber. It
was two weeks before she, not easily won to the confiding mood for all
her frankness, let Olivia into her secret. Of course, it was at night;
of course, they were in the same bed. And when Olivia had heard she
came nearer to the truth about Dumont than had Pauline's mother. But,
while she felt sure there was a way to cure Pauline, she knew that way
was not the one which had been pursued. "They've only made her
obstinate," she thought, as she, lying with hands clasped behind her
head, watched Pauline, propped upon an elbow, staring with dreamful
determination into the moonlight.
"It'll come out all right," she said; her voice always suggested that
she knew what she was talking about. "Your father'll give in sooner or
later--if YOU don't change."
"But he's so bitter against Jack," replied Pauline. "He won't listen
to his side--to our side--of it."
"Anyhow, what's the use of anticipating trouble? You wouldn't get
married yet. And if he's worthwhile he'll wait."
Pauline had been even gentler than her own judgment in painting her
lover for her cousin's inspection. So, she could not explain to her
why there was necessity for haste, could not confess her conviction
that every month he lived away from her was a month of peril to him.
"We want it settled," she said evasively.
"I haven't seen him around anywhere," went on Olivia. "Is he here now?"
"He's in Chicago--in charge of his father's office there. He may stay
all winter."
"No, there's no hurry," went on Olivia. "Besides, you ought to meet
other men. It isn't a good idea for a girl to marry the man she's been
brought up with before she's had a chance to get acquainted with other
men." Olivia drew this maxim from experience--she had been engaged to
a school-days lover when she went away to Battle Field to college; she
broke it off when, going home on vacation, she saw him again from the
point of wider view.
But Pauline scorned this theory; if Olivia had confessed the broken
engagement she would have thought her shallow and untrustworthy. She
was confident, with inexperience's sublime incapacity for self-doubt,
that in all the wide world there was only one man whom she could have
loved or could love.
"Oh, I shan't change," she said in a tone that warned her cousin
against discussion.
"At any rate," replied Olivia, "a little experience would do you no
harm." She suddenly sat up in bed. "A splendid idea!" she exclaimed.
"Why not come to Battle Field with me?"
"I'd like it," said Pauline, always eager for self-improvement and
roused by Olivia's stories of her college experiences. "But father'd
never let me go to Battle Field College."
"Battle Field UNIVERSITY," corrected Olivia. "It has classical courses
and scientific courses and a preparatory school--and a military
department for men and a music department for women. And it's going to
have lots and lots of real university schools--when it gets the money.
And there's a healthy, middle-aged wagon-maker who's said to be
thinking of leaving it a million or so--if he should ever die and if
they should change its name to his."
"But it's coeducation, isn't it? Father would never consent. It was
all mother could do to persuade him to let me go to public school."
"But maybe he'd let you go with me, where he wouldn't let you go all
alone."
And so it turned out. Colonel Gardiner, anxious to get his daughter
away from Saint X and into new scenes where Dumont might grow dim,
consented as soon as Olivia explained her plan.
Instead of entering "senior prep", Pauline was able to make freshman
with only three conditions. In the first week she was initiated into
Olivia's fraternity, the Kappa Alpha Kappa, joined the woman's literary
and debating society, and was fascinated and absorbed by crowding new
events, associations, occupations, thoughts. In spite of herself her
old-time high spirits came flooding back. She caught herself
humming--and checked herself reproachfully. She caught herself
singing--and lowered it to humming. She caught herself whistling--and
decided that she might as well be cheerful while she waited for fate to
befriend her and Jack. And she found that she thought about him none
the less steadfastly for thinking hopefully.
Battle Field put no more restraint upon its young women than it put
upon its young men--and it put no restraint upon the young men. In
theory and practice it was democratic, American, western--an outgrowth
of that pioneer life in which the men and the women had fought and
toiled and enjoyed, side by side, in absolute equality, with absolute
freedom of association. It recognized that its students had been
brought up in the free, simple, frank way, that all came from a region
where individualism was a religion, with self-reliance as the cardinal
principle of faith and self-development as the goal.
There were no dormitories at Battle Field then. Olivia and Pauline
lived in one of the hundred or more boarding-houses--a big, square,
white "frame," kept by a Mrs. Trent, the widow of a "hero of two wars."
Her hero had won her with his uniform when he returned from the Mexican
War. His conduct was so irregular and his income so uncertain that it
had been a relief to her when he departed for his second war. From it
he had brought home a broken constitution, a maimed body and confirmed
habits of shiftlessness and drunkenness. His country took his
character and his health and paid him in exchange a pension which just
about kept him in whisky and tobacco. So long as he was alive Mrs.
