RACHEL CARTER
Kenneth strolled about the town for awhile before returning to the
tavern to shave, change his boots, and "smarten" himself up a bit
in preparation for the ceremonious call he had dreaded to make.
On all sides he encountered the friendliest interest and civility
from the townspeople. The news of his arrival had spread over the
place with incredible swiftness. Scores of absolute strangers turned
to him and tendered to him the welcome to be found in a broad and
friendly smile.
Shortly after three o'clock he set forth upon his new adventure.
Assailed by a strange and unaccustomed timidity,--he would have
called it bashfulness had Viola been other than his sister--he
approached the young lady's home by the longest and most round-about
way, a course which caused him to make the complete circuit of the
three-acre pond situated a short distance above the public square--a
shallow body of water dignified during the wet season of the year
by the high-sounding title of "Lake Stansbury," but spoken of
scornfully as the "slough" after the summer's sun had reduced its
surface to a few scattered wallows, foul and green with scum. It
was now full of water and presented quite an imposing appearance
to the new citizen as he skirted its brush-covered banks; in his
ignorance he was counting the probability of one day building a
handsome home on the edge of this tiny lake.
A man working in a garden pointed out to him Mrs. Gwyn's house
half-hidden among the trees at the foot of a small slope.
"That other house, a couple of hundred foot further on,--you
can just see it from here,--well, that belonged to Robert Gwyn. I
understand his long-lost son is comin' to live in it one of these
days. They say this boy when he was a baby was stolen by the Injins
and never heard of ag'in until a few months ago. Lived with the
Injins right up to the time he was found and couldn't speak a word
of English. I have heard that he--what are ye laughin' at, mister?"
"I was laughing at the thought of how surprised you are going to
be some day, my friend. Thank you. The house with the green window
blinds, you say?"
He proceeded first to the house that was to be his home. It was a
good stone's throw from the pretentious two-story frame structure in
which Rachel Carter and her daughter lived, but nearer the centre
of the town when approached by a more direct route than he had
followed. This smaller house, an insignificant, weather-beaten
story and a half frame, snuggling among the underbrush, was where
his father had lived when he first came to Lafayette. Later on he
had erected the larger house and moved into it with his family,
renting the older place to a man named Turner.
It was faced by a crudely constructed picket fence, once white but
now mottled with scales of dirty sun-blistered paint, and inside
the fence rank weeds, burdocks and wild grass flourished without
hindrance. He strode up the narrow path to the low front door.
Finding it unlocked, he opened it and stepped into the low, roughly
plastered sitting-room. The window blinds were open, permitting
light and air to enter, and while the room was comparatively bare,
there was ample evidence that it had been made ready for occupancy
by a hand which, though niggardly, was well trained in the art of
making a little go a long way. The bedroom and the kitchen were
in order. There were rag carpets on the floors, and the place was
immaculately clean. A narrow, enclosed stairway ran from the end
of the sitting-room to the attic, where he discovered a bed for his
servant. Out at the back was the stable and a wagonshed. These he
did not inspect. A high rail fence stretched between the two yards.
As he walked up the path to the front door of the new house, he
was wondering how Viola Gwyn would look in her garb of black,--the
hated black she had cast aside for one night only. He was oppressed
by a dull, cold fear, assuaged to some extent by the thrill of
excitement which attended the adventure. What was he to do or say
if the door was opened by Rachel Carter? His jaw was set, the palms
of his hands were moist, and there was a strange, tight feeling
about his chest, as if his lungs were full and could not be emptied.
After a moment's hesitation, he rapped firmly on the door with his
bare knuckles.
The door was opened by a young coloured woman who wore a blue
sunbonnet and carried a red shawl over her arm.
"Is Miss Viola at home?" he inquired.
"Is dis Mistah Gwynne, suh?"
"Yes."
"Come right in, suh, an' set down."
He entered a small box of a hallway, opening upon a steep set of
stairs.
"Right in heah, suh," said the girl, throwing open a door at his
left.
As he walked into this room, he heard the servant shuffling up the
staircase. He deposited his hat and gloves on a small marble-top
table in the centre of the room and then sent a swift look of
investigation about him. Logs were smouldering in the deep, wide
fireplace at the far end of the room, giving out little spurts
of flame occasionally from their charred, ash-grey skeletons. The
floor was covered with a bright, new rag carpet, and there was a
horse-hair sofa in the corner, and two or three stiff, round-backed
little chairs, the seats also covered with black horse-hair. A
thick, gilt-decorated Holy Bible lay in the centre of the marble-top
table, shamed now by contact with the crown of his unsaintly
hat. On the mantel stood a large, flat mahogany clock with floral
decorations and a broad, white face with vivid black numerals and
long black hands. The walls were covered with a gaudy but expensive
paper, in which huge, indescribable red flowers mingled regularly
with glaring green leaves. Two "mottoes," worked in red and blue
worsted and framed with narrow cross-pieces of oak, hung suspended
in the corners beside the fireplace. One of them read "God Bless
Our Home," the other a sombre line done in black: "Faith, Hope and
Charity."
