"Une grande passion malheureaux est un grand moyen de sagesse."
Rachel had left London precipitately after she had been the unwilling
confidante of Lady Newhaven's secret, and had taken refuge with that
friend of all perplexed souls, the Bishop of Southminster. She felt
unable to meet Hugh again without an interval of breathing-time. She
knew that if she saw much more of him he would confide in her, and she
shrank from receiving a confidence the ugliest fact of which she already
knew. Perhaps she involuntarily shrank also from fear lest he should
lower himself in her eyes by only telling her half the truth. Sad
confessions were often poured into Rachel's ears which she had known for
years. She never alluded to that knowledge, never corrected the half-lie
which accompanies so many whispered self--accusations. Confidences and
confessions are too often a means of evasion of justice--a laying of the
case for the plaintiff before a judge without allowing the defendant to
be present or to call a witness. Rachel, by dint of long experience,
which did slowly for her the work of imagination, had ceased to wonder
at the faithfully chronicled harsh words and deeds of generous souls.
She knew or guessed at the unchronicled treachery or deceit which had
brought about that seemingly harsh word or deed.
She had not the exalted ideas about her fellow-creatures which Hester
had, but she possessed the rare gift of reticence. She exemplified the
text--"Whether it be to friend or foe, talk not of other men's lives."
And in Rachel's quiet soul a vast love and pity dwelt for these same
fellow-creatures. She had lived and worked for years among those whose
bodies were half starved, half clothed, degraded. When she found money
at her command she had spent sums (as her lawyer told her) out of all
proportion on that poor human body, stumbling between vice and
starvation. But now, during the last year, when her great wealth had
thrown her violently into society, she had met, until her strong heart
flinched before it, the other side of life--the starved soul in the
delicately nurtured, richly clad body, the atrophied spiritual life in
hideous contrast with the physical ease and luxury which were choking
it. The second experience was harder to bear than the first. And just as
in the old days she had shared her bread and cheese with those hungrier
than herself, and had taken but little thought for those who had bread
and to spare, so now she felt but transient interest in those among her
new associates who were successfully struggling against the blackmail of
luxury, the leprosy of worldliness, the selfishness that at last coffins
the soul it clothes. Her heart yearned instead towards the spiritually
starving, the tempted, the fallen in that great little world, whose
names are written in the book, not of life, but of Burke--the little
world which is called "Society."
She longed to comfort them, to raise them up, to wipe from their hands
and garments the muddy gold stains of the gutter into which they had
fallen, to smooth away the lines of mean care from their faces. But it
had been far simpler in her previous life to share her hard-earned bread
with those who needed it than it was now to share her equally
hard-earned thoughts and slow gleanings of spiritual knowledge, to share
the things which belonged to her peace.
Rachel had not yet wholly recovered from the overwhelming passion of
love which, admitted without fear a few years ago, had devastated the
little city of her heart, as by fire and sword, involving its hospitable
dwellings, its temples, and its palaces in one common ruin. Out of that
desolation she was unconsciously rebuilding her city, but it was still
rather gaunt and bare, the trees had not had time to grow in the
streets, and there was an ugly fortification round it of defaced,
fire-seared stones, which had once stood aloft in minaret and tower, and
which now served only as a defence against all corners.
If Dick had been in trouble, or rather if she had known the troubles he
had been through, and which had made his crooked mouth shut so firmly,
Rachel might possibly have been able to give him something more valuable
than the paper money of her friendship. But Dick was obviously
independent. He could do without her, while Hugh had a claim upon her.
Rachel's thoughts turned to Hugh again and ever again. Did he see his
conduct as she saw it? A haunting fear was upon her that he did not. And
she longed with an intensity that outbalanced for the time every other
feeling that he should confess his sin fully, entirely--see it in all
its ugliness, and gather himself together into a deep repentance before
he went down into silence, or before he made a fresh start in life. She
would have given her right hand to achieve that.
And in a lesser degree she was drawn towards Lady Newhaven. Lady
Newhaven was conscious of the tender compassion which Rachel felt for
her, and used it to the uttermost; but unfortunately she mistook it for
admiration of her character, mixed with sympathetic sorrow for her
broken heart. If she had seen herself as Rachel saw her, she would have
conceived, not for herself, but for Rachel, some of the aversion which
was gradually distilling, bitter drop by drop, into her mind for her
husband. She would not have killed him. She would have thought herself
incapable of an action so criminal, so monstrous. But if part of the
ruin in the garden were visibly trembling to its fall, she would not
have warned him if he had been sitting beneath it, nor would her
conscience have ever reproached her afterwards.
"I wish Miss Gresley would come and stay here instead of taking you away
from me," she said, plaintively, to Rachel one morning, when she made
the disagreeable discovery that Rachel and Hester were friends. "I don't
care much about her myself, she is so profane and so dreadfully
irreligious. But Edward likes to talk to her. He prefers artificial
people. I wonder he did not marry her. That old cat, Lady Susan Gresley,
was always throwing her at his head. I wish she was not always
persuading you to leave me for hours together. I get so frightened when
I am left alone with Edward. I live in perpetual dread that he will say
something before the children or the servants. He is quite cruel
enough."
"He will never say anything."
"You are always so decided, Rachel. You don't see possibilities, and you
don't know him as I do. He is capable of anything. I will write a note
now, and you can take it to Miss Gresley, if you _must_ go there
to-day."
"I wish to go very much."
"And you will stay another week whether she comes or not?"
There was a momentary pause before Rachel said, cheerfully, "I will stay
another week, with pleasure. But I am afraid Lord Newhaven will turn
restive at taking me in to dinner."
"Oh! he likes you. He always prefers people who are not of his own
family."
Rachel laughed. "You flatter me."
"I never flatter any one. He does like you, and, besides, there are
people coming next week for the grouse-shooting. I suppose that heavy
young Vernon is going to lumber over with you. It's not my fault if he
is always running after you. Edward insisted on having him. I don't want
him to dance attendance on _me_."
"He and I are going to bicycle to Warpington together. The Gresleys are
cousins of his. If it turns very hot we will wait till after sunset to
return, if we may."
"Just as you like," said Lady Newhaven with asperity. "But I advise you
to be careful, my dear Rachel. It never seems to occur to you what
on-lookers see at a glance, namely, that Mr. Vernon is in love with
your fortune."
"According to public opinion that is a very praiseworthy attachment,"
said Rachel, who had had about enough. "I often hear it commended."
Lady Newhaven stared. That her conversation could have the effect of a
mustard leaf did not strike her. She saw that Rachel was becoming
restive, and, of course, the reason was obvious. She was thinking of
marrying Dick.
"Well, my dear," she said, lying down on a low couch near the latticed
window, and opening a novel, "you need not be vexed with me for trying
to save you from a mercenary marriage. I only speak because I am fond of
you. But one marriage is as good as another. I was married for love
myself; I had not a farthing. And yet you see my marriage has turned out
a tragedy--a bitter, bitter tragedy."
_Tableau_.--A beautiful, sad-faced young married woman in white,
reclining among pale-green cushions near a bowl of pink carnations,
endeavoring to rouse the higher feelings of an inexperienced though not
youthful spinster in a short bicycling skirt. Decidedly, the picture was
not flattering to Rachel.