The long way
Date: 2024-06-19T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Sisters -- Fiction; Upper class -- Fiction; Marriage -- Fiction; Washington (D.C.) -- Social life and customs -- Fiction

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Title: The long way

Author: Mary Imlay Taylor

Release date: June 19, 2024 [eBook #73867]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Little, Brown, & Company, 1913

Credits: David E. Brown, D A Alexander, Graeme Mackreth and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LONG WAY ***

THE LONG WAY

THE LONG WAY

BY

MARY IMLAY TAYLOR

AUTHOR OF "CALEB TRENCH," "THE IMPERSONATOR,"
"THE REAPING," ETC.

BOSTON

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

1913

Copyright, 1913,
By Little, Brown, and Company.

All rights reserved

Published, May, 1913

THE COLONIAL PRESS
C.H. SIMONDS & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A.

TO

LADY HELEN

THE LONG WAY

I

Rachel Leven stopped on the landing and laid both hands on the banister. She was experiencing a new and curious sensation of unreality, and her impulse to touch something solid was rather to assure herself that her own personality had survived unchanged, than from any physical need of support.

The contact of her sensitive fingers with the polished wood was almost a relief; it convinced her that her sensations, so vague that they were like a nebulous mist before her spiritual vision, were not actualities at all, but only a fleeting deflection from a commonplace mood, that the uneasiness she had felt all the evening was a mere figment of her imagination, a shadowy specter which had no place in this charming mise-en-scène. For she was poignantly aware of the heavy perfume of flowers, of the vivid gleam of electric lights that hung, like huge, quivering dewdrops, in the midst of the tall fern fronds and giant palms of the conservatory; while through the vista of greenery, festooned with scarlet blooms of a climbing passion flower, she caught a glimpse of the flashing wings of Johnstone Astry's parrots.

Looking at this exotic scene, Rachel told herself that it was no wonder that her sensations were at once so varied and so unreal, since the very air she breathed was fevered and artificial. The conservatory, the imposing dining-room, the spacious hall, with its Doric columns, and the long, really beautiful drawing-rooms, that opened on the terrace, were all perfect in their way, yet none of them appealed to her but the last. The paved terrace, with its white balustrade and its wide and dignified prospect of the distant city and the classic, faintly bluish dome of the Capitol, brought her a feeling of pleasure, the freedom of space and the larger purposes of life; especially at sunset, when the white shaft of the Monument pierced the pink mist like the uplifted finger of a prostrate giant, admonishing the world.

But the luxury of the beautiful Georgian house, flagrantly extravagant and yet perfectly harmonious in detail, was precisely the setting for Rachel's sister, Eva Astry; some said—for rumor in Washington is pungent—that she had married the house with Johnstone Astry and the parrots thrown in. At least it interpreted her as houses seldom interpret their owners, though it did not even suggest Astry the student, the traveler, the millionaire. Yet the lavishness of the place, its aimless, beautiful extravagance, a country house just outside of Washington that was more costly than two town houses would have been, furnished Rachel with an explanation of her impressions. She argued to herself that it must be this very element of financial exuberance, this thoughtless expenditure of millions, that seemed so unreal to her; for the Levens had not been wealthy, only comfortably off, and Eva had amazed a limited but critical circle by her successful marriage. She had—to use the words of her paternal aunt, Drusilla Leven—landed a millionaire "as easily as old Josh Sterrit used to land carp." Rachel, more intimately acquainted with Eva's mental attitude at the time of her coup d'état, had remained determinedly silent. Even now she did not admit to herself her own feeling in regard to her sister's marriage. From her vantage-ground on the landing, appraising the beauty and luxury of her surroundings, she was still keenly aware that the price would have been too heavy for her to pay. Shut in, as she was to-night, by the warm and perfumed atmosphere of the house, oppressed by the littleness of that curiously complex social world that made up her sister's life, Rachel felt more than her usual repugnance to her task of entertaining the Astrys' guests.

She had stolen up-stairs after dinner for a little respite, but not even a convenient headache furnished a plausible excuse for a continued absence. As she descended, therefore, she heard the continuous ripple of talk, like a shallow but persistent fountain, and knew that Mrs. Billop was still entertaining little Mrs. Van Citters. The two were seated on a sofa inconveniently near the table where their host, Johnstone Astry, was playing bridge with Dr. Macclesfield, young Mrs. Prynne, the new and pretty widow, and Paul Van Citters, who had inherited a Knickerbocker descent that was too long for his short body, and a social responsibility that rested heavily on his comfortable, commonplace soul.

As Rachel entered, her brother-in-law glanced up from his cards, nodding to her with the casual manner of their relationship, while the others remained apparently absorbed in the fact that the stakes were five a point. Mrs. Billop went on giving Mrs. Van Citters classic advice about the latter's sixteen-months' baby, but Rachel, avoiding the eddies of this conversation, went over to the fire. For, although it was spring and the blackberries in blossom, a sudden chill in the night air had made a few logs desirable in the great fireplace. Rachel stood with one foot on the low fender, observing the players, her soft gown enfolding her slender figure as closely as the calyx of a flower; for she had that indefinable gift that is called "style" and, without great beauty, possessed an elusive and subtle charm. She stretched out one slender hand toward the blaze, her face slightly averted, and the shadowed beauty of her gray eyes eclipsed by their own thick-set, dark lashes.

Astry, with his head bent over his cards, was secretly irritated; he knew that the scene diverted Rachel, that her attitude was distinctly that of a spectator, and he played with sudden indifference.

"Diamonds!" said Van Citters disgustedly. "Astry, why the deuce didn't you make it hearts?"

Astry rose. "Rachel, come here and take my hand; Van Citters wants my blood. I never make hearts trumps," he added, with his cool smile; "I'm superstitious."

"Nonsense!" said Van Citters, "we might have got four tricks with our eyes shut. Miss Leven, I'm a beastly player when I'm nervous, and Astry's on my nerves."

"My dear Paul," retorted Astry, "you've no more nerves than a Dutch clock; all you want is winding up and you'll tick till midnight. I'll send in some whiskey and soda. Feel his pulse, Macclesfield."

The old doctor, who was sorting his cards, looked over his spectacles. "Put out your tongue, Paul," he said dryly.

"Is Paul in trouble again?" asked Mrs. Van Citters, suddenly catching the drift of the talk.

"He's lost fifty dollars, Pamela," laughed Astry.

"We'll go to the poorhouse," she lamented.

"What was it you said about my long suit, Paul?" asked Mrs. Prynne sweetly, suddenly regarding him with her softest smile.

"He didn't advise you to tell everybody what you had in your hand," snapped Dr. Macclesfield; "it's Rachel's lead."

"I'll tell you all about that long suit when Dr. Macclesfield's gone to bed, Lottie," said Van Citters coolly; "go on, Rachel."

Dr. Macclesfield grunted, looking over his spectacles at Rachel's lead.

She put down the card mechanically, her eyes unconsciously following Astry's lean and striking figure as he moved deliberately down the long rooms and passed out into the hall, where he stood a moment speaking to Craggs, his confidential valet. Rachel could not see his face, but she had a curious feeling that he was conscious of her presence at the card-table. Her perceptions were as delicate and feeler-like as the tendrils of some air-plant and they made her aware of a subtle undercurrent, and she recalled that moment on the staircase when she had been glad to feel the solid banister under her hands.

The game went on, Mrs. Prynne losing prettily and appealing to Van Citters, Dr. Macclesfield irritable and exacting, as a good player is under such conditions, while Rachel tried to give her undivided attention to the hand, her seriousness almost adjusting the balance of the pretty widow's frivolity. The four players began to be more silent, yet, at the most critical moments, Mrs. Billop's voice broke in with maternal advice to Pamela.

"When Sidney was teething, I gave him catnip tea," she said, with a finality that disposed of the young mother's faintly suggested remedies.

Mrs. Prynne, having led the wrong card, was plunged into misery by Dr. Macclesfield's scowl, while Rachel, who was now playing dummy, laid her cards down on the table, but scarcely saw them. She was beginning to wonder where Eva was, and she was aware that Dr. Macclesfield was looking over her shoulder into the conservatory. The old man's shaggy brows were bent and he was playing skilfully, scorning Mrs. Prynne. Rachel stirred uneasily in her chair and glanced down unconsciously at her own capable white hands as they lay idle in her lap. She felt a keen and entirely impossible longing to look behind her and she heard distinctly the distant click of billiard balls.

"Never use pins, sew them on," broke in Mrs. Billop's voice impressively; "pins are dangerous. When Sidney was only two months old—"

"Good Lord, why didn't he die?" murmured Dr. Macclesfield, with feeling.

It was then that Eva Astry came through the conservatory with Belhaven and they appeared quietly at the threshold of the drawing-room. Eva, who was really lovely, small, dimpled, and blond, was gowned in black lace, and she had broken off a spray of scarlet passion flowers, which she held trailing against her black draperies. The whiteness of her brow and neck was almost dazzling, and her eyes were deeply violet with a caressing expression that won many hearts. This expression was the very acme of achievement; art, not emotion, had crystallized it, until people always found in it precisely what they were looking for, which is the secret of much personal success.

She walked across the room and put one arm around Rachel's neck, for she was fond of contrasting her intensely blond beauty with Rachel's ivory tints and shadowy brown hair.

"Where's Johnstone?" she asked carelessly, interrupting the game without a twinge of conscience.

"I took his hand," Rachel replied quietly; "he went into the conservatory."

She was conscious that the soft arm on her shoulder stirred a little as she spoke, but her sister's laugh came readily.

"We thought it was the parrot, Jim."

Belhaven nodded, watching Macclesfield play, and Rachel noticed how worn the man looked. In the last month he had aged perceptibly; he had seemed peculiarly boyish, but there was nothing boyish now in the pale cheek and haggard eyes. Rachel frowned; why did Eva play with men as a cat plays with mice? She had apparently no deep feeling; she could skim safely on the surface and even dip into dangerous shallows without so much as moistening her delicate finger-tips, yet she could produce a commotion in the pool quite out of proportion with her endeavors.

Rachel rose. "Won't you take my hand?" she said to Belhaven, "I'm tired."

Dr. Macclesfield gave her a keen professional glance.

"Oh, no one can play any more," interposed Eva lightly. "I've sent for refreshments and we're going to have conversation. Where are Sidney and Count Massena and Colonel Sedley?" she added, going toward the billiard-room.

As she pushed aside the portières and looked into the long narrow room, she smiled a little at the picture that the three men made, for Colonel Sedley was playing with the young Chargé d'Affaires of the Italian Embassy, while Sidney Billop stood looking on with that vacant expression that Astry called his "frog stare." Count Massena, graceful, olive-tinted, and astute, used his cue with an easy grace and finish that might have been called diplomatic, while Sedley, red and obviously short of breath, plunged at his ball with more zeal than accuracy. Their hostess regarded them a moment unperceived and then she allowed her presence to interrupt the game at precisely the moment when they would all be most likely to observe the beauty of her delicate, black-robed figure against the crimson draperies of the door.

However, at that very moment, there was the stir of rising from the card-table and Dr. Macclesfield inadvertently stepped on Mrs. Prynne's skirt. She sweetly accepted his apologies, looking at him with a confiding smile that seemed to wreathe her mutilated gown in the roses of poetical oblivion, although it was a recent arrival from Paris.

Mrs. Billop raised her lorgnon and studied Mrs. Prynne's porcelain beauty with an impartial stare. Then she bent confidentially toward Rachel.

"My dear," she whispered, "have you heard? She's engaged to John Charter."

Rachel turned slowly toward her. "Who's engaged to—Mr. Charter?"

"Lottie Prynne; it isn't to be announced until his return from the Philippines; she told me so herself."

A footman was placing the silver-collared decanters on the table by the fire, while Van Citters had drawn up a chair and was telling Mrs. Prynne's fortune with cards. She was dressed in pale blue and her pretty face was bloomingly childlike; she rested one white elbow on the table and nestled her round chin in her upturned, pink palm, her hair showing exquisite blond tints except where it grew out dark at the roots. She looked so pretty and neat in her blue gown that she reminded you of those dear little, shallow, blue and white saucepans that are so useful to mix sweeties in, only she would have described herself as the "sweetie," had she been asked to interpret the analogy. Van Citters thought her "jolly pretty" and he rather liked to flirt with her when Pamela had been trying; not that this diversion made Pamela more amiable, but it was a counter-irritant.

Meanwhile Johnstone Astry came back with Colonel Sedley, whom Eva had previously rescued from Sidney Billop. The colonel was a fresh-faced man of fifty, whose increasing girth had ruined a dapper figure. He liked the open-air life in the country, but could not afford to keep horses and hounds as Astry did, so he visited Astry. Sidney Billop had transferred his attentions to Eva, and Eva, regretting her generosity to Sedley, was painfully aware that his pale hair was parted crooked and his pale eyes were more watery than usual. His head was so big and round and he tapered so abruptly toward the feet that in early life he had been called, by a small but appreciative circle of friends, "the Tadpole." Sidney was the only son of a fond and admiring mother, and Dr. Macclesfield had once remarked that a merciful Providence had withheld a duplicate. Sidney was the amazing result of an anxious maternal supervision that had engulfed him, like a poultice, from his cradle to his final exit from college, where he had been a kind of mental and moral sponge, absorbing only bad habits and small beer. He kept laughing incessantly now, with a succulent gurgle, at the interruptions of Count Massena, who had come over to help Eva out of her dilemma. But this triangular scene was completely disrupted by Mrs. Van Citters. She had been nibbling a piece of cake when a sudden thought diverted her from her peaceful occupation.

"Does any one know what became of the boy who was hurt so seriously by Eva's motor the other day?" she asked abruptly.

She had struck a discordant note and there was a slight awkward pause, of the kind which usually occurs when some one drops a piece of bread butter-side down.

"Rachel sent him to the hospital," replied Astry, with a smiling glance at his sister-in-law. "Rachel is a society for regulating the universe at her own expense."

Rachel looked up quickly. "I believe you paid half, Johnstone."

Eva laughed. "If Rachel asked Johnstone for my head on a charger she'd get it," she mocked. "I never worry about details; Rachel settles us all."

"But I thought you were in the motor," persisted Pamela.

"I was," said Eva, with a shudder, "but do you suppose I want to remember it? I couldn't help it; it was abominable. I hate pain, I hate to see suffering! Rachel loves to take care of sick people; isn't it fortunate?"

"It is," said Dr. Macclesfield. "I reckon the Levite hated to see suffering too," he added to himself, pouring a little more wine into his glass.

The desultory talk went on and Rachel kept her place, wondering a little why she joined in so easily, but she looked up at the clock more than once, convinced that it must be wrong, that the hands crawled toward the ensuing hour to-night at a snail's pace. For she had been trying to collect her thoughts, to force herself to accept the naked fact that seemed now, at the first shock, to be too amazing for belief. All through the trivialities of the discussion going on around her, Mrs. Billop's extraordinary assertion that Charter was to marry Mrs. Prynne ran like a strong, black thread in a gossamer woof, and that previous moment of unreality, when she had snatched at a material object for reassurance seemed about to repeat itself, only her feeling now was even more confused. She had received a blow that had affected her as keenly as the stab of a rapier, and the only clear perception which survived was the necessity to conceal the wound.

It cost her almost a physical effort to go across the room and lift one of the decanters to pour out a little wine, and she was shocked to find her hand so unsteady that she spilt a few drops on the table without pouring any into the glass.

Belhaven, who was standing near, turned and came to her aid. As he took the decanter, their fingers touched and she looked up into his eyes with an involuntary start of surprise.

"What is it?" she exclaimed, in a low tone.

A slight color went up to his hair. "Is anything the matter? Were you listening to Astry's parrot? It's screaming like a banshee."

She took the glass mechanically, shaking her head with a smile, and at that moment the parrot began to shriek in the conservatory.

"Eva, Eva!" it called.

The voice was so human and so shrill that the group about the card-table looked up startled.

"By godfrey, I thought it was fire!" said Dr. Macclesfield.

Young Mrs. Astry rose from her chair. "I hate parrots," she said, so abruptly that Sidney Billop dropped his glass.

Astry smiled. "I like them," he retorted. "Sidney, you'll step on the glass if you wobble so."

"Eva," shrieked the parrot, coming nearer and then, with discordant laughter: "you're a liar!"

Eva looked over her shoulder. "Merci du compliment," she mocked. "How charming! Johnstone, do get another parrot."

II

It was midnight when Rachel went up-stairs to her own room and closed the door. She had dispensed with the attendance of her maid; she rarely let old Bantry, who had loved and tended her from babyhood, sit up late to wait on her, for Rachel was always thoughtful for others and had that natural sweetness of temperament which makes courtesy toward an inferior as much a matter of necessity as of inclination. She stood alone, therefore, in the dark room, looking out across the trim lawns, past the tall, Lombardy poplars and the tennis-court, to the distant city that, submerged as it was in night, was set with lines and cross-lines of vivid lights, as though arched and threaded and interwoven with a network of fallen stars.

Rachel went over to the window and, letting her hands rest lightly on the wide sill, looked out at a scene that seemed strangely unfamiliar. Even her recollections of the lovely and intimate prospect were suddenly disrupted and vague. The shock that had rudely disturbed her dream must have altered the outlines of the landscape and darkened the lovely profile of the Virginia hills. She was again conscious of the curious fancy that had submerged her world, with its wealth, its luxury, its inconsequence, in the mists of unreality, and to her fevered vision the scene before her began to assume a shadowy and impalpable aspect, while the lights of the distant city receded farther and farther into the night.

Aware that these whimsical imaginings were diverting her from the actual conflict of the moment, she strove to put them aside, to look at the problem before her with a clarified vision, but the effort was vain. The one force that was needful to rouse her lay within, and was as yet uncalled for and unappreciated,—that innate impulse which is called pride, an inherited spiritual force that had always enabled the women, as well as the men, of her family to meet the calamities of life with a decent courage, sufficient, in fact, as far as the women were concerned, to deceive the eyes of the world. And if the men had not deceived it, it was because there had been no need to deceive, since there are some troubles that a man may bear more openly than a woman and remain an object of sympathy, rather than ridicule, because he has worn his heart upon his sleeve. Rachel felt the sting of it even now, but, in this first moment of disillusionment, she seemed to need the abandonment, the luxury of grief. She could not, as yet, adjust her mind to this new aspect of her life; it struggled back to the recurrent thought of John Charter's last words to her. There had been no thought of finality between them. She had felt that he loved her, and the sudden substitution of Lottie Prynne was incredible. If he had ever loved her, he could not love Lottie; there was nothing analogous about them. Rachel rebelled against the suggestion of a comparison and her heart clamored, too, to be happy; she wanted happiness as keenly as a child.

She stretched out both arms with an involuntary gesture and then, feeling her helplessness, the futility of her rebellion, she hid her face in her hands. The whole world, splendid in the star-light, was as empty as a silver goblet. The wine had run out into the sand, and the cold brim of the empty cup pressed chill against her shrinking lips. She was brave but her heart sank and unshed tears burned in her eyes. She felt her helplessness, too, even while her soul cried out against the narrow bounds of a convention that enforced a hateful silence. She must suffer him to destroy this beautiful illusion, to murder it, without even a protest or a sign. Their understanding had been so perfect, it had clothed itself in a semblance so spiritual and so beautiful, that she had felt there was, at yet, no expression for it in the language of the commonplace. But it seemed that the dream had been hers alone; Charter had never dreamed at all, and Rachel's cheek reddened as she realized that he had been absorbed, instead, by another vision.

It was then that she thought hard things of Mrs. Prynne and, in her eagerness to find an excuse for the man she loved, she imagined some underhand maneuvers on the part of the little widow, and experienced a feeling of angry loathing for those arts, often as harmless as they were transparent, that had equipped Mrs. Prynne for the arena. Rachel made excuses for Charter which were accusations of her rival. She felt that his silence at parting, when he was so suddenly ordered to the Philippines, was caused by some obstacle, some inexplicable change in him, and while she had been waiting and watching his progress toward promotion, in infatuated ignorance of her peril, Mrs. Prynne had been undermining his devotion.

Yet, in the midst of this torrential accusation of Lottie Prynne, Rachel suddenly remembered that she was not so fully and deeply acquainted with Charter's habit of mind as to be certain that the small and appealing figure of the widow was not, after all, his ideal of feminine beauty and goodness. A girl's ignorance of the masculine mind has its moments of fearful awakening, and Rachel had seen far too much of the world not to know that the exterior appeal is more likely to reach the average male creature than the higher mental attitude and the richer spiritual endowment. It was at this point that her pride began to assert itself and she revolted at the idea that a man whom she had loved could prefer Lottie Prynne.

Rachel was human, and she turned from the window again, with an impotent gesture of anger and despair, and began to walk to and fro, once in a while covering her face with her hands. She was hurt and angry and, most of all, ashamed. The wound was new and she did not yet know how deeply it might hurt, but she must hide it, get away from it; and she paced with restless feet, fighting her battle alone. That power within her, whether pride or something deeper and nobler, was beginning to assert itself, to show her new and hitherto unsuspected resources of strength and endurance. She had reeled before the shock, stood dizzy, as it were, on the edge of a moral precipice, but she had kept her foothold with an intuitive instinct of self-preservation, and now, slowly but surely, she would retreat from the dangerous vicinity, she would safeguard herself from betrayal. As the feeling of giddiness passed off, she put her hand to her forehead and, pushing back her soft dusky hair, stood a moment looking at her own image in the mirror. She had lighted only one candle on her dressing-table and the effect of the pallid flame was to cast such vivid shadows that Rachel suddenly felt that she was looking at the face of a stranger, for she experienced the common sensation of surprise that the sufferer feels at the sight of his own face after the calamity.

She drew back, almost with dismay, and was just lighting another taper when, suddenly, there was a soft, hurried tapping at the door. At first she thought she had been mistaken and had heard nothing; then she saw the handle turn. She went swiftly across the room and bent her ear to the door. It was half-past one o'clock in the morning and she had supposed every one else in the house to be asleep.

"What is it?"

"It's I, Eva," her sister's voice breathed on the other side, "let me in, Rachel; for God's sake, let me in!"

Thoroughly alarmed, Rachel opened the door. The hall was dark and out of the night her sister, lovely and disheveled, almost fell into the room. In fact Rachel caught her to keep her from falling, and Eva's golden hair, like floss and very abundant, fell across her shoulder.

"Shut the door and lock it!" she whispered, with shaking lips.

Rachel locked it and her sister slipped out of her arms and threw herself into an old-fashioned, chintz-covered, winged chair that had belonged to their grandmother and was Rachel's favorite resting-place in happier moods. Eva cowered there, hiding her face against the high back. Her white silk kimono was covered with little pink butterflies and her bare feet were thrust into gold embroidered sandals, while her wonderful hair completed an alluring picture. Rachel stood looking at her in some amazement, a strange dread tugging at her heart.

"What has happened, Eva?" she asked at last; "are you frightened, or are you really ill or in pain?"

"I dare not tell you!"

Eva's voice was quite changed; the usual caressing tone was gone; it was almost harsh.

"I can't imagine what you mean," said Rachel.

Eva suddenly sat up, shaking back her beautiful hair. "You could never imagine it," she cried passionately, "you could never dream it. I've told a horrible lie about you. Rachel, I've taken away your good name."

"You're mad, quite mad!"

"I'm not mad, I wasn't mad when I did it, but I think I'll go mad soon!" Then she rose and fell on her knees at Rachel's feet. "Rachel, save me—if you don't have mercy on me I'm disgraced. Johnstone has accused me of—of wrong-doing; he believes I'm an unfaithful wife, that I've committed the worst sins; he accuses me of everything horrible; he says I love Belhaven too well!"

Rachel's face quivered. "Do you?" she asked faintly.

Eva burst into tears, weeping passionately, her pretty head bowed so low that it wrung Rachel's heart to see her humiliation.

"Do you love him, Eva?" she asked again, very low. "I know he loves you."

"With all my heart!" sobbed Eva, "and he loves me—Johnstone is cruel!"

"I don't think Johnstone cruel to want his wife to cease loving another man! Eva, what have you done?"

Eva, still clinging to her sister, averted her face.

"Why don't you answer me?"

"Rachel, it's all too dreadful—Johnstone must have set that wretch, Craggs, to watch me, I—I couldn't say a word to Belhaven, he followed us about so, I—Rachel, Johnstone believes some story Craggs has told him—"

Rachel seemed suddenly turned to stone. "You mean about you and Belhaven? Eva, what mad indiscretion has led to this? It's past forgiveness; how could you do it?"

"I—I never thought!" sobbed Eva, clinging closer, her blond head on Rachel's breast.

"You should think," sternly; "you're not a child, and you know what any evil-minded person would think. They don't know you as I know you; they won't believe in your innocence. And Johnstone? Eva, what did you tell him?"

Eva trembled. "He was dreadful, Rachel. I—I nearly died of fright. He—oh, I know he'll kill Belhaven!"

"He'll do nothing of the sort; it would make for scandal. Eva, you must prove your innocence to him. He has every right to judge you harshly; you've deeply wronged him in your heart, you've no right to expect much mercy. You've imperiled your good name. Eva, Eva, why will you be so foolish? Is mere admiration worth your reputation? How few husbands would ever forgive you! How, can you expect Johnstone to forgive you?"

"He won't, he h-hates me—I was afraid for my life! I never saw him like that before. Rachel, I—oh, God, Rachel, I've done something dreadful to you!"

She sank lower, clasping Rachel's knees, shaken with sobs, a picture at once lovely and pitiful. Her sister, watching her, felt her own heart sink lower; a shuddering premonition of evil shot through her and she trembled.

"Eva, what is it? Tell me—"

"Rachel, I—I told him it was you and Jim; t-that I was trying to save your reputation."

There was a silence. In that silence the thing grew monstrous.

At last it became intolerable. The only sound was Eva's weeping; her sister did not stir, she did not seem to breathe. Eva, stricken with a great fear, raised her head and met a look of such loathing that she cried out, clutching at Rachel's knees again. Rachel suddenly shook her off; she tore her skirt from Eva's detaining fingers, leaving a fragment of the lace behind, and stood free of her.

"Don't touch me," she said, in a choking voice, "don't dare to touch me!"

Eva cowered in a new and deeper terror. She had hardly realized the effect of her confession; she had not measured, until now, the enormity of her crime against her sister. Even now she did not think of Rachel, she was thinking of herself. If Rachel felt thus, if she cast her off and denounced her, so would Johnstone, and he would cast her off in open disgrace. The finger of scorn would be pointed at her, at Eva, who had always been so lovely, so courted, so beloved. She broke into horrible weeping; her beautiful body, so exquisite in its white and pink tints, its dimpled flesh, was shaken with agony; the soul was in travail but it was not yet born. It was significant that, at that moment, she did not remember Belhaven. Astry had threatened to kill him, he was capable of killing him; men have been killed before for such sins and misdemeanors. Later, Eva remembered Belhaven; now she was only torn with self-pity. Rachel had dared to judge her and she had only sought to hide herself behind Rachel, to use her for a cloak; she did not mean to injure her so deeply. It was dreadful, but she had never thought, she had never thought of any one but herself. Rachel was to have been the buffer.

"Rachel," she moaned, "it will kill me—I can't face it alone, you must help me; mother said you'd always help me in trouble!" That was Eva's strongest card; she knew it and played it.

Rachel heard her, but did not move.

"I'm innocent, I was terribly frightened, I didn't know what to say—I never thought—forgive me, Rachel!"

Rachel did not speak.

"I knew he'd kill Belhaven, I saw it in his face, I—" Eva's wild sobs grew fainter; she was terribly frightened now—"Rachel, if you don't save me, I'm lost! Johnstone hates me, he'll disgrace me, he'll say that I'm—I'm guilty, he'll tell the whole world. Rachel, Rachel, I'm not very well, I—I will die!"

"It would be best to die!" said Rachel wildly, then she broke down, she stretched out her quivering hands. "Eva, Eva, it can't be true, you didn't do it—I'm dreaming—say that I'm dreaming!" she implored her.

"Oh, Rachel, can't you forgive me? I didn't know what I said!"

"Oh, how could you?" cried Rachel passionately; horror and humiliation swept over her, wave upon wave; she felt all the agony of Eva's treachery, she suffered as Eva could not suffer.

"I didn't mean to make him think you'd done wrong; I only meant that you and Belhaven had been foolish, thoughtless. It was Johnstone who thought the evil; he has a bad mind, he said at once that he'd make Belhaven marry you."

"But I won't marry Belhaven."

"Then he'll kill him!" Eva rose and stood, clutching at the chintz winged chair; she was very beautiful, very childlike. Such women often are; these shallow souls sometimes have only enough soil for weeds, and weeds grow mightily.

Rachel steadied herself; she began to realize at last that this honor must be true. "I'm not concerned for Belhaven, I'm concerned for my own good name. I never imagined that my own sister would slander me."

Eva turned and held out both her beautiful arms pleadingly. Her beauty had never failed of its appeal; would it fail now in its appeal to the sister who loved her?

"I was crazed with grief, I never thought, I hadn't time, I spoke in a moment of agony. Johnstone wouldn't believe what I said. I thought he was going to kill me—I was afraid for my life, I made wild excuses, I scarcely knew what I said and your name slipped out. In an instant he seized upon it—forgive me!" She went nearer and laid a hand upon Rachel's arm, then, as Rachel did not repulse her, she threw both arms around her neck. "I'll bear it all!" she sobbed, "I'll let him disgrace me; I'll see Belhaven die—I'll die myself, but I can't do it without your forgiveness!"

Rachel did not repulse her; all her life she had shielded Eva, watched over her; she could not quite shake off the fetters of a habit fixed as the seven hills of Rome. Eva clung closer.

"He'll kill Belhaven, he'll shoot him down and be tried for murder; and I—oh, God!" she laid her head on Rachel's shoulder and wept passionately, "I wish I could die!"

Rachel looked down at the prone, golden head with a shudder of anguish; she remembered her mother's last words to her, when she had extracted a promise from Rachel to take care of her younger sister. She said that Eva was tender and helpless and easily led; she must, therefore, be taken care of. It is strange, but the beautiful child in a family is always apparently more in need of care and sacrifice than are her commonplace brothers and sisters; there seems to be a brittle quality about her, she is like blown-glass, attractive but not substantial. Beauty is like the flame of a candle, in some eyes; it not only draws the moths but it is easily extinguished.

"It will be horrible," Eva sighed. "It will kill me—after I'm dead—will you forgive me, Rachel?"

"You've done a very terrible thing; you've sacrificed your sister's good name to save yourself from the consequences of your own folly."

"No one knows what I said but Johnstone, no one will ever know but Johnstone. I didn't mean it, I thought you'd help me, that you'd marry Belhaven to save us both. I believed in you, you're so good!"

"Why should I marry Belhaven? I don't even like him."

"Johnstone will kill him."

"Oh, I don't believe that!"

Eva let go her hold upon her and went to the window. "Look!" she said, and pointed.

Rachel followed her to the open window. There was a light on the lower veranda, which cast a soft radiance on the terrace, paved with flagstones and guarded by a marble balustrade. Below them a figure paced to and fro.

"It's Johnstone. Belhaven's in the library. If you refuse to marry him, Johnstone says he'll know my story is false, he'll not believe in our innocence, he'll shoot Belhaven."

"It would be murder," said Rachel, aghast, "cold-blooded murder; he'd die for it."

"He doesn't care."

The two sisters looked at each other, white-lipped. Rachel knew Astry, and she did not now doubt Eva's words, for he held life cheap, even his own.

"Is Belhaven such a coward as that?" she cried.

Eva's parched lips moved, and it was a moment before the words came. "He's shielding me; he loves me; he'd shield me with his life."

Rachel drew a deep breath. What a beautiful thing it was to be so loved! Sudden tears blinded her eyes, while Eva sank gently down at her feet again and clasped her knees.

"Rachel, you can save your own sister from disgrace, you can save our parents' memory from dishonor; only say you'll marry Belhaven. We'll find a way out, surely we'll find a way out; you won't really have to marry him! Oh, Rachel, it's killing me, I can't stand public disgrace. Johnstone has no pity, he'll take it all into the divorce court, he'll drag me on to the witness-stand, he'll blazon it all out, he—" She fell forward, burying her face against Rachel's knees, weeping horribly.

Her sister shuddered. The picture was appalling and she knew that Eva did not exaggerate. She stood there, the culprit clinging to her knees, and looked out across the distant city to the beautiful dome of the Capitol, outlined now against the eastern sky. A strange, ghostly light was slowly emerging from the night; the rim of the world was white, day was breaking; like the fragile lips of a morning-glory, it deepened to violet as it opened, but the heart of the dawn was translucently white.

"If I marry Belhaven, I admit the truth of your words, and your words are false."

"No one knows what I said but Johnstone!" Eva replied, with a low sob.

"Oh, I can't do it!" gasped Rachel, with a shudder of repulsion.

Eva gave a little cry of despair and slipped to the floor; she lay there white and still and she scarcely seemed to breathe.

Her sister knelt, raised her head, and she pushed back the fair hair. Eva's face was soft and childlike and it bore no line of thought, or passion, or even remorse,—only childish grief. Tears filled Rachel's eyes; she had been cruel, her sister's case was desperate, the family honor was involved, the hope of any future happiness for Eva, even for Eva's soul. Rachel gathered her into her arms and her sister, feeling her embrace, sighed and opened her eyes.

"You're like God, Rachel; you always forgive!"

"Hush!" Rachel looked solemnly into the violet eyes. "Eva, as you'll answer at the last day, answer me now. Are you innocent? Have you done wrong?"

Eva trembled; she was afraid of those inexorable eyes. She was not afraid of wrong-doing, she was not afraid of untruth, she was not even afraid of God, but she was afraid of Rachel.

"I'm innocent," she said, but her heart quaked.

Rachel, still kneeling, with her arms around the culprit, closed her eyes. She tried to shut out the world, to see her way. "If I marry Belhaven, will you swear to me now, as a condition, that you will, from this hour, break with him and never again permit him to make love to you? That you'll try to be a true and loyal wife to Astry, to remember that he's given you his name?"

The color came back to Eva's cheeks, the light to her eyes; she saw hope, escape from the disgrace, and she snatched at it.

"I promise! Rachel—you will?"

Rachel raised her gently to her feet and put away her clinging hands, then she went to the window and looked out at the light which grew and grew across the city. God's day was wonderful; it was coming to her at last and she must meet it. Love was lost, happiness was lost, but truth was not lost. Her sister was innocent, it was a duty to save her; she had promised to always take care of her, she was called upon now to fulfil that promise. Was she ready? She stood there for a moment longer, a moment that seemed to Eva's anxiety interminable, before she turned and covered her face with her hands. She wanted to shut it all out, to hide this horror from her own eyes, and again the unreality of it possessed her. She let her hands fall at her sides and Eva saw that her face was colorless and worn.

"I suppose there's nothing else to be done," she said, with a shudder, "and if it's to save you—"

"Oh, Rachel, you'll do it?"

"I must."

III

Rachel's engagement to Belhaven was announced by Astry, before twelve o'clock the following day, in the library.

Matrimonial engagements do not, as a rule, occur during week-end parties without some preliminary symptoms. The entire family might be taken by measles unawares much more easily than to be wholly surprised by an engagement. This absence of preliminary symptoms, in fact of any symptoms at all, had the effect of making Astry's announcement as violently abrupt as an explosion of nitroglycerine.

Paul Van Citters remarked afterwards, in private, that it had quite bowled him over, but Mrs. Van Citters, though a dutiful wife, made no response; she had impressions of her own, having just heard from her husband the report of that other engagement between Charter and Mrs. Prynne. Charter was Pamela Van Citters' first cousin and she did not relish the Prynne idea, though she withheld her reasons from Paul. Being a wise woman, Pamela had never criticized Mrs. Prynne, but she was really stunned by Rachel's engagement to Belhaven. So were the others.

Sidney Billop nearly swallowed his collar-button, which he had in his mouth when his mother burst into his room to inform him. She had been one of the group in the library; Sidney had not, having sat up uncommonly late the night before trying to discover why Astry kept Belhaven so long in tête-à-tête. The engagement offered a solution, but not a satisfactory one. It was scarcely necessary for Belhaven to ask Astry's consent to his sister-in-law's marriage, and everybody knew that the Leven money, what there was of it, was in charge of a trust company and tied up in real estate, so there could have been no question of a settlement. Sidney recovered the collar-button but not his peace of mind; it was all certainly very curious.

Colonel Sedley, with an elephantine effort at playfulness, congratulated Rachel with the remark that he had hoped, at one time, that she would join the army, but she met this shaft with composure and even smiled gently at the colonel's impossible pleasantry.

