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Flaming Youth

<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> With unwearying strategy Pat made opportunities for being with Scott thereafter. Each time they were together alone she came to his arms as sweetly and naturally as if she claimed him of right; each time until the evening before the wedding when, as he drew her to him, she twitched away with a boyish, petulant jerk of the shoulders. "What is it, Pat?" he queried. "Nothing. I don't want you to pet me. That's all." He had the acumen to suspect that this might be a first crisis in their newly established relations, though he did not fathom her purpose. "Very well," he assented quietly. "You are quite right, of course." This did not suit Pat at all. From her youthful suitors she was accustomed to woeful protests. "Am I?" she retorted perversely. "I'm not. There's nothing right about it." "No. But there is this. I shall never make any claim upon you except as you wish it." "Well, I don't wish it. Not now." A dart of lightning flashed through her clouded look. "I might to-morrow." His brows lifted, enquiringly. Mockingly, too? Pat wondered. You never could tell with Mr. Scott. What would he say? He said nothing. "D'you know what I mean?" demanded Pat, who didn't clearly know herself. "Perfectly." "What?" "Coquetry. That's a form of dishonesty between us.[Pg 189] And between us there is no reason nor place for anything but honesty." She came to him then, encircled him closely, drew her lips from his, after a time, to murmur: "You understand me so. When you say things like that I'm crazy about you." Against his better judgment he said: "I wonder how much you really care for me, Pat?" "Oh, an awful lot! Or I wouldn't be acting like this. But," she added with pensive frankness, "I've been just as crazy about other people before." "I see. It's the normal thing for you to feel this way toward someone." "Oh, well; you expect to have somebody in love with you," she explained. "Think how lost you'd feel without it. And it's natural to play back, isn't it? Now I've hurt you." She spoke the words with a kind of remorseful interest as an experimentalist might feel pity for the animal under his knife. "That doesn't matter. One gets used to being hurt." All woman, at this she tightened her embrace. "I don't want you to be hurt. I do love you. Only with me it doesn't last. But there's never been anyone who interested me as much as you do. I don't see what you find in me, though." "'Said the rose to the bee.'" He forced himself to laugh as he gave the quotation. But within, the cold disillusionment of whatever blind hopes he may have felt, which had underlain his passion from the first, asserted itself. What constancy could he expect from this will-of-the-wisp girl? And what could a lasting attraction mean for her except such unhappiness as he knew himself fated to suffer? He took his resolution. Whatever might come to him he must so command himself and his actions[Pg 190] as to safeguard Pat in every possible way. Already, he knew, his intellectual influence over that unsated, groping, casual mind was strong enough to outlast any change in the more purely physical attraction which she felt for him. If he could find the strength to crush down his own passion, he might still mould her to make something of herself, direct her ardent temperament into channels through which she would eventually come to safe harbour. There lies in every man of strong mentality a trace of the pedagogue. Scott had it. If he could not be Pat's lover, he might find some self-sacrificing satisfaction in being her guide and mentor. That he was prepared for self-sacrifice was the best evidence in his own mind of the quality of his love for the girl. In his lesser affairs he had sought only self-satisfaction. "My dearest," he said, "I think we have come to a turning-point. We've got to stop this sort of thing." She cuddled closer to him in the remote darkness of the swing where they sat out two successive dances which she had contrived to save for him. "I don't want to!" she rebelled. "Do you think I want to! But I'm thinking of the risk." "You said there wasn't any danger with you," she teased. "Boasting, were you, when you claimed you had self-control enough for both of us." "I'm not thinking of that kind of danger." "What then? Oh, of our being trapped! But there's only one more day after this," she pleaded, "and then I go back." "But you'll be coming home again before long." "By that time I may be crazy about someone else," was the calm reply. [Pg 191] "Which is pleasant for me to contemplate," he replied grimly. "It's a mess, isn't it? What d'you expect me to do? What do you want me to do?" "If it's a question of the best thing for you," he said, speaking slowly and with effort, "that would be for you to fall in love genuinely with some man who would understand you and safeguard you——" "You want me to marry? Do you, Cary?" "It will almost kill me," he said between his teeth. "But—it's the way, for you." "Probably it is. I'll make a rotten wife," she said, as she had said to Dr. Osterhout. "You could make heaven or hell for a man. But marriage alone isn't going to be enough. There are other things." "You mean—children?" "That, too. But what I meant was some background for yourself. Your music, or reading, or some interest to fall back on." "Why?" "Because you've got an eager and active mind, Pat. A half-starved mind, if you only knew it. It's going to demand things when the novelty begins to wear off." "When I get tired of my husband?" "I hope you're going to marry a man of whom you won't tire," he said gravely. "But there's a certain monotony about marriage. Many women tire of that. Then is the danger time." "Then I'll send for you." A devil sparkled in her eyes. "I wouldn't come." "Not come! Not when I needed you?" "From the ends of the earth if you needed me. But not for any caprice. I'd put you on honour there. [Pg 192]Happiness doesn't lie in that direction, little Pat. What I want for you is happiness." She brooded upon this darkly. "I believe you do," she whispered after a time. "More than for yourself." "More than for myself," he repeated. "Why not?" "Don't make me cry," she said. "It tears me to pieces to cry. And then, I'm such a sight!" "Nonsense!" he returned brusquely. "You're not going to. What is there to cry about? 