Three black oval oak frames, laden with stiff leaves that glistened
under a coat of varnish, contained faded, unlovely portraits,--one
of a bewhiskered man wearing a tall beaver hat and a stiff black
stock: another of a sloping-shouldered woman with a bonnet, from
which a face, vague and indistinct, sought vainly to emerge. The
third contained a mass of dry, brown leaves, some wisps of straw,
and a few colourless pressed blossoms. On a table in front of one
of the two windows stood a spindling Dutch lamp of white and delft
blue, with a long, narrow chimney. There were two candlesticks on
the mantel.
All these features of the room he took in while he stood beside
the centre table, awaiting the entrance of Viola Gwyn. He heard a
door open softly and close upstairs, and then some one descending
the steps; a few words spoken in the subdued voice of a woman and
the less gentle response of the darky servant, who mumbled "Yas'm,"
and an instant later went out by the front door. Through the window
he saw her go down the walk, the red shawl drawn tightly about her
shoulders.
He smiled. The clever Viola getting rid of the servant so that she
could be alone with him, he thought, as he turned toward the door.
A tall woman in black appeared in the doorway, paused there for a
second or two, and then advanced slowly into the room. He felt the
blood rush to his head, almost blinding him. His hand went out for
the support of the table, his body stiffened and suddenly turned
cold. The smile with which he intended to greet Viola froze on his
lips.
"God Al--" started to ooze from his stiff lips, but the words broke
off sharply as the woman stopped a few steps away and regarded
him steadily, silently, unsmilingly. He stood there like a statue
staring into the dark, brilliant eyes, sunken deep under the straight
black eyebrows. Even in the uncertain light from the curtained
windows he could see that her face was absolutely colourless,--the
pallor of death seemed to have been laid upon it. Swiftly she lifted
a hand to her throat, her eyes closed for a second and then flew
wide open again, now filled with an expression of utter bewilderment.
"Is it--is it you, Robert? Is it really you, or am I--" she murmured,
scarcely above a whisper. Once more she closed her eyes, tightly;
as if to shut out the vision of a ghost,--an unreal thing that
would not be there when she looked again.
The sound of her voice released him from the brief spell of
stupefaction.
"I know you. I remember you. You are Rachel Carter," he said
hoarsely.
She was staring at him as if fascinated. Her lips moved, but no
sound issued from them.
He hesitated for an instant and then turned to pick up his hat and
gloves. "I came to see your daughter, madame,--as well you know.
Permit me to take my departure."
"You are so like your--" she began with an effort, her voice deep
and low with emotion. "So like him I--I was frightened. I thought
he had--" She broke off abruptly, lowered her head in an attempt
to hide from him the trembling lips and chin, and to regain, if
possible, the composure that had been so desperately shaken. "Wait!"
she cried, stridently. "Wait! Do not go away. Give me time to--to--"
"There is no need for us to prolong--" he began in a harsh voice.
"I will not keep you long," she interrupted, every trace of emotion
vanishing like a shadow that has passed. She was facing him now,
her head erect, her voice steady. Her dark, cavernous eyes were
upon him; he experienced an odd, indescribable sensation,--as of
shrinking,--and without being fully aware of what he was doing,
replaced his hat upon the table, an act which signified involuntary
surrender on his part.
"Where is Viola?" he demanded sternly. "She left word for me to
come here. Where is she?"
"She is not here," said the woman.
He started. "You don't mean she has--has gone away with--"
"No. She has gone over to spend the afternoon with Effie Wardlow.
I will be frank with you. This is not the time for misunderstanding.
She asked Isaac Stain to give you that message at my request,--or
command, if you want the truth. I sent her away because what I
have to say to you must be said in private. There is no one in the
house besides ourselves. Will you do me the favour to be seated?
Very well; we will stand."
She turned away to close the hall door. Then she walked to one
of the windows and, drawing the curtain aside, swept the yard and
adjacent roadway with a long, searching look.