The subtle charm of her personality had never been more apparent and, although she was very pale, her face had the delicate loveliness of a Greuze. The low arch of the brow, framed by dusky hair, and the thick-set, dark lashes that shadowed her dark gray eyes, seemed perfect enough, in the subdued light of the library, to establish an actual claim to beauty almost as great as Eva Astry's. She had suddenly become the central figure of the drama and her friends were surprised and even impressed by the unexpected resources she showed, for no matter how awkward and incongruous it seemed, she remained the mistress of the situation. That the situation was incongruous could not be denied; it had the appearance, at first sight, of a nine days' wonder.

"Surprised?" Pamela Van Citters exclaimed, replying to Dr. Macclesfield. "Don't ask me; I've been figuratively snatching at things to keep on my feet. I'm like Paul; it's bowled me over."

"Yet we were wondering the other day how Rachel had escaped the infection so long."

"It isn't that. Rachel's lovely and she must have refused dozens of offers already, but—it's the man!"

Dr. Macclesfield cocked an erratic eyebrow. "Why the man? Belhaven's good looking, you know, and reasonably rich, and I rather thought you women liked him."

"Oh, did you?"

The old man laughed. "Out with it, Pamela; I'm safe as the confessional."

Pamela considered; of course the doctor was safe enough, but ought she to speak the truth? She edged around the idea, fascinated with it; she was possessed with a wild desire to talk it over; she was loyal enough to Rachel, but that very loyalty made her indignant; from her point of view the engagement was an injury to Rachel.

"I suppose you know what people say?" she ventured.

"Oh, that's sometimes wide of the mark!"

"Well, it's true, I think, don't you? At least he's in love with Eva."

"My dear Pamela, how do you know that?"

"Know it?" She gave a quick glance back at the long room—they were standing in the door of the hall—to assure herself that she was unheard. "Why, it's as plain as the nose on your face!"

Macclesfield laughed. "You can't expect me to be accomplished in these details; besides, Belhaven has probably only been telling Eva how much he loved her sister."

Mrs. Van Citters met this suggestion with scorn. "Is that all you know?"

"Isn't it enough for a mere man?"

"Perhaps I shouldn't expect any more, but the idea of deliberately choosing a man who's in love with your sister! It's hard enough to keep a husband devoted anyway, and I'd want him to begin by being in love with me."

"Wouldn't it be just as well if he ended there?"

"You mean that you think he can't help falling in love with Rachel in the end?"

"Something like that, only I think he's in love with her already."

"Pff! Nothing of the sort; look at his face."

"You couldn't expect a mere man to keep his sang-froid at such a moment as this?" the doctor retorted, adjusting his eye-glasses to look at the bridegroom elect.

"At least he needn't look as if he expected to be hung!"

"Oh, that's natural enough, my dear," Macclesfield retorted, with a chuckle. "Mrs. Billop's got him in tow."

"He looked just the same before she got him, which shows where he is! It makes me indignant—not on his account, of course you know that! He's not half good enough for Rachel and he ought to be down on his knees to get her; but he's mad about Eva. He's been watching Eva all the time; any one can see it."

The doctor smiled grimly. "She'll bear watching."

"Oh, she's pretty enough, and, heavens, what a gown! Her clothes cost a fortune. It doesn't seem fair, and I've told her so, to be so pretty and to have so much money to make you more so."

"You can't imagine all the compliments Pamela's paying you, Eva," said the old doctor, as their hostess came past them in one of her excursions across the room.

"It's because I'm so happy over dear Rachel's happiness," she replied, with a beaming glance.

Belhaven, who heard this, regarded her with sudden amazement. There was always a time when Eva's lovers were amazed, usually just before they were disillusioned, and Belhaven found it difficult, at the moment, to meet her on her own ground. What had been to him a kind of exhibition, in which he was compelled to pose as the unwilling dancing-bear, was apparently an occasion of joy and relief to her. He did not appreciate the fact that, having saved her own skin, Eva was not keenly aware that his was gone. And if he caught a look of exasperation on Astry's face, it did not enlighten him to the fact that Astry had traveled that road before him, had asked for bread and received a stone.

But Dr. Macclesfield, ruminating on Pamela's remarks, was not so easily misled. He had known the two sisters all their lives and he observed Eva shrewdly.

"I wonder what the little devil's been up to?" he thought. "She's acting a little more elaborately than usual; she's aware herself that she's acting, and as a rule it's a second nature. She never did anything natural in her life except to have chicken-pox when she was seven."

Family doctors accumulate a store of perfectly useless but uncomfortable information; that is the penalty we pay for expert advice, we reveal our affairs and our tongues.

Meanwhile, Paul Van Citters and the Italian Chargé d'Affaires having fallen into the toils of little Mrs. Prynne, Astry found himself offering his best cigars to Colonel Sedley as a means of diverting him from his one idea. But, though the fragrant Havana somewhat softened the edge of the colonel's observations, it did not entirely change the course of his conversation.

"I say, Astry, how about Charter?" he said. "You know I thought he was hard hit when he was here last."

Astry lit his own cigar carefully. "I'm not responsible for that, you know," he said dryly.

"I know that if he's come a cropper you didn't lend him the horse! But he's a fine fellow, Astry, a splendid fellow! I'd like to have seen Miss Leven marry a man like that."

"Exactly, but isn't it for her to choose after all?"

Sedley nodded slowly. "Of course, but, by Jove," he added, after a moment of silent puffing at his cigar, "what queer men women choose!"

Astry colored slightly and frowned, yet he was aware that Sedley did not know that he had loved Rachel first and asked her to marry him before Eva came back from a two years' stay in Paris. Rachel had refused him, simply because she did not love him. Knowing this, Astry had always regarded her as above the consideration of fortune, and it angered him the more that she should have deliberately chosen Belhaven. He was conscious, too, and it embittered his mood, that he had never hated Belhaven so on Eva's account, nor been so jealous of him as he was now, watching him stand close to Rachel to receive the congratulations of their bewildered friends. What would Rachel say to Belhaven, what would she do? The position was so forced, so unreal, that it affected Astry like a distasteful tragedy realistically acted but imperfectly staged.

"I have a feeling that Charter'll be considerably knocked up about it," persisted Sedley; "and he's made a splendid record in the Philippines."

"Well, a man who can stand the Philippines can stand a disappointment in love."

"They tell me the climate's a perfect Turkish bath, but we've done a lot in Manila; it'll be half-way decent now that the moat's grassed over and their confounded drains filled up."

"Oh, if you've got to drains!"

The colonel laughed good-humoredly. "I don't know but that they're more in my line than match-making," he said.

All this while Rachel had been listening to appropriate remarks and Mrs. Billop was particularly affectionate.

"My dear," she whispered, "I'm envious; you're positively the only one I should have loved for Sidney."

Rachel did not sink under this tremendous compliment but she smiled a little. To have escaped Sidney was something. But she reflected that Mrs. Billop only said it because she was safely out of the way. Sidney was one of those interesting youths who remain firmly staked in the list as safe home-prizes, guarded by their anxious mothers, who flutter about them clucking wildly at every speck on the horizon, lest it prove to be a matrimonial chicken-hawk descending upon their offspring. Mrs. Billop would have clucked very wildly had she thought that Rachel intended to descend upon Sidney, for she regarded Rachel as strong-minded, a new woman.

It was fortunate that Rachel was strong-minded, else she would scarcely have faced the ordeal without betraying herself. As it was, she went through it successfully and saw most of the guests pairing off for the day to leave her alone with Belhaven, a prospect at once amazing and terrible. What would she do with Belhaven?

Astry asked himself the same question with conscious irritation, as he went off in his motor with Count Massena, Pamela, and Mrs. Prynne. Eva was asking it with a thrill of jealousy, as she sallied forth to the tennis-court with Sidney and Van Citters. Dr. Macclesfield was asking it with grim humor, as he disposed of Mrs. Billop and Colonel Sedley in the wagonette, and, perhaps, no one was more embarrassed by it than Belhaven himself.

The last guest had drifted out of the library. They had been left obviously alone together, and as the wagonette disappeared, they turned from the window and faced each other in the broad, uncompromising light of noon, with only the slight screen of the striped awning that shielded the long terrace. Rachel remembered instantly the figure on that terrace the night before; then she raised her eyes and met those of Belhaven. The man's handsome face, keen-featured, clean-shaven and well proportioned, was haggard, and his expression, as he met Rachel's clear glance, was deeply shamed. She saw it with a quick thrill of doubt: had Eva told her the truth? Then suddenly her cheek reddened deeply; was it because he must marry her? The situation was intolerable. They stood looking at each other a long moment in painful silence before she moved a little away from him and took the nearest chair; her knees were trembling so that she could not stand, but she was apparently calm.

"Will you sit down?" she said coldly; "I must speak to you."

Belhaven obeyed mechanically; he wanted to speak, too, but his lips were parched, for he felt that he had a coward's part. He had known it ever since he looked in the clear depths of her gray eyes. He was tasting the fruits of his indiscretions and he rebelled against it, for, like most sinners, he would greatly have preferred to go free. He was ashamed to look at Rachel; he felt himself suddenly a moral leper. He had never entertained so poor an opinion of himself as he did at that moment, and he had never been aware before that he profoundly admired her. He met her eyes at last and was surprised that her expression was so tranquil; it was even kind,—companions in misery are sometimes drawn to each other.

"I'm sorry for you," she said quietly, "we're in an unhappy situation. I'm nearly as sorry for you as I am for myself, which is saying a good deal," she added, with the ghost of a smile.

Belhaven pulled himself together. "I don't deserve your pity," he said hoarsely.

Again Rachel felt a thrill of doubt, but she passed it over. "I'm sorry we have to go through with it—this marriage—but it's the only thing to do."

Belhaven was silent; he wanted to tell her that he would face the worst, that he would not accept the sacrifice, but words choked him. He had not courage enough; he stormed in his heart but it was true, he was a coward! He heard Rachel's voice again and it seemed a long way off.

"I suppose—oh, really I don't know what to say to you," she cried, almost breaking down after her fine beginning; "it's—it's hard to talk of it, but I suppose we've got to do it. You and I alone know that she's innocent and you and I are forced to save her from—from the consequences of her indiscretion!"

She broke off, waiting for him to answer but he did not; he, too, flushed a dark red during her speech and then paled to the lips. He was silent.

"It was her folly," Rachel began again, in a low voice, "but you—you're a man of the world, it's just unpardonable in you; you can't blame Johnstone for what he's done! If only Eva had told the real truth—but she was so frightened, she's afraid he'll kill you and she's flung the thing upon me—so I've got to save her. I'm doing it for her sake, I—I—" Her voice failed her altogether, she turned scarlet, and her lips trembled.

He looked up into her eyes. He had never before encountered this kind of a woman and he was impressed. There was a dignity about her, even in the midst of her embarrassment, that made him feel that her soul kept a space to move in too elevated for him to enter.

"I think it's fine of you," he said haltingly; "it's tremendously plucky—of course I can make no excuses. I don't. I love her; it's my fault; I suppose such things have happened before;" this was a very old excuse but he used it unconsciously; "I'd give my right hand to save her from it all, but I feel I'm a coward to let you do this."

Rachel turned from him. Looking out into the beautiful sunshine, she saw a busy little bevy of white butterflies skim past the window; a bird sang persistently, sweetly; it was free, it was good to be free. Her hands trembled in her lap; she did not look back at him.

"It will be only a marriage in name," she forced herself to say. "I'll try to interfere with your life as little as I can and I shall expect you to consider my feelings too."

"I quite understand."

There was again a painful silence, then they both heard Eva's laugh, an exceedingly sweet, light-hearted, care-free laugh that was her characteristic. It came to them from the tennis-court and Belhaven shuddered. Rachel rose, steadying herself with a hand on the back of the chair.

"I believe there's nothing more to say," she said gently.

He had risen too. "The marriage?" he asked, hesitatingly.

She turned white to the lips. "Johnstone has set next Thursday; these people leave to-morrow and Wednesday; would you—" She looked up; for one wild moment she felt that she must appeal to him to be man enough to save her.

But his answer killed the last faint hope. "Any time will do," he said, avoiding her eyes.

She turned away with a slight gesture of despair; there was nothing to hope from such a man as this, and she went quietly to the door. As she reached it, he came quickly over and opened it for her. He had been like a man in a dream and now his face flushed deeply again.

"I humbly beg your pardon," he said hoarsely.

Rachel bent her head and passed out. Belhaven closed the door behind her and threw himself into the nearest chair with a groan.

"You and I alone know that she's innocent and you and I are forced to protect her!" Could Rachel have invented a more refined torment? He thought not. He saw himself as in a mirror; she had held it up to reflect his image and he found it hideous. He was a coward! It burns a man's soul to realize that. We are fond of heroics, we like to picture ourselves undaunted in the firing line; more causes have been won in day-dreams than were ever lost in reality, more forlorn hopes have found a leader than there were hopes of any kind to lead. But when the crisis comes, the hero suddenly collapses, the old cowardly self comes out from behind the hayrick, is affrighted and runs back. Belhaven had never known himself until those three awful hours when Astry kept him a prisoner in that same room waiting for Rachel's decision, waiting for a woman to save him for her sister's sake; not even for his own sake, but for some one else's. Alone he was obviously not worth saving; she had told him so. Belhaven, left alone in the most uncomfortable moment of his life, began to realize forcibly that he was not worth it; he was marooned on an island of sentimental purpose and he had no sentiment. He was thirty-two and he had never done a useful thing in his life unless it was to give his old clothes to his man servant, whom they fitted rather better than most cast-off clothes do. He had lived hard, drank hard, spent his money hard; he would have spent all of it, if a wise and frugal parent had not trusteed a large portion of the principal so that the worst that could happen were periods of impecuniosity, seasons of financial drought, like a summer after a dry St. Swithin's day, before the interest from those trusteed thousands began to come in again.

Yet Belhaven was not vicious, he was not even hardened, and he had fallen foolishly in love with Eva Astry chiefly because she wanted him to fall in love with her. Like most of his predecessors in flirtation, he did not know that that was her perpetual attitude; he supposed that he was an exception, he thought Eva really loved him better than herself. But Rachel knew better; something in her manner told him that she knew better, but she did not dream that her sister was anything but innocent. Belhaven had caught a glimpse of her soul, he had dimly discerned the mental attitude; he knew that Eva had deceived her and he was deeply ashamed. Yet he was not strong enough to go out and face Astry; his three hours with Astry had almost been the death of him; the man was as relentless as an Indian and as clever as a devil.

Belhaven got up and walked about the library. What should he do? If he went away it would do no good; it was cowardly and it would do no good, Astry would pursue him and blazon out the truth. If he refused to marry Rachel, Astry would kill him. If Eva—his mind stopped there; Eva had betrayed him. At the last ditch, the hardest pinch, she had bargained with the enemy for her own safety; she had delivered him, bound hand and foot, to Astry. She was cruel. Eva, the darling, little creature, the soft pink and white beauty, whose tender flesh could endure no pain, whose heart could endure no suffering,—this paragon had suddenly failed him. She had left him in the lurch, she had gathered up her skirts and fled before the deluge. He began dimly to understand Eva; he was slowly, painfully, laboriously, to climb the road which Astry had traveled before him. It is a long road and it is well worn by the footprints of many pilgrims; he whose feet are once set upon this road, turns not back.

IV

Rachel was very tired when she opened the door of her room and found her maid still engaged in folding up and rearranging her clothes.

Bantry, a tall, gaunt, Scotchwoman, was an old servant; she had been in the Leven family before the two girls were born and naturally claimed the privileges of long and faithful service. A glance at her face told Rachel that the end was not yet.

"What is it?" she asked involuntarily.

Bantry closed the door and locked it, her homely face magenta color. "Miss Rachel, that French girl of Miss Eva's ought to be dismissed. I beg your pardon for bringing it to you, but I must,—" the big woman's eyes filled with tears,—"I'm thinking of you, my lamb."

Rachel sank down into the big, winged chair that had received Eva the night before. "I hate servants' gossip, Bantry; is it really necessary to mention it to me?"

"It is so, Miss Rachel, or I wouldn't; she says things that she shouldn't, and I can't stop her!"

Rachel still leaned back in her chair, looking out of the window. This nightmare grew worse every moment; it was like a labyrinth to which she had lost the guiding thread. She could not question a servant, but she knew, intuitively, that Zélie had gossiped of her engagement. It was not hard to divine the curiosity it must have excited, for Belhaven had been a devoted admirer of Eva Astry's and had never before bestowed a glance on her sister. Rachel's cheek reddened at the thought.

"I think we won't discuss it further, Bantry," she said at last.

But the old woman was not satisfied. "You'll speak to Miss Eva, Miss?"

Rachel looked up and met her eyes. "You think it's necessary?"

Bantry nodded. "That girl mustn't stay in this house, Miss Rachel."

Rachel turned away, resting her chin in her hand, and conscious of a thrill of alarm. What did the Scotchwoman mean? She knew that Bantry's intentions were the best,—nothing else would have influenced her to even listen to her suggestions,—but she was filled with disgust at the nearer prospect of the situation. To be the subject of idle gossip, perhaps even of scandal, was degrading. She felt suddenly that the guidance of her affairs had slipped out of her own hands, that in assuming the responsibility for Eva's actions she had lost control of her own. The feeling of unreality, so poignant the night before, was again with her, but it clothed her now with the fantastic shape of a masquerader; her little world was real enough, but she was no longer playing her own part in it. Instead she had assumed a character that she did not even know by heart, and she had the despairing feeling that she was sure to be caught and stripped of her borrowed plumes.

"It's not right to keep the thing in the house," Bantry resumed; "the tongue in her head's a scandal for decent folks to hear. You can take my word for it, Miss Rachel, dear; I wouldn't speak if I didn't have to!"

"Well, we won't say anything more about it," Rachel replied, and her voice, even in her own ears, sounded a long way off. The thing was insufferable, yet, perhaps, she would have to speak to Eva.

Eva had long ago discarded Bantry as too old and too unfashionable; she employed instead a little French girl who wore charmingly appropriate black frocks and coquettish caps and aprons. Sidney Billop had once been caught kissing Zélie in the pantry; he had never done it but once, for it was his mother who caught him. Dr. Macclesfield remarked upon that occasion that some men never went to Hades for punishment, they found a private one in the bosoms of their families. Sidney found his on emerging from the pantry and one scorching was enough; he had occasion afterwards to cherish the ancient apothegm that a burnt child fears the fire.

"Miss Rachel, dear, you're not angry?"

Rachel turned quickly and found that Bantry was in tears. She laid a kindly hand on the old woman's shoulder.

"I'm not in the least angry, but I hate the whole business, Bantry; I don't want to hear about it."

The Scotchwoman sobbed brokenly. "Miss Rachel—oh, for God's sake, darling, it isn't true?"

Rachel's hand fell from her shoulder and she turned very pale. "I don't understand."

"About Mr. Belhaven?"

"You mean about my engagement? Yes, it's true; I'm going to marry him."

Bantry covered her face with her hands and leaned against the wall, sobbing.

Rachel was touched; she knew that the old woman regarded her almost in the light of a foster-child, and she realized that there must be strong reasons for her horror of the approaching marriage. Without even imagining the depths of a kitchen scandal, she experienced a vague feeling of terror, a terror that was chiefly concerned with the danger to Eva. If Bantry felt such grief at the mere thought of her marriage with Belhaven, of what terrible thing had Zélie accused her sister? As yet Rachel's mind, perplexed and dulled with anguish, had not fully realized her own situation; it almost seemed to her that some one else was going to marry Belhaven. But now she began to appreciate her peril; she must not let the old Scotchwoman discover the secret, for not even the faithful Bantry could know that she was saving Eva. She tried to assume a lighter tone.

"I'm sorry my marriage grieves you so much, Bantry, but it won't separate us; I shall keep you with me."

"Oh, Miss Rachel!"

"And," Rachel risked adding this, "I'll speak to Mrs. Astry about Zélie."

Bantry looked at her, almost indignantly, over the top of her crumpled apron. Eva had not been in her thoughts, or Zélie either. In the kitchen, that melting-pot of our social makeshifts, they said that Miss Leven was marrying Belhaven to hush up an imminent scandal, and the old Scotchwoman, in whose heart was a kind of fierce clan loyalty, longed to rescue her favorite, to warn her, but there was something about Rachel, an aloofness, a distinction, that set a gulf between them. Bantry dared not tell her.

"Besides," Rachel went on in a low voice, "I don't want you to listen to all this talk; keep it from the servants. Whatever it is, it's false, but falsehoods are often believed; don't listen to them."

Bantry bent suddenly over Rachel's evening gown, folding it with careful hands, her eyes still full of tears.

"Very well, Miss," she said, "I—I've only told you the truth."

"I know it; I won't forget that, Bantry."

"It's only right for you to believe me, Miss."

"I always believe you!"

Bantry's answer was inaudible; she bent low over the clothes on the lounge to allow Rachel to pass without seeing that she was still crying, for Bantry was storming in her heart against Mrs. Astry. It had always been so, she told herself. Eva had always traded on her sister's generosity and abused her affection.

"Jealous little cat!" the grim old Scotchwoman said to herself, "selfish isn't the name for her; she's like an Angora when it's got all the cream."

Meanwhile Rachel made her way to young Mrs. Astry's room. She entered the boudoir, which opened on the balcony outside her own window, and she shuddered involuntarily at the thought of last night. Eva had come up from tennis and had just been dressed for luncheon, and the French maid courtesied and left the room as her sister entered.

Rachel came in gravely and closed the door. "Eva, you must dismiss Zélie."

Eva looked up with a violent start, her pretty face wet with tears. "Why?" she exclaimed, and there was a thrill of terror in her voice.

Rachel did not notice it; she told her quite simply all that Bantry had said. "She mustn't stay a day longer in this house, Eva. Dismiss her with a month's wages in lieu of notice. I'm sure she doesn't deserve it, but I'd do that."

Eva trembled; she knew that Rachel was inexorable and she knew also that she was in Zélie's power. She could not tell Rachel the whole truth, she could not refuse to dismiss Zélie, and she dared not resist her sister, so she temporized.

"Wouldn't it be better to keep her a while? If we dismiss her, she'll talk more—"

"Of what? If you keep her, you practically admit that you're afraid of her, the servants will believe her, and the end will be a scandal. Eva, you must dismiss her; I insist upon it."

"I—I can't!"

"You can't? Why?" Rachel's face flushed deeply.

Eva saw it; she busied herself arranging and rearranging the little silver articles on her toilet-table, though her fingers trembled.

"Well, for one thing, don't you think it's just old Bantry's spite? She's always jealous of a new servant."

"I think Bantry's immensely good and honest; she wouldn't accuse Zélie falsely. You haven't an idea how she feels; she's crying in my room now."

"Then, of course, it's all jealousy; she can't bear to have you marry and set up a household; she's afraid you'll take Zélie."

"She knows I wouldn't; besides I haven't thought of the household—oh, Eva, how can you talk of it?"

Eva covered her face with her hands. "It's killing me!" she sobbed.

Her sister looked at her with sudden contrition. She had been suffering so much herself that she had forgotten how much Eva must have to endure, and her cheek reddened again at the thought that Eva loved Belhaven, that to see him marry her would be bitter. Yet there was nothing she could say that would make it any easier to bear, and it was impossible to let this French girl make matters worse.

"You really must send Zélie away," she persisted. "I'm sure that Bantry's right about it."

Eva twisted in her chair, afraid to tell Rachel any more. "I hate to dismiss a servant," she said weakly.

Rachel could understand this, for she hated to do it herself, but sometimes even surgical operations are necessary and she was willing to concede something to Eva's nervous condition.

"I'll dismiss her for you," she said quietly.

Eva shivered, watching her as she moved to the door.

"Now?" she gasped.

"At once," said Rachel, but before she could touch the bell some one knocked at the door.

It was Pamela Van Citters. "I've come to say good-by," she explained. "Paul and I are going to drive back to town this afternoon."

Eva rose hastily from the dressing-table and threw herself into Pamela's arms. "Don't go!" she cried.

"It's sweet of you to ask me to stay, my dear, but think of my offspring. I haven't seen the baby for three days."

"What of it? He'll be all the more delighted to see you and he'll have cut a new tooth. Oh, Pamela, stay; Rachel's going to leave me."

Pamela turned large, startled eyes upon Rachel. "As soon as that?"

Rachel nodded; she could not speak, she felt as if a net had been spread around her feet,—a long, floating net, like those she had seen the fishermen draw up in the Sound, and that it was closing in.

Eva turned her head on her friend's shoulder. "Johnstone thinks it's best to have it soon."

Pamela tried to look vacant. "Of course it's the best way," she admitted; "a wedding does hang over one so. I nearly turned gray with fright while I was thinking of mine; it took the whole family to screw up my courage, and poor, dear Paul says he was in a perfect funk. Do you remember what a crush it was? I'd never have another like it; that's what I tell Paul when I want to frighten him. I suppose Lottie Prynne is rehearsing to duplicate hers; Paul says she's engaged to my cousin. You remember John Charter, Rachel?"

But Rachel was gone; she had stolen out of the room while Pamela was talking to Eva.

V

Having yielded to Eva's urgent request to stay a little longer, it was not until the following afternoon that Pamela and her husband returned to the city. Their departure broke up the week-end party, some of the others having drifted away during the earlier hours of the day. Of course Rachel had to undergo a second ordeal at parting.

"I'm not going to congratulate you," said Paul Van Citters bluntly. "Belhaven's a fortunate man."

In the carriage Pamela reproached him. "How could you, Paul? You put your foot in it!"

"Hanged if I care!" he retorted hotly. "She's throwing herself away and she looks as if she knew it. What in thunder do you women marry brutes for?"

"I don't know," replied Pamela demurely. "Some ask why I married you, dear."

Mrs. Billop pecked Rachel on both cheeks; her manner was almost as motherly and warming as a teapot cosy. "My dear, I'd love to see you married, but I quite understand quiet weddings are so much better taste; when we're really in love we don't want 'the madding crowd.' Sidney and I have ordered you a little present, a dainty trifle." It came later, a banqueting-lamp four feet high, and it looked like the givers. "I hope you'll love it for our sakes, dear."

Rachel thanked her and held out a weary hand to Sidney.

Colonel Sedley had ordered a farewell bouquet of orchids for Rachel and he got through his ordeal with a red face. The colonel was innocent of guile but he could not reconcile himself to Belhaven. He wrung Astry's hand at parting.

"You're losing the finest woman in the world in your sister-in-law. Oh, of course Mrs. Astry's lovely, but Rachel—to tell you the truth, Astry, I'm cut up; I wanted her to marry my favorite."

"You mean John Charter?"

"I do; he's going to feel this."

"He's to marry Mrs. Prynne."

"Oh, damn!" said the colonel, and plunged out into the omnibus, in which Mrs. Billop, Sidney, and Mrs. Prynne were already packed.

Astry's big, gray horses were prancing impatiently, and as soon as the footman had closed the door on the colonel's irate form, the carriage rolled away down the long drive from the terrace and disappeared at last through the picturesque Georgian gateway.

The presence of guests had been distinctly uncomfortable in the strained relations of the household, but this disappearance of the last—old Dr. Macclesfield and Count Massena had left early in the morning—plunged the group in the hall into a sudden panic. Eva took instant flight up-stairs, scarcely allowing them more than a vanishing view of her trailing draperies as she turned the last wide curve above the landing. Belhaven retired awkwardly toward the library, a retreat which offered only a new refinement of torment if Astry chose to follow him. But Astry did not; he remained standing at Rachel's side in the big doorway.

It was late afternoon and the western sun streamed over the close-cropped lawns, drenched the terrace in light, and reached across the tessellated floor to the hem of Rachel's white dress. The glow of it even penetrated the shadowy corners of the large hall and the warmth and fragrance of early spring breathed itself upon the atmosphere. A glint caught on the mediaeval arms that hung on the darkening walls. Astry had collected armor and carvings, curious ivories, and hideous, little Indian gods and Chinese idols, from every corner of the world. Here and there in the house cropped up a curiosity or an odd decoration, but his greatest treasures were gathered in his smoking-room. The world supposed that Astry was an agnostic; some of his intimates said that he was a Buddhist. The fact was that no one really knew him, for he guarded the peculiarities of his personality as carefully as the Veiled Prophet hid his face. He stood beside his sister-in-law and watched the omnibus leave the gate and, traveling down the long shaded road, disappear abruptly over the hill, as if it had plunged over the side of the universe. As abruptly they felt themselves to be alone.

Rachel, who had rather dreaded this moment, was astonished to find herself so tranquil. In the last few days she had become certain that Astry did not believe Eva's monstrous charge against her; what he really believed she found it impossible to imagine. That he could know his wife's folly and her cowardly makeshift to save herself, and yet force this terrible alternative upon her sister, Rachel herself did not believe. That he had probably thought Eva guilty of the worst was not unnatural, for the evidence, barring Eva's story about her sister, was overwhelmingly against her. Tortured between contending emotions, Rachel did not attempt to fathom her brother-in-law's conclusions; she had even ceased to consider his actions. She was wholly absorbed in the contemplation of the fast approaching event; her marriage to Belhaven had become a terror that walked by night and dwelt with her by day. She stood looking out into the sunshine and counting the hours that were left to her.

Astry's voice startled her.

"Marriage is a serious step, my dear Rachel," he said calmly, "a step that needs meditation; like hanging, it's usually fatal."

Rachel met his eyes. "I'd be glad of more time," she said quickly.

He shook his head, smiling slightly, though his eyes did not smile. "I have Belhaven to think of; I really couldn't stand him a day over Thursday."

Rachel made a little impatient gesture as if she had meant to speak and suddenly withdrawn into herself. His words seemed to imply a doubt of Eva that Rachel could not refute, and she was filled with dismay at her own helplessness. She could not defend her sister without impugning herself, she could not defend herself without traducing her sister. Eva's lie had been double-edged and, like all lies, it required a hundred falsehoods to hedge it in. She was silent.

Astry began to walk to and fro across the hall, his hands in his pockets, his head bent. At last, just as Rachel turned to go, he spoke again.

"Rachel, you don't want to marry this man," he looked keenly at her, "if it isn't true,—if—I'll take your word for it—if it's not compromising you, I want to know it."

The full significance of his words forcing itself upon Rachel, she flushed darkly. "You don't think I'm like—that!" she cried involuntarily.

He stood still and she felt his eyes on her.

"Then it isn't true! Good God, Rachel, why did you consent?"

She realized her danger, the possibility that his mind had leaped to a conclusion, the right one.

"Because," she said slowly, dragging out the words, "the situation was compromising—"

"I don't believe it! I did at first; I was mad, furious, but now—I know it isn't true. I believe that Eva—"

"You mustn't believe anything wrong of Eva!" she cried.

"What am I to believe then? This is maddening. But I'll get the truth yet. I can't make you women speak out, but, at least, Belhaven—"

"That's it, you've made it so—you've threatened to kill him!"

"You mean he's been a cur?"

She was silent.

Astry halted in his pacing to regard her sternly; he felt that she was defeating him, whether because she would not help him, or through some inadvertence, he did not know, but what he saw was her figure against the afternoon sunshine, the subtle grace of the long lines, the delicately poised head and slender throat, and her beauty, which had always appealed keenly to his senses, drove him on to exasperation.

He resumed with a new and bitter emphasis. "Rachel, there's only one explanation: Eva hasn't told me the whole truth. I've always thought you'd be square with me—what is it?"

She drew a long breath of misery. "I said that the situation would compromise me now," she dragged it out slowly again, "that I must marry him."

This was too much. Astry flung himself away with an inarticulate curse.

Rachel stood a moment looking after him, realizing it all, hot with shame and anger, then she turned and ran up-stairs. As she went, one of the parrots in the conservatory shrieked out its mocking cry, "Eva, Eva!" and she covered her ears with her hands and ran on to Eva's door. It was closed, but Rachel opened it and burst into the room, her face flushed and agitated, and running over to the lounge, she flung herself down and buried her head in the sofa-pillows.

Eva started to her feet with a little, frightened cry and then stood looking at her, waiting, but Rachel said nothing; she only continued to hide her face in the pillows, her whole body shaking with emotion.

"Rachel, what is it? Oh, what's happened?"

"It's Johnstone!" Rachel's voice was muffled by the pillows.

Eva shook like a leaf. "He hasn't killed him? Oh, Rachel, he hasn't—"

"He thinks I'm like that! He thinks I'm guilty. Eva, I can't stand it—I won't!"

"You mean he's been talking to you about it?" Eva was still trembling; she wrung her hands feebly. "What did he say?"

Rachel writhed on the lounge, hiding her face yet more. "He thinks I'm like that!" she shuddered. "I'm so ashamed, I—I can't stand it!"

"Oh, Rachel, Rachel, you won't betray me, you can't, now!"

Her sister sat up suddenly, her face one blur of tears and blushes. "Eva, you've no right to make me so ashamed; I can't forgive it!"

The sinner sobbed bitterly. "Rachel, he'll kill him!"

"I—I almost wish he would!"

Eva wept hysterically. "It will kill me, too, that's all; but I don't suppose you care!"

Rachel looked at her, and gradually her senses cleared, her overwhelming feeling of shame passed into even deeper suffering; she saw the old relations of life take flesh again, the old need to save her sister, and she shivered.

"If you go back on it now," sobbed Eva, "he'll say I'm a liar and he'll cast me off; he'll disgrace me so I can never hold up my head again!"

Poor Rachel was silent.

"Oh, Rachel, I'm so wretched!"

The other girl made no reply; instead she got up and went to the window and opened the shutter. Across the distant city, above the house-tops and the spires, she saw the great dome of the Capitol, and from the lower terrace came the sweet perfume of heliotrope.

"I haven't slept," Eva went on; "it's killing me, I can't bear it. Rachel, Rachel," she fell on her knees again beside Rachel and hid her face on her dress, "I love him!"

"You mean Belhaven?"

There was a sound of strangled anguish from Eva and Rachel laid her hand on her shoulder. "Eva, have you told me the truth?"

There was a moment's silence.

"Yes."

"Then why in the world didn't you tell Astry the truth, too? Your one falsehood has cost us all this misery. Oh, I'm so ashamed, I feel as if I couldn't look Johnstone in the face again!" It was so incredible that even to save herself Eva should impugn her sister; Astry had dragged out that side of it, and Rachel was shuddering before it. "I don't see how you could do it!" she cried.

"He would have killed me!"

"If you haven't sinned, why are you so afraid of him? Eva, in your heart you're sinning against him now. You've got to give up Belhaven; if you can't you needn't ask me to do this awful thing. You'll have to give up Johnstone! I can't do it unless you're true; it's too much! Have you really chosen, Eva?"

Eva staggered to her feet and leaned against the wall, weeping. "I've chosen," she sobbed; "I've given him up. Oh, I've suffered enough. I wish I could be like you; you've no feeling!"

Rachel looked at her in amazement; was it possible that Eva did not know what she was suffering, what this terrible marriage would cost her? Was she so utterly selfish that she could not only malign her sister but sacrifice her without a pang?

But suddenly Eva flung herself into her arms.

"Oh, Rachel, I'm wicked, I'm worthless—you've been an angel. Forgive me! Save me, save us both; we're not worth it, but save us!"

A moment before Rachel had meant to tell her that she could never do it, that she would rather die, to beg for a reprieve, an escape, even if Eva had to suffer, but this anguish dwarfed her own; Eva had not the strength to take her punishment.

"Eva," her lips quivered, "Eva, promise me that this is the end, that it won't be in vain, that I will really save you if I take all this horror to myself?"

"I promise—" her golden head sank lower on Rachel's breast, "I promise; God help me to keep it!"

Rachel still loved her; she tried to quiet her, she put aside her own trouble and gave herself to the task of consoling her betrayer, and so the night passed.

In the morning she was married to Belhaven.

VI

Some time before his marriage Belhaven had leased an old house not far from Astry's, but nearer the Tennallytown Road. It had once been a tavern, but for fifteen years had been disused, and was part of an estate that belonged to Paul Van Citters' aunt. The old lady had turned it over to Paul to manage for her, and in one of his idle moments he had conceived the idea of refitting it and, perhaps, turning it into a club-house. He had employed an expensive architect and more expensive decorators, and the end had been an alarming hole in the aunt's pocketbook. After the first accounts came in, she closed down upon her nephew's artistic departure, and the old house had remained partly done over and, therefore, of two styles of architecture. The porch, with its Colonial pillars, the long, low wing that Paul had intended for a tea-room, and the terraced lawns, were only half done, but the roof had been reshingled with mossy green, the walls had been harmoniously decorated, and hardwood floors put down instead of wide, rough planks with pieces of zinc nailed over the rat-holes, which had served for a hundred years before. Paul's architect had ripped out the narrow staircase and widened the hall by throwing a small room into it; he had built a flight of wide and handsome stairs ascending to a landing under an oriel window; he had taken advantage of an ingle-nook and thrown out a second wing from the original house, and had foreshadowed even greater changes, when the aunt's pocketbook closed with a snap.

Belhaven had leased the place and furnished it simply, intending to entertain his friends with various fêtes, over which the beautiful Mrs. Astry was to preside, accompanied, of course, by an admiring and docile husband. Unhappily Belhaven and Eva had reckoned without Astry.