'Men have died,' you know, 'and worms have eaten them, but not for love.'" "What's that from?" she asked, seeking relief in the turn. "Ibsen?" "Not exactly," he smiled. "It was said as a reminder by a charming and rebellious Pat of her time named Rosalind." "Oh, I know! 'As You Like It.' Aren't I clever! The Rosalind reminds me of something. Aunt Linda's here. Have you seen her?" "No. Who is she?" "My very pettest aunt. She's an old peach. I'll take you to her if she's broken away from the bridge game. But first——" She lifted pleading and hungry eyes to him. "Well, Pat?" "Our being so—so dam' good and proper doesn't have to begin until I go, does it?" He swept her into his arms, held her close and long. "Oh, Pat! Little wonderful Pat," he breathed. "What am I ever to do without you?" "I don't want you to do without me," she murmured. "I want you to be always somewhere—somewhere where I can find you if—— Be careful! Here comes some butt-in." They returned to the dancing floor, where Pat after a survey drew Scott by the hand across the room to a group in a corner. "Here she is," she announced. "That's Aunt[Pg 193] Linda." Before she could go further with this informal presentation a circle of importunate claimants had swept about her. "How do you do, Mr. Cary Scott?" said the lady before whom he found himself standing. "Mrs. Parker!" he ejaculated. Pat's description of "old peach" was decidedly overdrawn as to the adjective, though not as to the noun. Aunt Linda was a slim, twinkling, rose-complexioned woman of thirty-five, gowned in a work of art and characterised by a quality of worldliness which, like Scott's own, was a degree above mere smartness. She carried with her a breath of the greater outer world. Moreover she was, if not beautiful, extremely attractive to look at by virtue of a sort of eternal fitness. "You've forgotten me," she accused lightly. "Or at least, my name. I'm Miss Fentriss." Not a muscle of Scott's face testified to his surprise at this unexpected denial of a perfectly remembered name. "So stupid of me," he confessed. "Won't you try a round of this dance?" "No; I'm not dancing. But you may take me to some cooler spot, if you know of any." No sooner were they beyond earshot of the crowd than she said: "So you have not forgotten Taormina." "I have forgotten whatever you wish me to forget." "Always the perfection of tact," she mocked. "It would be more flattering that you should remember. Though not too much." "A cliff of beaten gold overlooking a sea of shimmering silver, a waft of perfume on the air, the charm of beauty and mystery, both of which still endure after these seven years." "Shall I dispel the mystery? I was Mrs. Parker then[Pg 194] only because an independent-minded vagrant such as I am finds travel in Europe more convenient under a married name than as a Miss. So one does not take, but invents a husband. Here and now I am Ralph Fentriss's half-sister and Patricia Fentriss's aunt." "Something of an occupation in itself," he reflected aloud. "It is. What, if one may ask, are you doing in that gallery? Pat curled herself on the foot of my bed this morning and discussed the universe for an hour. Chiefly you." "Vastly flattered! Et après?" "Afterward? That is for you to answer, isn't it? Why are you laying siege to the child's mind?" "Because I dislike waste. It is too keen a mind to be frittered away on nothings." "Has Pat been making love to you?" The question was put without the slightest alteration of the easy tone. "Really, that's a question which——" "Don't pretend to be shocked. Women always do make love to you, don't they?" "You didn't," smilingly he reminded her, "at Taormina. Hence my blighted life." "No. I preferred to have you make love to me. You did it so expertly." "And wholly unsuccessfully." "What did you expect? A correct young married woman going on to meet her husband by the boat! Would you have been so vehement if you had known me to be an unmarried girl?" "I haven't made it a practice to make love to unmarried girls." "Why select Pat, then?" She paused, giving him time to speculate upon what Pat might or might not have [Pg 195]unintentionally revealed to this shrewd observer. "I was twenty-eight then," she pursued, "and I found you a dangerous wooer, even though I knew it was not pour le bon motif. Pat isn't nineteen yet." "Mademoiselle has taken the ordering of this matter into her own hands?" he queried mildly. "Dieu m'en garde!" she laughed. "It is as an old friend of yours that I speak." "Then I am prepared for the worst," he sighed. "Strike!" "Still of a pretty wit." She spoke sharply, but her eyes were not without kindness for him. "Danger, Mr. Cary Scott! Danger!" He did not pretend to misunderstand. "Let me assure you that I am not wholly without principle, Miss Fentriss." "You? Granted. But what of Pat? Has my scapegrace little witch of a niece any principles whatever? I doubt it." So, after all, he had misunderstood. "Are you, then, warning me of danger to myself? C'est à rire, n'est-ce pas?" "It is not to laugh at all. I am serious. I