The strong light fell full upon her face; its warmth seemed
suddenly to paint the glow of life upon her pallid skin. He gazed
at her intently. Out of the past there came to him with startling
vividness the face of the Rachel Carter he had known. Despite
the fact that she was now an old woman,--he knew that she must be
at least forty-six or -seven,--she was still remarkably handsome.
She was very tall, deep-chested, and as straight as an arrow. Her
smoothly brushed hair was as black as the raven's wing. Time and
the toil of long, hard hours had brought deep furrows to her cheeks,
like lines chiselled in a face of marble, but they had not broken
the magnificent body of the Rachel Carter who used to toss him
joyously into the air with her strong young arms and sure hands. But
there was left no sign of the broad, rollicking smile that always
attended those gay rompings. Her lips were firm-set, straight and
unyielding,--a hard mouth flanked by what seemed to be absolutely
immovable lines. Her chin was square; her nose firm and noticeably
"hawk-like" in shape; her eyes clear, brilliant and keenly penetrating.
She faced him, standing with her back to the light.
"Sooner or later we would have had to meet," she said. "It is best
for both of us to have it over with at the very start."
"I suppose you are right," said he stiffly. "You know how I feel
toward you, Rachel Carter. There is nothing either of us can say
that will make the situation easier or harder, for that matter."
"Yes,--I understand," said she calmly. "You hate me. You have been
brought up to hate me. I do not question the verdict of those who
condemned me, but you may as well understand at once that I do not
regret what I did twenty years ago. I have not repented. I shall
never repent. We need not discuss that side of the question any
farther. You know my history, Kenneth Gwynne. You are the only person
in this part of the world who does know it. When the controversy
first came up over the settlement of your father's estate, I feared
that you would reveal the story of my--"
He held up his hand, interrupting her. "Permit me to observe, Rachel
Carter, that for many months after being notified of my father's
death and the fact that he had left me a portion of his estate, I
was without positive proof as to the identity of the woman mentioned
in the correspondence as his widow. It was not until a copy of the
will was forwarded to me that I was sure. By that time I had made
up my mind to keep my own counsel. I can say to you now, Rachel
Carter, that I do not intend to rake up that ugly story. I do not
make war on helpless women."
Her lips writhed slightly, and her eyes narrowed as if with pain.
It was but a fleeting exposition of vulnerability, however, for in
another instant she had recovered.
"You could not have struck harder than that if you had been warring
against a strong man," she said gently.
A hot flush stained his cheek. "It is the way I feel, nevertheless,
Rachel Carter," he said deliberately.
"You can think of me only as Rachel Carter," she said. "My name
is Rachel Gwyn. Still it doesn't matter. I am past the point where
I can be hurt. You may tell the story if it suits your purpose. I
shall deny nothing. It may even give you some satisfaction to see
me wrap my soiled robes about me and steal away, leaving the field
to you. I can sell my lands to-morrow and disappear. It will matter
little whether I am forgotten or not. The world is large and I am
not without fortitude. I wanted you to come here to-day, to see me
alone, to hear what I have to say,--not about myself,--but about
another. I am a woman of quick decisions. When I learned early this
morning that you would be in Lafayette to-day, I made up my mind
to take a certain step,--and I have not changed it."
"If you are referring to your daughter--to my half-sister, if you
will--I have only to remind you that my mind is already made up.
You need have no fear that I shall do or say anything to hurt that
innocent girl. I am assuming, of course, that she knows nothing
of--well, of what happened back there in Kentucky."
"She knows nothing," said the woman, in a voice strangely low and
tense. "If she ever knew, she has forgotten."
"Forgotten?" he cried. "Good God, how could she have forgotten a
thing so--"
She moved a step nearer, her burning eyes fixed on his.
"You remember Rachel Carter well enough. Have you no recollection
of the little girl you used to play with? Minda? The babe who could
scarcely toddle when you--"
"Of course I remember her," he cried impatiently. "I remember
everything. You took her away with you and--why did you not leave
her behind as my father left me? Why could you not have been as
fair to your child as he was to his?"
She was silent for a moment, pondering her answer. "I do not suppose
it has ever occurred to you that I might have loved my child too
deeply to abandon her," she said, a strange softness in her voice.
"My father loved me," he cried out, "and yet he left me behind."
"He loved you,--yes,--but he would not take you. He left you with
some one who also loved you. Don't ever forget that, Kenneth Gwynne.
I would not go without Minda. No more would your mother have gone
without you. Stop! I did not mean to offend. So you DO remember
little Minda?"
"Yes, I remember her. But she is dead. Why do you mention her--"
"Minda is not dead," said she slowly.
"Not--why, she was drowned in the--"
"No. Minda is alive. You saw her last night,--at Phineas Striker's
house."