It was to this quaint old house that Belhaven took Rachel. There seemed to be nothing else to do. Neither of them had framed, even dimly, that existence which must follow the marriage in Astry's library, and it came to them with a shock when Astry pleasantly suggested a wedding trip.

It was afternoon when they were left alone together in the quaint old room that had been the tavern tap-room. Belhaven had furnished it with admirable and simple taste and, as the sun shone through the many-paned windows and lit up the warm tints of rugs and hangings, touching the gold frame of an old-fashioned mirror over the still more old-fashioned mantel, Rachel was struck with its charms. She walked over to the fireplace and, opening the little cupboard set at one side of the chimney, revealed two deep shelves; above the mirror was another little door and two more shelves. She opened both.

"What delightful corners," she said dreamily. "Do you suppose the old fellow kept his rum here and his accounts there, and mixed them at bedtime?"

"Possibly before bedtime," replied Belhaven, with an effort. He had been trying to swallow a cup of tea that Rachel had poured for him.

The servants had prepared a little tea-table and decorated it with an appropriate bouquet of white roses and lilies-of-the-valley. It had loomed up embarrassingly gigantic when they entered, out of all proportion to its actual size, but Rachel had very simply made the tea before she rose to look at the mantel. Belhaven could not quite imitate her; her fortitude and her forbearance were so impressive that he found himself watching her with a curiously complex feeling. She was not beautiful, as he conceived beauty, but she was wonderfully reassuring and restful, and her tranquil manner, her self-controlled expression, the clear gray of her eyes, all seemed to convey a message. As yet Belhaven did not fully grasp it; he did not know women like this, but dimly, like a blind man, his soul was groping forward to meet hers. Hitherto he had had a very good opinion of himself, he had not been too severe on his own backsliding, but the last few days had convinced him that there was a reckoning, even for him. If it had been hard for Rachel, it had been equally hard for him; he had faced the terrible prospect of being called a coward, and he had been unable to save himself without injury to a woman. The situation had been gall and wormwood and, thinking of it, he watched Rachel as she moved about the room inspecting it.

"I like your house," she said frankly.

"It is also yours," he replied abruptly, and then hated himself for saying it.

A faint color rose to her pale cheeks. "Thank you," she said gravely, "you're very courteous."

There was another silence. The warm sunlight, creeping across the floor, had climbed from the hem of Rachel's dress to the belt, where she had fastened a bunch of violets that one of the old servants had brought her, her only wedding bouquet. Her long-fingered, slender hand hung at her side and Belhaven saw the ring he had just placed on it with almost a start of surprise. She was his wife, incredible circumstance!

"I want to speak to you," he said, with an effort; "shall I call you—Rachel?"

She smiled. "I think so; we needn't pretend about conventionalities; if it's simpler to call me Rachel, pray do so. I can't quite make up my mind to what I shall call you yet. Probably for a time it will be something as cryptic as 'um.'"

"I wish I had your fortitude," said Belhaven fervently.

"Better not; when we have it, we're called upon to exercise it, we're used as buffers by our weaker neighbors. Personally I've often regretted that I wasn't as irresponsible as Sidney Billop. I know of no one more care-free and sweetly untroubled; Sidney's a veritable lily of the field."

Belhaven moved the smaller impedimenta of the tea-table about with restless fingers and frowned abstractedly as he viewed the teapot. "Astry says we ought to go off for a wedding journey; he's trying to drive us both to the last ditch, I suppose, to make you confess that you took me to shield—your sister."

"I think we'll cut out the wedding journey; Johnstone's very much like an Iroquois medicine-man; he wants to fire the splinters after driving them into the flesh."

"There are the conventionalities; people will talk; in fact, people are talking."

"I wish you'd remembered the conventionalities before," replied Rachel, with her first flash of indignation.

"I admit the justice of your reproach; it's quite in your power to dictate terms to me; I've admitted myself to be in the wrong."

Her face flushed. "I hate reproaches, I always try to avoid them, but—I'm very human!"

Belhaven still concerned himself with the tea things; he lifted the lid of the teapot mechanically and replaced it. "My suggestion was on your account," he said reluctantly; "it's to your interest, as well as mine, to concede something to appearances. If our real position is known, even to our friends, we'll become the target of curiosity and gossip, and the situation will soon be unendurable. Sympathy is a compound of curiosity and slander; let us avoid it."

Rachel regarded him attentively. "Do you mean that you're afraid that I'll seek sympathy? Confide my troubles to my intimates and so reveal our—our affairs?"

"Good Lord, no! I can't imagine you confiding in—in Mrs. Billop."

"I might possibly find some one beside Mrs. Billop but I don't propose to seek a confidante."

"I really meant that we must hedge ourselves in from curiosity, make some concessions to conventionality. I began by suggesting a wedding trip—"

"To Niagara?" interposed Rachel ironically.

In spite of himself he smiled. "Florida," he substituted.

"In June? Why not do a hundred inane things? I'm sorry I'm not conventional. You'll find that I crop up unexpectedly; I shall make you uncomfortable, no doubt. But, at least, I'll avoid anything outlandish. It's bad enough to be embarked together upon an enterprise of deception; let us save some shreds of truth. It's impossible to be always false; I won't pretend on a wedding journey, I won't play a part for public entertainment! I'll do my best and—" she paused, a slight, painful flush mounting in her pale cheeks again and deepening the charm of her face, "I shall always remember that I bear your name. You gave it against your will, but I accept it as a trust, and you may rest assured that I shall guard it as my own."

"I've never doubted that for a moment," he said hastily, "and believe me, I want to—I will—do the best I can to make it easy for you."

Rachel was on her way to the door; she had felt an irresistible desire to break off the interview. Her brain was reeling, she had not known an hour's rest, an hour to cry out to God for mercy. She stopped now, arrested by something she saw in his face, and held out her hand. Was he not her fellow sufferer? Was he not also shackled? Like two galley slaves their hands had been locked together.

"I'm sorry for you," she said sweetly; "you did wrong, you've injured my sister, deeply pained her,—poor, foolish child! But let no one say that you haven't suffered, that you're not punished. To have to marry me was hard indeed. We must make the best of it, fellow sufferer; let us forego reproaches!"

Belhaven pressed her cold fingers in silence and she went out; he saw her cross the hall and slowly ascend the staircase. She walked like one who dragged a weight; all the elasticity of her graceful figure seemed gone, and he realized at last that she had made a terrible sacrifice. Before this revelation, Belhaven's mind stopped short; he had been devoutly occupied in contemplating his own misery until, like the frog that looked at the cow, he had tried to distend his own importance to match its endless inflations. He had regarded himself from every standpoint but Rachel's; he was now suddenly to behold himself from hers. To her he apparently had no compensations, he was the climax of her misery, the last straw. Then he remembered her sympathy for him. It was quite genuine; she pitied him because he was married to her. Belhaven smiled bitterly to himself. She was a fine woman, an unusual woman, but she clearly meant it; he wondered how many women ever considered it a punishment to be married to them? Certainly not Eva.

Then he recalled how quickly Eva decided to sacrifice him to escape disgrace, how suddenly she had awakened to public opinion. Her vows and caresses one day, her tears and reproaches the next, and then her abrupt desertion. Her willingness to sacrifice Rachel, her falsehood about Rachel—he had only heard an expurgated edition of it from Eva herself—had been so many shocks to him; the whole thing was incredible. He found it necessary to take to pieces his conception of Eva and put it together again in a different combination, for, if he was her fellow sinner, he certainly was not her fellow sufferer; she had escaped. In some mysterious way she always evaded the consequences of her own acts; she slipped them off on to other people's shoulders, whitewashed them, and, at last, frankly disowned them. Belhaven, suffering the first shock of disillusionment, wondered if she ever really loved any one but herself? Since a week he had traveled past the first milestone on the road that Astry had traveled before him; since two days he was well on the second lap. How much more to the end? Sometimes it is a short, dusty, abrupt road and sometimes it is long and tortuous, and it broils in the sunshine of desert places, but it leads to one end. Having entered it, no one has ever turned back, no one will ever turn back. Surely, in Paradise there must be a place for the disillusioned, for the way blisters the feet.

Let no one suppose that because a man sins he cannot suffer. Belhaven knew better; he was feverish, the very air of the room suffocated him. Was it the heavy perfume of those foolish, white flowers? He stretched out his hand to pitch them out, but abruptly withdrew it as if something had stung him. Something had; he remembered appearances! Henceforth he was to spend three-fourths of the day remembering them; they hung about his neck like a millstone. He laughed bitterly, as he realized that Eva had sold him into slavery; she ought to have dipped his coat in the blood of a kid and handed him to Astry. She had done for him, disposed of him! Then he remembered Rachel and was overcome with shame, for, like a poltroon, he had hidden himself behind a woman and she was greater than he. It will be seen that Belhaven was rapidly approaching the third milestone—but then it is always a question of how many milestones there will be. The length of the way is only great enough to accomplish its purpose, but, sometimes, it has to be very great indeed; however, that is only in obstinate cases; violent ones run abruptly down the hill and cast themselves into the sea, like the Gadarene swine.

It does not matter so long as the end is accomplished, and it always is.

VII

Rachel had been married a week and a day when Dr. Macclesfield came to drink a cup of tea with her in her new home.

Dr. Macclesfield was a little, old man who might have been eighty and looked seventy. His face was seamed with wrinkles in curious criss-crosses, like the stitches in drawn-work, and he still shaved twice daily; he said that he did not care to grow a moustache, that his always caught up vermicelli. His small eyes twinkled with curiosity; nothing escaped him, but his sense of humor made him delightful. He had retired from practice but was still consulted in difficult cases; he was wealthy but his charities kept his income down to normal limits. His wife had been dead twenty years and he had no children, so he was perpetually interested in other people's affairs. People appealed to him keenly; he studied them, divided them into classes, found fault with them, and loved them. In his youth and middle age he had had an insatiable passion for work; he had labored at his profession as some men labor in a quarry. He had worn out a dozen young assistants and driven an orderly and methodical wife nearly out of her senses. She had lived and died complaining that the doctor never came home to meals on time, and never got through one without an interruption; she said that cold soups were perpetual and that it was useless to have pancakes. It was impossible for him to grasp what that had meant to her, and twenty years after her death he was still perplexed at the thought of her nervous despair when dinner had spoiled waiting for him. If she had explained, he would have thought it a trivial matter,—and so it was, if he was unmoved by chilled mutton. A terrible illness, brought on by the strain and constant exposure, had finally ended his active career. He had slowly and painfully recovered, to find his usefulness gone. His brain still answered the calls of the profession, but his body was no longer equal to the work of a Corliss engine, and he surrendered grimly, at seventy-five, describing himself as an old bluebottle-fly who could only creep on a window-pane on a sunshiny day.

He was fond of Rachel and she had taught him to drink tea. Yet he had deferred his visit until the last minute, for he did not relish the idea of seeing her as Belhaven's wife. Not that he especially objected to Belhaven. He regarded him as an undetermined quantity, who seemed to have an unfathomed depth, and who needed some moral plummet-line as well as a physical bracing up. When he thought of him, the old doctor shook his head and thrust out his underlip. "He's elusive," he said to himself. "In my young days I should have tried to experiment; now I would hesitate whether to give pepsin or calomel. I usually hate a man when I can't tell at a glance what sort of a pill he needs."

Rachel poured tea for him in the living-room. Belhaven's taste had been excellent but she had given those individual touches that made it homelike, and it began already, in a delicate way, to express her. The light from the high, south window touched the rumpled waves of her soft, brown hair and warmed the delicate pallor of her cheek. She wore a simple, white dress without a single ornament and there was only a handful of blue and yellow flags in a slender glass on the tea-table. Dr. Macclesfield drank his tea discontentedly. After all, the room suited her and she suited the room, if Belhaven could only obliterate himself!

"I remember this house very well," he remarked, carefully spearing another piece of lemon for his tea. "It was a tavern in the stage-coach days, before you were born, my dear. Old Will Jasmine used to keep it; he was enormously stout and very bald, which was a comfort, considering that he did all the fine cooking himself. He could dress green turtle as well as a chef. He used to keep a keg of beer on tap in that corner where you've got your bookcase, a dry kind of a substitute, too! That high window, with the Colonial fan over the top, was over the counter. I wonder how much Paul Van Citters cut out of his aunt's income for all those improvements? I heard that the old lady had to wear the same bonnet for three years, on account of those Corinthian capitals out on the front portico, and they ought to have been Doric!"

Rachel laughed. "Paul had been reading Ruskin, and he was mad about the subtle influences of architecture; I'm afraid he forgot the architecture of his aunt's bonnets."

"He couldn't; I've seen 'em."

"I wish he'd put in a few closets—not in his aunt's bonnets but in this house; it's as barren of closets as Paul's brain. I always feel that there are no little intricate places there, no little cells of poetic fancy. Paul is just stodgy and commonplace but Pamela loves him."

Dr. Macclesfield stirred his tea industriously. "Rachel," he said, "why did you let Eva's maid go to Addie Billop?"

Rachel drew a quick breath. "That's Mrs. Billop's affair; she knew that Zélie had been dismissed."

"Humph! I didn't, until yesterday. I was in New York for the day and met Sidney, wandering down Fifth Avenue with his mouth open, catching flies as usual. He mentioned the fact that Zélie was a treasure. I wonder if he's forgotten the pantry," the doctor added, chuckling softly.

"Only the wicked remember. Doctor, let me give you another cup of tea."

"No, my child," he waved her away. "Tea makes me gossip; two cups mean the undoing of my neighbors; a third would make me tell you about my grandmother and my first trousers. By the way, Rachel, John Charter landed in San Francisco yesterday, Pamela Van Citters told me; he'll have to report to the War Department here at once, so we'll see him."

Rachel busied herself with her tea-caddy, and as she deftly measured out another spoonful of tea, her hand was quite steady and slenderly graceful. The doctor watched her.

"He's coming back to marry Mrs. Prynne, I believe," she remarked quietly.

"Nonsense! That's all a lie of Addie Billop's. She picked up some nonsense, and Lottie Prynne never denies a matrimonial rumor; she's always in hopes that one will adhere long enough to develop a genuine case. John Charter isn't engaged to any one; Pamela told me she knew that for a fact."

Rachel said nothing.

"Charter's a fine fellow," the old man went on; "he's done splendid service out there, and they say he's to be promoted. Lottie Prynne—good Lord! I reckon all the ground Addie Billop had for that was the soldier's button on the top of Lottie's hatpin, and she got that from old Sedley. He told me so himself, said he'd be damned if he didn't wish she'd swallow it; he was too old to be ripping buttons off his uniform for pretty widows."

Rachel tried to laugh, but she had a sensation of strangling and bent over to arrange the blue and yellow flags. "I believe Paul has taken their house on Dupont Circle for another year," she said, in a low voice.

"I reckon he got it cheaper on a long lease. It would have been better taste to have taken this off his aunt's hands, but Pamela said she couldn't bear his architectural harangues and there was no sun parlor for the baby. By the way, the baby has cut its last double tooth; it's an occasion for public rejoicing; we've all lived on that baby's teeth and wrestled with them. Why—Rachel, my child!"

Rachel had suddenly covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

The old man set his teacup on the table and regarded her thoughtfully. For a moment she gave way and wept passionately, unrestrainedly; the barriers had broken down and she had lost control of herself. But it was not so much a spiritual surrender as a physical necessity; she had reached the limit of her endurance and she had to give up. For two weeks she had been building a battlement of stones for her own defense; she had been imagining how bravely she could meet her barren future behind her tower, but now—at a touch—it had crumbled into ruins. There had been terrible moments already, when it had seemed more than she could bear, but she had finally achieved a state that approached the normal; she had been trying to interest herself in the house, the garden, the life that she must lead, and she had been composed and even cheerful. But now the whole combination of circumstances had changed, and what had seemed endurable was no longer possible; she must break away from it, tear herself free or perish. Then, with that curious, superficial consciousness that makes us aware of extraneous things even at such moments as this, she became conscious of Dr. Macclesfield's cup on the table, set down hastily with the spoon in it. Her recognition of this was only mechanical but, in some way, it recalled her to herself; she must not confess her misery, since to confess it meant to involve Eva. She struggled with herself and began to come back; she came back a long way and heard Belhaven's voice at the door.

She dried her tears and looked up. Dr. Macclesfield had put on his spectacles and was writing a prescription, with his underlip thrust out. He handed it to her as Belhaven came across the hall.

"A hundred years ago that was good for nerves," said the old man; "you've got nerves, Rachel. Take that at bedtime and keep out of the house; open air and sunshine, that's the idea."

Rachel's hand closed over the slip of paper mechanically, but she was grateful. After all, tact was better than medicine; she had that moment to recover before the two men shook hands and she had to take up her rôle again. For the first time Rachel experienced a feeling with which she was soon to be deeply acquainted, that would recur again and again, and become at last a burden to her. She felt for the first time like a wild creature of the woods and the hills caught in a trap, a cruel and effectual trap, not one that maimed and gave a chance of a slow death, but an enduring, live-trap from which there was no escape and where she was not likely to be left to die. She would be fed and tended and kept alive, as if her life preserved some great privilege or happiness to the trapper, but she would never be allowed to escape; the bars of her cage were closed forever. Her heart began to beat tremendously against her breast; she was afraid, afraid of herself. Why had this awful thing come to her? What had she done? Was it that she had not loved deep enough, served enough, hoped enough, sacrificed enough? Had she been afraid to trust her own heart?

At first it had been a shock to her whenever Belhaven entered a room where she was, but to-day his coming was a relief; it gave her that moment to recover her self-control. He was standing by her little tea-table, talking to Dr. Macclesfield, and the light shining full on his face revealed the haggard lines and the extreme pallor. He, too, had been traveling along the road, but his manner was easy and even graceful; the tact that he showed in not observing her distress, while it was essentially a part of his breeding as a man of the world, was still wonderfully reassuring and had the value of a guarantee that he would, as he had said, always make it as easy for her as he could. But with that comforting reassurance came the swift, overwhelming thought that nothing could make it easy now, that this new turn of affairs, Charter's return, had made it more than she could bear.

"Well, if I were you, I'd rather stay here all winter than take a house in the city," Dr. Macclesfield was saying; "as long as you've got a motor, the distance doesn't count."

"Not for me, but—my wife—"

Rachel did not hear the end of Belhaven's halting sentence as she slipped out of the room and went up-stairs.

VIII

It was true that John Charter was coming home from the Philippine Islands.

Out there in the Island of Luzon there was consequently much mourning in the regiment, for John Charter had borne the heat and burden of the day, and it remained to be seen whether he would receive his reward. That Charter greatly differed, at first sight, from other men of his class and his profession cannot be said; that he did differ greatly in soul is true. He was a tall, muscular, well-built, young American, a soldier by instinct, a West Pointer by training, and a first lieutenant in a regiment of regulars by promotion, but John wore his khaki with distinction. He had a clean hand and a clean soul, he was superbly honest, and he was so simple that it seemed that the eternal boy would never die in him. A certain habit of reserve had kept him unknown and not greatly liked until the cholera came. In seasons of stress and cases of cholera, men learn things. The regiment learned John. It was hot and men fell sick like flies; a steam rose from the rice paddies; the water was poison; and the soldiers cursed God and died,—that is, a good many of them.

It was a time when the officers were on leave, but John came back at the first call. He had been trying to write to Rachel Leven a long delayed letter,—a letter that he found hard to write, there was so much to be said in it, and it would have changed the course of so many lives. On a little thing hangs, sometimes, the fate of a lifetime, but John never wrote that letter, for the cholera broke out in Company B and he took off his coat and went to work. He could do anything better than write a letter.

The men were very sick and the regiment surgeon had chills and fever; he worked between shakes and swore fearfully, but John and the chaplain helped him without profanity. The first week three died and ten more sickened; the second week the chaplain died and John helped the surgeon alone, for the colonel was in bed with cholera. John seldom slept, and when he did, he slept in his clothes. The camp was a pest-house. It is true that we come into this world alone and that we must go out of it alone, but at the last a man likes to hear a kind word, to see a friend's face. The dying saw John; he wrote their last letters for them, took charge of their little bequests, made their wills, sat with the sick and the delirious; and one poor boy from Maryland raved and clung to him for twenty-four hours. Then he fell asleep and began to mend. He thought John had saved his life, and he was probably right, for the surgeon had had a chill the day of the crisis and was not able to lift a finger.

Charter worked on; he grew thin and his eyes sank back in his head, but he worked on. Then he found that the natives were sick, too, and in distress, and he rode out of camp at all hours to carry medicines and administer comfort under the nipa roofs, where the skull of the carabao on the gate-post had failed of its charm to keep away cholera. He did the work of five men and superintended the burying of the dead, but after six weeks of it he fell in his tracks. They carried him into the hospital-tent and laid him on a cot, then they tiptoed out, bareheaded, white with fear; and the boy from Maryland stood outside in his socks and wept. The colonel got out of bed and came down to consult with the surgeon, and together they went and looked at John, who lay unconscious, with a blue ring around his mouth. The surgeon swore, a sign of fear and emotion with him, while the colonel's eyes were wet; they were both fighting mad and they had been boys together.

"Going to die?" the colonel asked hoarsely.

"How do I know?" snapped the surgeon; "I'm not omniscient; it would be a damned sight better if I had been!"

"We can't afford to lose him," said the colonel, blowing his nose. "If you're not a damned fool, you'll pull him through."

"I am a damned fool. If I hadn't been, I'd have stopped his racket; he's worked like a mule."

"He ought to be promoted," growled the colonel, "and here he is on his back, sick as a dog. Simon, I'll hang you if you let him slip; he's got to be promoted."

"Think likely he'll be promoted to heaven," snapped the surgeon; "this damned cholera—"

"Simon," said the colonel, "profanity and chills and fever won't save this boy, and I—I love him like a son!"

The surgeon went to the door and looked out. In the distance he saw the peaks of the Caraballo Sur, blue and vivid; a mist floated over the valley, the rice fields were green, the nipa palms and the cocoanuts looked gray. In his heart he cursed the Philippine Islands collectively and the cholera individually, but the flag must not come down. He wiped his forehead and turned back, and he and the colonel eyed each other grimly.

"How d'ye think I feel?" he asked fiercely. "You love John like a son? By the Lord Harry, Colonel, I'd give my right hand for him now—and my right eye! So would the boy from Maryland, so would Private Davitt, so would Private McPhee, so would Michael Larry, whom he carried up the long hill when the Moros stabbed Mike in the back; so would the Filipino woman whose baby he saved when the hill village burned, so would every man jack in this regiment, but it's only God Almighty that can save him now. I'm fighting, but so is the cholera."

The colonel took off his hat and buried his face in it. Let no man say that in that hour the rough old soldier and the profane doctor did not pray.

John lay a long while between life and death. Then one beautiful morning he opened his eyes on a new world, where a fresh breeze was blowing and the sun shone. He lay still and weak on his bed and watched a little lizard crawl in the sun at the tent door. His head felt quite light but his heart was filled with peace, for he had been dreaming a great deal and Rachel had spoken to him, not once but many times; he remembered her voice quite well.

He was amazed when the surgeon came in and sat down beside him. The old man looked ill and worn as he felt John's pulse. Then John remembered.

"I meant to have gone down to-day to see the boy from Maryland," he said. "I'll go—"

"The boy's well," said the doctor, "he's been well a month."

John tried to sit up in bed and failed. "What do you mean?" he gasped. "Have I been ill?"

"Six weeks; you're promoted to be a captain of the Tenth, and you're ordered home two weeks from to-day."

It was then that John fainted. In his own mind he had done only his plain duty. He had such a simple conception of life that he perplexed other people; they imagined him to be always trying to compass great ends, while in reality he only saw his work and did it. Simplicity is sometimes more perplexing than diplomacy and John had achieved perfect simplicity; he had done a hard duty well because he had no idea how to leave it undone, and he did not know that it was uncommon to do it in his way, or that he had done it uncommonly well. He was surprised that the men had so suddenly adopted him and he was a little shy under their enthusiasm. The boy from Maryland followed him around like a dog and wept when John took ship on the government transport with his tall, thin person fairly bulging with farewell letters and remembrances that he was carrying to the kindred of the dead soldiers. It was this multiplicity of commissions, this new and deadly popularity, that had kept John from writing that one important letter, Rachel's letter. But, if he did not write it, he thought it out a dozen times, for she was never long absent from his mind. All the way across the Pacific it may be said that Rachel traveled with him; she fairly walked the waves, and when he stood, as he often stood, on the deck and looked seaward with steadfast eyes, he was thinking of Rachel.

He had known her nearly all his life and he had loved her long before Rachel had even dimly perceived it. But John was deliberate; not even a great love could reverse the fixed habits of a lifetime, and he waited for the full time to come before he opened his heart, not knowing that opportunity had come like a thief in the night and stolen away again, thwarted and lost forever. He continued to look ahead with steadfast, blue eyes and that habit—as strong as his deliberation—the habit of determination. All that he had ever won in his life he had won by a quiet, determined perseverance. It was said of him in the regiment that Charter's perseverance was more deadly than a brickbat, and John's perseverance had the effect of a moral brickbat; it was a projectile that hit opposition fairly in the bull's-eye and crushed its way through it. He had worked his way steadily upward without favoritism,—no one had rolled logs for him; he had the qualities that win recognition in the teeth of circumstance, and he had outgrown his comrades, as he had outgrown himself; at thirty-three he was still growing, still pursuing his moral development. It was this quality that had lifted him above his fellows, and that had stretched him on a sick-bed for weeks in the islands. Sometimes our victories seem defeats because they are robbed of the fruits, and John's greatest victory had been won in the cholera camp; he had grown steadily during those weeks of service; the regiment adored him, but he had lost touch with the world, and it is not always safe to put aside an important letter.

By this it will be seen that, having been ill six weeks, and coming home on a transport, beset by many duties, John had heard nothing, and had missed many home papers and even one newsy letter from his cousin Pamela Van Citters. He was coming home to Rachel Leven; he had decided, after much deliberation, that it was better to speak than to write, for he was by no means sure of Rachel's love, though he was overwhelmingly sure of her kindness. It would be sweet to see Rachel; there was something in her strength, her tranquility, her sanity, that appealed to John's heart. He felt their community of spirit; she was clever and charming and all that, and yet he understood her and she understood him. He landed in San Francisco with a feeling of joy that he stood once more on the same continent, that the sea was no longer between them. But it was characteristic of Charter that he proceeded to attend to the various commissions that he had received from the dead soldiers out in Luzon. He traveled miles out of his way to carry a letter and a lock of hair to a bereaved old mother, and he took back a ring and a sword to a young widow. He did a dozen painful and tedious things before he set his face toward Washington, where he had to report to the War Department and where he hoped to find Rachel.

It was now nearly the first of August and the hot sun on the paved streets made him recall the cool-looking rice paddies and the river that had flowed so near the camp. Sickening memories came back, and some sorrow; he remembered dying faces and the clinging of chilly hands. He hurried through the city without even a visit to his club and therefore he heard nothing. The calm of midsummer had settled on the place and he saw no one he knew, except at the War Department, and there he received his promotion. Afterwards, he went over to the White House and the President himself spoke a few words to him, so full of appreciation and kindness that John blushed like a girl. When he was finally through with this ordeal, for it was an ordeal to him, he walked down Pennsylvania Avenue, where even the gay chatter of people about him sounded cheerful and homelike. He walked on, unaware that many glanced curiously at the tall, soldierly figure, the bronzed face, the straight-looking, blue eyes. He was not handsome, but he was distinguished looking, with that crisp blond hair that seldom shows a streak of white until the approach of extreme old age. People thought him absorbed and happy, but, in reality, his spirit was traveling ahead of him, and it continued to journey ahead of the trolley which carried him the rest of the way.

He knew that Rachel was usually with the Astrys in July and August and he had started without hesitation for the Astry place. He had sent no word ahead of him; he longed to see the glad surprise in Rachel's eyes, for he knew that, in any case, she would be glad to see him, and her eyes were wonderful when she was pleased. Charter was quite unaware that they had a look for him that they had for no other in the world; but he was at peace with himself, no premonition stirred in his own heart, no shadow fell before him upon the perfect sunshine of the day. At last he would see Rachel! He believed in her; his large, simple nature centered itself on that one thing, his belief in her.

It was late afternoon when he got off at the end of the avenue and set off across country; purposely he walked, for it was no great distance now, and he could think. Besides, he loved the hedgerows where the wild carrot was riotously abloom and the wild grapevine was heavy with green fruit. He broke off a spray of wild flowers and pressed them against his face. It was good to be home again; down in that lane there used to be swamp magnolias; he looked across a golden field of rye and saw the deep blue of the Virginia hills; another bend of the road would bring him to a little wood below the Astry meadows. He climbed the stile and struck through the wood path. Ferns grew about his feet, the afternoon sunshine made glorious vistas between the tall trunks of pines and hemlocks. A solitary silver birch caught the light on its slender stem far ahead.

Below the wood, another path crossed the Astry estate; it led to the old tavern that belonged to Van Citters' aunt. John knew all about it; Pamela was his first cousin and she had written him a humorous account of Paul's architectural madness and his aunt's wrath. A grove of trees shielded its old gables from sight, but John felt its presence; he even thought he saw the highest chimney. He had come past the silver birch now; below him lay the meadow, and the path, diverging from his own, was fringed with a tall, plume-like growth of sumach. He descended the slope, crossed the stream on the old stepping-stones, and looked up. On the further bank stood Rachel.

She had seen him coming and had had that brief interval to recover her self-control. Of course he knew, Pamela must have told him, and it would be soon over; he would say something conventional, she had only to play her part. It was almost a relief to her to feel that Pamela must have given him all the details, but she was startled at the look on his face, the joy that flashed into his eyes when he saw her. It was disconcerting, but she held out her hand mechanically and made her trite little speech.

"I'm so glad to see you home again."

His speech was not quite so ready, but his hand closed warmly over hers and his eyes were eloquent. There was nothing wanting now in his world, with Rachel in it. The joy of seeing her again blinded him to the change in her, the shyness and constraint of her manner; he was occupied, instead, with the delicate oval of her face, the dusky hair, the clear, gray tint of her eyes. She had on a clinging, creamy gown and a wide-brimmed hat that shaded her forehead, and he took in every detail of the slender, graceful figure, holding her hand a good deal longer than even such an occasion warranted.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you!" he said finally, his eyes deeply kindled with happiness. "It seems a thousand years since I saw you last, but you're unchanged!"

Was it possible that Pamela had not told him? She withdrew her hand gently.

"Am I?" her lips trembled; "it's a long time, everything has happened."

"Yes, we've had war, pestilence, and almost famine out in the Philippines. It's been a jolly hard row to hoe, and I had to see so many poor fellows die, but it's done; they've let me come home to stay a while, you know?"

"We've heard a great deal more than that, and we've honored the hero; they've made you a captain, so I'm told." She was doing very well now; after all, he might know and take it casually!

He blushed like a girl. "I didn't expect it to come so soon; I believe the dear old colonel had something to do with it. I was glad chiefly because I thought it would please—you."

"It does please me so much."

They had turned and were walking together across the meadow; neither of them knew where they were going; the warm sunshine bathed them with its caresses, a flock of purple martins descended before them and whirled over the long grass in ever narrowing circles, their wings flashing in the sunlight.

"Tell me about yourself," he said; "it is a long time really, and we heard nothing out there, or next to nothing. I used to hope for a letter from you, and kept on hoping until I realized that I was too poor a correspondent to expect remembrance; but all the same I was starving for news."

She had the feeling of a condemned criminal who has a brief, unlooked-for reprieve with no hope of pardon later on.

"Haven't you heard anything? I thought Pamela wrote."

"When she feels like it. You know Pamela does things spasmodically,—and there's the baby; nearly everything gives way to his highness. The rest of us merely cumber the earth. Let me see, I think my last letter from Pamela was at New Year's."

Then of course he did not know! She must tell him, but her tongue refused to utter it.

"I thought Pamela would have written you," she chose her words slowly. The opportunity to tell him was plain, but she could not do it, not yet! "Quite a number of things have happened."

"But you've been well, I see that,—and Mrs. Astry?"

She snatched at the digression.

"Very well indeed; they're going to stay here all summer and go to Lenox in October, I believe. I suppose Johnstone is staying on because Congress does this year; you know he takes an interest in politics. I hope it won't be too hot for Eva."

"You ought to feel the Philippines; one has to, to appreciate them! I was very ill out there. I believe old Dr. Lewis thought I was going to die, but I didn't; I only lay there in a sort of a trance and had visions of you. You were very kind to me in my dreams. I think I was content to lie there in the blistering heat and fever just to dream of you."

"Poor fellow!" she said softly. She was walking beside him, trailing her furled parasol in the grass, and she had a vague feeling of amazement that she could still go on, for there is no torture so great as the necessity to hurt one who is greatly loved, and Rachel was tasting the dregs of her cup.

"When that old chap told me that I was promoted and ordered home, I fainted. You see what a jolly fool I was, Miss Leven, but the joy was too great; I was going to see you again. I thought of that all the way; I was thinking of it when I came through the wood just now,—that I'd soon see you, that I could speak to you at last, tell you all that's been in my heart through these three years of exile. You know I never could write a decent letter; I'm a perfect lumpkin with a pen! Rachel, when I came across the brook and saw you, I—"

She stopped him. "Hush!" she said, with white lips. "I'm married."

He stood still. All the joy of life slipped out of his face and she saw it grow gray before her eyes. He straightened himself with a shuddering start as if a shot had struck him, for his faith in her, one of the vital realities of his life, had received a terrible shock. She had led him on into fond and foolish talk; she had led him on to bare his heart to her!

"I've made a jolly fool of myself!" he said bitterly.

"John!" she cried, in involuntary anguish.

But not even his large heart was proof against the gall and wormwood of betrayal. "You must forgive a fellow for butting in. I didn't know—of course you understand that?"

"I never for a moment dreamed that you knew," she said finely.

He looked up then and saw the white agony of her face and his head swam. Had the fever come back on him?

"Will you tell me—his name?" he asked hoarsely.

She tried twice to speak before she could answer him. "Belhaven," she said at last.

John turned his face away; she could not see his expression, but she saw the strong hand at his side clench nervously and she felt and shared the still agony. They were walking on; before them the green meadowland sloped beautifully to the edge of the brook; beyond it, rose the low growth of laurel and young dogwood, and through the shadowy grove she caught glimpses of Belhaven's house, her home!

"Have you been married long?" John asked at last, though he could not look at her.

"Nearly three months."

"I don't know why I didn't hear," he said, after a long moment. "You'll have to forgive me, I—" he stopped abruptly.

Rachel looked up and met his eyes. The despair in them cut her to the soul; she could have borne anything but this, to see his pain! She broke down suddenly, hiding her face in her hands, and her grief was anguish. He looked at her in pained surprise; hitherto he had thought only of his own trouble, now he became aware of hers, for she was weeping dreadfully.

"Rachel!"

She did not reply; she had stopped and was leaning against the slender stem of the silver birch, which they had reached again together. He could see only the curve of cheek and brow and the long, slender fingers clasped convulsively over her eyes; she was still weeping silently.

"I can't bear to see you like this, Rachel; is it because you're sorry for me?"

She tried to answer him but she could not.

"You're—you're not in trouble yourself?"

She shook her head; it was best to lie to him, but what a poor liar she was!

Her grief appealed to him, moving him to generosity and even to gentleness. "Don't think of me; it's just my portion. I've always loved you, Rachel; I wouldn't grieve you for the world."

"I grieved you!"

"Well, you couldn't help it. I was a fool not to know, I—I—" Then he broke out in spite of himself: "Rachel, did you love him when I went away?"

She writhed, hiding her face.

John watched her, a perception of something wrong creeping into his reluctant mind. Then he was conscience-stricken; what right had he to thrust himself into her confidence? Yet passion, denied and betrayed, tore his heart.

"Forgive me, I had no right to ask you, but somehow I couldn't help it; I felt as if I must know! There are little moments in those old days that are dear to me. Rachel, you understand? I wanted to feel that they were mine still; I didn't want to be robbed of them, I—"

"They're all yours," she said, controlling herself, "all yours, John."

"Rachel, did—did you love me a little then? I wasn't altogether a fool—you did?"

"Oh, God!" she moaned softly, wringing her hands.

"I can't understand!" he broke out fiercely; "this is fearful!"

"Don't try to understand—" She was walking on again blindly, trying to recover herself, her face bloodless, the muscles drawn about the eyes and mouth.

"I'm a brute," said John bitterly. "I'm hurting you!"

"It kills me to hurt you!" she cried.

"Rachel—" his voice was hoarse with pain—"do you love him?"

She walked ahead of him, her head bent; once she stumbled and almost fell, then she recovered herself and stood still. They were at the edge of the wood; Belhaven's house stood before them and there were flowers abloom on the low terrace. John came up to her, his white face set and stern, passion in his eyes.