have been watching you this evening when you were with Pat and when you were only following her with your eyes. Your expression is not always guarded, if one has learned to read the human face." He flushed. Then there came upon him the reckless desire to ease his soul of the secret which filled it. She had invited it, and he instinctively knew that to this serene, poised, self-sufficing, sage woman of the world he could speak in the assurance of sympathy and without fear of incomprehension or betrayal. [Pg 196] "It's true," he said beneath his breath. "I love her. I love her as I never dreamed it possible to love." "And you've told her so." He made no reply. "I know you have because I know Pat. She's as greedy as she is shrewd; she'd know and she'd never be happy until she'd had it out of you. And then she'd be sorry and blame you for speaking." "Yes. I've told her," he muttered. "Inevitable that you should have. Not that it makes any particular difference, but you're still married, aren't you?" "Yes." "Any prospects of change?" "Prospects? No!" "Ah, well; I haven't an idea that Pat would marry you anyway. She appears to regard you as rather an elderly person, quite delightful to play with, but belonging to another world. Her infatuation will probably die out." "Give me credit for being decent enough to hope and know that it will." "Yet there is no certainty about it. Your appeal to her senses may be temporary, doubtless is. But you have taken hold upon her mind to a degree which she herself does not appreciate, and that is a more profound and lasting influence. I wonder if you did it deliberately." "No. Yes. I don't know whether I did or not. It may have been at the back of my brain all the time." "That sounds more like Pat's honesty than your own diplomatic way of looking at things. It would be quite incredible that she has exerted a counter-influence upon you." "Why incredible, since I love her?" was the quiet reply. She gave him a swift, estimating glance before she went[Pg 197] on: "I'm very fond of Pat, Mr. Scott. Most of my money will go to her eventually, unless I marry." "Which is inevitable," he put in. "Which is the most improbable thing in the world. And I want to see her happy. She has great possibilities of happiness, and great possibilities of tragedy. It is a tragic face, rather; have you noticed that?" "It is a face impossible to analyse." "True enough. It has the mysterious quality that quite outdoes beauty. Men go mad over that type of face, though one doesn't find it in poetry or painting. I wonder why? Is it because genius doesn't dare that far, because it is untransferable even for genius? Perhaps it is genius in itself. Didn't some poet say that beauty of a kind is genius?... What are you going to do with Pat, Mr. Scott?" "Nothing. What is there to do?" "Laissez faire? There's danger in letting things take their course too. There is danger everywhere in this sort of affair. Let me interpret a little of Pat's mind for you. She is a combination of instinctive shrewdness, ignorance, false standards and beliefs, and straight thinking. There's an innocence about her that is appalling, an innocence as regards life as it really is. One might say that her ideas of the more intimate phases of life are formed mainly from the trashy, sexy-sentimental plays and the more trashy motion pictures that she loves. She believes that sin is always punished in the direct and logical way. If she should surrender to a man she would expect first, to have a baby at once; second, that the man would naturally despise and abandon her; that's what the modern drama teaches, on the ground, one supposes, that it's an influence for safety. And perhaps," continued the analyst[Pg 198] thoughtfully, "it is. Though I'm rather for the truth myself. But there are other things taught in the same school that aren't so safe. Did you happen to read a fool book called The Salamander some years ago?" "Yes; but I didn't think it so bad." "Because you're a man and don't understand what the effect of it has been. A Salamander school of fiction and drama has grown out of it. The central idea is that if a girl is 'pure' she can get herself into any kind of situation, take any kind of chance with any kind of man, play the game of passion to the limit and yet come out unscathed; virtue its own safeguard, and that sort of thing. Why I saw a play this winter which was written to prove that a girl of to-day could spend a night alone in a house with a man with whom she was in love without any thought of harm. Yet the censors suppress honest portrayals of life as it really is. It's a great little world, Cary Scott, if your mind doesn't weaken. But I think mine has!" Pat, passing by on the arm of a worshipping partner, stopped to give them a smile. "What are you talking about, you two?" "You've guessed it; about you," returned the young aunt. For a hidden moment Pat's eyes met Scott's and shot forth their ardent message before the sweeping lashes curled down. "Leave me a few shreds," she called back gaily. "Pat considers herself a miracle of astuteness and knowledge," pursued the aunt. "Having been taught the gospel of lies and trash, she is sure of her own natural inviolability. If anything in the world ought to be banned from the access of Pat and her kind, it is the Salamander-story of the Girl Who Always Comes Out Right. It isn't [Pg 199]true; it never will be true; it never has been true. Women aren't that way." She let her pensive, grey gaze wander to the doorway wherein Pat had vanished, then return to meet Scott's. "I know," she said coolly. "I've tried." <hr /> [Pg 200] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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