Trent hated him as vigorously as her Christianity permitted. When he
was safely in his grave she canonized him; she put his picture and his
sword, belt and epaulets in the conspicuous place in the parlor; she
used his record for gallantry to get herself social position and a
place of honor at public gatherings.
Her house stood back from the highway in a grove of elms and walnuts.
Its angularity was relieved by a porch with a flat roof that had a
railing about it and served as a balcony for the second-story lodgers.
There were broad halls through the middle of the house down-stairs and
up. Olivia and Pauline had the three large rooms in the second story
on the south side. They used the front room as a study and Pauline's
bedroom was next to it.
Late one afternoon she was seated at the study window watching a
cherry-red sun drop through the purple haze of the autumn. She became
conscious that some one was on the balcony before the window of the
front room across the hall. She leaned so that she could see without
being seen. Sharp against the darkening sky was the profile of a young
man. Olivia joined her and followed her glance. The profile remained
fixed and the two girls watched it, fascinated. It certainly was a
powerful outline, proud and stern, but with a mouth that was sweet in
its kindliness and gentleness.
"I wonder what he's thinking about," said Olivia, in an undertone; he
was not fifteen feet from them. "I suppose, some scheme for conquering
the world."
Most of Battle Field's youth came from the farms of that western
country, the young men with bodies and brains that were strong but
awkward. Almost all were working their way through--as were not a few
of the women. They felt that life was a large, serious business
impatiently waiting for them to come and attend to it in a large,
serious way better than it had ever been attended to before. They
studied hard; they practised oratory and debating. Their talk was of
history and philosophy, religion and politics. They slept little; they
thought--or tried to think--even more than they talked.
At a glance this man was one of them, a fine type.
"He's handsome, isn't he?" said Pauline.
"But--" She did not finish; indeed it was not clear to her what the
rest of her protest was. He reminded her of Dumont--there was the same
look of superiority, of the "born to lead." But his face seemed to,
have some quality which Dumont's lacked--or was it only the idealizing
effect of the open sky and the evening light?
When the bell rang for supper he apparently did not hear it. The two
girls went down and had talked to the others a few minutes and all had
seated themselves before he entered. An inch or so above six feet,
powerful in the chest and shoulders, he moved with a large grace until
he became self-conscious or approached the, by comparison, frail pieces
of furniture. He had penetrating, candid eyes that looked dark in the
gaslight but were steel-blue. His face now wore the typical
western-American expression--shrewd, easy-going good humor. Mrs.
Trent, intrenched in state behind a huge, silver-plated coffee-urn with
ivory-trimmed faucet, introduced him--Mr. Scarborough--to Olivia, to
Pauline, to Sadie McIntosh, to Pierson and Howe and Thiebaud
(pronounced Cay-bo). Scarborough sat directly opposite Olivia. But
whenever he lifted his eyes from his plate he looked at Pauline, who
was next to her. When she caught him he blushed and stirred in his
chair so uneasily that it creaked and crackled; and his normal
difficulties with his large hands and the small knife and fork were
distressingly increased.
Pauline was disappointed in him--his clothes were ill-fitting and gave
him the appearance of being in danger of bursting from them; his hair
was too long, suggesting a shaggy, tawny mane; though his hands were
well-shaped they had the recent scars of hard manual labor. Thus, when
Olivia spoke enthusiastically of him after supper, she made no reply.
She would have been ashamed to acknowledge the reasons for her lack of
admiration, even had she been conscious of them.
But the next morning at breakfast she revised her opinion somewhat. He
talked, and he had a remarkable voice--clear, musical, with a quality
which made it seem to penetrate through all the nerves instead of
through the auditory nerve only. Further, he talked straight to
Pauline, without embarrassment and with a quaint, satiric humor. She
was forgetting for the moment his almost uncouth hair and dress when,
in making a sweeping gesture, he upset a glass of water and sent a
plate of hot bread flying from the waitress' hand.
"He'd do well in the open air," thought she, "but he's out of place in
a house."
Still, she found him interesting and original. And he persistently
sought her--his persistence was little short of heroism in view of the
never-wholly-concealed sufferings which the contrast between her grace
and style and his lack of both caused him.
"He looks like a king who had been kidnapped as a child and brought up
in the wilds," said Olivia. "I wonder who he is."
"I'll ask him," replied Pauline. And Olivia was slyly amused by her
cousin's unconscious pride in her power with this large, untamed person.