"I meant it," he said hoarsely. "I'm a brute—but I meant it, Rachel."

"I've married him."

They looked at each other. They were two souls in torment and she would have given hers to save him this anguish. At that moment she felt that she could have died for him. They were silent a long time and then he thrust his clenched hands into his pockets.

"I'll take you home; forgive me again—if you can!"

"There's nothing to forgive," her white lips stiffened. "Don't go on with me now—come some other time, to-morrow. Now I can't bear it!" The tears ran down her cheeks.

Something in his throat choked him and he turned away. "You're right—of course, but I wish you'd tell me all; it—it would be easier to bear."

She shook her head. "Not easier, harder."

"Good God, as if it could be!"

"Good-by, John!"

He did not answer her, but turned away, ashamed of the hard-wrung tears in his eyes. She stood watching him go, her lips quivering,—she had grieved the heart she loved best in the world. When he was gone, she made her way blindly into the house and crept up-stairs to her own room, and once there she fell on her knees beside the bed and buried her face on her outstretched arms.

It was indeed more than she could bear. Then she was ashamed of her rebellion. God Almighty would not give her more than she could bear; He knew her, He would not do it. Perhaps she could bear more than others, perhaps she had a greater power of endurance, as she had a greater power of love. Her soul, reeling in darkness, cried out for release. Then suddenly she remembered and understood. God was punishing her for her sin. Was not that the old Biblical idea? She had sworn to a falsehood before Him; to save her sister she had flung a challenge at God. She had vowed to love Belhaven when she could not; she had vowed to honor him when she despised him; she had vowed to obey him when she was determined to have nothing to do with him. She was perjured; she had called Eva a liar in her heart because Eva had maligned her, and now she was herself a living lie. That was it; God was punishing her! It was fair, it was just, it was what men would call a square deal; she had no right to beg off, she was a coward. She had done it on an impulse. She searched her own heart with merciless severity and she knew that she would never have done it but for the thought that Charter had left her for Mrs. Prynne. It stultified even her sacrifice; it made her the more frivolous and contemptible in her own eyes, and she was a coward, for she wanted to beg off. She wanted to tell John the truth; it was hard to let him suffer as she had suffered. If she could only have told him that she loved him and shared his pain, but she dared not. John was good but she dared not. He would not be resigned to such a fate; he would rebel against it, and if he rebelled, would she resist him? Would she stand out for her own cause, or would she yield to him? She was a strong woman, but she loved much; would she want to yield, would she resist?

It had always cost her an effort to contradict Charter; her impulse was always to give up, to be guided by him, and her happiness lay in pleasing him. Would she be strong enough not only to resist John but to resist her own heart? The enemy was within, the enemy of her resolutions, her own heart, was John's ally; it was pleading for him now. If she betrayed Eva, if she told John the truth, would he submit to this miserable marriage to save Eva and Belhaven from Astry? Not for a day, not for an hour! She knew John and she dared not tell him. Then the desolate loneliness of it came back to her and she cast herself, face downward, upon the floor and lay prone beside her bed, submerged in supreme weakness and misery. All her strength was gone, all her resistance, all her self-control; she lay there—broken and desperate—overwhelmed at last. There was nothing left in the world.

IX

When Charter left Rachel so abruptly, he did not return to the city but, turning his face toward the country, walked steadily away from the habitations of men. His mood was one that sought solitude as a spiritual necessity, for, at the very moment when the journey's end seemed to have been achieved and the lovely presence of Rachel—no longer a vision of his fevered fancy—was actually assured, his universe had crumbled about his ears.

The fact that no intimation of an engagement to Belhaven had ever reached him made the blow more astonishing; it seemed incredible that she could have been married without his knowledge, that an event of such vital importance to him could have occurred without a warning or even a premonition. He recalled his foolish expressions of feeling, his interrupted declaration, with a kind of shamed anger. He must have appeared like an idiot, coming back after his long silence to make love to a woman who had had time, in the interval, to get married to another man. Yet not even his first resentment against her for permitting him to go so far unwarned, was of long duration; his mind was too occupied with the astonishing fact of her marriage. The shock had been so great that his senses were benumbed, and he was able to go across country, picking a path through the woods, without an idea of where he was going.

The cool, green shade of the place, with the pungent scent of the pines and hemlocks, the delicate growth and glossy green leaves of the young gum trees, with here and there the tall frond of a hardy fern, gave him a feeling of familiarity without suggesting the painful necessity of reconciling himself to the change in all his most cherished remembrances. His mind staggered back from the consideration of his loss and he tried to recall the slow process of reasoning that had made him delay the letter to Rachel. The fact that he had not the pen of a ready writer did not furnish a sufficient excuse for delaying a matter so vital, and he remembered, in a bewildered way, his fruitless efforts to put his thoughts on paper. But intimately associated with these efforts was the sputter of Mauser bullets and the musical bugle of the trumpeter sounding the charge. He seemed to see the malarious mist rising from the rice paddies and the nipa huts of the Filipinos, while he recalled, with an even more vague recollection of the pains and the weariness, those hours that he had worked with the camp surgeon and sat beside the victims of cholera. He remembered, too, the face of the Filipino woman when he snatched her baby from the burning ruins of the village that the fleeing insurgents had fired, and he seemed to feel the clinging hands of the poor boy from Maryland when he had been mad with delirium and cried for his mother. The very fulness of those months in the tropics, the routine of marching and attacking the earthworks of the rebels, when those big straw hats had bobbed up and down until the awful charge with fixed bayonets drove them out of their trenches like ants out of a demolished hill in a flower-bed, returned to him.

It was incredible to think that, at the very moment when such vital things as this had occupied him, life on this side of the globe had continued to flow on in its usual conventional course, and that Belhaven had found opportunity to supplant him in Rachel's heart. At this thought an unreasoning rage against Belhaven made him walk faster and faster along the path; once or twice he had to stop to break his way through the brush or to tear aside the wild tangle of a vine, and it gave him almost a sensation of joy to tear and to break. He would have liked to crush Belhaven, to take him up bodily and fling him out of the way. He tried to recall his recollections of the man, but he had never liked him, and now, at the crucial moment, he could not summon up a vision of him, as Saul conjured the figure of Samuel out of the pit. Of one thing, however, he was reasonably sure, and that was that Belhaven did not belong to the class that he recognized as one that was made up of men of honor. With a very exalted conception of those qualifications that constitute "an officer and a gentleman," Charter had a peculiar scorn for the men who did not belong to that type, and nothing was more intolerable than the fact of Rachel's marriage to a creature that he would have been likely to call, had he been asked to qualify him, "that fellow Belhaven!" The fact that women rarely understand those qualities in men that are most obvious to their own sex did not alleviate Charter's anger and disgust. Rachel married to Belhaven was an object to move the gods to pity.

It was at this point in his confused misery that he recalled her anguish; after all, it might not have been altogether pity for him. He reddened at that thought, but, perhaps, she was already aware of her mistake, already plunged into the misery that now apparently was the common result of marriage and made divorce appear as a boon to those unfortunates who desire another opportunity, like the man in the nursery rhyme who jumped into a bramble bush and scratched out both his eyes, only to jump into another bush and scratch them in again. Yet the thought that she was unhappy did not alleviate his misery or offer any solution of her extraordinary marriage, for her unhappiness must be independent of him since she had not considered him of sufficient importance to influence her decision. If she was disappointed in her choice it must be because she had suffered the common awakening after the event, rather than that she was grieved by any recollection of his affection, or regret that she had not awaited his return. The fact that her outbreak of grief was synchronous with his declaration was not significant in the light of previous events, for she must have seen that he loved her. With such marvelous obtuseness as this Charter failed to realize that his silence in the Philippines would have convinced almost any woman of his utter indifference, and that Rachel had had every right to argue that he wanted her to forget him.

Instead he reviewed the whole course of their acquaintance and failed to find any spot where he had not given evidence of her importance in his life, and he could not imagine why it was necessary to put into formal words a fact so vital and so obvious. He had lost her; that was all there was to be said, and he must take his medicine like a man, and the best thing to do was to get out of it and forget it.

These reflections had brought him to the edge of a stream and, as he recovered his mental poise, he was surprised to find that it was a part of Rock Creek and that he had, therefore, wandered many miles out of his way. He stood still for a moment, allowing his eyes to follow the lovely rivulet with a crowding recollection of its beauties that had first appealed to his childish eyes, then to his boyish fancy, and now gave him almost a sensation of comfort. It happened to be one of those charming spots where the creek, so often tranquil and limpid, was hurrying over stones and sending up little clouds of spray as the miniature waves dashed through the narrow gorge between the rocks, where the graceful boughs of a weeping birch drooped far down over it and dropped their leaves into the stream. The gentle murmur of the swift flowing current, the soft rustle of the abundant foliage overhead, and the sweet, shrill cry of a catbird, were the only sounds he heard. There was something uplifting in the solitude, in the natural beauty of the scene, and, for the first time since the shock of Rachel's announcement, Charter recalled himself to a more normal mood.

This was still with him, clothing familiar objects with the grim outlines of reality, when an hour later he rode into the city on the trolley and made his way at last to the Van Citters' house on Dupont Circle, where he had been invited to make his home during his stay in Washington. It was now late afternoon, or rather early evening; the familiar drawing-room was cool and dim and he found Pamela yawning over the latest novel.

She greeted him with a fusilade of reproaches; where had he been, what had he been doing? They had been expecting him for hours; Paul had gone out a second time to inquire at the War Department; a dozen people had been to see him and gone away disappointed. Charter found it difficult to answer the questions, and even more difficult to keep his sang-froid under his cousin's searching gaze, for Pamela had detected his heightened color and gave him swift, birdlike glances that were plainly suspicious.

"You must remember that I had a number of things to see to," he parried, "besides, I went to the White House."

"Don't tell me that took all day—unless you unearthed a Filipino conspiracy."

"Come, Pamela, give me a cup of tea; I know I've been ungrateful not to report sooner, for it's awfully good of you and Paul to ask me here, but I'll try to make the most of your hospitality the few days that I'm likely to be in the city."

She gazed at him over the teacup, the sugar tongs suspended in mid-air. "You don't mean to say that you're ordered off again?"

He shook his head, smiling faintly at her amazed attitude. "No, but you mustn't expect me to spend my time loafing around Washington; you know I was never intended for a carpet-knight."

"I wonder if you know that there was a report that you were engaged to Mrs. Prynne?"

His blank amazement amply repaid her for this random shot. "What nonsense! She must have been immensely annoyed."

Pamela smiled. "She wasn't. You haven't an idea, I suppose, that you're something of a lion—with your Philippine record and the medal they talk of giving you for bravery."

"Oh, rot!"

"How eloquent! It got all about, the report, I mean. Eva Astry asked about it the day Rachel's engagement to Belhaven was announced."

"I didn't know until to-day that—that Miss Leven was married." Charter flattered himself that his tone was casual and he busied himself with Pamela's sugar-bowl.

She eyed him shrewdly. "It was almost as sudden as a stroke of apoplexy," she remarked, sipping her tea.

"What?"

"Rachel's marriage; what else did you suppose?"

"I don't see why it should have been sudden. I seem to remember that Mrs. Astry's was—"

"A sort of nine days' wonder? Yes, but Rachel's was more amazing in a different way."

He considered several dominoes of sugar and selected a small half. "In what way?" he risked, aware that his cousin was more than a match for him in the conversational arena.

"Her engagement was announced on Monday and she was married on Thursday."

"That doesn't show that the engagement had only existed since Monday."

"But it does show just that. Up to Monday Belhaven had been making violent love to Eva Astry; everybody knew it."

Charter's face flushed darkly. "I hope you don't repeat any such malicious gossip as that, Pamela!"

"It isn't gossip; ask Paul. We were out there for a week-end; so was Massena, the Italian Chargé d'Affaires, and he was perfectly amazed. Belhaven was simply devoted to Eva, and then to our surprise Astry announced his engagement to Rachel."

"All this only goes to show that he needed a thrashing."

"Belhaven isn't the sort to get it. You know he's rather charming, but I'm quite sure that Rachel never cared for him."

"I can see no other reason for her accepting him."

"Nor I, yet I've heard things—" Pamela stopped; after all Charter was the last one to hear all this gossip; he would loathe it.

But he pressed the point. "What things?"

"Well, for one thing, they say Astry made the match to get him out of Eva's way."

"I should say it was putting him in it; it would have been easier to horsewhip him and be done with it."

Pamela sighed. "Your methods are so cryptic. I don't understand the thing anyway, but—" she weighed her words—"I know Rachel's wretched."

He rose and walked up and down the room; she was giving form and shape to the impression that had been growing in his own slower mind as he recalled Rachel's evident distress.

Pamela made matters worse, for looking up at his tall figure as it approached her and seeing the trouble in his face, she gave way to her feelings.

"Oh, John, I wish you'd been here!"

He halted, amazed. "Why?"

"Because—because I always thought Rachel liked you, and you might have prevented it somehow! I felt that she was—well, just sacrificed for Eva."

"I can't imagine why she should have been," he said hoarsely. "Good God, Pamela, don't make it any worse!"

Pamela, who had been using a plummet-line to sound the depths, was filled with awe at her discovery.

"I don't believe she ever cared a rap for Belhaven!" she climaxed.

"I don't see that that makes it any better."

"It doesn't make it any worse, and—"

"Perhaps not." Charter's face was very white. "Pamela, suppose we talk of something else!"

X

The slow weeks that had dragged by had not been happy ones for Eva Astry. Her first feeling of relief that it was done, the ordeal of Rachel's marriage and the risk that Astry would discover the motive that had prompted it, was over, and she had long ago begun to feel that she had purchased her immunity at too heavy a price. The cost of it, indeed, was chiefly revealed to her by Belhaven's attitude. The cruelty of his position began to appear to her in various aspects and she saw that her betrayal of him had cost her the chief place in his regard. She began to be vaguely aware that she had given him the right to hate her, that the sort of love she had inspired was not of a fiber to resist such an attack, that it was not even equal to the demands of common self-sacrifice. Unconsciously, too, she began to compare his attitude at the time of Astry's discovery with that of Rachel. Her sister had sacrificed herself to save her from the shadow of dishonor, while her lover had not even had the manhood to face her husband. No light in which she could view it made the situation seem less ugly, and at no time did Belhaven figure as a hero. Yet her affection for him had been strong enough to torture her with jealousy when she saw him stand up to be married to her sister. Although she knew that Rachel probably despised him, her own nature—soft and pleasure-loving—was not one to readily yield an admirer to another woman. It had been that reluctance to part with one that had made her recall Belhaven after her marriage with Astry. She could have married him in the first place but she had greatly preferred the Astry millions. It had seemed to her that all the accessories and comforts of wealth were necessary to her, that her beauty, always of a rare and lovely type, demanded the setting that Astry offered her.

She had always affected a mode of living and a class of society which had drained every purse in the family to keep her afloat, even as a young girl, and she had always intended to achieve a dazzling marriage. Astry, while failing to offer her a title and a place in Europe which she had coveted, did present the next thing to it,—the possession of a great fortune and the power to purchase the place in society which she had failed to attain through her mere beauty and charm. If she could not be a princess in a small European State, like one of her cousins, she could be the wife of an American millionaire, and she did not hesitate long over her decision. Belhaven, whose fortune was much smaller and who had squandered a large part of his income, was no match for Astry, and Eva's marriage to the latter had been celebrated with all the pomp that the Leven family, reinforced by the maternal relatives, the Sterrits, had been able to achieve. The paying for it, indeed, had driven poor Aunt Drusilla Leven into the retirement of an obscure Italian town where, as she frankly wrote her friends, washing was fabulously cheap. Profiting by this financial sacrifice, Eva had made the great match of the season and had never bestowed a thought upon poor Aunt Drusilla in her exile, except to be thankful that she did not have to invite that "old frump" to her dinners. But, after the first few months, even the society of a frump would have been more desirable than the continued criticism of a watchful, jealous, and uncongenial husband.

After his first discovery that Eva was not, as he had supposed, a beautiful and delicate replica of Rachel, Astry had been frankly disappointed. They had very little in common and he could not remain long unaware that, if Eva did not love money for its own sake, she cared greatly for the luxuries and privileges that money could obtain for her. Finding himself, therefore, an object of indifference to his young and beautiful wife, he met her with a like coldness and reserve, so that Eva was soon, like a naughty child, shut out of the inner circle of her husband's confidence. It was at this point, when they were both to blame, that she began to encourage Belhaven's renewed devotion. The result had been that Astry, no longer trusting her, had taken alarm, and there had been many quarrels, at first petty and then so serious that they led up to the moment when she had feared for Belhaven's life. Then had come the climax and her falsehood about her sister, Rachel's sacrifice to protect her, and the marriage.

Now that it was over and she was left to view the matter from every standpoint, in the cold light of common sense, she was filled with horror at the tangle she had made; and the continued necessity of acting it all out, of keeping up the tissue of falsehood that she had woven, was wearing her out. Her beauty, of that delicate and ephemeral type that is dependent on color and light, was visibly diminished. Mrs. Van Citters, happening in upon her at the unfortunate hour of noon, when all the defects are most fiercely revealed, thought that she looked absolutely pinched and white, and that only her peculiarly lovely hair and eyes saved her from being what Aunt Drusilla Leven would have called "real peaked."

Pamela, who had been carefully instructed by her husband to attend strictly to her own business, found it difficult to refrain from remarking upon Eva's looks, but she began the conversation with the determination to be very guarded and to only skim the surface.

"Are you really going to stay all summer?" she inquired casually, as she folded her parasol and tossed it with her gloves on a convenient chair in the breakfast-room, where Eva had just been taking coffee and toast. "Paul and I get off to-morrow. Mother took the baby last week; it's abominable in the city now."

"Well, you see we're not in the city," Eva drawled, "and Johnstone's been interested in the tariff. Besides, I suppose we'll go to Florida this winter and—" she shrugged her shoulders—"what's the use?"

Pamela stretched out an absent-minded hand and, picking up a strawberry from the cut-glass dish on the table, dangled it by its green stem. "I suppose you like to be here on Rachel's account; she isn't going away, is she?"

"I'm sure I don't know; I suggested the pyramids of Egypt."

Pamela clung to the surface. "There are such horrible cockroaches on those Nile boats," she observed.

"I can't imagine why people here have made such a fuss about Rachel's marriage," said Eva fretfully. "One would think a bomb had exploded; they seem to catalogue it with murder and sudden death."

Pamela looked vacant. "Do they? You know I've been simply taken up with trying to keep John Charter with us; Paul and I offered all sorts of inducements but he wouldn't stay."

"Good gracious, hadn't you Mrs. Prynne? I thought they were engaged."

"Nonsense! Imagine John marrying a paper doll! I don't know who started that report unless it was Mrs. Billop."

"She's equal to anything, but I can't see her object unless she thought Mrs. Prynne had designs on Sidney."

"Poor Lottie! I think even she'd draw the line there! I was perfectly amazed when Paul told me about that supposed engagement, the day that Rachel's was announced, but I fancy that was really what put it into Mrs. Billop's head."

"I don't see why."

"Why of course you know John was in love with Rachel?"

Eva, who had been only languidly attentive, turned quickly. "What?"

Pamela reddened. "Didn't you know it? Didn't Rachel ever tell you about it?"

"Not a word."

Her visitor felt deliciously guilty; she had not intended to transgress her husband's injunctions, but, as long as she had inadvertently let the cat out of the bag, there was a wicked satisfaction in seeing Eva's amazed incredulity.

"Well, of course I knew it," she said sweetly, nibbling her strawberry, "it was perfectly easy to see; John's so thoroughly masculine that he can't hide it; you know men are just like ostriches; they bury their heads in the sand and think they're completely hidden."

"If it was so obvious, it seems rather strange, doesn't it, that I never heard anything about it?"

"Well, I suppose of course Rachel didn't reciprocate and so you didn't notice."

Eva deliberated; she began to suspect that Pamela was watching her. "No, Rachel didn't reciprocate," she risked at last; "that's certain, isn't it?"

"Yes, if we take it for granted that we always marry the people we care for."

Eva blushed,—a blush that spread painfully from brow to chin and throat,—her eyelids quivered and drooped from Pamela's gaze, she clasped her hands tightly under the table.

"Don't you think Rachel's too superbly honest to do anything else?" she asked.

"I think Rachel's perfectly lovely and the dearest girl in the world, but she looks—oh, Eva, can't you see how wretched she looks?"

"No, I haven't seen it, and she can't be; I won't let her be!" Eva's face quivered.

"There, now I've made you unhappy!" lamented Pamela, sincerely distressed and contrite. "I shouldn't have said it, but Rachel does look so pale, so worn, and you know I do love her."

"You can't love her as I do; she's the dearest thing in the world! She isn't unhappy: I won't believe it; and this is all nonsense about Charter. You dreamed it, Pamela!"

"Oh, I only said that he was in love with her!"

"You implied the rest of it!"

"I'm such a romantic idiot; Paul says so."

"I hope people aren't talking about it."

"Oh, no, no!"

Eva sank back in her chair and pressed her hands over her eyes for an instant. "Why in the world did you want to frighten me so, Pamela?"

"But I didn't. I only went on talking about Rachel when I should have held my tongue; I didn't mean to worry you, but she does look wretchedly unwell and—"

"Who does?" said Astry, who had entered as she spoke.

Pamela, in some discomfiture, cast an appealing glance at Eva, but Eva offered no explanations and she was compelled to rise to the emergency alone.

"We were talking of Rachel; I think she's feeling the heat," she said feebly, as Astry shook hands with her.

"Nonsense, it's been quite cool out here and Rachel's never complained of the weather. Belhaven just told me that she'd refused to go to Newport."

Pamela looked about for her parasol and gloves; she knew that John Charter had gone to Newport to visit an aunt.

"I think it's perfectly abominable myself,—I mean the weather," she said desperately; "we're going to-morrow."

Astry moved easily over to the mantelpiece and began to arrange one of his Chinese gods. "There'll be an exodus now," he remarked, "since Congress adjourned yesterday. Massachusetts Avenue is boarded up already; only the unfashionable will dare to stay in the face of those shutters. I expect Eva to go to Lenox."

"I'm not going anywhere," she replied quickly; "this is my summer off. Don't go, Pamela; stay and we'll go over to see Rachel."

But Pamela felt guilty; if she had only skimmed the surface, she had certainly skimmed it very thoroughly. "I can't stay; think of the things I've got to do before half-past seven to-morrow morning."

"Nothing half as important as staying to see your friends," said Astry.

But Pamela would not be diverted from her flight, though she stood on the terrace a moment while she raised her pink parasol and whirled it slowly around before balancing it over her head.

"If I had a view like this I'd stay too!" she declared.

Eva, standing in the door, looked out over the magnificent prospect with languid eyes.

"Oh, you'd get tired of it! I sometimes want to paint the dome sky-blue—as the monkey did his tail."

Disregarding Eva's irreverence, Pamela waved again from the lower terrace, and then they watched her go down the long road until the fluttering pink parasol diminished to the size of a new blown peony.

Astry, who had escorted her to the gate, came back slowly and his wife noticed for the first time that his expression was unusually grave. In the broad sunshine she saw the crow's-feet about his eyes and the streak of gray in his hair; he was not handsome, but distinguished, and he had that indefinable air that is inalienable from a man of his birth and breeding. As he approached, he took a letter out of his pocket and Eva's fascinated eyes, following his movements, discovered that the envelope was small and odiously blue. Her hand tightened its hold on the white pilaster beside the door and she stood quite still, though a thrill of panic shot through her with an almost irresistible impulse of flight. He came up and proffered the letter gravely.

"I think this is yours."

She took it mechanically, coloring again almost as painfully as she had under Pamela's observation.

"Craggs brought it up with my mail this morning, I hope by mistake, but there have been others like it and it seemed worth while to tell you."

"I don't see why you keep that man!"

"My dear Eva, the excellent Craggs is invaluable; he knows how to press my trousers and hold his tongue."

"He creeps about the house like a spy."

Astry turned quickly. "I hope you don't think I employ servants to watch my wife."

She bit her lip, sudden tears in her eyes.

Her husband's face changed sharply. "At least I deserve fair treatment; I'm incapable of sinking to such a depth as that."

"You know I dislike the man."

"That's neither here nor there; the question's more vital. Did you suppose because of what I said to you that night, the night of Rachel's engagement," his voice halted an instant and then went on, "that I had set Craggs to watch you?"

Eva leaned heavily against the door with the little blue note crushed in her hand. "There was nothing else for me to think," she said in a low voice.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Astry, "is that what you think of your husband?"

He turned away and was half-way across the terrace when a new thought arrested him and he came back.

"I spoke of that note just now to warn you. As I said, several have been put with my mail, though plainly addressed to you. I have reason to think that the servants do it purposely. I can assure you that I have no wish to see them."

Eva tried to answer him, to assure him that the letter was of no importance, but she could not; her tongue refused to utter the denial and she remained standing for a while as he had left her, her head resting against the white pilaster and her eyes closed. He had been dignified and almost kind and she felt humbled to the dust before his just anger. She began to be vaguely aware that she had judged him by a standard too mean for a man of his intellect and strength of character; she felt that she had given him the right to despise her and her humiliation strangled her natural impulse to defend herself at his expense. Besides, there was that letter in her pocket. How many of them had he seen? She shuddered at the thought of the blue conspicuousness of that cheap envelope with its over-powering perfume. No one could mistake one of them, and the servants had been watching them, the servants who probably knew the hand-writing. That thought thrust out the other which had clothed Astry in a new aspect.

She made her way into the house and slowly ascended the stairs to her own room. Her heart was heavy as she closed the door and locked it. Then she drew the letter out of her pocket, read it, and tore it up with keen disgust. It was from her former maid, Zélie, and it demanded five hundred dollars. There had been three of these in a month, and to each of them Eva had responded with a cheque. But money only increased the demand for money; it was like casting a piece of paper into a sucking draught of a furnace,—it was consumed in a twinkling.

Ever since Rachel dismissed the French girl, Eva had been in terror of her tongue, and then blackmail actually began. At first it was easy to pay a little, and then a little more; the sense of security was too sweet to be dear at any price. But security could not be purchased; a hundred was a mere drop in the bucket, and Zélie could dictate her terms. She was with Mrs. Billop; Mrs. Billop desired to know everything, but Zélie had been faithful to Eva, how faithful Eva could judge, but she was perishing for money, she was the sole support of aged parents, she must be paid or—she left the rest to Eva's imagination, and Eva knew Mrs. Billop. She longed extremely to be rid of Mrs. Billop and Zélie, but money was no longer plentiful; she had nearly exhausted her own cheque-book and an appeal to Astry was impossible, since their relations were strained to the breaking-point. She had borrowed heavily of Rachel, but now even Rachel asked questions. Of course there was Belhaven, but here some instinct innate in her blood stayed Eva; she was not sordid and she hated to ask Belhaven to pay the price of Zélie's silence. Moreover she felt that Belhaven was slipping away from her; he had honestly kept faith with Rachel, he had tried to let the past go, and, lately, she had even felt in his manner, his detached air, his vagrant glances, that he had ceased altogether to feel her spell, that he was eluding her. He no longer looked only at her, he no longer felt her presence in the room; he had grown distant and deeply thoughtful. Clearly she could not appeal to Belhaven.

Alone in her room Eva went over her accounts, studying them with an anxiety new to her. She wrote an eager note to one of her father's trustees suggesting a new investment that would bring greater results; then she remembered Aunt Drusilla Leven, still in her self-imposed exile. An appeal to her would, perhaps, avert the danger if Aunt Drusilla had managed to recuperate financially in the interval. Meanwhile Eva could only spare two hundred for the cormorant which is called blackmail. Only two hundred—that made five thousand in five months. The sum was appalling. Eva rebelled against it, and she rose and paced the room angrily, her cheeks red. She needed a great deal of money herself; she was wildly extravagant, and she would have to curtail her own luxuries for this. It was odious! A servant, a little French girl, a worthless creature, who was to be feared chiefly because she would not hesitate to falsify the matter from the beginning to the end and make a mountain out of a mole-hill! She would not endure it, and she tore up the cheque and wrote one for fifty and a note to say it was the last, she had paid enough.

She received no reply to this letter; no word was said, no sign made. After all, she reflected, she had won the victory; she had only needed a little courage. What a fool she had been!

Yes, what a fool, but the piper must always be paid.

XI

That night was a sleepless one for Eva. Not only did the thought of that little blue note recur to her constantly, but also the remembrance of Pamela's talk about Charter. Could it possibly be true? She recalled Rachel's face that night with a new perception of its anguish. At the time she had been too much absorbed in her own misery to see her sister's distress, but now her quickened mind leaped to conclusions. Was it possible that the announcement of Mrs. Prynne's engagement had influenced Rachel, that she had taken the leap in the dark because she was hurt to the quick? If so, the return of Charter a free man and still in love with her must have been the crowning agony of it all.

Eva sat up in bed in the soft darkness of the summer night and conjured up the past weeks, and at every point she found evidence, at every turn she saw the mark of Rachel's footprints ahead of her. It has been said that it is natural to hate one whom we have deeply injured, and at first Eva had recoiled from Rachel, but now a sudden rush of feeling carried her back to the days when they had been children together and Rachel had always given up to her, always petted her. Rachel's love had been like a well that was too deep for Eva's shallow plummet to fathom. Reviewing all the events that had crowded on the heels of Astry's accusation, Eva found no crumb of comfort for herself. She had suffered loss and mortification and a keen and excruciating anxiety; she had saved herself, as it were, at the slippery edge of the chasm, but she had been forced to crawl and cling to that edge ever since. She had sacrificed her sister, but, although she had saved herself for the moment, she had not achieved security, for there was Zélie. The little French girl who had discovered how near Mrs. Astry had been to running away with Belhaven held a rod of iron over her head that not even Rachel could avert. If it fell, it would not only ruin Eva but it would involve her innocent sister in the disgrace. It was characteristic of Eva that she nearly got out of bed to write another and larger cheque for Zélie, but she had not the courage; instead she shrank back into the pillows, afraid of the darkness and the solitude, afraid that if she moved Astry might hear her.

Through her terror and anxiety, too, filtered the thought, vague at first but crystallized at last into coherent shape, that she had gained nothing at all, not even the love of Belhaven, for, when she forced him to the alternative of his cowardly marriage to save her reputation, she had lost his affection, if she had ever had it! That was a question that tore her heart, for Eva, loving admiration and worship at her shrine, was disgusted with the idea that perhaps after all she had got herself into this horrible tangle for a man who had never really loved her and who, therefore, gave her up the more easily. She had lost everything then, she argued, and not even gained her own soul. Eva was just beginning to recognize that the Way of the Transgressors is hard.

In the morning she was troubled again at the new aspect in which her husband appeared. He was grave and almost kind; if he watched her, she was not aware of it, and he made no reference to those awful blue notes. She looked at him covertly, while trying to swallow her coffee, and discovered new lines about his eyes and mouth, a certain settled gravity of demeanor that seemed to remove him further and further from her, to alienate even his admiration and the keener tribute of his jealousy; she began to be vaguely aware that she was no longer first even with him. She had never loved him, and while she thought he loved her it was pleasant to flout him, but his indifference was altogether another matter. If blessings brighten as they take their flight, Astry's love certainly increased in value as it diminished. She was conscious, too, that he talked less than had been his custom when they were first married; he had dropped into the habit of absorbing his newspaper with his coffee and she found herself in the common wifely predicament of either remaining quiescent or trying to read the news upside down across the breakfast-table. Eva, who had been spoiled all her life, chafed under this commonplace treatment; it was disgusting to find herself suddenly of no importance. She did not yet recognize the inalienable truth of the maxim that indifference is the death of love, that no human being can go on forever loving another without the shadow of a return, and that there are few so humble that they care to pick up the crumbs that fall under the table. She had treated Astry with a pretty and languid indifference; she had violated his sense of the proprieties by encouraging the love-making of other men, and she had finally, it seemed, murdered his love for her.

The situation was quite unbearable and, pushing aside her plate, she rose from the table and began to tie on a large sun-hat of lace and muslin that framed her delicate face in its soft and filmy folds.

Astry glanced up from his paper. "You'll find it warm; it's eighty-five in the shade."

She shot an indignant glance at the paper behind which he had immediately subsided. "I don't think I'll feel it!"

Astry made no reply and Eva passed out of the long French window on to the piazza, but, instead of descending into the rose garden, which was situated on that side of the house, she made her way slowly across the terrace and through the tennis-court to the road. There she stood a moment considering, her white dress gathered up in both hands.

The road was shady and inviting, but it led directly past Rachel's front door and, although she was going there, she did not want to meet Belhaven. She had tried lately to avoid an encounter, and while she stood there, undecided, she was almost startled by the appearance of the postman, who stopped to hand her a letter. She took it gingerly, but a glance reassured her; it was not Zélie again, but only Pamela. Standing under the shade of a friendly locust, Eva broke the seal and glanced hastily at the careless, fashionable scrawl.

"Dear Eva:—You looked so distressed when I went away that I can't forget it. Don't think of what I said; I don't know anything, and I'm sure Rachel never loved Charter, if she did why marry Belhaven? Don't you see how simple it is? Do take more care of yourself. We're off at seven thirty-five to-morrow, a brutal hour, but I hope it will be cooler. In haste, yours,

"Pamela."

In spite of herself Eva smiled. Her friend's method of solving the problem was so entirely the usual method of people who try to solve the problems of others. Pamela, in an effort to comfort, was only turning the weapon in the wound, as the ignorant sympathizer will tear the heart open by uttering condolences that only strip the horror of all decent covering and accumulate the agony. Pamela's argument only furnished another reason for Eva to feel keenly distressed; she began to be convinced that Rachel had really loved Charter, while she had thrust Belhaven upon her at the very moment when she thought that her lover had forgotten her to marry Mrs. Prynne. Eva tore up Pamela's note and, scattering the bits broadcast, walked on under the trees; but she could not escape the thought that possessed her, it had become an idée fixe. It explained so many things, it goaded her with a hundred little pricks of pain. She scarcely noticed her path under the familiar trees, and she found none of Rachel's pleasure in a flower by the wayside or a bird in the bush. The simple, homely things of nature, the things of the Creator which comforted one sister, passed unseen by the other. Eva only observed that there was no one in the cedar grove and she entered by the little turnstile that led her to the rear of the house. She felt almost like some trespasser skulking along behind the rhododendrons, but she could not make up her mind to face the ordeal of Rachel and Belhaven together. She stopped once or twice, her graceful figure concealed by the clustering foliage, and peeped through some vista in the greenwood. The old, rambling house nestled under the trees with a peculiarly friendly and inviting aspect, and Eva perceived, with a fresh pang, how entirely Rachel had transformed it and clothed it with beauty and quaintness.

The deep-seated chairs on the wide veranda, the cool awnings, the lovely coloring of the flower-beds, all suggested the fostering hand of a woman clothed with those peculiar gifts which make home beautiful. Eva perceived it with a new keenness of vision and her heart sank as she recalled the unreal splendor of the big house that she had never loved to dwell in, which had been altogether for show and entertainment, and where she dreaded now to be alone with Astry. With this thought came another: with a sharp stab of pain, she wondered if Belhaven saw the difference, if he felt it too?

She had scarcely asked herself this question, however, when he appeared and she drew back with an involuntary start, forgetting that the rhododendrons completely screened her from his careless glance. But, after the first panic, she peeped out again and saw him lighting his cigar with the comfortable air of the habitué. He was clad in a suit of light summer flannels and wore a straw hat, and it seemed to Eva that he looked younger and taller than usual. He stood a moment on the steps and then sauntered down the driveway and disappeared through the gate. As he went he turned, looked back, and raised his hat with a courteous gesture. Eva caught her breath; then Rachel was watching him go!

After all, perhaps her distress was groundless, perhaps these two had found a way to reconcile themselves to their fate. She stood still, her lips compressed, thinking; with her old, soft self-pity, she thought her own position the hardest in the world, and that she had created the situation herself did not alleviate its misery. It was, perhaps, this very selfishness, this desire to find that no grief was as great as her own, that drove her on, for she only remained a moment in doubt; the next she was crossing the short stretch of lawn between the rhododendrons and the rear door. Sure now that Belhaven was out, she trailed leisurely across the intervening space and made her way to the front of the house.

As she had anticipated, she found Rachel in the front hall, but not even jealousy could detect any embarrassment or tenderness in her expression; instead, young Mrs. Belhaven looked deeply depressed. The sisters greeted each other with that constraint which was the natural result of their mutual knowledge. Rachel had been engaged in arranging some long-stemmed roses in a tall vase and she went on with her task, selecting them from a great cluster that lay on the table at her side. Eva picked up one or two and pressed them languidly against her face while she asked the usual desultory questions about the house and their mutual friends.

"Pamela went away this morning," she announced; "she came out yesterday to bid me good-by."

Rachel went on with the roses. "She needs a change: she's fallen off since last winter; Pamela's always in motion, like a merry-go-round."

