CHAPTER IX

RACHEL--SIMON

Her heroism was of the youthful, purblind, impetuous order. She had reasoned falsely and acted generously. But she was not one to sink wittingly to a lower level. Later, when she suspected the truth, she did not admit it to her own heart--least of all to her own heart. She was very glad of what she had done.

But she delayed the marriage; there were preparations to make. For no reason that anyone could fathom, she insisted on remaining in the Street of Masts. One concession she made: at Simon's urgent request she consented to retain Nora Gage. The two occupied the old rooms across the hallway from Emily Short.

The money received from her father was sufficient to supply Rachel's needs and even permitted the preparation of a simple wardrobe. Under Emily's supervision she planned and cut out and sewed feverishly for days together. Then abruptly she would abandon her needle. She bought books and endeavoured to teach herself French. She was never idle.

"You are overdoing," Simon remonstrated. "You will make yourself ill with these things."

She shook her head. Activity was good for her.

With the success of his suit, Simon had recovered poise. His manner was dignified and somewhat stiff. He spoke slowly and in a well-modulated voice. To the world he was as he had been formerly; but Rachel read deeper.

She knew that he desired to be gallant, even witty. And this effort to be all that she wished him to be touched her profoundly. Constantly he was bringing gifts. Offering them to her, he would watch her face to see if he had selected wisely. She perfectly understood this desire to offer something that would afford pleasure. Had she not experienced the same impulse? though she had not been able to gratify it. When she met Emil St. Ives in the cemetery at Old Harbour--how long ago it seemed now--instead of gifts she had been able to give him only an earnest, unswerving attention. This listening on the part of a girl to his long, often technical explanations, had he valued it, as she valued Simon's presents? But these reflections were checked by a prompt warning from within. Danger lay that way. Memory would prove a scourge if indulged and she did not want to feel.

Notwithstanding the approaching realization of what he had desired so long, Simon Hart still had moments when he suffered. The Street of Masts had always been an obnoxious quarter in his eyes, though for a short period, the fact that Rachel dwelt in it had somewhat modified its objectionable features. But that was before their engagement. Now the entire section stirred in him a positive repugnance. That she, his future wife, should elect to remain in a sordid setting when she might have been surrounded by every luxury, filled him with a dull sense of anger and chagrin. But he was unequal to the task of remonstrating. Whenever he thought of speaking strongly to her on the matter, timidity overcame him. Knowing what her feeling was for him, he shrank from the appearance of urging any claim. Julia Burgdorf by her attitude increased his discomfort.

Ever since Rachel's refusal to return to her house when she had expected her, Julia, with the childish pique of a woman accustomed to having every whim gratified, had washed her hands of her. Whenever she saw Simon she bantered him on the subject of his prolonged engagement.

"Is the happy day fixed yet?" she would cry, with eye and shoulder play. "No? Is it possible! The headstrong young person hesitates to renounce her freedom? Even the prospect of escaping life in an attic does not influence her? Extraordinary!"

Whenever he went to see Rachel, Simon was beset by the dread that he might meet one of his business acquaintances. What if by chance it became known that he intended to marry a young woman who lived on the lower East side? Things like that easily leaked out. Finally his sensitiveness increased to the point where he shrank even from the frank gaze of the children in the street, a gaze which singled him out because of his clothes, his gait, his strangeness to their world. More than all else he feared the curiosity of members of his own household. The maid who had admitted Rachel and her grandfather when they called at the house had left his service. When Rachel came there as his bride nothing of her history would be known to the servants. None the less he felt that Theresa Walker, his housekeeper, eyed him shrewdly. Not only this, he was convinced that she had communicated her suspicions to Peter, the coachman. Otherwise, why should Peter, who was old and stupid, wear such a significant look because he, Simon, failed to use the horses, as formerly, for a short time every evening?