He started violently. "The girl I saw last night was--Minda?" he
cried. "Why, Striker told me she was--"
"I know,--I know," she interrupted impatiently. "Striker told you
what he believed to be true. He told you she was Robert Gwyn's
daughter and your half-sister. But I tell you now that she is Minda
Carter. There is not a drop of Gwyn blood in her body."
"Then, she is not my half-sister?" he exclaimed, utterly dazed, but
aware of the exquisite sensation of relief that was taking hold of
him.
"She is no blood relation of yours."
"But she is,--yes, now I understand,--she is my step-sister," he
said, with a swift fall of spirits.
"I suppose that is what you might call her," said Rachel Gwyn,
indifferently. "I have not given it much thought."
"Does she know that she is not my father's daughter?"
"No. She believes herself to be his own flesh and blood,--his own
daughter," said she with the deliberateness of one weighing her
words, that they might fall with full force upon her listener.
"Why are you telling me all this?" he demanded abruptly. "What is
your object? If she does not know the truth, why should I? Good
God, woman, you--you do not expect ME to tell her, do you? Was that
your purpose in getting me here? You want me to tell her that--"
"No!" she cried out sharply. "I do not want you or any one else to
do that. Listen to me. I sha'n't beat about the bush,--I will not
waste words. So far as Viola and the world are concerned, she is
Robert Gwyn's daughter. That is clear to you, is it not? She was
less than two years old when we came away,--too young to remember
anything. We were in the wilderness for two or three years, and
she saw but one or two small children, so that it was a very simple
matter to deceive her about her age. She is nearly twenty-two now,
although she believes she is but nineteen. She does not remember
any other father than Robert Gwyn. She has no recollection of her
own father, nor does she remember you. She--"
"Last night she described her father to me," he interrupted. "Her
supposed father, I mean. She made it quite plain that he did not
love her as a father should love his own child."
"It was not that," she said. "He was afraid of her,--mortally
afraid of her. He lived in dread of the day when she would learn
the truth and turn upon him. He always meant to tell her himself,
and yet he could not find the courage. Toward the end he could not
bear to have her near him. It would not be honest in me to say that
he loved her. I do not believe he would have loved a child if one
had come to him and me,--no child of mine could take the place you
had in his heart." She spoke with calm bitterness. "You say she
told you about him last night. I am not surprised that she should
have spoken of him as she did. It was not possible for her to love
him as a father. Nature took good care of that. There was a barrier
between them. She was not his child. The tie of blood was lacking.
Nature cannot be deceived. She has never told me what her true
feelings toward him were, but I have sensed them. I could understand.
I think she is and always has been bewildered. It is possible that
away back in her brain there is something too tiny to ever become
a thought, and yet it binds her to a man she does not even remember.
But we are wasting time. You are wondering why I have told you the
truth about Viola. The secret was safe, so why should I reveal it
to you,--my enemy,--isn't that what you are thinking?"
"Yes. I don't quite grasp your motive in telling me, especially
as I am still to look upon Viola as my half-sister. I have already
stated that under no circumstances will I hurt her by raking up that
old, infamous story. I find myself in a most difficult position.
She believes herself to be my sister while I know that she is not.
It must strike even you, Rachel Carter, as the ghastliest joke that
fate ever played on a man,--or a woman, either."
"I have told you the truth, because I am as certain as I am that I
stand here now that you would have found it all out some day,--some
day soon, perhaps. In the first place your father did not mention
her in his will. That alone is enough to cause you to wonder. You
are not the only one who is puzzled by his failure to provide for
her as well as for you. Before long you would have begun to doubt,
then to speculate, and finally you would have made it your business
to find out why she was ignored. In time you could have unearthed
the truth. The truth will always out, as the saying goes. I
preferred to tell it to you at once. You understand I cannot exact
any promises from you. You will do as you see fit in the matter.
There is one thing that you must realize, however. Viola has not
robbed you of anything--not even a father's love. She does not
profit by his death. He did not leave her a farthing, not even a
spadeful of land. I am entitled to my share by law. The law would
have given it to me if he had left no will. I am safe. That is clear
to you, of course. I earned my share,--I worked as hard as he did
to build up a fortune. When I die my lands and my money will go to
my daughter. You need not hope to have any part of them. I do not
ask you to keep silent on my account. I only ask you to spare her.