"She thinks you look perfectly wretched."

"How complimentary! It seems we must have been taking stock of each other without any illusions on either side."

"You do look badly, Rachel, so white! You aren't ill, are you?"

"Do I look any whiter than you do? Come, Eva, we can't expect to look blooming; we've been through so much, you and I."

"I was in hopes I didn't show it; I can see that you do."

Rachel looked at her over the roses, a little vexed. "Well, you do show it."

"Do I?"

Eva went over to the mirror and gazed at her own reflection. The grace and loveliness of outline, the exquisite color of hair and eyes remained, but her face—now that she looked at it in the full light of the open door—was almost transparently pale. She sighed.

"I've gone off worse than Pamela!"

"With more cause, I'm sure," said Rachel bitterly.

"Oh, I've suffered!" Eva threw her two roses back on the table with the petulant gesture of a child, "no one knows how I've suffered!"

Rachel picked up the discarded roses and put them carefully into the vase. "Have you never thought of me, Eva?"

"That's one of the things that make it so bad, Rachel; I've thought of it often. I know it must be dreadful for you, it must be!"

"I don't think that quite expresses it."

Rachel spoke dispassionately, but as she turned and stood facing Eva, the ravages of pain were apparent in the dark shadows under the eyes, the delicately hollowed cheeks, the tightening of the sensitive lips. It had not diminished her beauty, which was less dependent on color than Eva's, and the subtle charm of her expression was deepened and accentuated; Eva felt it.

"Rachel, I'm certain that he—that he'll learn to love you better than he ever loved me; I know he hates me now!"

"Can't you let him go out of your life altogether?"

Eva shook her head slowly. "How can I? Think of all it meant to us, to you and me, Rachel! Besides, I've suffered."

Rachel looked at her with forbearance; she was unchanged after all, and she was in need of pity and help like a child.

"You'll have to bear it, Eva; I have to."

"Then—" Eva dragged the words out—"you are wretched?"

"Why do you want to dwell on it? What good does it do? We've got to bear it."

Eva caught Rachel by both arms, holding her and looking at her. "Rachel, tell me, were you in love with Charter?"

Rachel recoiled, tried to drag herself away. "Why do you want to know? What right have you to ask?"

Eva clung to her. "I must know, I must!"

But Rachel made no response; instead she eluded her sister's grasp and went to the open door. She stood there, looking out past the young hemlocks and the maples, across a field of wheat, where a flock of crows skimming low over it showed black against the golden grain. Suddenly she hid her face in her hands, and her whole slender figure, shaken with emotion, quivered from head to foot.

"You needn't tell me," said Eva's voice behind her, "I know!"

There was a long silence. The hot, August sunshine filtered through the foliage of the maples and flecked the gravel path with gold; there was a dusky haze about the horizon, while the sky overhead was vividly blue. A faint, hot wind ran over the yellow grain in long, quivering waves and the vivid atmosphere seemed to pulsate and throb with heat.

"Rachel, I can't bear it, it's too much—and I did it—I did it all!"

Poor Rachel turned and went back to the table and began mechanically to arrange and rearrange the roses. "It's no use to talk of it, Eva; it's over and done with now!"

"No, it isn't, it can't be! You've got to face it and so have I—" Her voice broke with self-pity, but her grief for Rachel was quite as sincere. She looked at her in anguish—"You must hate me!"

"Do you think hate made me do it?"

"No, you were an angel, but you're human; you must hate me now!"

"No, I don't hate you, but—sometimes—I've been very angry with you, Eva. God knows I wish you'd never done it!"

"You've every right to hate me," the penitent lamented. "I—I lied about you to save myself."

Rachel could endure no more; she covered her ears with her hands. "Oh, Eva, please go away, let me be; I can't stand it!"

Eva looked at her a moment in silence and then ran out of the house. She went home blindly, not feeling the heat, and following the shade of the woodpath by instinct. Before her went the anguished face of Rachel; she knew at last that she had ruined her sister's life, she had lost all, and gained nothing. She had set out gayly on the Way of the Transgressors; with bleeding feet she was coming slowly and painfully back from the Way.

Astry was alone in the library when his wife entered it an hour later and he rose and put down his book. Something in her face warned him that a climax had been reached. Eva flung her big white hat on the table and sank into a chair.

"Take me away, please, to-morrow," she said. "I can't stand it here a moment longer."

Astry turned to the window and deliberately lit his pipe, but his hand shook as he struck the match. Was this an appeal for help? Was she coming back to him to save her?

"We'll go to-morrow," he said, and his voice was almost kind. His old anger against her had died down to ashes, he no longer felt the rage and jealousy of passion; the small figure in the chair and the bent, golden head looked almost childish, and he no longer hardened his heart.

XII

Belhaven came back from town rather late in the afternoon. He had ridden out on the front seat of an open car, talking in a desultory way to the gripman, chiefly because it seemed to afford him a perverse pleasure to disregard the large sign overhead which forbade conversation with the motorman. He was in a mood to enjoy breaking all rules in a puny effort to feel independent. For, if the truth be told, he had felt for months as if Astry had caught him and chained him up, much as the infidel Turks used to chain their Christian captives to the oars when their galleys went into battle.

Not even a long day at the club had relaxed his mood and he was far from feeling as gay and debonair as he had appeared to Eva when she had observed him through the leaves of the rhododendrons. He was deeply vexed with himself, ashamed of the part he had played, disgusted that he had sacrificed so much for a feeling that had proved to be so ephemeral, that he had given up his own freedom and even his self-respect to shield a woman who could toss him aside, at the first alarm, as easily as she would have discarded a soiled glove.

These reflections had become, of late, so habitual that Belhaven found it difficult to control his passionate resentment; like Eva herself, he was engrossed with the spectacle of his own misery, but he longed, more keenly than she did, to visit it on some one else. It added nothing to the joy of the situation either to be well aware of Astry's scorn. It did not require a very delicate perception to understand his attitude, and the bare politeness with which he treated Belhaven made the latter long to strangle him. It amazed him even now, in his moments of blind fury, that he had ever been afraid to encounter Astry's anger, for it seemed to him that he hungered exceedingly for an opportunity to avenge the contemptuous scorn of the other man's manner. To use the metaphor that came uppermost in Belhaven's own mind, he longed "to have it out with him," and the very impossibility of any outbreak that would lead to exposure made it all the more maddening. He could not speak now without betraying Eva, and it seemed to be his lot in life to swallow the polished insults of Eva's husband.

The heat of the August afternoon did not tend to decrease the heat of his mood, and Belhaven, having left the tram at the corner of the avenue, walked slowly along in the dust of the highway, using his stick to knock off the heads of the wayside flowers with a vicious stroke that was at least a small vent for an irritation that had reached the limits of his endurance.

It was anything but a pleasure, therefore, to see Astry himself approaching, seated alone in his smart little trap, driving one of the finest of his thoroughbreds, while Belhaven was fairly in the way to be covered with the dust from his wheels. But, in spite of the feeling which he inspired, Astry was not inclined to dash the gravel of the roadside upon his enemy; instead he drew up as he came within earshot, and leaning over, with his whip-hand resting on the edge of the seat, he called out, in a tone that was unconsciously that of superiority and indifference, a perfectly casual greeting.

"I say, going straight home?"

The tone, as well as the look that accompanied this remark, affected Belhaven almost as agreeably as a sudden attack by obnoxious insects.

"Where did you suppose I was going?" he retorted, his face flushing darkly with anger.

But Astry took no notice of this reply.

"Tell Rachel that we sail day after to-morrow. I've wired for staterooms on the 'Marianna.' Some one failed at the last moment and we got them."

Belhaven was sufficiently startled to answer more rationally. "Rather sudden, isn't it? I thought you were going to Lenox."

Astry resumed his erect position and gathered up the reins. "Eva simply went to pieces this morning," he said, meeting the other man's look with a direct cold stare, "collapsed and begged me to take her away at once."

"She looked perfectly well when I saw her last," Belhaven exclaimed, in open surprise.

"Well, she isn't now; the doctor's just ordered a sea voyage. Tell Rachel I said so."

"Extremely sorry, I'm sure," Belhaven stammered slightly, digging his stick in the dirt.

But Astry merely nodded and drove on, his beautiful horse, already restive at the delay, sweeping down hill and away at a rate of speed that would have to be moderated at the city limits.

His brother-in-law, feeling figuratively, if not actually, deluged in the dust from his wheels, walked slowly on, past the wide, Georgian gateway and into the grove of cedars that led more directly to his own house. As he went, his reflections were scarcely more agreeable than they had been before this encounter, and he experienced a feeling of bitterness at the thought that Eva always managed to escape. She had escaped at his expense on a previous occasion, and now, when the situation was so hideously unpleasant, she had only to affect illness to induce a doctor to order her to Europe. The convenience of this arrangement was too much like stratagem to escape Belhaven's suspicions and it marked one more lap in the long road that he had entered. He had learned, to his cost, that an affection that can be so easily diverted from its lawful channel is, after all, of too thin and desultory a quality to be worth the trouble of capture. It was evident that Eva cared no more for him than she had cared for her husband, but that she did care very devotedly for herself, that she would never willingly permit a lovely hair of her head to be injured, or suffer a single pang that she could escape. And for this he had wrecked his life!

These thoughts, bitter enough in the first blaze of disillusionment, brought him to the edge of the garden. Looking across it, he was suddenly aware of Rachel, although she was quite unconscious of his approach. The quaint flower garden, with its long rows of old box and its gravel paths, lay on the east side of the house and, at this hour of the day, was pleasantly shadowed and fragrant with flowers. Rachel had planted many of the old-fashioned flower-beds herself with that feverish energy that we display when it is necessary to find some vent for our misery, some commonplace occupation that will hide the suffering that it cannot heal.

At this moment she was kneeling in the gravel path beside a bed of heliotrope, clipping away dead leaves and blossoms and rearranging, with the aid of a trowel, some of the smaller plants. She was bareheaded and the charming oval of her face was delicately framed by the dusky rumple of her soft hair, while her white sleeves were folded back above the elbow and she wielded her trowel with dexterous fingers. The simplicity of her attitude and the earnestness with which she delved after a vagrant plant, that had intruded itself into the sacred precincts of her heliotrope, were as refreshing as a bouquet of homely flowers in the gorgeously barren splendor of Eva's drawing-room. It was just this thought, this impression of the clear contrast between the two sisters, that arrested Belhaven at the edge of the garden, and he stood, unobserved, watching Rachel as she lifted her stray deftly out of the earth and, making another hole for it in a bed of friendly petunias, set it down and pressed the soil back around the roots with the tender care that makes the lover of Nature respect the life of the humblest seedlings of the garden. He noticed, too, as Eva had noticed, the delicate hollows in the cheeks, the shadows under the eyes, and the tight line of the lips, and he fancied that there was a greater need here for care and a change of scene than existed in Eva's case. But most of all the homely occupation, the apparent absorption in an uninteresting task, surprised him; he had been accustomed all his life to women of fashion, to the idle butterflies of a society that drifted from Washington to Newport or Lenox, the Hot Springs or Florida, when it did not immediately take flight to London, Paris or the Riviera. To see a young and beautiful woman kneeling on the ground to delve in a flower-bed was something so new that it interested him. After all, he reflected, Rachel had kept her word; she was unconventional and she was always doing something that he did not expect. It was at this point in his reflections that she looked up and suspended her labors long enough to make a remark so conventional that he almost smiled.

"You found it hot coming out, didn't you?"

"No, I came on the front of the tram; no one felt the weather but an old colored woman who was carrying a watermelon."

Rachel went on patting the earth down with her trowel. "The melon will repay her for that. I thought Harter was to go for you in the motor."

"He missed me then." Belhaven had come down between the box borders and stood now, with his hands in his pockets, observing her plants. "I say, where did you get all that heliotrope? I didn't know there were so many shades."

"Didn't you? I bought the plants; you know it was too late to start them from seeds when—I came—" the instant of hesitation was perceptible and he noticed the delicate color that softly suffused the cheek that she tried to turn away from him.

He made no immediate reply and the soft pat of her trowel went on. The green shadows were lengthening across the long lawns and there was no other sound but the hum of a bumblebee who kept trying to intrude into the heliotrope.

At last he spoke with an effort. "I just met Astry; he sent a message to you."

She suspended her trowel without looking up. "Yes?"

"They sail for Europe on Saturday."

Rachel stopped short in her work. "Going to Europe on Saturday? Why, I can't understand—Eva was here this morning."

"Astry says she's broken down and the doctor's ordered a trip to Europe."

"She said nothing about it; I—I thought her quite well."

"So did I," said Belhaven dryly, "but it seems that the doctor was called in."

Rachel rose, gathering up her trowel and shears. "I must go and 'phone to her; I can't understand."

Belhaven moved about among the flower-beds, examining them much as an explorer would look at a newly discovered specimen. "I think you need a change yourself," he said at last; "you've had as much of it as—the rest of us."

"Oh, I can't go!"

Something in her tone made him turn sharply.

"You mean you can't go anywhere with me; that I'm too horrible to take along?"

She flung him an eloquent look. "Need we talk of such things at all?"

He frowned. "To tell you the truth I hate to feel that I'm a—a sort of a crocodile to you."

In spite of herself Rachel laughed hysterically. "I often think I must be almost that to you!" she replied.

He hesitated; a strange feeling had taken possession of him, the old landmarks were being swept away, he no longer belonged to the false and trivial world that had once been his only idea of life. He was shipwrecked, but across the sea he seemed to catch glimpses of a lovelier, saner existence,—"he who loses his life shall find it." More than once lately he had remembered the words though he could not remember where he had seen them. But he had not the courage to say any of these things to his wife.

"I wish you'd let me take you away; you'd be as free of my society as you are here,—more so, for we wouldn't be so observed by our friends,—and I think the change would be a blessing to you."

Rachel blushed slightly again. "Thank you," she said quite gently, "but—I just can't—not now. Later I'd like to go to Boston. I think you belong to clubs there, don't you? And I could get a chance to go out to Cambridge; my aunt is coming back and—and I'd like to go there to her."

He faced her without coming a step nearer, but with a new and quite humble air. "I wish you'd feel that I really want to please you," he said.

She looked down at the trowel in her hands and saw the marks of the earth on her fingers. "Thank you," she said, almost shyly, and went away from him across the lawn, and he saw her, a moment later, disappear into the house.

"She's a good sport," he said to himself, in the language that was most familiar to him, "a downright good sport, and I've been a beastly cad."

XIII

All this while Charter had been away. He had left Washington almost immediately and was taking his leave out of the sphere of its influence; he even dreaded the possibility of a summons to report at the War Department. Not that he was afraid to meet the problem and grapple with it, but he was determined to conquer it, and Rachel's very presence, under the altered conditions, had been too distracting a pain. If he was ever to see his way through it, he must see it without her. She had removed herself from his life and he had lived so long near the thought of her that her absence seemed to take the magic part of life away, to leave him a bare skeleton of meaningless days.

At first it was indeed impossible to believe in their final separation; there seemed to exist some indestructible tie between them, spiritual and therefore immortal, born of their community of soul, their absolute sympathy, their old happy comradeship. He could not quite believe that Rachel did not belong to him, that, instead, she belonged to Belhaven, and it was the necessity of recognizing that which forced him to the overt act of flight. He must feel that he was mistaken, that no infrangible bond existed between their spirits, that he was free as Rachel had shown that she felt herself to be free. He could not have explained this feeling, his folly as he called it, to himself, but he tried to urge on the process of dissolution, to slip out of the shackles, and the fact that he knew intuitively that Rachel was unhappy had not made the process of forgetting easier. To stand outside of her life, put out of it by her own act, and to witness her misery was like pouring gall into his wound; even his magnificent courage blenched before it.

For a nature like his absence does very little; life regained its normal aspect, but individually he felt lopsided. Rachel's disappearance from her place in his plans and his hopes left them toppling over, only half complete, and he was continually groping about for a solution of his problem, a way to regain the old, equable poise. He even wanted to go back to the Philippines, a desire which made his brother officers smile sardonically. They thought that John had always been a fool, and now he had apparently become besottedly fond of living in a hole with the sole object of relieving the troubles of a few common soldiers and helping the Filipinos.

The common soldiers and the Filipinos were fervent in their desire to have John back but he did not get there. In fact he found himself suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, appreciated. The War Department was not disposed to let him hide his light under a bushel. For some unheard of reason they began to realize his value. He did not get his orders to the Philippine Islands, but he got a medal from Congress for his distinguished courage at Caloocan, a matter that seemed to have been just remembered. If he had been willing, young Captain Charter would have been quite a hero; as it was, he had to spend most of his time, while visiting his aunt at Newport, dodging social lion-tamers, and he began to dread the sight of a motor filled with ladies in fashionable attire making its way to the front door. If he had the habit of command he had not the attendant love of publicity, and he hated to move continually before the public eye, garbed, as it were, in the pomp and panoply of war. He went on obscure fishing trips with old seafaring characters; he went tramping in the woods and fields; but he could not escape the incense of popular admiration as a hero, nor the disturbing ripple of Pamela's letters. For Pamela kept him informed; from her he heard that Eva had broken down in the heat of August and the Astrys had consequently taken a flying trip to Europe. About Rachel his fair correspondent was more discreet, but she let drop a hint now and then, and he knew when, at the approach of fall, the Belhavens went away together for a brief visit in Boston, Aunt Drusilla Leven having returned from her exile to her little house in Cambridge, where she was likely, so Pamela wrote, to have to live on salt cod and kippered herring until the first of January, when her dividends would have at last arrived. "You know," Pamela added, "that college towns are fearfully expensive and even top round is out of sight up there!"

The knowledge that the Belhavens were probably still absent was a more material comfort to Charter when, in December, he got the dreaded order to report in Washington for staff duty at the White House. At the same time Paul Van Citters wrote to invite him to spend Christmas with them, and casually mentioned that the Belhavens had been away since Thanksgiving, though the Astrys were home again. Pamela had carefully instructed her husband in this portion of his letter and it had the desired effect. John was lonely, he dreaded Christmas, and he had no objections to going to the Van Citterses, as long as he had to be in Washington by the first of the year. Paul talked of going south for a shooting trip; John did not care a pin about it, but he did not want to shoot himself and sometimes he felt dangerously like it. For there are strenuous moments when even the most rational human being lets go of the normal facts of life and feels those destructive forces at work within himself, tearing away his resolutions, letting slip the material bonds that make existence possible, turning back the wheels of life, loosening the noose that holds the body and the will together. John was tired of the struggle; he had put Rachel out of his life, but, as yet, he had not replaced her. To escape the bonds of such a passion it is a vital necessity, they say, to supplant it, and John's great simplicity of soul had not yet reached this easy solution. To him it would not have been easy, chiefly because there were so few like Rachel, so few had her sweetness and her subtle charm.

The day that he arrived in Washington he was received only by Mr. Van Citters' mother, as it happened that Paul had been called to Baltimore to see a sick friend and Pamela was out at a formal luncheon at the White House. These engagements were sufficiently pressing to excuse their temporary failure to welcome their cousin, and, after lunching with his elderly hostess, Charter found time to go out for a stroll before Pamela was likely to return. He had intended to avoid the neighborhood of the Belhaven house, but they were absent, so he found it easy to excuse himself for turning his steps in that direction. The road outside of the city was more inviting, the tempter argued insidiously, and he was less likely to meet chance acquaintances; besides, it was unnecessary to go within a bow-shot of the dangerous neighborhood.

It was a crisp December day; there was snow behind the hedgerows and here and there he saw a snowbird or a woodpecker. The growing familiarity of the scene afforded him a curious kind of comfort. He was only vaguely aware of those mysterious forces that were continually turning him in one direction, and he thought that he had conquered himself, that he could risk even the sights and sounds that recalled most vividly that supreme moment when his universe had toppled over like a house of cards. Moreover, the city had grown beyond his recollection during his absence in the Philippines, and a new block of houses had so entirely altered the appearance of the neighborhood, and he had been so occupied with his own thoughts, that he was surprised to find himself at a turn of the road where he must pass the lower driveway between the entrance to Astry's estate and the old Belhaven place. But, after a moment's hesitation, he went on and, glancing down at the low rambling house, saw the smoke ascending from the chimneys and a large, gray motor standing in the stable-yard. Then he suddenly remembered that Paul's statement that they had been away since Thanksgiving did not contain a guarantee that they would remain away until spring. Sharply aware of the shock that he had received, John called himself a fool to have risked meeting Rachel so soon again. Yet the thought of it gave him a pleasure nearly as poignant as pain. She arose before his mind's eye with the clearness of a perfect revelation; he seemed to see at once the graceful erectness of her slight figure, the delicate face, the charming eyes, the mouth that had both tenderness and strength.

John averted his eyes from the house, for that made Belhaven certain; it clothed the situation in flesh and drove it to his heart. But the long grove of cedars, their pungent odor, the sweep of the frozen field, the bare poles of the wood through which he caught here and there the glorious leap and flash of the sun on the snowy slopes beyond, these things reminded him of Rachel. They made the thought of her so vivid, so persuasive, that it seemed natural to see her in the flesh as he turned the last lap of the Astry meadows. She was alone; she had been to the house and was going home by a short cut through the woods. She wore no hat and the wind had ruffled her brown hair until it curled in little vagrant tendrils about her temples. A long, gray coat covered her to her feet and she had thrust her hands into the pockets, boy fashion, and was walking fast. A swift change passed over her face as she caught sight of him, a change that deepened the soft color in her cheeks and darkened her eyes.

John met her gravely, almost bluntly. "I didn't know until a moment ago that you were here!"

"Or you wouldn't have come?"

"Or I wouldn't have come."

"Can't we let it all go, John?" she asked, a little, pitiful quiver about her lips. "I hate to lose your friendship; it—has always been dear to me."

He stood still, looking down at the frosted grass. "I thought it was dear to me until I lost you!"

"It's cruel that there can be no middle course; must it be love or hate?"

"It must always be love, I think—I've tried to kill it, Rachel."

"It will die after a while a natural death. We can't talk about it; John, haven't I done enough to kill it? I've married some one else."

"As if I didn't know it!"

"I'm trying to help you kill it!"

"You can't," bitterly, "every word you say makes it more alive. I've no right to stand here and look at you; I ought to remember the Mosaic law about my neighbor's wife. I've always despised men who made love to married women, and now I'm one of them; how you must hate me, Rachel!"

She breathed hard as if in physical pain. "Don't, John; let us forget it—thrust it out of sight. Don't you see that it's wrong for me to listen? If you care so much I must mean something to you; have I deserved this at your hands?"

"Rachel!"

"You've forced me to say that; can't you see how it seems to me? I'm married to Belhaven and you think I ought to hear this. If I were married to you, John, would you want me to hear it from him?"

She had driven it home.

"Forgive me," he said hoarsely.

She saw the drawn look about his mouth and eyes and his pain deepened hers. "I don't want you to be less than yourself," she said gently.

"I'll try to get my lesson by rote," he said bitterly, "I shan't be a brute again."

She stooped down and, picking up a fallen acorn, turned it over in her hands as if she had discovered some new interest or virtue in it; she was trying to hide her face from him, for if he saw it he could surely read it. "I was going home by the woodpath," she said. "I've been to see Eva, but she's out somewhere, perhaps on her way to my house; I must go on."

"May I go with you? Or—"

"Of course you may come; we're going to be friends, aren't we?" Then, as they turned into the path: "I've heard all about your work in the Philippines; it was like you to say nothing of it. I was so glad of the promotion, too."

"I suppose it's all right," he said drearily. "I haven't thought much about it. I've been in Newport for five months, being invited to meet widows and orphans. Then I got orders to report here and Van Citters asked me down for Christmas. They told me that you and the Astrys were away for a while."

"Eva had to go in August: she broke down; but they came back in October. Johnstone has just imported a new Chinese god."

"I see that he hasn't reformed; I mean Johnstone, not the god. Has he gone in for any more new fads?"

They were forcing themselves to talk commonplaces.

"Occult science and Shintoism, I believe," she replied, still trifling with her acorn. "He has some new toy from the West Indies, but I don't know much about it; he calls it the red sphere."

"I wish I could have brought him a few odds and ends from the Philippines. I didn't—I remembered the story of Jim Fealey coming home with six church candlesticks and a mahogany sideboard as the spoils of war."

She did not answer him for a moment, she could not; and then she tried to divert his glance. "Look, isn't that view pretty? I love that bit—and see, there's a glimpse of the Astry gateposts."

They stopped midway in the woods and looked southward. There was a clearing, and in it a few gray rocks loomed out of the snow, while the hemlocks, still mantled in snow, parted to show the long curve of the meadows beyond and the stately gateway in the dark line of hedge. As they looked, a man and a woman crossed the path below them without looking up; she was weeping passionately and clinging to her companion's arm.

Rachel turned slowly away and walked on, and John dared not look at her, for they had both recognized the two below them in the wood. It was Belhaven with Eva.

Rachel walked ahead, turning her acorn over and over in her hand and looking at it curiously, unconscious that she did it. John walked behind her, blind with rage, the old primeval instinct to kill tearing at his heart. This was the man she had married, the man she had preferred to him!

They came to the edge of the woods; before them was the old, tavernlike house, with Paul's expensive roof and Colonial porch, that had cost his aunt three years of bonnets. Rachel paused an instant.

"They wanted to cut away those cedars in summer," she said, in a lifeless voice, "but I wouldn't let them. I love their graceful shapes and they screen the garden. There are some box borders there a hundred years old. I planted one whole square to heliotrope and I could smell the blossoms fifty yards away. I suppose, though, you've seen heliotrope hedges?"

"I've seen swamps, mosquitoes and Filipinos," said John dryly.

"One would think you took no interest in it, yet I know you gave your heart and soul to the cause; that's your way, John."

"You think better of me than I deserve. At heart I'm a raging savage, selfish and revengeful."

She did not look at him, but his voice told her that he had recognized Belhaven as quickly as she had, and a deep flush of mortification rose slowly to her hair. He thought that she was actually Belhaven's wife and that she was enduring Belhaven's love-making to Eva. The thought sickened her, the impulse to tell him the truth tore her heart with the fierceness of passion. She saw his anger for her and loved him for it, while she shrank from the shame of her situation. Her wounded pride was in arms; the first sickening realization that Eva was again to blame was, for the moment, lost in her quickened sense of personal shame. She felt a complicity in Eva's guilt, for had she not helped her deceive Astry? Was not Astry now fully avenged? Her own act had recoiled upon herself; she was reaping as she had sown. Her own act had made it impossible for her to right herself in John's eyes; she could not tell him the truth without betraying Eva. Her lips were sealed. Meanwhile, they had reached the door of the house and John halted, his attitude unmistakable.

"It's teatime," she said, and her voice sounded strange, even in her own ears, "won't you come in?"

"Not to-day."

She did not hold out her hand; it was trembling and she put it behind her. "Tell Pamela that I shall expect you all to-morrow," she said, with an effort.

John was conscious of mumbling some reply, and she turned and went into the house.

He was amazed at her composure, unaware that she was overwhelmed with shame at her own awkwardness. He was in no mood to see any fault in her manner; he was at a white heat of passion. He longed fiercely to take Belhaven by the nape of the neck, as a terrier takes a rat, and shake the life out of him, but he was aware that it was an age of law and order and the conventions. To go to the electric chair for killing Belhaven would not help Rachel; besides, for all he knew, Rachel loved her husband. John ground his teeth at the thought; to have Rachel's love cast away upon such an object was gall and wormwood. A situation that has occurred many times in this world seemed new to him and of intolerable wretchedness. To love well and to see the object of that affection bestowing love unworthily in quite another quarter is not uncommon, but to John it seemed the last straw. He plunged back into the wood with a grim determination in his heart. He was quite simple and sincere; there were no fine shades of reasoning and sarcastic self-examination about John: a beautiful spiritual endowment of honesty and faith was unaccompanied by brilliant worldly gifts, and he was peculiarly unfitted to deal with a man like Belhaven. John saw the truth sharply, spoke it and lived it, because it was his nature to be simple and sincere, and he was going to deal directly now with a problem so complex that another man would have paused before it. He did not; he pursued his purpose through the snowy path with the same singleness of heart with which Sir Galahad pursued the Holy Grail. The brickbat of John's perseverance was in evidence.

Nor was he disappointed. That which we seek diligently we shall find, and in the center of the wood he found Belhaven. The two men had known each other for years, though they had nothing in common, but even John saw the change in Belhaven's face. For six months he had been journeying upon the road which Astry had journeyed before him and he showed that he had passed many milestones, that he was well on toward the end. He looked, even to John's angry eyes, like a man sick at heart, but he spoke first.

"Hello, Charter, I hadn't heard you were here!"

Having made up his mind, John was not one to waste words, or to approach the subject circuitously. "I came about two hours ago," he said slowly, "and I walked through this way twenty minutes ago. Inadvertently I saw you and Mrs. Astry in the path below me."

John paused to let this sink in, and it sank; a deep red flush burned on Belhaven's face. "I might say," he remarked slowly, "that it was none of your business."

John's head went up. "I've known Mrs. Belhaven for many years and it is my business; anything that injures her or causes her disgrace is the business of her friends. No scoundrel, seeing what I saw, would hold his tongue. You've exposed your wife to the misery of a double betrayal, you're insulting her, and making love to her sister. If you bring disgrace on her, I'll—I'll thrash you!" John ended fiercely.

The surging passions that had been chained for weeks in Belhaven's heart broke loose like furies and his face turned from magenta to ashes; he lost himself and flew at John. The assault was as violent as it was unexpected; he struck a fierce blow and John, parrying it, was caught again, then they closed. The path was icy beneath their feet and both men reeled for a moment and swayed together. A sudden, fierce joy leaped into John's heart. He longed to kill him; for one wild moment he was a savage, feeling his power, for Belhaven was no match for him physically, and it was the primitive man fighting for his woman. John's training, his tranquil life, his hard military service, had made his muscles like steel. He had Belhaven by the throat and hurled him back against a tree and held him there. The force of his grip and the consciousness of defeat wrung the life out of his adversary's eyes, but there was no surrender. John held him against the tree and gloried in the hatred and revenge, the savage let loose. Then it all passed.

"I could easily kill you," he said slowly, "but I won't; we're both mad, this only makes for scandal. Go home!"

As he spoke he released him, and Belhaven stood, leaning against the tree. He felt the receding powers of life flowing back but his rage was spent; he could not murder John now, it did not seem worth while. The struggle had revealed something to both men. Belhaven knew that John loved Rachel, John knew intuitively that Belhaven did not love Eva Astry, yet neither of them recognized the hidden powers that had revealed these things to them. John turned and walked rapidly away; he dared not trust himself again with his hand on Belhaven's throat. The fierce leap of passion in his blood warned him to retreat and he remembered Rachel at last and his desire to shield her from disgrace. Had he not been doing that which, once known, would lead to scandal? He scorned himself.

Belhaven stood a long while where John had left him, shame and rage contending with another and a deeper passion in his heart. For months he had lived in torture, he had just been dragging his chains; there seemed to be no way out and he was consumed with the fierce fires of remorse and despair.

It was long past six o'clock and the short winter twilight was over when he finally entered the house. A glance showed the old tap-room empty and Rachel's little tea-table deserted. Belhaven experienced a feeling of relief; it would have been a trial to drink a cup of tea and talk about the outside world to her to-day, for he was in no mood to talk. He went on, and passing down the hall, approached his den, a small room where he read and worked and smoked alone. Whether Rachel considered her presence there an intrusion or shrank from any appearance of intimacy, he did not know, but she never came there and he was the more surprised when he opened the door to find her standing before the fire, still dressed in her out-of-door clothes, her heavy coat thrown on the back of a chair, just as she slipped it off more than an hour ago. He stood a moment looking at her in surprise. Her expression had a certain concentration, a spiritualized anger, which amazed him.

"Please close the door," she said quietly. "I have something to say to you, and unhappily servants listen."

He closed the door and went over to the fire. "Won't you sit down?" he asked, remembering that he was the host, with an effort.

"I've been waiting to see you for an hour," she replied, without taking the chair he offered. "I was coming home through the woods this afternoon; I had no thought of playing spy but I saw you with Eva."

"Apparently we were quite observed," retorted Belhaven bitterly. "Charter also saw us."

"He was with me."

Belhaven glanced at her and raged in his heart. He would have given his all to have stood in Charter's place at that moment. "You're more candid than he was," he said bitingly.

Rachel colored. "It was impossible not to see you; the place is public. We've had months of very bitter experience; I know it's been as bitter to you as to me. We've taken up a yoke that we ought never to have assumed, which we would never have assumed had I known that you wouldn't keep your promise to me—to let poor Eva alone! I married you to shield her from Astry's anger, not to practise a deceit upon Astry. I understood from you both that there was the end of it all. My sister's folly, her conduct, I can't understand, I don't attempt to, but you—" Rachel drew a deep breath—"you're a man of the world; you know what you do! I can't stand here to shield you from Astry; there must be an end. You must give Eva up, I must save my sister—if she can't save herself."

Belhaven had listened in silence, his clenched hands strained at his sides. There was a moment's pause before he spoke. "I don't suppose you'll believe me, but I can swear to you that, since our marriage, there's been absolutely nothing between your sister and myself except her reproaches."

"Which you've deserved," said Rachel relentlessly.

"Which I've deserved," he assented dryly, "and I've had them pretty often."

"You're laying the blame upon her, you're accusing her, and it's cowardly. If you love her it is, at least, best to be honest; if you don't love her your conduct is still more unpardonable. I wish I hadn't seen you to-day, but I did and I'm forced to speak. I can't let you go on. There's Johnstone Astry; what right have you to make clandestine love to his wife? And Eva—what misery your love will bring her! If you love her, I implore you to remember her honor, her good name, her folly in caring for you at all!"

Belhaven walked away from her and stood with his back toward her. What seemed to be his indifference spurred Rachel on.

"She's young, she's thoughtless, she's at your mercy," she went on passionately. "If you love her—you must spare her!"

He swung around, his face tense with feeling, ghastly. "My God, Rachel, it's you I love!"

She stood looking at him blankly, dumbfounded, frozen in her amazement and horror. It seemed to her an enormity for him to transgress the silent compact between them, to speak of love to her. "How can you?" she gasped.

"I'm human, I've about reached the limit. I'm neither a saint nor a paladin, only a good deal of a scoundrel."

"You're taking an unfair advantage—you've no right to speak so to me!"

"I told you I was a good deal of a scoundrel; do you want me to admit more? I've pleaded guilty to all your indictments, I've stood here for months at the bar of your justice, I've borne my punishment, and I—I've learned to love you."

She turned away, deeply and sadly moved. She did not know what to say; there seemed so little that she could say.

Belhaven, who had never been greatly loved, looked at her with a kind of despair. A great change had been wrought in the nature of the man. He had seen only women like Eva before, or worse women, and there were places in his past which he would not have liked those clear eyes of Rachel's to look upon; indeed, there had been moments when he would not even have valued her. But it was not so now; the scales had fallen from his eyes; he saw Rachel as she was, and his heart reached up, breathless, trying to climb to her heights, but always falling back, always despairing. Rachel, as he had grown to know her, was greater than his heart.

"I love you," he said steadily. "I haven't lived under the same roof with you for months without knowing you as you are. I'm quite aware that you despise me; possibly I deserve it. At any rate I expect no quarter; but it's fair that you should know how impossible it is for me to betray my promise to you when I've learned to love you."

"And you throw the blame on Eva?"

"I've nothing to say against her!"

They looked at each other. Rachel read the grim agony in the man's face; he had bitten the dust, he was speaking the truth, he loved her! The color rushed up to her hair, and she was suddenly conscious of the undissolved bonds between them, that she was actually his wife. And now there was an added, infrangible bond, a sort of complicity in his despair.

"I'm sorry," she said quite simply, and her lips trembled.

He made a slight, significant gesture which seemed to dismiss his part in it and, turning to the fireplace, rested his elbow on the mantel and leaned his head on his hand.

"I'm sorry to have done you an injustice," she went on, with an effort. "I believe what you've said, but I implore you to protect my sister."

"I'll do my best."

"Oh, if you'd only done your best at first!" she cried involuntarily.

"For God's sake, Rachel, don't rub it in!"

"You're right; I hate reproaches, yet I always seem to reproach you! At least I feel sure now that you'll help me take care of Eva."

"I'll help you."

Rachel left him. She went slowly across the hall and began to ascend the stairs. From the landing she could see him still standing by the fireplace and the dejection of his attitude touched her heart. Their brief interview had been illuminating; she was intensely sorry for him, for he needed her love, and if she could have given it to him she could have saved him from himself. Rachel knew this, she knew the strength and tenderness of her own spirit, she knew her power to love and to forgive, and Belhaven needed both. Suddenly it came to her, like the still, small voice within, that she had sworn to give him all these, that by mocking him with marriage she had robbed him of his chance to win honest love and honest faith, that she stood between this wretched man and freedom, between him and all that might make his life worth living. The thought was hideous but it was true; it was Belhaven's case, the other side, the plea for the defendant, and it cut her to the soul. She had been judging and condemning one whom she had greatly wronged; she was both false and cruel, false to her vows, cruel to another soul struggling upward to the light, and as hideously shackled as her own. He had sinned, but he had been tempted; had she been tempted to her sin against him? Rachel turned her face to the wall. Her mind was suddenly flooded with light; was it God's purpose working in her? She was Belhaven's wife.