However, though he suffered for the reasons just related, he was, on the whole, very tranquil. Nor was his engagement his only cause for satisfaction. He was about to bring out his book on gems. It was a voluminous work, weighty, carefully prepared, extensively illustrated. He awaited its appearance with eagerness. When the first copy arrived from the publisher he took it the same evening to Rachel.

She had had a trying day. Her modest preparations could not be indefinitely prolonged. Even Emily Short, who had been a most exacting and untiring assistant, acknowledged that three days would see the completion of the wardrobe. Rachel listened and acquiesced. Emotion, out of the depths of her, still sent up momentary, lurid flashes, but Reason smothered the flashes with impetuous arguments. Finally Reason hurled Honour and Duty, a combined extinguisher, on the flame. Though triumphant in her virtuous decision to give Simon the information he had awaited so patiently, she was in an exasperated mood when he arrived. Her mood demanded a tangible grievance and he found her with anger-crimsoned cheeks inspecting a dress.

"I ought never to have trusted it to that ignorant seamstress," she cried. "I ought to have given it to that woman whose address your cousin sent me. It's my own fault that it's ruined."

"But what's wrong with it?" he asked, taking a fold of the material between a thumb and finger.

She frowned. "Everything's wrong. It doesn't fit for one thing; and it's too long for another. But it doesn't matter. Let us talk no more about it." And seating herself beside the lamp, she took up a bit of hemstitching. She drew the needle through the dainty material, still, however, exhibiting strong signs of annoyance. Everything excited her now.

"Emily and I have accomplished a tremendous amount this week," she said by way of preface to her important announcement. "We're getting ahead finely."

"Ah, that's good," he said. "But remember not to overshoot the mark, Rachel; there'd be no wisdom in that. And now to prove that I've not been idle while you've been slaving with your pretty fingers, I have brought this. You know I told you that before long I hoped to be able to complete the work."

She did not at once comprehend to what he referred, but she saw that he wished to tell her something flattering to himself, and by means of questions she led him on.

With a smile, he drew the book from its wrappings.

Her needle-work slipped to the floor and she received the volume in both hands. "Oh, Simon!"

"Do you like it?"

"How handsome it is! And how fine these coloured plates are! Oh what it must mean to you to see this work at last in definite shape." For she suddenly appreciated all the joy that lay for him, the author, between those stiff new pages. The last vestige of her ill nature vanished and she looked up at him eagerly.

"And the indications are that it is going to be well received," he told her, with an air of satisfaction. "I've seen some of the advance notices. They could scarcely be more complimentary."

Like most women Rachel adored in a man power to achieve distinction. She counted it an additional proof of strength. She had been drawn to Emil partly because of his genius which had compelled her to look up. But thus far, though she appreciated his essential worth, she had not been successful in encouraging her imagination to dwell on Simon and invest him with uncommon attributes. A little shiver of excitement ran through her.

The consciousness of shining had called forth a look on Simon's face.

"The _Courier_ says it's a work which is bound to attract attention, relating as it does all the old legends connected with gems, besides giving solid facts of their history."

She had no reason for thinking the book was not what he believed it to be, a work of merit, possibly of unique value. She nodded, so anxious to see him burnished, that she saw him burnished.

"Even the reviewer of the _Messenger_, usually cynical, speaks well of it."

"I am very, very glad." Her voice thrilled with gratification.

"I knew you would be," he returned feelingly. "This copy is for you."

She put out her hand.

He grasped it, folding it against his cheek. "You know how you can best thank me, don't you?" he said. He was not a lover to be inconsiderately treated by any woman. At the moment he was singularly handsome.

With her free hand she turned the pages of the book. An involuntary sigh lifted her breast.

"Can't you tell me to-night, Rachel?" he urged. "I've waited so long to know?"

She had let her head drop lower. In reality she was impatient that she still had to struggle with herself. At his last words she lifted her face. "I was going to tell you to-night," she said. "Will two weeks from Wednesday do?"