Part 10

"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!"