A shudder ran through her; keen, physical repulsion seized upon her. She saw herself in a new light and she could not do her duty. She loved Charter, with all her heart she loved Charter, she was his. It did not matter if she never belonged to him in fact, she was his in spirit. A great humility fell upon Rachel; she could no longer condemn any one, for she was as bad as the worst; she was a wedded wife in name to one man, in heart she belonged to another, and she could feel for poor Eva. She covered her burning face with her hands; she was ashamed. She saw her duty and she could not do it; she was Belhaven's wife.

Poor Rachel, pressing her forehead against the wall, wept bitterly.

XIV

Pamela's little five o'clock tea-table always stood in the south bow-window, situated at an angle that commanded Dupont Circle and the wide stretch of Massachusetts Avenue, where, at that hour, the long rows of electric lights showed like stars through the dusk of an early December evening.

Here and there the red eyes of an approaching motor emerged from the distance, or an equipage, gorgeous with ambassadorial liveries, dashed past. It was a bird's-eye glimpse, the external aspect of the absorbing gayety of the gay capital city. Pamela's little drawing-room, with its rich-toned mahogany, its ancient Turkey rugs, its one or two heavily framed portraits of old Van Citterses of Knickerbocker fame, was like a quiet haven where one could look out upon the passing show. The samovar and the more antique Delft teapot had belonged to Paul's grandmother, while the delicate shell-like cups ornamented with little Dutch windmills were objects of envy to her feminine friends.

Aware that her possessions had the value of being both charming and unique, Pamela made tea with that languid grace which permits the recipient to examine both the teapot and the sugar-tongs as well as the lovely turn of the tea-maker's wrist.

She had lighted only one of the low candelabra on her table, for, although it was nearly six o'clock, she and Mrs. Prynne were drinking tea alone. Pamela had been dragging out a miserable half-hour trying to entertain the pretty widow, who, in the absence of a masculine audience, lost her sparkle as quickly as evaporating champagne.

Mrs. Prynne selected a small bonbon and nibbled it placidly. "Did you know the Billops were back from New York?" she inquired between nibbles.

"Oh, of course!" Pamela looked distinctly bored. "You know she's a cousin of Paul's mother or his grandmother, Heaven knows which, and she and Sidney have taken their old apartments and she's got that little French maid of hers who does such wonderful salads. You remember, the one Sidney kissed in the Astrys' pantry?"

"I should think it bad enough to be kissed by Sidney without having to do his mother's back hair!"

"Pshaw, it's nothing but a transformation; she got it at Devigné's." Pamela was in a mood to strip conventionalities down to the naked spars.

"I've been told she's perfectly bald," rejoined Mrs. Prynne interestedly. "What do you suppose caused it?"

"Perhaps some one pulled it out; it wouldn't surprise me."

"It couldn't have been her late husband!" Mrs. Prynne giggled.

Pamela looked scornful. "My dear Lottie, he married her for her money, and he used to look like the bald-headed eagle at the Zoo,—captivity made him vicious,—but Dr. Macclesfield hints that it was Cousin Addie who did the hair-pulling."

Mrs. Prynne gazed absently out of the window. Twilight had deepened, the white lamps shone more clearly, the gay procession passed and repassed between them. "Don't you think she says dreadfully suggestive things about people—sometimes?" she ventured cautiously.

"She's a terrible gossip, if you mean that. I told Paul the other day that to let Mrs. Billop into a bit of scandal was like dropping a soda cracker into a bowl of hot milk; she fairly soaks it up."

"I suppose we're all terrible gossips, but—well, really she scares me."

"Oh, I don't listen to her unless I have to." Pamela was looking superior, but she was really experiencing a keen feeling of alarm; what in the world was Lottie leading up to?

Mrs. Prynne sipped her tea daintily, still looking out of the window. A big hat of violet velvet furnished a charming frame for her delicately tinted face. "I really think she says things—she shouldn't."

"It's usually Sidney who tattles. Paul says he was brought up on a trundle-bed and catnip tea and he can't offer any mental resistance. Yet we all have him about, we warm the serpent in our bosoms!"

"But it wasn't Sidney who said it."

Pamela's endurance was exhausted. "Good heavens, Lottie, who said what?"

This cryptic but human inquiry made Mrs. Prynne laugh a little hysterically.

"Hasn't she told you? The things she says about Eva Astry, I mean."

Pamela sat still for a moment, gazing intently into her little Dutch cups, and the softly shaded light of the candelabrum glowed on her light brown hair, the curve of her white brow, and her rather wide but pleasant mouth. She was aware that a pause is always significant, but she felt the cruel necessity of being very guarded. She did not know how much Lottie had heard and she dared not risk increasing her knowledge. The situation was so delicate that while Pamela enjoyed its intricacies, like all social diplomatists, she was deeply alarmed lest she betray too deep a knowledge.

"I know there are some cruel things said," she risked at last, "but, of course, I try not to hear them, and—so far—people have been careful not to speak of them too freely to me."

Mrs. Prynne colored a little. "I didn't intend to repeat it," she said sharply, "but you know she claims to get all she tells from that French girl. It seems Mrs. Astry dismissed her, and Mrs. Billop isn't in the least ashamed to repeat servants' chatter."

"Well, we all know what a discharged servant will do, and, unfortunately, there are always people who listen to them; it's the most odious form of gossip too."

"Of course it is, but people do listen—once it's started, and I've heard it everywhere."

"Doesn't one always hear horrid things floating about, when people are idle?" Pamela was longing to ask her all about it, to be sure that it was no worse than she feared, but she had taken high ground and was trying gallantly to maintain it.

"Yes, when Mrs. Billop is about."

"To tell you the truth I never believe half she says!"

"You're on the safe side," said Dr. Macclesfield, who had entered the room unperceived. "No, I won't take tea, Pamela, I detest that stuff of yours; it's too costly. Rachel's the only one who can make tea to suit me. But you can give me some of that rum that you spoon in at the last moment, to give a nip, eh? That's enough, now a macaroon. You were talking scandal; I caught you at it! I wish you women had necks like cranes; you remember the old monk who said he wished men had 'em, so their speech, coming up through the many joints of a crane's neck, might leave malice and foolishness behind, in the filtration plant, so to speak."

"Can't you perform an operation on Sidney Billop," Pamela asked maliciously, "and graft a crane's neck on to him?"

The doctor giggled. "Pamela, I'm the worst gossip in the District, and Sidney's a sort of cousin of yours, isn't he?"

"Oh, I suppose I married Paul, the mahogany sideboard, and the Billops!"

"Get a divorce from the Billops," suggested the doctor.

Pamela laughed a little bitterly. "I ought to hold my tongue, but Paul's so good-natured, if an Apache Indian wired he was coming to spend the night, Paul would drive down to meet him and help him unload his tomahawk."

"Well, Sidney's unloaded his tomahawk," said Dr. Macclesfield enigmatically.

Pamela glanced at him uneasily. She was not sure that she understood him but she was certain that all this dove-tailed into Lottie's previous hints about a scandal. "I believe Sidney's in love," she said irrelevantly.

"Oh, Lord!" ejaculated Dr. Macclesfield.

"Pamela says such foolish things," Mrs. Prynne drawled, with a little conscious laugh.

"I didn't mean with you, Lottie dear," Pamela replied sweetly, offering more sugar for her tea.

The old doctor twinkled. "There are compensations, Mrs. Prynne."

She reddened. "I'm sure I care nothing for Sidney!"

Pamela began to laugh hysterically. She got up from the tea-table and walked to the opposite window. She reflected that it was impossible to argue with Lottie Prynne; she had no sense of humor. But the sting of the situation was this gossip of the Billops. They were related to Paul but Sidney was making it intolerable by circulating some story about the Astrys and the Belhavens. As yet Pamela only half knew it; she had forbidden Mrs. Billop to repeat it to her, but not even her prohibition would silence Sidney's foolish tongue, and, to make matters worse, he had accepted an invitation from Astry for Thursday night. They were all bidden there to dinner, and Pamela wondered if Charter would go. A woman's sixth sense told her that he loved Rachel and that there were shoals ahead. Pamela, who was happily married, found John's misery absorbingly interesting.

"Pamela, your back's charming," said Dr. Macclesfield, from the tea-table, "but Mrs. Prynne and I feel obscured without the light of your countenance."

Pamela turned, laughing. "Are you going to dine at the Astrys' Thursday night, Doctor?"

"My dear, I wouldn't miss it for the world; I want to see the parrots."

"I'm afraid of Astry," Lottie Prynne said; "he looks straight through you with those cold eyes of his. And I hate that den with the skulls and the toads and the old warming-pans."

Dr. Macclesfield choked violently. "No, no, no water!" he gasped to Pamela, "it was a crumb of macaroon."

"I don't know what to do," she said, "but I read somewhere that you ought to stand people on their heads for choking."

"How in the world could you do it?" objected Mrs. Prynne; "if they didn't balance themselves with their hands they'd topple over and choke worse than ever."

"Pamela's a mental acrobat," gasped the doctor, wiping his eyes, "you can't follow her, Mrs. Prynne."

"Here comes Paul now with Colonel Sedley and Sidney," announced Pamela, looking out of the window.

"Are Sidney's ears red?" asked the doctor maliciously.

Pamela caught his eye and laughed reluctantly, just as the three men came in. Colonel Sedley made his way to a chair by Mrs. Prynne and Paul walked over to shake hands with the doctor. Sidney, with his lank, blond hair carefully parted and a redness to his eyelids, occupied the center of the stage. He took a rare old chair and creaked in it, to Pamela's secret despair.

"I've just heard an awfully jolly conundrum," he said, looking a little more vacant than usual. "Why is an elephant like a brickbat?"

"Both good to kill fools, I reckon," said Colonel Sedley viciously.

Dr. Macclesfield tittered shamelessly.

"Neither of them can climb a tree," Sidney cried triumphantly.

"I hope you didn't invent that, Billop," said Van Citters languidly. "If you did, don't allow yourself many like it in one day."

"One before meals, Sidney, with a little pepsin," suggested Dr. Macclesfield.

"You know I think it's awfully good," said Sidney candidly. "One wouldn't guess it quickly; that's the main point."

"I thought my answer as good as yours," said Colonel Sedley.

"Oh, we don't expect soldiers to discover anything but projectiles," said Pamela. "Where have you men been this morning?" she added, measuring some fresh tea from the little caddy at her elbow.

"Playing billiards with Astry," Sidney replied promptly. "By Jove, I pity that man!"

"What do you mean, Billop?" exclaimed Sedley bluntly. "Johnstone Astry's worth five million and a half and—"

"Hush!" said Pamela suddenly, holding up her finger.

The footman pushed aside the portière and everybody looked around. Rachel Belhaven came in alone, dressed in simple gray cloth, a sable boa on her shoulders and a large, halo-like, black hat throwing the delicate oval of her face into keen relief. She greeted them all easily.

"I only stopped for a moment," she explained. "Eva 'phoned me to make sure you were all coming on Thursday; she says Johnstone was so informal she was afraid there might be a misunderstanding."

Paul turned very red. "We'll be delighted," he said sheepishly, thinking of Sidney's iniquities.

"We may all get stalled in the snow," said Sidney. "They're predicting a blizzard."

"It's clear as a bell," snapped Van Citters.

"Sidney has an inherited dread of accidents," chuckled Dr. Macclesfield. "Addie would never go to church picnics because she said there might be snakes."

Meanwhile Pamela was begging Rachel to take off her hat and stay to dinner. "I'll 'phone for Belhaven," she urged.

Rachel colored; she could never conquer her inward start at the intimate association of Belhaven's name with hers. She stood in continued amazement at the miracle of their outward union and their actual aloofness. She evaded Mrs. Van Citters' urgency, however, and made her way at last to the door. Here she had to dismiss Paul with difficulty. She wanted to be alone, yet it was hard to escape an escort, especially now that it was dusk. However, she got away at last and walked swiftly out the long avenue to the suburbs. She felt an actual physical need of the long, hard climb; the exercise, the keen, cold air, the busy life of the thoroughfare, served to break the tension of her mood. She had scarcely seen her sister lately; Eva had withdrawn herself from her reach. She evaded her and refused to see her, pleading nerves, headaches, any indisposition, to escape, and Rachel felt that she understood and began herself to dread the resumption of any intimacy. Since her talk with Belhaven she had excused her sister less; she had not doubted her actual guiltlessness but she did doubt her innocence of treachery, in heart at least, to Astry. Between the actual crime and the guilt in thought there was a horrible propinquity which made Rachel shudder. She was aware of helping Eva to avoid her, but this condition of things could not last. The old relations of life remained, therefore she had immediately answered Eva's telephone message, and she was going on to her now.

In her heart Rachel hoped that Eva and Astry might yet be drawn together. She was sorry for Johnstone; it was like her to drop the thought of personal grievance in the larger considerations of justice and mercy, and she felt that Johnstone Astry had been hardly used. Since her talk with Belhaven she could not escape a horrid feeling of complicity in guilt against Astry; it made a bond between Eva, Belhaven, and herself, and it weighed heavily on Rachel's conscience. However, she was continually conscious now that Belhaven loved her; it seemed rather an increasing, than a decreasing, element in their relations. He had greatly changed and, in spite of herself, she began to like him. She saw that he blamed himself profoundly and that he clung to the thin thread of their friendship, a friendship that had grown on her side, too, during the weary months of their enforced companionship. The man was vitally changed; that he was less a coward, Rachel doubted; that he would ever transgress again she did not believe, not while his love for her held, and that thought forced home to her the sudden, unwelcome responsibility for this man's soul. He was weak; with her help he could stand,—without it? Rachel shivered; she longed to cry out with Cain: "Am I my brother's keeper?"

At the top of the long hill she stopped and looked back. The city lay at her feet and she recalled, with keen distress, that night when she had stood looking out of her window before Eva came to her door. Here again were the scroll-like mystery of the lights, the long bright vista of the avenues, the distant, classic dome and the ghostly shaft of the monument. The frosty air cooled her cheek, the snow crunched under her feet; above she saw the stars, keen as knife-points in the winter sky. A feeling of ineffable sorrow and loneliness swept over her; she seemed such an atom in this vast dark universe, such an atom to possess the power to rescue that mysterious thing, a human soul. "Am I my brother's keeper?" A supreme question, deeply and intimately thrust into her life. She shuddered slightly and turned away, the mystery of her fate seeming, at the moment, unsolvable.

This thought was still with her when she approached the big, Georgian house on the hill and entered the hall where she and Astry had stood together that afternoon before her marriage. She recalled it as she crossed it and ascended the stairs. She had never been able to quite discover her brother-in-law's thought through his words; even now she was not sure. On the wide landing, where she had stood to look into the conservatory, she met him. He was coming down-stairs, his hands thrust into the pockets of his smoking-jacket and his head thrown back in a pose that was easy and characteristic. His sleepy eyelids drooped over his light eyes, his complexion had the dead whiteness that comes sometimes with light brown hair.

"Hello, Rachel, you're quite a stranger. Going up to see Eva?"

"Of course I'm going up to see Eva."

"You'll find her as charming as ever."

Rachel looked back over her shoulder, still ascending, and their eyes met; his look was a challenge. She quickened her step and left him standing there, the memory of his expression freezing an impulse of happiness that had risen in her heart.

Eva had taken Rachel's old room and was standing at the window, looking out into the darkness as her sister entered.

"I delivered your message, Eva, and they're all coming, but you'll have to excuse me."

Eva had not moved from the window and her figure in its long, loose, white kimono reminded Rachel painfully of that other dreadful scene in that same room. But now she turned her head languidly. "And Jim?" she asked.

"Of course he'll come."

The room was very still again; neither of the sisters moved or spoke; the little clock on the mantel ticked tumultuously; it raced with Rachel's heart.

Eva's voice broke the unearthly stillness. "You've been a long time coming to see us."

"I've been busy."

"Johnstone's just told me—that Charter's come back."

Rachel moved nearer to the big winged chair and laid her hand on the back. "Yes," she said slowly, "he'll be on duty here all winter."

Eva turned from the window and faced her, clasping her hands tightly together. She was very pale and her long, beautiful hair fell about her face and shoulders like a cloud of gold.

"Oh, Rachel," her voice trembled, "how hard it will be for you!"

"Don't let us talk too much about it, Eva."

But Eva came over and sank into the chair, hiding her face in her hands. "Rachel, I—I asked Belhaven to let you go."

"You asked him—to let me go?" Rachel's heart seemed to stop beating. "Eva, you don't mean that you still care so much for him?"

"No—no, not that!"

Rachel stood thinking; a sudden horror had filled her soul with agony. "Eva, I meant to have told you before—I saw you and Belhaven that day in the wood."

Eva's hands fell in her lap; a deep blush dyed her worn face as she looked up. "And you thought?"

Rachel nodded, tears in her eyes. "Forgive me!"

Eva shook her head slowly. "It's natural—I—I—oh, Rachel, I was begging him to let you go; I can't bear it, I've ruined your life and his and Johnstone's—I can never be anything to him either!"

Rachel caught her hands in hers. "Eva, you're beginning to care what Johnstone thinks?"

Eva slipped from the chair to the floor at her sister's feet. "Rachel, I can't bear it any longer; I was false and cruel, I know it now! I've never done a noble thing in my life and you've always been an angel to me, Rachel," her head sank lower. "I was going away that night with Belhaven and—at the last—I was afraid; I made you save me from Astry's anger."

Rachel's heart seemed to stop beating; she could not speak. What had she done, what had she done? And Eva was guilty!

The golden head sank lower.

"Rachel, it's almost killed me. If any one thinks it's happiness to do such a thing, it isn't. The way—the way of the transgressor is hard; God only knows how hard is the way!"

Rachel raised her gently and put her in the chair, then she knelt down beside her and held her in her arms.

"I'd gladly die if I could undo it," Eva said brokenly, "but I can't. It's like a trap; I'm caught, I can't get away from my sins."

"Eva, do you—still love him?"

"You mean Belhaven?" Eva hid her face on Rachel's shoulder. "Never, never a moment after I saw he was afraid of Johnstone!"

"Thank God!"

"What does it matter?" Eva was in despair. "What does anything matter? I can't undo it! I don't think he'll let you get a divorce; he said it wouldn't do any good. Oh, Rachel, I'm so wretched! What can I do?"

"You can tell the truth to Johnstone now, Eva."

The culprit shrank. "Oh, no, no!"

Rachel took her hands again and held them steadily. "Eva, I think you love your husband."

Eva made no answer, but she turned her face away with a little, half-stifled sob. "It wouldn't make any difference now! I've no one but you left to love me, Rachel, and I've lied about you and ruined your life!"

"Not even that must keep you silent, Eva; the truth is God's, you'll have to speak it sooner or later."

"I'm not like you, Rachel, I'm not like that; I feel as if I'd been too wicked for God to have anything to do with me."

"You poor child!" Rachel forgot the misery that had made her recoil at first from the confession, and again her sister's weakness appealed to her strength. "You've got to go to God first, Eva, and afterwards you've got to tell Johnstone."

Eva sat staring at the wall, her face pale and small as a child's, her eyes wide with misery. "Rachel, I can't—I can't see the scorn grow in his eyes, I can't!"

"You'll never be happy until you do; it's just that—the falsehood—that hurts you."

"You mean against you?"

"Never mind me; I can bear it, I can even forgive you. I mean the falsehood against your husband."

Eva looked at her wildly. "Rachel, I'll do it if it will help you, if you can get a divorce."

Rachel shook her head. "I've always thought marriage too sacred to break so lightly. It hurt most to have taken the vows as I did, but it isn't only that. If I got it, Eva, all that I've done, all that I've suffered, would go for nothing, for it would publish the scandal; I couldn't save your good name."

Eva gazed at her with growing terror, her lips shaking. "Oh, Rachel, how awful! You're caught in a trap, and I did it!"

"I shan't feel that it's all in vain, I shan't even count the suffering too much, if it means that I've saved you, Eva, if I've brought you back to your husband."

Eva flung herself into her arms with a sob. "I'm not worth saving," she cried, "and I've ruined your life!"

XV

When Rachel finally got home she remembered with relief that Belhaven dined out that evening. She had forgotten it, forgotten everything but the misery of Eva's confession. But now she refused the dinner that the servants had prepared for her and asked, instead, for a cup of tea. She laid aside her furs mechanically and went into the old tap-room. Its aspect, with the fire on the hearth and the candles on the tea-table, gave her almost a shock. She had the dazed feeling of one who has been away a long time and come back to find material things unchanged.

She stood looking at the room, trying to recall its normal aspect, for its cheerfulness mocked her. Under her rule it had assumed an appearance so warm and homely and inviting that she had grown to love it, and it had touched her once when she found Belhaven there looking about him in a kind of despair.

"You've made it like home," he said to her, "and I wish you might come to be happy in it."

At the time she had found a gentle answer; now she felt that it would shrivel on her lips. He and Eva had sacrificed her to their sin and their cowardice; or was it only Eva's cowardice, her determination to escape the consequences of her own act? Yet, poor Eva! The thought of her, broken and penitent, touched the wellspring of her sister's sympathy. But the facts of life remained; how was she to meet them? How endure this tissue of falsehood? She, too, had helped deceive her brother-in-law, for however she tried to excuse herself, in the light of Eva's confession, she was party to a conspiracy to deceive the husband. She felt again the subtle, bonds of complicity in guilt against Astry, as if in the law she had compounded a felony; yet she was, for the first time, drawn toward him as her fellow sufferer. Astry and herself were the victims; they paid the piper. Then came again the pity for Eva, the sinner who so needed help and forgiveness, whom she could not betray, not even to escape the shackles that bound her.

Rachel walked to and fro across the room, and once she stopped and deftly arranged some flowers in a vase on the table; then her hand fell from them with a shudder. Belhaven had brought them to her the day before—and he loved her! It was an enormity, but it was true. She did not know that he only obeyed the instinct of self-preservation, that he sought to find his own soul.

Presently Bantry came in with the hot water for the teakettle, and some cake. She arranged the tea-table herself frequently in the absence of the footman. As she passed Rachel she stopped to touch the fold of her skirt.

"You're pale, Miss Rachel," she said reprovingly, "you ought to eat something more; you look all tired out."

"I'm well enough," smiled Rachel.

The woman shook her head; as she went out and closed the door behind her she muttered to herself. "She's wearing her heart out, poor lamb, and there's that little devil!" Bantry shook her fist fiercely in the direction of the Astrys'. Eva had never appealed to her. The Evas of this world rarely appeal to their servants.

Rachel continued her walk, absorbed in thought, the vital forces of her strong nature warring within her. She was rebelling against the circumstances of her existence, she was realizing that she had deliberately ruined her own life to shield a sister who ought to have borne her punishment. She had sacrificed Charter, too, and now John's love for her was the one comfort of her lot and its greatest misery; it was hers and she could not take it, it was hers and she must cast it off! She looked across her life and saw it desolate, sacrificed to Eva. She was caught in an inextricable tangle and she could not escape without betraying Eva. She stretched out her hands with an impotent gesture of despair. She was battling for life, for hope; her strong soul rose passionately within her and struggled for its own.

Her mind was so full of the thought of him that she was scarcely startled when Charter appeared at the threshold, unannounced.

"Bantry let me in," he explained; "she said you had just come from the Astrys' and I wanted to see you."

"I came back some time ago," said Rachel, with an effort to speak naturally.

But his calm was even more unnatural than hers. "I had to come; I don't intend to make my presence in the city an annoyance to you, but—"

"John!" she cried sharply.

"It must be an annoyance to feel that I can't behave like a rational being when I'm near you; I suppose I shan't behave like one to-day, although I came here determined to have a plain talk with you at last."

Rachel's face paled yet more. "Better not, John!"

"I must! I've tried to stop my ears but I can't; it's no use. Rachel, it's said that you married Belhaven to save your sister."

She was silent; her clasped hands quivered slightly.

Charter looked at her with love and reproach.

"I understand, I had no right to say it to you, but—Rachel, it's more than I can bear!"

His cry touched her heart as no agony of her own had ever touched it.

"You're very brave, John, I've always believed in you; you're good, you've got to help me bear it."

"Isn't that mocking me?" he asked bitterly.

"I never mocked you in my life; I've always honored you."

"I don't deserve it. I'm a scoundrel, for with every thought of my heart, with every breath I draw, I'm making love to another man's wife!"

"You mustn't do it!"

He laughed, and his laugh was so strange that it startled them both. "Your advice is good; I can't follow it, that's all. Rachel, for God's sake, tell me the truth: do you love Belhaven, did you marry him of your own free will?"

Rachel turned from him and went to the fireplace; she folded her arms and laid her head upon them. She did not remember that Belhaven had stood there on the day of their marriage. She was cruelly placed; her love for Charter seemed to be the only thing in the world. What real claim had Belhaven upon her? He had deceived her, he had traded upon her loyalty to her sister, he had accepted her sacrifice, he was only her husband in name. But what if she told Charter the truth? He was good, but if she told him the truth? She loved him with all her soul.

"I don't believe you love him," he argued; "you're wretched, I can see it. I believe these hideous stories. Rachel, I have a right to know the truth, only the truth!"

She shuddered. The truth? Oh, God, how she longed to tell him the truth; her heart leaped at the thought!

"I ask for nothing else; if you love him, if you married him of your own free choice, tell me; it will help me, it will drive me away. I'm asking for bread, Rachel, and you've given me a stone."

She was weeping now, for she dared not tell him the truth, she dared not.

"Only the truth, Rachel!"

Her tears dried, they seemed burned into her eyes, and she pressed her hands against her throat; she felt as if she must surely strangle to death.

"Did you marry Belhaven of your own choice?" John asked again and his voice cut her to the heart; it was not like him to force her into a corner, but he was battling for life himself and this vivid revelation of his love was an acute agony to her.

She raised her head; she did not look at him, and her voice was very low as she replied, "Of my own choice!"

Charter turned from her and hid his face a moment in his hands,—strong, muscular, expressive hands, they were like him.

There was an intense silence.

At last he went slowly to the door. "Forgive me, I've been a brute—good-by."

But the limit of her endurance had been reached. "John," she cried, "come back!"

He turned and faced her; he looked as he had looked at death in battle. "It's no use, Rachel; thank you for telling me the truth."

"I didn't; I lied to you."

He uttered an inarticulate sound.

"I lied to you," said Rachel steadily; "now I'm going to tell you the truth. It's wrong, but I shall do it; I shall tell you the whole truth. I married Belhaven to shield my sister from Astry's anger. Astry accused her and Belhaven, she begged me to save her from disgrace. I yielded, I married him; I never loved him, I'm only his wife in name."

"Good God, was there no one in the world to stop you? No one to save you from such madness? Rachel, did you have no thought of me?"

"I thought—" her voice broke a little; she steadied herself again, "John, let it go—I married him."

"I couldn't let it go—Rachel, you knew I loved you?"

She shook her head sadly.

"You knew it, you must have known it!"

"No woman knows it until she's told."

"Is it possible that you married him thinking I didn't? What a fool I was, what a dunce! If I had only written you! But, Rachel, there was the cholera in the camp and I was with the poor fellows all the time. I thought you knew I loved you, I only tormented myself because I wasn't sure of you!"

"We were neither of us sure, it seems; it's our poor, stupid, little tragedy, John; let it go—it's over."

"You love me?" he asked gravely.

"Yes."

They stood looking at each other. There was no light in either face, no triumphant recognition of mutual feeling; to both the situation was horrible. He understood perfectly her feelings; that the fact of her marriage was unchanged, that it constituted an insuperable barrier between them; but he could not be restrained.

"I can't stand this, Rachel. Your marriage is in fact no marriage. Belhaven has no right to hold you to it; it must be broken, you shall be free!"

"I can't; don't you see it?" She held out both hands with a pathetic gesture. "Can't you see it? It would undo all I've done to save her."

"Do you think for a moment that I'll give you up for Eva?"

Her face quivered pitifully. She longed to give up, to let him take the lead and sweep her on to liberty. Then her tortured soul rose again to the struggle. "I knew you wouldn't give up; that's why I lied to you just now. I never did before, John."

"Is it possible you want this to go on?"

"It must!"

"It can't and it shan't!" he cried hotly. "I'm human, I won't give you up; you shan't be bound by such a miserable tie—the man was a cowardly brute to let you shield him."

"I did it for Eva; I've betrayed her by telling you."

"Eva wasn't worth it," said John, in honest wrath. "No one is worth it. Rachel, I won't endure it."

"We've got to endure it; I can't publicly disgrace my sister."

"You needn't; Belhaven can make the way easy,—he can and he shall!"

She shook her head. "He won't."

"He must."

She still shook her head.

A light broke in on John. "He loves you!" he cried suddenly.

She blushed and her eyes filled with tears. "Yes."

He turned and walked to and fro, his white face set and hard. She watched him, reading him, trembling for him, with that intuitive knowledge of his strength and his weakness which is an instinct with a woman who loves much.

He swung around suddenly and faced her. "And you?" he asked, with great bitterness.

She met his eyes bravely; she tried to speak but it was too much.

John caught her in his arms. "You do love me still?" he cried passionately.

"With all my heart!" she said, for one blind moment swept away, and, yielding to her own grief and his rebellion, she clung to him. Then she recalled herself, her heart struggled back to meet fate again. "John, we must part now—I'd hoped to keep your friendship, but we've lost even that—there was, after all, no middle course."

"Do you think I'll give you up now? This marriage is a mockery; it's got to be annulled."

She looked up at him, struggling to be calm. "John, I've always believed in you, I've always trusted you; I trust you now to help me to do right. I'm weak; I'm broken down; you know it, you've felt it—help me to be myself!"

"I can't, and it isn't right, it's an outrage; who ever heard of such a thing? Eva has no right to your life, Belhaven has no right to you—you're mine!"

"I'm not yours while I'm his wife," she said steadily, and she slipped out of his arms and stood trembling.

"His wife!" John laughed bitterly. "You're not, you can't remain his wife, loving me. I can't think that of you, Rachel!"

"Don't think it. I couldn't."

"And you call it right to keep up this sham? It's a lie, Rachel, a living lie!"

She wrung her hands in a kind of agony. "John, I can't bear much more; you'll have to leave me now. Give me a little time, I—I can't bear it!"

"My darling, forgive me!"

"Don't, John," she sobbed, "don't kiss me again—I've got to give you up."

"I won't give you up."

"I've no right to disgrace poor Eva, to disgrace Astry; he's had enough to bear, and that's what it would cost. Can't you see it?"

"It needn't, but Belhaven must release you, I'll make him."

"John, I can't do it. I love you, let me believe in you."

"Have I got to suffer for Belhaven?"

She slipped down on her knees beside a chair, and burying her head on her arms, gave way to her grief. The spiritual agony had given birth to agony of the body and she wept bitterly. He tried to raise her in his arms but she resisted, still weeping.

"Rachel, you'll make me kill Belhaven."

She looked up at that, her eyes still full of tears.

"John, I did it of my own free will. The man has suffered too; it's cruel to him, I can't disgrace and ruin him now. I can't betray Eva, I can't simply think of my own happiness; I'm not like that! I did it myself. I thought you didn't care; I was angry, blind, and, yes, I did want to save my sister, but I've often thought that perhaps I wouldn't have done it but for my anger. I deserve to be punished, and I've got to bear it somehow. What would be the use of it all if, at the first temptation, I gave in and told the world the whole miserable story? When mother was dying she made me promise to be good to Eva; she said she might need all that I could give, she knew her! I can't disgrace her. She's heart-broken about it all, she's sorry; I think I can bring her back to her husband. It's worth trying, John. I've always believed in you, I've always trusted you; help me to be true to myself, help me—because you love me!"

"I can't give you up."

She turned away from him, struggling hard for more composure. "Give me a little time, John. I—I can't bear any more now!"

"You mean you want me to go now? I'll do your bidding, Rachel, but I'll never give you up; I can't."

"Oh, I know—I know, but go—please, John, I can't answer now—I can't do wrong."

"I'm going—you see I'm not trying to force it; I won't even touch you, but I won't give you up."

She did not answer, but stood with bowed head, the charm and grace of her figure outlined against the soft, warm glow of the room, her hands wrung together to hide their trembling. He turned at the door and looked back at her and she tried to smile. There is sometimes mortal agony behind a smile.

"Because I love you, John," she said, with a gesture of appeal.

He turned with a groan and went out into the night.

XVI

It was nearly an hour later when Charter made his way to the fashionable club that he knew Belhaven commonly frequented. He went deliberately, after a brief space of time given to what he would have called deliberation, but which did not deserve the name. He had left Rachel in a storm of feeling, so much more violent than anything usual to his equable nature that he had been unable at first to think with coherence. All smaller considerations, even the events of yesterday, seemed relegated to the limbo of eternal forgetfulness, and nothing was of consequence but this terrible fact, thrust so rudely into his life, this trapping of the woman he loved by a coward who was using her, so Charter felt, as a shield to save him from the punishment which he so richly deserved. Yet, even in his passion, he saw that Rachel's argument was true, that he could do nothing without exposing both sisters to an open scandal, but, in his present mood, even that seemed a small matter compared to Rachel's vindication, and he had no pity for Eva at all.

It was certain, however, that he could not apply primitive methods to the case, and he did not even dream of wringing Belhaven's neck, but, in spite of his rage against him, he was also aware that he could not let this go on without informing him of his own position. When he left the old house on the hill, he had felt keenly the sting of shame and disgust. It seemed to him that he had been there on Belhaven's own errand, to make love to another man's wife, that he was falling to the level of his adversary. But he would not give Rachel up; every instinct battled against such a renunciation, and, being determined to rescue her at any cost, he suddenly hit upon the only course that seemed open to one of his temperament. He would see Belhaven and warn him; he would tell him, face to face, exactly what he intended to do. This idea taking possession of him, he acted upon it with a sudden deviation from his usual tardy deliberation; he went directly to the club and inquired for Belhaven.

As he supposed, he had no difficulty in finding him, seated in a corner of the library reading, or pretending to read, a new book that in reality was only a cover to prevent the interruption of his thought, for Belhaven had more than enough to occupy his mind.

Catching sight of his dark head and handsome profile bent over his book in a remote corner of the big room, Charter walked in, and observing that the only other occupants, two rather elderly men, were deeply engaged with their newspapers, he went over to Belhaven's retreat and addressed him with an abruptness that made him start slightly and lay his book upon his knee.

"I want a word with you."

Belhaven's face darkened with the recollection of John's hands on his throat but he restrained himself with admirable determination.

"I can't exactly prevent you from saying it here," he remarked coolly.

But John took no notice of his manner; instead he leaned against the wall opposite and folded his arms across his breast, perhaps to be certain that he would not make too violent use of them, but he spoke as calmly as Belhaven had, only with a slight stiffening of the lips that with him was a sign of great anger hardly controlled.

"I came over here to tell you that I've just been to your house; I don't want you to think I'm a sneak or a coward. I went there to see Mrs. Belhaven because I've heard—pretty plainly—all the circumstances of your marriage."

Belhaven took up the pipe which he had laid down at John's approach and held it thoughtfully between his fingers, looking into the bowl of it.

"After what occurred the other day I suppose I needn't say I think it's none of your business."

"That's just the point; it is. I love Mrs. Belhaven and I won't give her up to you—after all I've found out!"

Belhaven threw back his head and their eyes met.

"Has she told you?"

Charter hesitated, his face flushing as darkly as his interrogator's. He had not foreseen this natural question.

"I refuse to answer."

Belhaven smiled bitterly. "In other words you've been making love to my wife."

"Exactly; that's what I want to say. I don't propose to be a sneak about it; I love her and I won't allow her to be nothing more than a shield to protect you from Astry."

Belhaven considered this a moment. His first impulse was to resent it angrily, but, after a little thought, he decided to let it go unquestioned. "Perhaps you don't know that she's determined to protect Mrs. Astry."

"I don't consider that Mrs. Astry is worth her life."

"You think she's ruining her life to marry me?"

"You know well enough that you had no right to marry her!"

Belhaven's hand trembled slightly, but he emptied the ashes out of his pipe before he replied.

"You're taking the natural view of a man in love with another man's wife."

"That's neither here nor there; she's the one to consider. If you're a man you'll simply give her her freedom. It's the least thing you can do, the only reparation you can make."

"I don't suppose it occurs to you that, perhaps, she wouldn't take it."

"That's inconceivable."

"You don't know then that she has peculiar ideas about the sacredness of the marriage ceremony?"

