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 constituted 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 passed, 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, unanalytic 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 illustrations 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, assuming 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."
Pauline laughed--it struck her as ridiculous that either she or Jack
should distrust the other. Indeed, she only hazily knew what distrust
meant, and hadn't any real belief that "such things" actually existed.
Half an hour later the party was driving up to Weber and Fields'.
Pauline, glancing across the thronged sidewalk and along the empty,
brilliantly lighted passage leading into the theater, saw a striking,
peculiar-looking woman standing at the box-office while her escort
parleyed with the clerk within. "How much that man looks like Jack,"
she said to herself--and then she saw that it was indeed Jack. Not the
Jack she thought she knew, but quite another person, the one he tried
to hide from her--too carelessly, because he made the common mistake of
underestimating the sagacity of simplicity. A glance at the woman, a
second glance at Dumont, his flushed, insolent face now turned full
front--and she KNEW this unfamiliar and hitherto-only-hinted Jack.
The omnibus was caught in a jam of cars and carriages; there were
several moments of confusion and excitement. When the Fanshaw party
was finally able to descend, she saw that Jack and his companion were
gone--the danger of a scene was over for the moment. She lingered and
made the others linger, wishing to give him time to get to his seats.
When they entered the theater it was dark and the curtain was up. But
her eyes, searching the few boxes visible from the rear aisle, found
the woman, or, at least, enough of her for recognition--the huge black
hat with its vast pale blue feather. Pauline drew a long breath of
relief when the Fanshaws' box proved to be almost directly beneath, the
box.
If she had been a few years older, she would have given its proper
significance to the curious fact that this sudden revelation of the
truth about her husband did not start a tempest of anger or jealousy,
but set her instantly to sacrificing at the shrine of the great god
Appearances. It is notorious that of all the household gods he alone
erects his altar only upon the hearth where the ashes are cold.
As she sat there through the two acts, she seemed to be watching the
stage and taking part in the conversation of the Fanshaws and their
friends; yet afterward she could not recall a single thing that had
occurred, a single word that had been said. At the end of the last act
she again made them linger so that they were the last to emerge into
the passage. In the outside doorway, she saw the woman--just a glimpse
of a pretty, empty, laughing face with a mouth made to utter
impertinences and eyes that invited them.