If I have sinned,--and in the sight of man, I suppose I have,--I
alone should be punished. But she has not sinned. I have thought it
all out carefully. I have lain awake till all hours of the night,
debating what was the best thing to do. To tell you or not to tell
you, that was the question I had to settle. This morning I decided
and this is the result. You know everything. There is no need for
you to speculate. There is nothing for you to unravel. You know
who Viola is, you know why she was left out of your father's will.
The point is this, when all is said,--she must never know. She must
always,--do you hear me?--she must always look upon you as her
brother. She must never know the truth about me. I put her happiness,
her pride, her faith, in your hands, Kenneth Gwynne."
He had listened with rigid attention, marvelling at the calm,
dispassionate, unflinching manner in which she stated her case and
Viola's,--indeed, she had stated his own case for him. Apparently
she had not even speculated on the outcome of her revelations; she
was sure of her ground before she took the first step.
"There is no other course open to me," he said, taking up his hat.
He was very pale. "There is nothing more to say,--now or hereafter.
We have had, I trust, our last conversation. I hate you. I could
wish you all the unhappiness that life can give, but I am not such
a beast as to tell your daughter what kind of a woman you are. So
there's the end. Good-day, Rachel Carter."
He turned away, his hand was on the door-latch, before she spoke
again.
"There is something more," she said, without moving from the spot
where she had stood throughout the recital. The same calm, cold
voice,--the same compelling manner. "It was my pleading, back
in those other days, that finally persuaded Robert Gwyn to let me
bring Minda up as his daughter. He was bitterly opposed to it at
first. He never quite reconciled himself to the deception. He did
not consider it being honest with her. He was as firm as a rock
on one point, however. He would bring her up as his daughter, but
he would not give her his name. It was after he agreed to my plan
that he changed the spelling of his own name. She was not to have
his name,--the name he had given his own child. That was his real
reason for changing his name, and not, as you may suspect, to avoid
being traced to this strange land."
"A belated attempt to be fair to me, I suppose," he said, ironically.
"As you like," she said, without resentment. "In the beginning,
as I have told you, he believed it to be his duty to tell her the
truth about herself. He was sincere in that. But he did not have
the heart to tell her after years had passed. Now let me tell you
what he did a few weeks before he passed away,--and you will know
what a strange man he was. He came home one day and said to me: 'I
have put Viola's case in the hands of Providence. You may call it
luck or chance if you like, but I call it Providence. I cannot go
to her face to face and tell her the truth by word of mouth, but
I have told her the whole story in writing.' I was shocked, and
cried out to know if he had written to her in St. Louis. He smiled
and shook his head. 'No, I have not done that. I have written it all
out and I have hidden the paper in a place where she is not likely
to ever find it,--where I am sure she will never look. I will not
even tell you where it is hidden,--for I do not trust you,--no, not
even you. You would seek it out and destroy it.' How well he knew
me! Then he went on to say, and I shall never forget the solemn way
in which he spoke: 'I leave it all with Providence. It is out of my
hands. If she ever comes across the paper it will be a miracle,--and
miracles are not the work of man. So it will be God Himself
who reveals the truth to her.' Now you can see, Kenneth, that the
secret is not entirely in our keeping. There is always the chance
that she may stumble upon that paper. I live in great dread. My
hope now is that you will find it some day and destroy it. I have
searched in every place that I can think of. I confess to that. It
is hidden on land that some day will belong to Viola,--that much
he confided to me. It is not on the land belonging to you,--nor in
your house over there."
"You are right," he said, deeply impressed. "There is always the
chance that it will come to light. There is no telling how many
times a day she may be within arm's length of that paper,--perhaps
within inches of it. It is uncanny."
He cast a swift, searching look about the room, as if in the hope
that his eyes might unexpectedly alight upon the secret hiding
place.
"He could not have hidden it in this house without my knowing it,"
she said, divining his thought.
He was silent for a moment, frowning reflectively. "Are you sure
that no one else knows that she is not his daughter?"
"I am sure of it," she replied with decision.
"And there is nothing more you have to tell me?"
"Nothing. You may go now."
Without another word he left her. He was not surprised by her
failure to mention the early morning episode at Striker's cabin.
His concluding question had opened the way; it was clear that she
had no intention of discussing with him the personal affairs of
her daughter. Nevertheless he was decidedly irritated. What right
had she to ask him to accept Viola as a sister unless she was also
willing to grant him the privileges and interests of a brother?
Certainly if Viola was to be his sister he ought to have something
to say about the way she conducted herself,--for the honour of the
family if for no other reason.
As he walked rapidly away from the house in the direction of Main
Street, he experienced a sudden sense of exaltation. Viola was
not his sister! As suddenly came the reaction, and with it stark
realization. Viola could never be anything to him except a sister.