"Which couldn't apply to this case; you must see that yourself."

"You mean because she's married me? But I don't suppose I've anything to do with a fixed principle."

"You think she'd apply her scruples even to such a mockery of marriage as this?"

Belhaven assented grimly.

"You've no right to let her do it!"

"Has it occurred to you that I've a right to have my own feelings about it?"

"You haven't; you've got to consider her, to give her up."

"And if I refuse?"

John's angry blue eyes glowed deeply. "Do you think that I'm going to stand it? I'm a factor in this case."

Belhaven eyed him coldly. "Has she made you so?"

Charter winced; he felt keenly that Rachel had not. "No!" he said sharply.

"Well, she won't. I know her well enough for that. You think you know all about her because you're in love with her, but you don't if you imagine she's like that; she—" he stopped and drew a deep breath that was nearer pain than a sigh—"she's too fine for that! I know her better than you do and if I choose to hold her to it I can; she won't listen to you if she feels it to be wrong, and she will."

"And you mean to take advantage of her very goodness to keep her to such a bargain?"

His scorn cut like a knife but Belhaven met it without self-betrayal.

"Why should I give her up to you?" he asked, after a moment.

Charter looked at him attentively. He remembered that Rachel had admitted that Belhaven loved her and he began to suspect now that he would never give her up, that he meant to use his claim upon her to keep her against her will. Such an attitude was almost inconceivable to John.

"You intend to make her stay because you've fallen in love with her?"

"That's no affair of yours."

John glanced across at the old man opposite, who was hunting now for another newspaper on the table. In the distance he saw Count Massena coming through the corridor.

"I'm sorry that this is a place where I can't tell you just what I think of you," he said.

Belhaven did not move. "I can't see that you're in a better situation than I am," he retorted coolly. "You've no right to make love to my wife."

"You've no right to make your wife endure this misery and I tell you now I won't allow it."

Rachel's husband watched him thoughtfully, a drawn look changing his face yet more deeply.

"See here, Charter," he said suddenly, "I'm willing to say this: I've lived in the same house with Rachel long enough to be a changed man. She's humanized me. I'm not quite what you think me, and I'll let her decide in the end, but, by Jove, I won't give her up just for you; I'd die first!"

John looked at him squarely. "If you're a man," he said again, "you'll set her free; then she could choose. Now—if you hold her—"

"Well, and if I do?"

"Then," said John, "you're a damned scoundrel!" and he turned his back on him and walked out of the room.

XVII

Astry was amusing himself driving the billiard balls about on the table, practising some of his favorite strokes. He was an unusually graceful man and he showed it as he handled his cue, his cigarette between his teeth and his eyes narrowed in thought. He had long ago ceased to be a happy man. There had been moments, years before, when he had been considered rather jolly; men liked him and women liked him too. He was greatly changed; the hardening process had destroyed some of the more tender amenities of life.

He drove the ball successfully and stopped to chalk his cue; on the wire over his head one of his parrots balanced, sidling along and talking once and a while in strange jargon. Astry watched him, half amused, then he continued to play with the balls. The house was profoundly quiet; at the moment they had no house guests, though Eva courted company for she dreaded being alone with her husband. He had asked John Charter to come to them but John had refused. The refusal did not surprise Astry; it only confirmed him in certain suspicions and, as the balls danced away from his driving cue, he was thinking of Rachel. Hers was undoubtedly the figure of the drama and he knew that she was unhappy; he divined much more though he made no sign. But he was as other men; he desired love, he craved happiness, he had been embittered by the loss of both, poisoned by the contact of treachery, and he had ceased to believe, he had even ceased to forgive. Forgiveness is godlike, and very few of us ever know it, feel it, or receive it. Forgiveness is like the work in a stone quarry; it takes hard labor and only the morally great accomplish it. But Astry saw revealed Rachel's love for Eva and the sight of it was almost irritating; it seemed as if she wasted it, that Eva gave back so little. He had come to think that Eva had very little to give.

He continued to play with the balls. Presently the old clock in the hall chimed sweetly, five o'clock. Then he heard his wife coming. She had been out and had just returned; she came through the drawing-room, her dress rustling, her light footstep uneven. He reached up and, taking the chattering parrot from the wire, put him into the conservatory and came back with his cue in his hand just as Eva looked in.

"Playing billiards alone," she remarked languidly. "I should think it would bore you to death."

"My dear Eva, I'm bored to extinction, but one must have something to do."

She came slowly into the room and, going to the window, stood there looking out.

"I suppose you'd really be happier if you weren't so rich," she remarked.

"Do you think it's altogether a matter of money? That the possession of it brings misery?"

"Sometimes I think it does. I don't seem to think of any one I know who's very rich and happy too."

Astry put his cue down on the table and sat down; he seemed willing to discuss the point. "Suppose you were poor to-morrow, Eva; would you be any less wretched?"

She gave him a startled look over her shoulder. "Who said I was wretched?"

He smiled grimly. "He who runs may read."

She drew a quick breath of alarm, pressing her cheek against the window-pane and looking out with unseeing eyes. Before her was the wide terrace, the level stretch of lawn with here and there a mound of unmelted snow, and beyond the bare, brown trees and the winter sky.

Astry spoke again with a certain moderation, a mental detachment that made her feel how wide was the chasm between them.

"I can see you're unhappy and I'm sorry. I don't know that there's much to do about it. Divorce is common but a little vulgar. I'm not sure that you care to have me offer you such an avenue of escape."

"I must have been very unpleasant," she said slowly. "I didn't intend to make people think things like that."

"Like what?" he asked gently.

"What you said—just now—that I might want a divorce."

"Do you?"

She did not reply; her face was turned now directly to the window and he only saw the hand that rested on the pane tremble slightly. He moved uneasily in his chair.

"I didn't know it was as bad as that, Eva!"

"As bad as that?" her voice trembled. "I don't understand."

"I didn't know that you wanted a divorce."

"It isn't that!"

He leaned forward, watching her, his expression singularly grave. "Would you mind telling me just what you do mean?"

Eva turned from the window and came toward him, and as the light fell on her face Astry was startled. He rose involuntarily from his seat and Eva stood still, her slender hands clutching at the back of a chair. She tried to speak twice before the words came.

"I can't bear it any longer, Johnstone; I'm going to tell the truth—the whole truth."

He did not speak; he was watching her strangely.

She shivered and then went on, not looking at him, her voice at first a mere whisper, growing a little firmer.

"Rachel married Belhaven—to save my good name."

He was still silent for a moment, regarding her.

"You mean that you—told me a falsehood that night?"

"About Rachel? Yes."

"Good God!"

She hid her face in her hands, but her voice, small and thin and quivering, struggled on. She had to confess, she had to tell him, she could endure it no longer.

"I lied about Rachel."

"And you—" he dragged out the words—"you were guilty?"

"Indeed—no! In thought, in the intention, yes." She broke off and then after a moment of agony went on, her face still hidden in her hands. "I was going to run away with him that day."

Astry did not speak, he did not even move, and Eva sank down into a chair.

"I was going and you caught me; you accused me and—" she stopped again and then went on, "and I was frightened. I'm a coward; I told you a falsehood about Rachel, then I went to her—"

"And Rachel?" his voice was hoarse.

"She forgave me, she sacrificed herself for me; she's an angel."

"And you let her marry that—that scoundrel to save you?"

"I was afraid you'd kill him."

"He ought to have been killed."

Her head sank lower.

"It's incredible! To let your sister marry that scoundrel to save his life, to shield you!"

"She's forgiven me," Eva's voice broke pitifully. "I told her—she—"

He had risen in his agitation and he swung around now, facing her. "Did she know?"

"That I was guilty?" Eva turned darkly crimson. "No, not until the other day—I told her—and she forgave me."

"It's past belief."

"That she should forgive me? Rachel? She's so good to me."

"I know Rachel, but it's past belief that you could let her do it, sacrifice her to save that hound."

"Wait!" Eva rose; she tried to face him steadily. "Listen, you told me that if she didn't marry him you'd kill him."

"Well?"

"That you'd kill him because of me. I told her that and she married him to save my good name."

"It was my business to take care of your good name."

"No, it was mine," she was gaining strength now. "It was mine and I'd failed. I was weak, wicked, foolish; I thought I loved him."

"You thought you loved him? Do you mean you didn't?"

"Not—not afterwards."

"Not after you saw the coward shield himself behind a woman?"

She wrung her hands together. "Yes, it was that; I hated that!"

Astry stood looking at her, a strange conflict of emotions in his face. "Are you telling me the truth, Eva, or are you trying to shield him again?"

"I'm telling you the truth. I thought I loved him, I was afraid of you,—you frightened me sometimes then,—and I had loved him once, I—"

"You never loved me then?"

She hesitated; again a dark blush mounted from throat to brow. "At first I married you because—because Aunt Drusilla wanted it, because—" she stopped.

"Yes—because?" he was watching her sternly.

"Because I wanted to make a great match."

"Oh, for my money!"

"If you want to put it that way."

"And afterwards you called back Belhaven?"

Again she assented.

"You thought it easy to be free of the millionaire after—" He stopped, something in the mute agony of her attitude, her evident humiliation, checking him.

"I thought I loved Belhaven," she said simply, determined not to spare herself. "I was going to run away with him. He begged me to—but it wasn't any more his fault than mine. I'm trying to tell you the truth, the whole truth. Then came that night and your anger and—and I saw he was afraid."

"The hound!"

"I saw he was afraid," her voice trailed on, quivering, "and I saw how Rachel suffered. Johnstone, I've been punished; I deserve it, but—the way is fearful, that way of the transgressors. Not my feet only, but my heart bleeds. I went to Rachel; I begged her, I've begged her twice, to get a divorce, to marry Charter; they love each other. She won't do it—because—" Eva's voice broke with a sob—"she says she can't, that it would ruin me."

"So it would—now."

"Then let it! I can't bear this, Johnstone; cast me out, help Rachel to get free. I can't bear it any longer, it's killing me!"

"You've quite forgotten me, Eva."

"No, no, I haven't!" She burst into sudden, violent weeping. "I haven't; I know now—I know you've suffered too. Johnstone, you won't kill him?"

"Not now. It would disgrace Rachel. Think what I—your husband—owe to Rachel."

"Then it's for her, you mean? It can't be done on her account?"

He nodded; speech was not easy.

Eva stood up, stretching out her arms with her impotent, childish gesture of despair. "I never thought—oh, God, why can't I die?"

"Why didn't you tell me the truth then, as you're telling me now? What if I killed him?"

"I was afraid; I'm a coward, I've told you so!" She stopped and stood looking at him, then suddenly her face quivered. "Can you forgive me? I've suffered, I'd like to feel that you'd forgiven me."

"Does it make any difference? Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

He turned and met her eyes and his face paled. "Eva," he said gently, "did you ever even for one moment love me?"

She pressed her hands together tightly, looking at him strangely.

"Would—would it make it easier to forgive me?"

"Yes," he replied slowly, "I, too, have traveled a long way, Eva; I, too, came to find that there was no love for me; I, too, have suffered,—I'm really quite human. But I could forgive you, I would forgive you even this, if I felt that you'd ever been honest with me, ever loved your husband for a moment in your life."

She drew a step nearer, her eyes dilated. "Did—did you ever love me?"

"Once."

"And I lost it?"

"You didn't want it."

She covered her face with her hands again.

"And you—did you ever love me?" he asked bitterly.

"Not then."

"Do you mean?" he paused, and then unsteadily: "Have you come back to your husband, Eva?"

"Not then—but now!"

Astry stood still; for a moment the fundamental forces of life seemed suspended. He was amazed. Then he took a step forward, but before he spoke Eva suddenly swayed and would have fallen but for his arms around her.

He lifted her and carried her up-stairs. She was unconscious and her head lay helpless, her pretty soft hair against his breast. He carried her across the hall and into her own room and laid her on the bed with a touch as tender as a woman's. The disdain and anger and bitterness that had been waging a battle in his soul receded before the wave of humanity, of pity, almost of tenderness, that suddenly submerged his being. Her helplessness, the appeal of her childish face, the evident grief and humiliation that she had suffered to tell him the truth, touched his heart. He summoned her maid and then went out softly and closed the door.

Before him he seemed to see the long, cruel way that her small, bleeding feet had traveled, coming back at last to him.

In his heart he had already forgiven her.

XVIII

It was nearly dusk on Thursday afternoon when Belhaven came in and found Rachel in the living-room. He was pale and fagged and came slowly across the room to the tea-table. She was sitting in a deep chair by the fire but she rose mechanically and went to pour tea for him. The little service had become so familiar that it was a matter of habit. He glanced at her as he took the cup from her hands and was startled by her face.

"There's something wrong, Rachel?"

"No, I'm a little tired, that's all."

His glance traveled around the room and came back to her again, with a peculiar significance.

"I know that you're unhappy here," he said, a strong note of restraint in his voice, unaware that he was repeating Astry's words to Eva.

Rachel rallied her thoughts. "Not more so than you are," she replied without bitterness.

"In a way that's true; you've been unhappy but, none the less, you've made this house a home to me. I can pay no greater tribute to your unselfishness; you've been cruelly placed but you've uttered no reproaches."

"Oh, that isn't so much to my credit; reproaches are idle enough!"

He set his untasted tea on the table and leaned forward, looking at her, his clasped hands between his knees, his dark face perturbed. The light of the candelabrum on the tea-table flickered softly between them; the long room was full of keen shadows. Rachel's face, pale and spiritualized, was thrown into high relief; it had never seemed so nearly beautiful, with the subtle charm of the shadowed eyes and the soft, dark hair. She had passed through deep waters but Charter knew she loved him; there was comfort in that. The feeling of Charter's presence was with her, as it must be in great love, even in the immortal moment of renunciation.

Belhaven, looking at her with a comprehension of suffering, discerned the crisis. He saw that she had been deep in the struggle, he divined that Eva had, at last, confessed the truth, and his soul drew back shuddering from the thought of Rachel's judgment of him—and the justice of it. There was a long silence. At last he broke it.

"Rachel, I've been thinking it all over and I've tried to put myself out of it; for you it's intolerable."

She looked up in vague surprise; in the pause her mind had floated with the stream and she had almost forgotten Belhaven's point of view. "Not more intolerable than it has been—except I know now that Eva deceived me. But I still believe you told me the truth, that it's past with you both now, and I suppose it's best to let things go—even for Astry."

"You never seem to think of yourself."

She colored deeply. "I've thought much of myself."

He saw the blush and a pang of hideous jealousy tore through the remorse of his mood, but he gripped himself again. "I know you hate me!" he began.

Rachel looked up quickly. "I don't hate you, far from it. I'm sorry for you."

He smiled grimly, thinking of Charter. Had he come here to do Charter's bidding after all? But he was resolved to go on. "Thank you," he said, "I have, it seems, the beggar's meed—pity! Yet I feel that my very presence here must be hateful to you. I've traded on your generosity, your womanliness, even your pity. I've felt at times that I'd be content to be a dog on your hearth-rug, but it's not so now. Every day I'm with you I grow to love you more deeply—"

She turned to interrupt him but he held up a protesting hand. "Let me finish. I know my love's hideous to you, but, none the less, I love you for your sweetness, your justice, your kindness, and at last a spark of generosity has been born in my own heart. I've been a good deal of a scoundrel, Rachel; I can plead no decent excuse, but there's enough manhood in me to feel that I've got to set you free."

A sudden hope, keen as joy, leaped in her heart for an instant, only to pass into eclipse. "It's impossible without ruining Eva. I did it myself, I dreaded the public scandal for her; it's just as much my fault, in a way, as yours."

"There are ways that involve but little scandal."

Rachel sat looking at the fire. Her heart cried out again; she desired happiness as fiercely as the most unreasoning child of circumstance, but she remembered the obligations that had led to her sacrifice.

"It would be the end for Eva. Besides," she hesitated, "perhaps you don't understand how I feel about marriage—I don't think I've got a right to get a divorce. I knew what I was doing. You've blamed yourself; have you ever thought of the wrong I did?"

"You?" He looked at her amazed, and encountering her eyes, that had the sweet, abashed look of a frightened girl, a sudden wild hope leaped up. "You mean you consider your marriage too sacred to break?"

She inclined her head.

He drew a quick breath. "Rachel!" then the sight of her face, stricken with grief and reluctance, brought him back to his senses. "I see, you mean from the religious point of view. I've always understood that; I knew you had scruples."

"I've always abhorred the light view, as if it wasn't sacred at all. I know, I feel I wronged you when I married you. I haven't any right to bring discredit on you by a divorce, unless—" she looked up gravely—"if you wish to be free to—to find happiness elsewhere, then I don't think I'd have the same right to—to insist on bearing my share of it."

He met her eyes directly; his own face blanched. "You forget that I love you!" he said slowly.

She colored painfully. "That's another thing that lies heavy on my soul. I had no right to marry you—forgive me!"

"Rachel, could you ever—have loved me?"

She covered her face with her hands; she was thinking of Charter. "N-no."

Belhaven still regarded her. He thought that she really abhorred him and the idea stung him. He had traveled the long road, he had reached the end of it, and met disaster and defeat. "You've refused divorce," he said, in a strange voice, "yet you despise me. I suppose I'm a very toad in your sight, but you would still save Eva! You're right, I accept your wishes, but—there are other ways."

She did not understand him; she still hid her face, shutting out the horror of the situation. Eva's lover as her husband! She could not bring herself to speak to him.

"There are other ways," he repeated quietly, "but, for your sake, I wish it wasn't so hard. I wish I could lighten it, Rachel."

"In a way you've done much to lighten it. I'm—I'm grateful."

He stood looking at her bowed head, remembering grimly that the thought of his love had made her shudder as he had seen women shudder at the sight of a reptile. Then he turned and went out without another word.

It was a long time after that before Rachel seemed to be aware of sounds and movements in the house. She had remained where Belhaven left her, looking into the fire, her chin in her hand. Her gray eyes, lit by the glow of the falling embers, were intent on some distant thought, her gaze full of introspection; she saw nothing in the room and, for a while, heard nothing. She seemed to have been dragged through an endless chain of events, a series of agonizing scenes. She was no longer what she had been a week ago, or even yesterday; she seemed suddenly separated from herself, or was rather a new self, born of suffering and joy,—the joy of feeling that Charter knew,—and looking back at her old self,—the self of slow growth, of childhood and girlhood and womanhood. She had, indeed, been born again in anguish. She had renounced her own happiness, and what had she gained? In that dreadful moment she felt that she had not even gained her own salvation, for the awful feeling of complicity in their guilt remained. She and Eva and Belhaven had wretchedly cheated Astry; it was to Astry that she owed the inexorable debt. If she could only feel that she had saved Eva, brought her back to her husband!

Then came the temptation to escape from her sacrifice, to nullify her act by accepting the first means of escape. Her heart clamored for happiness and her love for Charter rebelled against all scruples. What right had she to make Charter unhappy? There is no argument so subtle, so unanswerable as the argument of love. Her own heart cried out against her judgment; it would gladly have broken her bonds and stultified her sacrifice. She thought that it would be easier to bear if Charter knew, but it was a million times harder, for Charter rebelled against it. Charter, who was good, saw no virtue in her self-immolation; he, too, craved happiness. While Belhaven had offered her divorce, at the cost, as she saw, of great personal misery, he had offered her freedom. Her presence in the house had become dear to him; her kindness, her quick sympathy, her womanliness, had penetrated the armor of his worldliness and, at last, his soul had risen to meet hers in an act of self-sacrifice. Though she did not know it, she had gone far to save Belhaven. It would have been natural for her to have despised him, to have let him feel himself outside of her life, the cause of all, but she had not despised him, she had been gentle and forbearing, and he had seen new and charming qualities in her simplicity.

If Rachel could have known this, it would have comforted her a little, but she had not even that small comfort as she sat brooding over the fire. This was the Thursday of the dinner at the Astrys' and Belhaven had reluctantly promised to go, for there were many reasons that made him careful of the conventionalities; Rachel had dined alone and early.

A big fire leaped in the old-fashioned chimney and there was a rich and luxurious glow of color and light; the heavy, crimson curtains were drawn over the windows, but it was storming outside, and she heard the sleet on the window-panes. The wind shouted under the old gables. Rachel went to a window and looked out; it was still light enough to discern the cedars beaten by the gale. An old hemlock near the house stretched spectral arms, sheeted in ice. The gray veil of fog and rain cloaked the long slope of the landscape, and she could not discover the distant city. It grew dark fast. She let the curtain fall across the sash again and went to the fire, stretching out both hands to the blaze with a shiver. A strange feeling of uneasiness stirred in her heart, some vague forewarning; delicate and floating like a tendril, it trembled back again into uncertainty.

She opened a book at random and began to read. It chanced to be a life of St. Francis of Assisi, exquisitely illuminated, that Belhaven had picked up for its artistic setting rather than its religious teachings, for he was something of a connoisseur in books.

Rachel turned the leaf.

"Never set an empty pot to boil on the fire, in hope that your neighbor will fill it!" ran the proverb.

She sighed. Had not Belhaven set his empty heart on the fire with the hope that she would fill it for him? And she had not. In this, then, Brother Giles understood the world; evidently he entertained no hope for the filling of the pot.

Rachel turned the page, her fingers trembling slightly.

"And they twain ate the pottage of flour by reason of his importunate charity. And they were refreshed much more by devotion than by the food."

"And they twain ate of the pottage—" and she and Belhaven had eaten of it to their despair. They had not been refreshed by devotion, they had eaten it of necessity; had she found the key at last? They had eaten the pottage and the taste of it was very bitter. Rachel leaned forward and looked into the fire, where the red embers fell and the flame continued to leap merrily.

"And they twain ate the pottage."

She heard the outer door open and close and a step come across the hall. She turned sharply; some one had braved the storm. It was Astry.

He stood in the door looking at her, as Belhaven had done. His fur coat was thrown back and disclosed his evening dress; his face, as usual, was pale and fair.

"I came for Belhaven," he said.

Rachel was surprised. "He's getting ready now; I thought the hour was eight."

"It is, but I was determined to have no failures and I particularly want Belhaven; you know he didn't want to come."

"Has any one failed you?"

"Only Mrs. Billop."

She smiled involuntarily. "Eva won't regret that."

"There are special dispensations. I don't see why we keep on inviting those creatures unless it is because they're related to Paul. I suppose Belhaven really means to come; it isn't informal enough to let him off, you know."

"There seems to be no question about his coming."

Astry smiled again. "My dear Rachel," he said carelessly, "there might be a question about it; if I were Belhaven there would be a question about it."

She colored and Astry saw that she understood.

"Even an Arab has a right to protection; his bread and salt should not be abused," he said, watching her.

"But his bread and salt protect the life of the stranger who tastes them," she answered quickly.

Astry smiled bitterly. "I never thought of you as one to plead for the transgressor."

Rachel put the little book down on the table and sat looking at him with grave eyes, her heart throbbing heavily. Had Eva told him or—some one else?

He came over and stood beside her. "Rachel, I'm deeply sorry that there seems no way out, that you've got to bear it—or else your sacrifice goes for nothing."

"You mean—" she could not go on.

"Eva has told me."

Rachel sank back in her chair, her hands trembling in her lap. "Johnstone—you've forgiven her?"

He had averted his face and she saw only the outlines of the strong, lithe figure and fine head. There was a brief significant pause, then he turned, and Rachel saw the wreck of happiness in his face.

"I've tried to."

She hid her own face in her hands; the relief was intense that the concealment was over! Astry turned and walked twice across the room.

"Why didn't you let me kill him that night?"

"I couldn't—and I had to save Eva."

"That would have saved her and he—he needed killing!"

Rachel's hands fell in her lap again; she looked at him gravely, her face tear-stained and pale. "Would it have saved the poor child to have destroyed her name, to murder a man, and hang for it yourself?"

He was silenced.

"That was it, that is what you would have done, Johnstone, and I had to save you both. I did wrong, I've suffered for it, but oh, thank God, Eva's told you the truth!"

"Rachel, I've felt, and I know Eva feels, that we've no right to accept your sacrifice; we want to set you free even at the price of scandal. Eva begs me to set you free, but—"

"You see how it is? If I get a divorce it will ruin Eva."

"I see how it is, otherwise I'd shoot that fellow now, but I can't touch him without injury to you both. Yet—my God, Rachel, I've no right to hold you to it."

"You don't. I feel so differently from you about it, you don't understand. I can't break the marriage; I've got to take the punishment, for I did it myself. I've got to keep my contract."

"You mean that your scruples won't permit you to break it?"

"Don't you understand? I was wrong to do it; I see it. I did it to save Eva, but I had no right to take the vows as I did. I dare not break them."

"Do you mean you're afraid of the scandal, or the odium of it all?"

"I'll have to be very plain—I'm afraid of God."

He stood looking at her a while in silence. Then his face changed and softened.

"Like Felix, I'm almost persuaded," he said.

Rachel made a slight deprecating gesture. "Would I have made this sacrifice if I'd contemplated making it void?"

He reflected. "I suppose not; you're a singular woman."

"I'm singularly placed."

He walked to and fro again. Rachel, meanwhile, heard Belhaven slowly descending the stairs.

"Johnstone, you—you don't mean to quarrel with him now?"

"I've told you I can't; he's safe enough."

"I'm thankful for that!"

Astry stood still, regarding her earnestly, his heavy pale eyes seeming to concentrate thought.

"You're unhappy."

She turned away. "Pardon me, we've said enough."

"I accept my rebuke as I long ago accepted my congé," he said gently. "Nevertheless you're wretched, and you've been a good angel to Eva; I owe about all I've got left to you."

Her lips quivered. "Please don't!"

He looked at her strangely. "I've been a brute, I've always been a brute, and I've hurt you again. I feel as if we'd trapped you, Rachel; can you forgive us?"

She looked beyond him, struggling to regain her composure, and she heard the wind shouting under the gables while the rain leaped against the window-panes. She could not answer Astry and before he spoke again Belhaven came to the door.

"I heard you were waiting for me, Astry; it's certainly obliging to go after your guests in such a storm. The rain's turning into snow and sleet."

"My dear Belhaven," said Astry easily, "I particularly wanted you. I have a word to say to you beforehand."

Belhaven glanced keenly from Astry to Rachel.

"I've no intentions of shirking my responsibilities," he said. "You'll find me ready."

Astry turned. "Then we'd better be off. Good night, Rachel."

She made no reply but as she looked up she met Belhaven's eyes and they were full of regret, of kindness, of appeal. The glance was fleeting; the next moment both men went out into the night and she heard the stir and jar of the motor-car as it started, backed, and finally whirled down the road. She could not resist the impulse to push aside the curtain and look out after it. Reluctant as she was to think of it, she could not dismiss that glance into oblivion; it was the look of a man mortally hurt.

The window-pane was covered now with frost and she had to breathe on it before she could clear a space to see out into the stormy night. Away in the distance were the retreating lights of Astry's big car, like monster eyes, growing smaller and smaller until she saw them no more. A gust of wind swayed the trees and swept the branches low across the front of the house and there was a sudden rush of snowflakes. She drew back a little and was on the point of returning to her chair when she saw a figure coming swiftly up the path from the gate, and something in the bearing, the quick, determined step, made her start and drop the curtain again. She went hastily to the hearth and stood there shivering, holding her hands out to the blaze, and her heart seemed to stop beating while she listened.

She heard the servant going past the door to answer the bell and, after an interval, she knew some one was coming across the hall.

XIX

She had not regained control of herself when Charter entered the room but she turned and faced him with something as near a greeting as she was able to achieve. It was almost a shock to her to see him looking so splendidly well and strong and fearless after that other look that haunted her in the eyes of the man she had married.

"I thought Belhaven was here," he said abruptly. "I told him I was coming but your man says he's gone over to Astry's already."

"Johnstone came for him," she managed to say. "I—aren't you going too?"

"I suppose I've got to. I promised because I thought I'd see you there. I didn't want to come here; you see, I've told him."

Rachel colored. "You told—Belhaven?"

"That I loved you and I wouldn't let him keep you here like this."

She sank into the nearest chair, looking at him weakly. "Oh, John!"

"Well, it's true, isn't it? You wouldn't want me to sneak into the house without his knowing it?"

"I don't think you ought to come really; that's just it, John, we've lost everything."

He was indignant. "We haven't. I won't stand it, Rachel; it's ridiculous. He's trading on your generosity; he—why, he almost admitted it to me!"

Rachel leaned back in the chair, her head sinking into the cushions; she felt almost as if she might swoon. "John, he's just offered to set me free."

Charter swung around and looked at her, his face changing.

"Good! Then there's a spark in him. I thought he—well, I told him what I thought!"

She remembered Belhaven's face with a sudden illumination of mind. If Charter had told him what he thought of him perhaps it was no wonder he looked like that!

"I—I wish you hadn't!"

"Rachel," he stopped in his walk and bent over her, trembling, "is it possible you're half in love with him now?"

"No, no!"

"Then—oh, my dear, my dear, we'll get you free yet! Rachel, my darling!"

She let him hold her hands close but the tears were running down her face.

"John, I told him I wouldn't take it!"

"You told him you wouldn't take your freedom?" His tone was incredulous, dumbfounded.

She had only enough voice to murmur: "I—I can't!"

He dropped her hands and sprang up. "You don't care a pin for me! You love him!"

She could not endure that. "I don't, but—oh, can't you see? How can I? I did it myself—he's done nothing since; what right have I to make all this scandal just—just to be happy? Isn't there something higher? I've—I've got to take my punishment."

He looked at her with a set face, blanched until the tan showed in a band across his brow and cheeks.

"And how about me? Am I to be punished too?"

She got up then and went to him and put her arms around his neck; he felt her shivering from head to foot. "John, do you want to kill me? I can't bear any more. You know I love you. I'm trying hard to do the right thing just because I have to; I've been almost wicked in thinking of it, but now, John—you've got to go."

"See here, Rachel, I've always tried to be straight, to be honest, but I'm a scoundrel now. I told Belhaven I was making love to you and I am. I'd—I'd take you away with me this minute if you'd go! He'd get a divorce then."

She smiled faintly, looking up at his drawn face. "No, you wouldn't, you'd never do it,—when you thought of it, John,—because—I think you love me."

"That's what causes it—I mean elopements, isn't it?"

She shook her head. "No, because when a man really loves a woman he won't dishonor her."

"Well, that's why I've let you stay here. If it wasn't for that I'd have taken that—that fellow and thrown him in the river and carried you off. Rachel, I won't give you up!"

She slipped out of his arms again and made her way uncertainly back to her seat. "You've got to go over there now, John."

"To Astry's?" He glanced at the clock. "I've got ten minutes and I'm not sure I'll go at all."

She made a queer little gesture with her hands, as if she fought for breath, but he did not see it.

"You've got to go," she said gently, "because—because I can't have you here any longer. We're not in our senses to-night; we can't talk it over."

"You told me to go before, but what good did it do? We're no better off, we won't be any better off, until I make him give you up."

"I've set myself up to be good, I've made him think me so; he believes in me, but you—I see you don't, John."

His amazement made him swing around and stare at her blankly. "What do you mean?"

"If you believed in me—even a little bit—you'd see that I've got to do the right thing."

"I believe in you so much that I think you're too good; you're sacrificing yourself and you're sacrificing me too for an idea. I've got to the point where I don't care a fig for ideas; it doesn't matter to me if they did make you stand up and marry that—marry him—to save Eva. I'd like to smash everything out of my way; I want to set you free, I must!"

"You can't—there's no way out. I've just got to be punished!"

"For what, pray? For being an angel to your sister? For pitying that—that fellow?"

"No, for marrying him just because—"

"Because what?"

"Because I thought you loved some one else."

"Good Lord!"

"Well, that's it. I'm just as wicked and silly as that!"

"Look here, Rachel, this kills me! I did it, I was the fool, the lumpkin, the gumpy, who couldn't write a decent letter. I can't see why you didn't know!"

"Oh!" she wrung her hands together hysterically, "how can you? Can't you see that no woman could know? But that's no excuse. I did it and I've just got to suffer for it; I can't ruin my sister now!"

He did not reply, he could not, without risk of consigning Eva to that limbo of forgetfulness to which furious men assign unworthy objects. He planted himself firmly opposite to her, looking like a tower of strength, his face still blanched but his blue eyes kindled.

"I swear I won't give you up. I told him so too."

"To-day?"

"The other day. I told him to-day I was coming here before I went to Astry's. I told him after I found out you weren't going there. I thought I should meet you; I didn't want to come into his house, but I had to."

She looked down thoughtfully, clasping her hands again.

"He told me to-night, he offered to set me free; don't you think it was fine in him really?"

"I don't think it fine to do what you've got to, if you're an honest man!"

"Even when it's hard to do?"

"Oh, I know he's in love with you—damn him!"

"John!"

"I beg your pardon."

"It wasn't the language," she smiled feebly. "It was—to feel like that. I—I don't want him to love me."

"I suppose you thought a man could live here day after day and look at you as if you were a—well, a broomstick!" He was deeply sarcastic now, for he was furious; the pang was deeper than jealousy, it was rending his being.

Rachel saw his pain, and would have given the world to comfort him, to lay her hand on his crisp blond hair, to touch his cheek, but she dared only to get up from her chair and move further away from him. "John, you've got to go; you'll be late now and—"

"Well, he knows I was coming."

"That doesn't matter—please," she looked at him gently, almost humbly, "please don't make people talk. I want to be proud of you."

He walked straight across the room and took her in his arms and kissed her. "I'm going; I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head if I died for it, I'm willing to die to keep you safe; I'm going—God bless you, it's like death, Rachel, for I know you're sending me away, but I adore you for being just what you are!"

She kept on her feet until he went out, and stood still, by the table, with the soft light on her, but when she heard the door close behind him, she crumpled down into a pitiful, little heap on the floor, her head buried in the cushions of her chair, and she heard nothing, not even the storm; it seemed to her that it was more than she could bear!

XX

The big house was brilliantly lighted for the expected dinner guests when Astry and Belhaven came in out of the driving storm, and the sybaritic atmosphere, the vista of spacious rooms, the mocking cries of the parrots in the conservatory, all gave Belhaven the same strange feeling of unreality that had once so strongly affected Rachel. As he followed Astry into the library, it crossed his mind that external things would look much like this to him if he ever came back after death, as a disembodied spirit. He seemed to have no immediate concern with this artificial life except a feeling of being outside of it.

But, however vague and unreal might seem the mise-en-scène, he was vividly aware of the untenable position in which his fate had involved him. Astry had made that absolutely plain; only a few words had been said but those had keenly revealed the situation. The humiliation which had pursued him ever since he had permitted Rachel to intervene to save her sister, now became unbearable; there was no fate so miserable that he would not have preferred it to the shame and despair that he felt as he realized the futility of any effort of his to overcome Astry's contempt. In veiled and courteous phrase he had been allowed to perceive that he was esteemed a coward, and to his maddened senses one of the parrots in the conservatory seemed to echo the insulting cry.

He walked over to the table and stood there, mechanically turning the leaves of a magazine, while Astry found a newspaper with a marked paragraph and handed it to him.

"You see there's no doubt about the drift of it," was his dry comment.

Belhaven read it slowly, a deep flush mounting to his forehead. It was one of those slightly veiled bits of scandal that sometimes appear in scurrilous journals and it gave, with only too well defined details, the outline of his marriage and the preceding scandal which had involved "a beautiful young matron, the sister of the bride."

"No; there's no doubt about it," he admitted slowly; "but what do you expect me to do?"

Astry stood looking at him with a singular expression; if he had expected violent anger and determined resistance he was none the less aware that Belhaven was neatly trapped. A denial would only confirm the report and a divorce would blazon the story to the world. Rachel's reasoning was sound; quite aside from any ethical consideration divorce was impossible. He had become aware, too, in their brief talk, that Belhaven did not desire it, that he was deeply and hopelessly in love with his own wife.

"Something must be done to stop this," he said at last. "I shall do it if you don't."

Belhaven laid the paper on the table. "It's Sidney Billop; of course I can thrash him, but—you know the result."

"He's coming here to-night. My wife—" Astry hesitated over the word and then went on—"asked him. I suppose you're right about him, for there have been some anonymous letters from some French girl whom Eva dismissed."

"And the Billops engaged."

"Did you know that?"

"Macclesfield told me."

"As a warning?"

"I rather think so."

"Good heavens! How many people know all this?"

Belhaven again flushed deeply. "I assure you, Astry, that it's terrible for me to come here to-night."

Astry made a slight, enigmatical gesture. "More so than before?" he asked coolly.

"In a way—yes. I'd greatly prefer that we settled it in the primitive way."

"You forget that the scandal would involve the innocent as well as the guilty, otherwise I should be delighted."

"I forget nothing—but I know that this is worse than Dante's Inferno."

"Unfortunately I can't permit you to involve us all in greater difficulties. It's necessary for things to go on as they are, but Billop has got to be stopped."

"It would be quite easy to kill him, but I might point out that this would only increase the scandal."

