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."