"Nevertheless something must be done. I'd gladly undertake it, but the privilege plainly belongs to you."

"It would be a privilege if I could thrash him."

"Unfortunately he'd shriek if you did."

Belhaven took a short turn across the room, thinking, and Astry saw the haggard lines on his face.

"There's no end to it!" he exclaimed at last.

"There's an end to everything—when we look for it," said Astry slowly.

Belhaven stopped short and looked at him. His host smiled coolly, drawing the paper-knife through his fingers.

"Possibly you haven't looked for it diligently enough," he said courteously.

Belhaven threw back his head. "I'll settle with Billop to-night, given the opportunity."

"I'll see that you get it," Astry retorted. "Here they come now," he added, as the sound of arriving guests reached their ears.

As he spoke he turned and made his way into the drawing-room to greet them, and Belhaven, looking after him through the double arches of the long vista, saw the slender, small figure of Eva standing in the hall to welcome her guests. She was gowned in black, as she had been on that evening which seemed now so long ago, and he noticed the whiteness of her beautiful neck and arms and the soft gold of her lovely hair. He looked at her with strangely complex feelings, aware that she had never had sufficient power over the best that was in him to keep him long enslaved, yet recalling with keen misery the moments when her charm had seemed so irresistible that he had plunged on in the course that had led to his ruin, for however she might have saved herself and retained her hold upon her husband, she had wrecked his life. It seemed strange that a creature so small and so fragile and so apparently lovely had, after all, possessed so little genuine feeling that she had been willing, at any cost, to save herself. The life that he had led had hardened many of the finer instincts of his being and destroyed those delicate perceptions that lead to hair-splitting introspection, but he was still keenly aware that he was deeply to blame, that there had been something fundamentally wrong with him or he would never have played the cowardly rôle of accepting Rachel's sacrifice. The thought of her brought back the pang of disappointment with renewed anguish; to her he was apparently an abject being, and it seemed doubtful if any deed of his, however self-sacrificing, would rehabilitate him in her eyes.

Looking at Eva now, he realized how trivial had been the passion that had led to his downfall and it seemed as if even his soul must be darkly flushed with shame at the thought of Astry's scorn. He turned with an irresistible desire to escape and was making his way toward the long window that opened on the terrace when he heard his name spoken and found that Colonel Sedley and Massena were already in the room. There was no alternative, therefore, but to return to play his detestable rôle as a guest at the table of a man against whom he had once planned the deepest and most despicable of all injuries.

With an effort he recalled himself to the conventions of every-day life and in a moment was exchanging meaningless commonplaces with his fellow guests, while, a little later, he was able to respond with commendable grace to little Mrs. Prynne's fluttering greeting. She had a way that old Dr. Macclesfield described as "cheeping like a hen-sparrow," but which afforded the relief of nonentities to a man already overwhelmed with misery and aware that the men regarded him with an indifference that Charter, at least, was at no pains to conceal.

Charter had come in so late that dinner had to be put off for him, and he had scarcely apologized to his hostess before he took the opportunity to walk up to Belhaven and inform him that he had just been to his house. Belhaven received this information with a slight inclination of the head and a look that was fully as hostile as Charter's own, but neither of them had had the chance to say more, and now Charter found himself seated beside Eva at the dinner table. He regretted that he had yielded to Pamela's persuasions and made the engagement in the hope of meeting Rachel there; it was almost too much to have to break bread at the same table with her husband, but having got himself into what he would have called "a confounded muddle," he had nothing to do but to make the best of it, and he sat there quietly observing them all, while Eva talked in snatches to first one and then to another. He had never found her as appealing as other men did and he could scarcely look at her now without anger. He longed to tell her what he thought of her for permitting her sister to sacrifice herself, and, with this in his mind, he looked down the long table and encountered the eyes of his host. Something in the look, guarded, enigmatical, mocking, arrested Charter's thought; it seemed to him to interpret the man. Astry's personality was enigmatical to most people. It had passed through some strange transitions: five years ago he might have been a Christian, indeed he had been much nearer one than many of those who profess Christianity; now he might as well be a Shintoist or an Indian medicine-man. He was sardonic, cold, he even suggested cruelty. It is curious what a hardening effect some of these pretty, little, dimpled women have on a man. Astry had hardened; he was urbane but he was sarcastic, yet no one was more easily acceptable, for his polish was so fine that it took the edge off his ill humor; it fitted him into any social niche and left his companions chilled to the marrow.

Charter, angry at himself for being there at all, glanced from Astry to Belhaven with contempt and anger, but even he recognized the change there. Belhaven, too, had greatly altered, but, in his case, there was a fine air of restraint, the effect of a refining influence which Charter saw with a pang of jealousy and with a maddening thought of Rachel as he had left her beside Belhaven's hearth. Belhaven loved her; he bore the evidence of it on his brow and he was able to face his antagonist without blenching, to even ignore their meeting at the club and Charter's insult, with something akin to dignity and without betraying, at the moment, the almost overwhelming shame that he felt. He had traveled the long road, he had nearly found the end, and he had the brooding air of a man who was only half aware of his surroundings. He scarcely glanced at the others except when directly addressed and his preoccupation would have been observed by people less engrossed in their own affairs, but they, too, were looking on at the game, each with his own idea about the next throw. Paul, fair and stout and visibly enjoying his dinner, was talking to pretty little Mrs. Prynne, whose face showed no more change than that of a wax doll, while Pamela, bright and restless, bantered gayly with old Dr. Macclesfield, and Sidney Billop ate plover with the eagerness of a hungry man whose conversational powers are limited and who recognizes a chef. Massena, dark, graceful, easily fluent; Colonel Sedley, florid and comfortable, talking to his hostess when he could get her undivided attention. Eva had never looked more lovely; her delicate face had the freshness of a girl and her soft eyes looked up with an innocent appeal that gave no hint of the suffering through which she, too, had passed. Eva's nature was too shallow to feel all that Belhaven felt; she had suffered after her own fashion, but Astry had been so much more merciful than she had expected that she had experienced a feeling of relief. If she could only readjust it all on the old scale of comfort and luxury, all might yet be well! Astry required so little of her,—he seemed to require less and less; and she was trying bravely to do her best, for she was eager to hide it, to get back all she had lost.

She leaned over and threw a careless remark to Sidney very much as some throw a bone to a dog.

"I'm sorry that the storm kept your mother at home to-night," she said. "I suppose it's her rheumatism. You ought to take her to the Hot Springs, Sidney."

"She's going to Biarritz this summer," said Sidney stolidly, reluctantly withdrawing himself from the plover.

"I wish I could, but Johnstone likes to sit on the edge of a stream back here in the woods and try and hypnotize minnows. We only took a flying trip abroad last fall; it's terrible to have a naturalist for a husband!"

"I thought Astry's taste ran to curio hunting," said Dr. Macclesfield. "I fancied him like the man who pickled a rattlesnake in peach-brandy and brought him home in his wife's hat-box."

"On the contrary," said Astry, "Eva's only interview with the Serpent had to do with the famous apple; I might add that she didn't give me the core."

"I don't think I should mind the pickled serpents," retorted Eva, "but he keeps dried toads in his library!"

"I know," said the doctor, "and also grasshoppers; he's studied Pharaoh's epoch."

"Oh, anything to be rid of grasshoppers," said Pamela. "We had a plague of them in Newport last summer; they obscured the sea when they rose from the grass. I believe poor, dear Sidney swallowed one."

"Beg pardon," said Sidney seriously, "it wasn't a grasshopper, Cousin Pamela; it was a fly."

"Eh?" said Dr. Macclesfield.

"I'm sure I never meant to enlarge it," Pamela retorted charmingly. "I knew some poor thing sought shelter and you swallowed it. John, why in the world didn't you bring me something beautiful from the Philippines? I detest such honesty. He came home without spoiling the Egyptians."

"But he made himself famous," interposed Mrs. Prynne.

John reddened under Dr. Macclesfield's amused eyes.

"The truth is that neither spoils nor fame were so easily come by," he objected. "I can only regret my lost opportunities. You should get Astry to go there; he'd be happy in the pawn-shops, Mrs. Astry."

"Oh, Johnstone doesn't care for beautiful things," said Eva scornfully. "He wants 'a lizard's leg and owlet's wing;' he's always brewing cauldrons like the witches. He's just imported some new horror from the West Indies, not a sorcerer's crystal but something more potent. Beware of his den, my friends."

"How do you escape these terrors?" asked Pamela. "It would be so easy for him to cast his spell over you."

"He did once." Eva colored suddenly. "Now I simply avoid the peril and he's likely to practise it on you. Come, girls, let us escape the danger," she added, laughing, as she rose from the table.

But in the drawing-room Eva was scarcely as gay; she let Pamela fill in the gaps while she sat listening to Mrs. Prynne, but her eyes wandered restlessly to the door. It grew later and later, yet the men still lingered over their wine and their cigars, or else they had gone to the den. Had her idle jesting led them there? She stirred uneasily; she had an inexplicable horror of Astry's den; it brought back to her the terrors of that night when she had told the falsehood against Rachel to save herself.

As Eva feared, it was to his den that Astry had taken the men. It was a long, low-ceiled room in the extreme end of the house, separated by a wing from the conservatory and entirely beyond sight and sound of the drawing-rooms and hall. The ceiling was of carved oak and the walls were covered with tapestries, curious pictures, old firearms, and bits of carvings and engravings. The polished floor was bare and in the center of the room was a large table of sculptured marble, a curious dragon forming the central body and legs. There was nothing on it now but a graceful wand of carved ivory forked at the end to support a red ball, a perfect sphere in shape and the size of an enormous orange.

Hideous things grinned in the dusky corners, polished death's heads, toads with jeweled eyes, coiled serpents, grinning Chinese gods, and the fortune-teller's crystal sparkled on a cushion beside the alembics and the crucibles of the alchemist. Astry had collected every odd and end that he had found in a life given much to travel and the luxury of dilettanteism. The rage of the collector had run riot here with the purse of the millionaire to back it.

His guests walked about looking at things with idle amusement, for he seldom took visitors here. To Charter it presented a side of Astry's character that seemed trivial. John was not given to imagination, and he found the room stuffy and redolent of chemicals. He would have preferred books or something wholesome and manly; he had no taste for dipping into strange creeds and confusing the gods of Shintoism. John found the atmosphere irritating and he stood looking at a picture of St. Jerome on a broken tablet while the others were grouped about Astry's dried toads. Dr. Macclesfield joined him. They were apart from the rest.

"John," said the doctor, "you and I have got to gag Sidney Billop."

John looked around at the old man inquiringly.

"He's telling tales," said the doctor, in a low voice; "he's picked up some servants' tattle, a nasty bit of gossip, but it involves our friends and we've got to stop him."

"I'd thrash him with pleasure," said John.

Macclesfield laughed. "And spread it? Sidney would run screaming to his mother; he's not altogether responsible. The yellow journals would blaze; we've got to be diplomatic."

"I'm not diplomatic," said John, and he meant it; there was deadly anger in his eyes.

"No, you're martial. I reckon I shouldn't have told you. I'll have to scare Sidney myself; I used to when he was a child by telling him about the bogie man. He's not very different now. Lord, John, you might as well thrash a jellyfish; he's all flabby."

"Thrashing would substantiate him," said John grimly.

The doctor laughed again. "He'd be all of a splutter. There's trouble brewing; I think Astry's seen the paper."

John shut his mouth with a snap; the thought of Rachel sent the blood back to his heart. To have her subjected to this scandal, to have Sidney and such as Sidney bandy her name about, passed endurance.

"I'll take Sidney aside and threaten him with the Star Chamber," said the doctor; "let me try that before you birch him, John."

"There are some things that a man can't endure!"

"A good many, but like the plagues of Egypt they don't always soften Pharaoh's heart. If Addie Billop had only used enough soothing-syrup we might have been spared; some of it kills as quick as rat poison."

"Macclesfield," called Sedley from the other end of the room, "how long does it take to starve a man to death?"

"It depends on the man," laughed Macclesfield. "It would take quite a while with you, Sedley; you could live on your paws."

The old man sauntered down to the other group as he spoke, and John remained, turning over the leaves of a thirteenth century missal. Here he could understand Astry's interest, but his thoughts were not on it; he was raging against the intolerable situation.

Meanwhile, Sidney Billop had wandered to the center-table and was looking at the wand and its red sphere with a curiosity that invited a visitation of fate.

"I say, Astry," he said, "what in the world's all this? Looks like a top."

"Don't touch it," advised Astry, looking up from the toad he was displaying. "It has divining powers, Billop; it will expose the inmost secrets of your soul."

"Oh, rotten!" said Sidney.

"Your soul?" Astry laughed mockingly. "My dear fellow, I haven't a doubt of it, but we shan't investigate it without invoking the gods. I got that wand with its mystic sphere from an old West Indian sorcerer, a coal-black negro of Jamaica, and he taught me its secret. Touch it with but the finger-tip and it reveals the innocent; it declares the guilty."

"What a delightful thing is an imagination," said Van Citters. "On my soul, Astry, I believe you love these idiotic stories."

"Astry ought to have been an Indian medicine-man," said Colonel Sedley. "I remember one who was tremendous. He and Chief Rain-in-the-Face led a charge once in a fight out by the Little Big Horn. I saw him as a very old man about to be gathered to his fathers,—the biggest Indian I ever saw and the most remarkable; he could make you believe in the black arts."

"So can Astry," retorted Dr. Macclesfield.

Astry was standing by the table, his cigar between his fingers, his head thrown back, and a singular expression on his pale face.

Something in the atmosphere disturbed Sedley, who was a good-natured man. "Suppose we go and join the ladies," he suggested.

There was an assenting movement, but Astry held up his hand. "Shall we test the Red Sphere?" he said lightly. "According to the sorcerer who gave it to me, he who touches it is revealed. I have a whim—I invite you all to test it."

"See here, Astry," said Colonel Sedley bluntly, "what are you driving at?"

"Oh, hang it all!" said Van Citters, "let's touch it. Johnstone's off the bat to-night."

Astry laughed. "That's it, Paul," he agreed. "I'm off the bat." He held up the red sphere. "You're to touch it with the left hand only."

They all moved forward and touched it, their faces strongly suggestive of their temperaments. John's was scornful, Sedley's red and slightly embarrassed, Macclesfield's curious and amused, Van Citters' stolid, Belhaven's and Billop's both white.

Five hands were held up.

Astry looked from one to the other and laughed mockingly. "Billop, you're the man; every other hand is stained with red. You were the only one afraid to touch it; what's your crime?"

They stood looking at Sidney, who turned from white to red.

"Look here, I don't know what you mean, anyhow," he stammered; "it's all rotten!"

Astry continued to laugh, his eyes very narrow. "This lies between you and Belhaven," he said courteously, "and I'll leave you to him. He's a kind of interpreter of the Red Sphere to-night. Come, gentlemen," he added to the others, with a sudden grave change of manner, "I think I hear Mrs. Astry calling us. We'd better leave them to settle it between them; the sphere closes the episode."

XXI

Left alone to his task, Belhaven lost no time in stating the case plainly and without mercy to the unfortunate talebearer; he presented it with a peculiar nakedness that would be popularly described as being "without frills." Sidney Billop, like all other busybodies when confronted with the result of their labors, was seized with an overwhelming panic. His hand shook slightly as he held the damning sheet close to his face and his near-sighted eyes seemed to fade with fright, while he occupied considerable time in adjusting his glasses to read an article that he already knew by heart. For he and his mother had been filled with mingled feelings of alarm and amusement on reading it at the breakfast-table that morning. They had relished the whispered discussions in cosy corners and the hints over a cup of tea, but the actual appearance of the story in type was rather discomfiting, for they had never intended it to get that far, and were not even certain how it had traveled, growing in size and momentum like a snow-ball, until it finally exploded in the open and spattered the surrounding landscape with the fragments.

Belhaven watched him moodily, his handsome, haggard face dark with contending emotions. "I suppose you know that story is framed by the malice of a discharged servant now in the employ of your mother?"

Sidney wriggled. "Of course I don't know anything about this," he said.

"Probably not; but you do know the things that started it, the whispers and chatterings and talebearings. You know, too, that the girl—I believe her name is Zélie—is employed by your mother."

"Yes; that is, I know she's got a French maid."

"Then you can see that she's discharged."

"Oh, come now! Isn't that butting into our affairs?"

"Can you deny discussing her story, her malicious, scandalous story, in public?"

"I don't know that I have. Perhaps we've heard things, and, good heavens, man, things travel!"

"In the usual channel, yes," Belhaven assented dryly. "Come, Billop, you're a man, you'll have to answer for this; we'll have to settle it once for all."

"Oh, I say—do you think this is just the time or the—the place?" Sidney glanced miserably about the room for a means of escape.

"Astry knows that I intend to settle it," Belhaven replied sternly. "We may as well do it here as anywhere—unless you prefer the terrace," he added grimly.

"Oh, I say—perhaps—"

"A woman may gossip with impunity, but a man can't lend himself to a thing like this. You'll be glad no doubt to prove that you had no hand in circulating a villainous scandal; we're giving you the opportunity to clear yourself, Billop."

Sidney was angry; his flaccid face was purple and his watery eyes winked restlessly, but his courage was not equal to the emergency; he was not fond of heroics.

"Oh, I say—I hate a scene, you know."

"So do I," agreed Belhaven grimly, "let's avoid one. We can settle it quietly; make a statement here in writing that you'll discharge the girl from the employ of your family."

"Oh, but that's butting in; you know she's my mother's maid and—"

"Do you prefer to stand for it?"

Belhaven's words snapped clear as a pistol shot. He was standing opposite the culprit, one hand resting on the table, the other hanging at his side. All the agony and piled-up fury of the last few weeks burned in his eyes. The primeval instinct to kill an adversary was mingled, at the moment, with the impulse that makes a man grind a venomous snake under his heel.

"Oh, I say—I think you ought to give a fellow time to—to answer! I'm not the French maid, you know, and my mother—why, my mother manages her own affairs. I don't see but that it's all a devilish bad mix-up and I don't want to commit myself; I don't know what you're driving at anyhow, don't you see?"

"Well, I'm in a position to let you know it. See here, Billop, this has got to stop."

It always seemed to Sidney a miracle that a servant came to the door at that very moment.

"A telephone for you, Mr. Billop; we're holding the wire."

"You'll have to excuse me for a minute, Belhaven." Sidney flushed with relief; even ten minutes' respite would be a godsend, for he was entirely at loss what to say to his interrogator.

In fact he was thinking, with an inward shudder, of the terrible face of the man as he made his way across the wide hall and down a little entry to the telephone room. A black-uniformed, white-capped maid was at the 'phone but Sidney was too confused to even give her a languishing glance as he took the receiver. It was a call from his mother and she wanted him home at once; the storm was frightful and increasing so that she feared he would be in danger on his way home. Besides, the weather-man had threatened a blizzard and he knew he was subject to tonsilitis,—Sidney, not the weather-man, she said,—and if dinner happened to be over he must come at once; she had sent a taxicab.

"Make any excuse," she 'phoned wildly. "Come—it's a blizzard and you always take cold when you get your feet wet. I had overshoes put in the cab."

He made a reassuring reply, hung up the receiver and looked around. The little room was empty; beyond, the hall was empty too; only a discreet footman sat by the front door, and Sidney remembered that, for some providential reason, he had left his coat and hat in the hall instead of going up to the dressing-room. For a moment he hesitated, his face deeply flushed, then the recollection of the figure waiting in the den, of that inexorable look in Belhaven's eyes, decided his wavering mood. He went quietly out, almost on tiptoe; he passed the conservatory and the drawing-room door unobserved, and in another moment the footman had him into his fur coat and the taxi was waiting at the terrace step. Sidney scribbled a line on a card for Mrs. Astry,—he had been summoned home by his mother, he said,—and then he gave the man a dollar, for he was really grateful, and went out rather hurriedly and got into the cab. But he did not breathe freely until it was speeding swiftly down-hill toward the city with the snow white on the glass of the windows and the wind driving past like a hurricane.

Belhaven waited a long time. The cowardly absurdity of Billop's attitude had not affected him as it would have done at another time. Where he would only have felt contempt, he was experiencing a feverish rage; he longed to take the fool, as he called him, and shut his mouth forever. Billop's very cowardice, his patent desire to escape even for a moment, only added fuel to the other man's wrath. What right had this idiot to thrust himself into a situation so delicate and so painful, to tattle of it to the world for his own amusement?

Belhaven walked restlessly about the room, storming against the fate that permitted such imbeciles a place in civilized communities, and it was not until the clock on the mantel suddenly chimed the hour that he awoke to the possibility that "the idiot" had decamped. After a moment of angry amazement he went to the door and summoned the same servant who had delivered the telephone call. It happened that the man had seen Sidney's abrupt departure, and Belhaven had the mortification of finding that his quarry had slipped through his fingers. That flight was an admission of guilt would amount to nothing with a man like Sidney Billop, and Belhaven realized that he would probably evade another climax, or meet it only under his mother's sheltering wing, and he experienced a maddened feeling of defeat. For the time, at least, "the idiot" had got the better of him.

At every point, then, he was facing defeat and mortification. He had been insulted by Charter, tortured by Astry, and yet was unable to defend himself without tearing open the gaping seams of the scandal. For he was trapped, crucified, made helpless by his own act. He felt that Rachel must despise him, that she must remember that his acceptance of her sacrifice had caused the whole miserable situation, that had he faced Astry like a man and taken his punishment, he would have been delivered from the shackles that bound him. If he had died by Astry's hand, he would, at least, have died a free man; now he could turn neither to the right nor to the left, and he felt that the immeasurable distance between Rachel and himself could never be spanned,—she would always regard him as her sister's discarded lover, as the poltroon who refused to face her sister's husband. Even a kind glance, a reassuring word, a smile from her, meant nothing but pity, pity for the weakness that had cowed him in horror of his own moral obliquity. The terrible clarity of this new mental vision showed him the lasting shame of his punishment, the disgrace of cowardice!

In crossing the hall he heard the sound of voices in the drawing-room and Pamela's light touch on the piano. Some one laughed gayly and the parrot in the conservatory suddenly screamed out its mocking cry of "Eva, Eva!" He had again the feeling of being outside of it all, of viewing it with the detachment of a stranger, and even recalled that moment, earlier in the evening, when he had thought that things would look thus to his disembodied spirit. His intimacy with the place, the people, the artificial life they led, seemed to have dissolved; he no longer belonged to them, or if he did, he was so greatly changed that, if they recognized him at all, they would disown him. He had forfeited his place among them, he had forfeited his right to a place among men; he was a coward! The thought stung him so keenly that he shrank, naturally and unconsciously, from that familiar scene in the drawing-room; he could not force himself to go in and see Pamela lightly strumming out a popular tune and Sedley playing bridge! He turned, instead, and unnoticed except by one of the servants, went on into the library. As he passed through the room, he glanced around at the warm, tinted walls, the richly lined book-shelves, the big table with its study lamp, the fire on the hearth; and the comfort and the luxury of it touched some incoherent consciousness of home. He sighed, and going to the fire, tore up and burned the scurrilous paper that Astry had given him, watching it until the last charred fragment fell into a blackened cinder. Then he opened one of the long, French windows and, closing it carefully behind him, went out on the terrace.

He was greeted with the sting of sleet in his face and the sudden shock of unprecedented cold roused him from the stupor of despair into which he had fallen. He was without coat or hat and his thin evening clothes felt like so much paper in the gale. For an instant he hesitated, half inclined to go back, and then the same impulse that had driven him out returned with overwhelming force. He must find a way out of it, he must force Rachel to accept her freedom; he could no longer hold her to her bargain and feel that by the very act of her marriage she had made him a miserable creature ready to seek shelter behind a woman rather than face the man against whom he had planned an injury as cowardly as it was base. He had traveled so far upon that long road that it seemed incredible that he had ever deliberately chosen it, that his moral turpitude had been so great that he had not recognized that his waywardness could never prevail against the eternal principles of right and wrong, and that his sins would only invoke an inevitable and complete retribution, that he would be crushed at last beneath the weight of that edifice which he had erected in the days of his transgressions. He believed vaguely in God and for a moment he almost cried out incoherently to that Supreme Being Who had created him and against Whom he had deliberately sinned. But there seemed to be no ear, even the Eternal One, that could hear him through the blasts of that fearful storm, and, smitten alike with cold and despair, he plunged forward into a space that seemed to be limited to a frozen circle of white, in which he turned around and around, and which never expanded beyond the ring that his dazed senses made in the mist of the tempest. Yet the one idea that survived the whirlpool of his mood was the desire to see Rachel, to beg her to forgive him, to set her free, even if by that one act of renunciation he wiped out forever the desire of life.

With this thought in his heart he turned and made his way blindly across the terrace, and the greatest snow-storm of many seasons, driving around the northeast corner, enfolded him deeply and softly in its heavy flakes.

XXII

It was much later in the evening when Charter finally escaped from Colonel Sedley and, under a pretext of looking out at the weather, made his way into the conservatory. The whole party of dinner guests had been much chagrined an hour before by the astounding news that they were snow-bound.

The predictions of Mrs. Billop's weather-man had been startlingly fulfilled, and had Sidney not escaped as he did, not even overshoes and a taxicab would have sufficed to get him home. The snow had drifted so heavily that no conveyances were at hand and even the telephone had gone quietly out of commission. There was nothing to do, as Astry said, but to stay the night with them. But this arrangement, accepted with more or less laughter and uneasiness by the others, was not to Charter's taste. He had found the evening bad enough as it was without prolonging it until morning, and he escaped from the drawing-room with the frank intention of taking French leave. He was too hardy a soldier to dread even the extreme cold, and he went now to the door of the conservatory to ascertain the depth of the drifts before he started. The frost had affected the electric system sufficiently to blot out many of the lamps and the shadowy aisles of the conservatory showed only an occasional light. A disgruntled parrot sat on the stem of the banana tree, but not even he uttered a sound as Charter passed on his way to the vestibule. As he opened the door, the cold seemed to pounce upon him and he saw nothing but a vast sheet of unbroken snow and sleet. But the tempest had ceased and the clouds were clearing away from a sky that was brilliant with stars.

He thought of Rachel with a vision of the old, low-ceiled room with the glow of the fire behind her graceful figure and the sorrow, the sweetness, the subtle tenderness in her face. Involuntarily he clenched his hand; what right had that fellow to hold her? He turned, deeply incensed at the thought and determined to get his overcoat and go down to the city. He was already back in the conservatory before he encountered his host.

Astry had just discovered that Billop had gone home in a taxicab hours ago and he was looking for Belhaven. A game of bridge had kept him in the drawing-room until the usual hour for the breaking up of the gathering and he had supposed that Belhaven and Billop were still in the house. It was impossible to telephone to Rachel now to ascertain where her husband was and Astry had taken the last chance of finding him either in the library or the conservatory. Instead, he found Charter coming back from the door alone. A sudden recollection of Eva's statement that Charter and Rachel loved each other startled Astry with a new and swift suspicion. Had Charter anything to do with Belhaven's absence? But the young officer's face, though grave, was quite composed. Astry looked at him thoughtfully.

"You're going to have the south room, Charter," he said easily, "next to Sedley. I hope he won't bore you to death; he snores like a Corliss engine."

"If you don't mind, I won't stay," Charter replied, a little awkwardly. "I'm used to roughing it, you know, and it isn't snowing now."

"Oh, but we couldn't think of it. The snow's knee-deep and not even the tram is moving. I can't allow it; besides, you know, the Van Citterses are staying."

"Oh, yes, but I can walk in easily, and it will be a comfort to Mrs. Van Citters,—the old lady, I mean,—to be sure they're safe."

Astry leaned back against one of the Doric pillars and deliberately rolled a cigarette. "I can't think of it; you've got to stay. It's too far to walk in those drifts; at least wait until they get the snow-plough going. I'm sorry we're so objectionable, you know."

Charter reddened. "I've been a jolly idiot again," he thought, but what he said was quite simple.

"I don't want to be a bother and I really like a snow-storm."

"It looks as if we must be very inhospitable when a man prefers that—" he waved his hand toward the door—"to a good bed and a fire."

"Oh, you can't understand how a fellow feels who's been soldiering for years. It's like being shut up to get into a house; sometimes I really long for the open. I'm going back there, too."

Astry offered a cigarette and a light, but he was observing the young man narrowly. "I didn't know you were going back. Don't like us over here then?"

"Well, I'd like to get out with a fighting squad just now. I suppose the vagabond life has spoiled me; I'm only a dancing bear here!"

Astry knocked the ashes from the end of his cigarette.

"Ah, I see—it's pretty bad, isn't it? You're hard hit?"

Charter turned sharply and looked at him, then he reddened yet more deeply. Of course Astry knew. He was aware of a shock of surprise; if he knew, what did he think of Eva? After an instant of thought he decided to let it pass without an attempt at denial.

"Yes," he assented dryly, "I'm hard hit but I can take my medicine."

"She's refused to get a divorce."

Charter stiffened. "Pardon me, I decline to answer."

Astry smiled. "My dear fellow, I know! Do you think for a moment I'd speak if it wasn't all in that scurrilous sheet, the Meopilus Journal?"

"I heard there was something, but I never see that paper."

"It seems to me useless to try to conceal it now; but I can't make her see it so, and of course, personally, I'd rather she didn't. She's got scruples, you see."

Charter turned and walked across the conservatory twice; he was blanched and his lips were set. At last he stopped in front of Astry.

"See here, I can't talk of it; she's too fine and sweet and good to be talked about. If she wants me to go and jump in the river—I'll do it, but, by God, I'd like to kill him!"

Astry smiled bitterly but said nothing; he only continued to puff at his cigarette. The pause was awkward and after a little Charter resumed: "I'd better be going; it's pretty late and—" he stopped short and turned around.

They had both heard some one trying the conservatory door. It was nearest the end of the terrace and the first door from the side entrance to the grounds. Astry flung away his cigarette.

"It's Belhaven," he said dryly. "I knew he must have gone out this way."

He went back and unlocked the door and opened it. There was a piercing blast of cold air and the lights danced up and down with a weird effect as some one came in. Charter had turned, too, but he stood still, aghast.

It was Rachel!

She had thrown on a long fur coat, but she was covered with snow to her knees and her dark hair had escaped its bonds and was curling in little wild tendrils about her white face. She did not see him and she stood leaning against the door, gasping.

"Oh, Johnstone, quick! I was looking out—a long while ago—and I saw a man come out on the terrace; you know I can see this end of it from my window. He fell in the snow at the gate. I've been looking for him ever and ever so long and I can't find him!"

"Good heavens, Rachel, in this snow? You're mad!"

"No, I—" She stopped; she had just seen Charter and she gave a little cry of joy. "Oh, John—John, I thought it was you!"

He was at her side now and caught hold of her.

"You're half frozen. For heaven's sake, Astry, get some brandy; look at her, feel of her hands!"

"Oh, I don't care!" she cried again wildly, "you're safe! Oh, John, I—" She caught the look in Astry's eyes. "Johnstone, who was it? Who's missing?"

He swung around, averting his face. "No one. I'll see—Charter, take her into the library."

But Rachel caught his arm. "I know—it's Belhaven!"

"I'll go right out, Rachel; he'll be all right!" he tried to put her off.

But Charter took her gently away. "Come," he said firmly, "you've got to get warm. We're going to look at once; nothing but a fall in snow at the worst, and very likely you were mistaken."

"No—no! I saw him. Johnstone, get a lantern; I'll show you where I think it was."

Astry had already called the man from the hall and in a moment there were lights on the terrace.

"Don't come, Rachel, but tell me,—the snow's drifted,—which way?"

"I'll go—"

"No," Charter held her firmly, "this will kill you, you'll have to stay here; tell us the way."

She pointed, trembling. "At the end there, by the little gate—oh, the snow's awful!"

Astry and his men went down into it and she turned and looked at Charter.

"I thought it was you, John. I ran out—I think I must have been mad—for I didn't call any one; I just rushed out."

"You might have fallen in the drifts yourself! Oh, Rachel, my dear, my dear, you're mine—don't you see you are? I won't give you up!"

"I never thought of him, God forgive me! John, let me go—no, I must, he's—he's my husband—and I think I know almost where he fell!"

"They'll find him."

"John—"

They looked at each other mutely, then he drew the furs up about her throat and opened the door; together they went along the terrace.

"Rachel."

"Yes?"

"Forgive me!"

"Oh, I do! I've been a brute, I never once thought of him, only of you; but I must go now—you see that I must?"

He did not reply; he had seen that the lights were stationary over the snow and they outlined the dark figures of Astry and his men. They delved in the snow and labored with it. It was so deep that Charter helped Rachel down the last few yards with difficulty until they reached the path that the others had broken. Astry was kneeling in the drift, his head against the breast of the figure that they had uncovered.

Rachel went forward unsteadily and stood beside him. The others brushed away more snow and the form of Belhaven was fully revealed; he lay quite easily, his head on his arm as though he slept.

Astry rose from his knees and took Rachel's hands and turned her gently away.

"It's all over," he said gravely, "all over."

"It wasn't the cold; it was heart failure," Van Citters explained patiently, for the third time.

He was alone with his wife and Lottie Prynne. Eva had been carried up-stairs and Rachel and Dr. Macclesfield were with her. It had been necessary to tell all the guests at once, and under Pamela's skilful leading Paul told all he knew.

"I thought he looked ill," said Pamela, "but there'll be an inquest. Oh, poor Rachel, and poor Eva, too!"

"I can't get over it!" sobbed Lottie Prynne. "I always liked Belhaven—it's—it's dreadful. I should think we'd had thirteen at table."

Paul looked at her, exasperated; he was not sure, after all, that he admired her. Pamela showed sense at a crisis, he recognized, with a thrill of pride; Pamela really was a trump.

"Lord, it's awful to see a man go like that so suddenly!" was all he said, however.

Pamela rose. "See here, Paul," she said decisively, "you've got to take me in town somehow; we're just in the way here."

Paul demurred. "My dear, do you think?" he paused meaningly.

"Yes, I do! Rachel's a woman. I don't care a pin for your horrid stories; if she didn't love him she feels dreadfully. Any one can see that, poor dear! I don't believe Eva remembered anything; she just collapsed; but there's nothing to do now but get out of the way and come back to-morrow when one can be useful. You know we must be a nuisance here with all this happening!"

Paul surrendered. "You're right, but it's as cold as the devil and they've only just got the snow-plough through."

"I don't care," said Pamela stoutly. "Lottie, stop crying; it makes your nose red, dear, and I'm so nervous I just can't bear it."

Paul came back with his own coat and Pamela's wrap. "I say, they've actually got a motor out and it's waiting. I thought perhaps you'd better go on in it to our house, Mrs. Prynne, with Pamela; it's nearly morning—"

Lottie's face cleared. "I'll go straight home if you'll take me," she said, "and be only too thankful to go. I'm all upset!"

In the hall they met John Charter; he had been out and was splashed with snow from the drifts.

"We're going; we thought we'd better," Pamela told him, in a low voice. "But to-morrow I'm coming back to be with Rachel."

John looked at her fresh, kind face. "I wish you would!" he said fervently.

She put out her hand and he took it, aware for the first time that she understood.

He helped them into the motor, for Astry was with Sedley and Dr. Macclesfield in the library beside Belhaven's body. When they were gone Charter went out to the end of the long terrace. The whitened landscape seemed to make every object clear and he noticed the heavy sweep of the big hemlocks under their load of snow. Behind him the house was full of lights; servants moved silently to and fro, for the business of death was there.

He felt the shock of it; this sudden end had found him filled with anger against the dead. He had been in deep rebellion against the fate that had thrust this man into Rachel's life; he had called him coward a thousand times, and now he was overtaken with the abrupt pause that follows the death of an adversary, the feeling that silences reproach on the lips of the living and appeals from man's judgment to that supreme tribunal where there can be neither anger nor malice nor false-witness, and where the soul, climbing slowly and painfully up that long way that men call life, may have already made an atonement deep as life itself. The overwhelming certainty that as a man sows he shall reap was brought home to him in that moment when, thinking of the dead man within, he thought also of Eva, who seemed to have saved herself. But he had seen Eva when the body of Belhaven was borne in, a mute witness of the deed that she had done, and he knew that Eva had need of Astry's mercy, as great as Belhaven's need of salvation.

Standing on the terrace, Charter looked out across the frozen landscape and saw, a long, long way off, the light in the open door of Belhaven's house, where they made ready for his silent return. That light upon the snow made a long and exceedingly narrow way, and over it he seemed to see the figure of the woman he loved coming toward him. For, by her one unthinking act to save her sister, Rachel, too, had stumbled upon the way, and he seemed to see her traveling along it now, stooping always to help those who had stumbled lower or fallen, and bearing always the burden of another's transgressions, but coming at last through the light to meet him and reaping, not in pain and sorrow, but in joy and peace, because her love was greater than theirs.

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Table of Contents

- THE LONG WAY
- THE LONG WAY
- I
- II
- III
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- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE