"Oh, she's pretty enough, and, heavens, what a gown! Her clothes cost
a fortune. It doesn't seem fair, and I've told her so, to be so pretty
and to have so much money to make you more so."
"You can't imagine all the compliments Pamela's paying you, Eva,"
said the old doctor, as their hostess came past them in one of her
excursions across the room.
"It's because I'm so happy over dear Rachel's happiness," she replied,
with a beaming glance.
Belhaven, who heard this, regarded her with sudden amazement. There was
always a time when Eva's lovers were amazed, usually just before they
were disillusioned, and Belhaven found it difficult, at the moment, to
meet her on her own ground. What had been to him a kind of exhibition,
in which he was compelled to pose as the unwilling dancing-bear, was
apparently an occasion of joy and relief to her. He did not appreciate
the fact that, having saved her own skin, Eva was not keenly aware that
his was gone. And if he caught a look of exasperation on Astry's face,
it did not enlighten him to the fact that Astry had traveled that road
before him, had asked for bread and received a stone.
But Dr. Macclesfield, ruminating on Pamela's remarks, was not so easily
misled. He had known the two sisters all their lives and he observed
Eva shrewdly.
"I wonder what the little devil's been up to?" he thought. "She's
acting a little more elaborately than usual; she's aware herself
that she's acting, and as a rule it's a second nature. She never did
anything natural in her life except to have chicken-pox when she was
seven."
Family doctors accumulate a store of perfectly useless but
uncomfortable information; that is the penalty we pay for expert
advice, we reveal our affairs and our tongues.
Meanwhile, Paul Van Citters and the Italian _Chargé d'Affaires_ having
fallen into the toils of little Mrs. Prynne, Astry found himself
offering his best cigars to Colonel Sedley as a means of diverting him
from his one idea. But, though the fragrant Havana somewhat softened
the edge of the colonel's observations, it did not entirely change the
course of his conversation.
"I say, Astry, how about Charter?" he said. "You know I thought he was
hard hit when he was here last."
Astry lit his own cigar carefully. "I'm not responsible for that, you
know," he said dryly.
"I know that if he's come a cropper you didn't lend him the horse! But
he's a fine fellow, Astry, a splendid fellow! I'd like to have seen
Miss Leven marry a man like that."
"Exactly, but isn't it for her to choose after all?"
Sedley nodded slowly. "Of course, but, by Jove," he added, after a
moment of silent puffing at his cigar, "what queer men women choose!"
Astry colored slightly and frowned, yet he was aware that Sedley did
not know that he had loved Rachel first and asked her to marry him
before Eva came back from a two years' stay in Paris. Rachel had
refused him, simply because she did not love him. Knowing this, Astry
had always regarded her as above the consideration of fortune, and
it angered him the more that she should have deliberately chosen
Belhaven. He was conscious, too, and it embittered his mood, that he
had never hated Belhaven so on Eva's account, nor been so jealous of
him as he was now, watching him stand close to Rachel to receive the
congratulations of their bewildered friends. What would Rachel say to
Belhaven, what would she do? The position was so forced, so unreal,
that it affected Astry like a distasteful tragedy realistically acted
but imperfectly staged.
"I have a feeling that Charter'll be considerably knocked up about it,"
persisted Sedley; "and he's made a splendid record in the Philippines."
"Well, a man who can stand the Philippines can stand a disappointment
in love."
"They tell me the climate's a perfect Turkish bath, but we've done a
lot in Manila; it'll be half-way decent now that the moat's grassed
over and their confounded drains filled up."
"Oh, if you've got to drains!"
The colonel laughed good-humoredly. "I don't know but that they're more
in my line than match-making," he said.
All this while Rachel had been listening to appropriate remarks and
Mrs. Billop was particularly affectionate.
"My dear," she whispered, "I'm envious; you're positively the only one
I should have loved for Sidney."
Rachel did not sink under this tremendous compliment but she smiled
a little. To have escaped Sidney was something. But she reflected
that Mrs. Billop only said it because she was safely out of the way.
Sidney was one of those interesting youths who remain firmly staked
in the list as safe home-prizes, guarded by their anxious mothers,
who flutter about them clucking wildly at every speck on the horizon,
lest it prove to be a matrimonial chicken-hawk descending upon their
offspring. Mrs. Billop would have clucked very wildly had she thought
that Rachel intended to descend upon Sidney, for she regarded Rachel as
strong-minded, a new woman.
It was fortunate that Rachel was strong-minded, else she would scarcely
have faced the ordeal without betraying herself. As it was, she went
through it successfully and saw most of the guests pairing off for the
day to leave her alone with Belhaven, a prospect at once amazing and
terrible. What would she do with Belhaven?
Astry asked himself the same question with conscious irritation, as he
went off in his motor with Count Massena, Pamela, and Mrs. Prynne. Eva
was asking it with a thrill of jealousy, as she sallied forth to the
tennis-court with Sidney and Van Citters. Dr. Macclesfield was asking
it with grim humor, as he disposed of Mrs. Billop and Colonel Sedley
in the wagonette, and, perhaps, no one was more embarrassed by it than
Belhaven himself.
The last guest had drifted out of the library. They had been left
obviously alone together, and as the wagonette disappeared, they turned
from the window and faced each other in the broad, uncompromising
light of noon, with only the slight screen of the striped awning that
shielded the long terrace. Rachel remembered instantly the figure on
that terrace the night before; then she raised her eyes and met those
of Belhaven. The man's handsome face, keen-featured, clean-shaven
and well proportioned, was haggard, and his expression, as he met
Rachel's clear glance, was deeply shamed. She saw it with a quick
thrill of doubt: had Eva told her the truth? Then suddenly her cheek
reddened deeply; was it because he must marry her? The situation was
intolerable. They stood looking at each other a long moment in painful
silence before she moved a little away from him and took the nearest
chair; her knees were trembling so that she could not stand, but she
was apparently calm.
"Will you sit down?" she said coldly; "I must speak to you."
Belhaven obeyed mechanically; he wanted to speak, too, but his lips
were parched, for he felt that he had a coward's part. He had known
it ever since he looked in the clear depths of her gray eyes. He was
tasting the fruits of his indiscretions and he rebelled against it,
for, like most sinners, he would greatly have preferred to go free. He
was ashamed to look at Rachel; he felt himself suddenly a moral leper.
He had never entertained so poor an opinion of himself as he did at
that moment, and he had never been aware before that he profoundly
admired her. He met her eyes at last and was surprised that her
expression was so tranquil; it was even kind,--companions in misery are
sometimes drawn to each other.
"I'm sorry for you," she said quietly, "we're in an unhappy situation.
I'm nearly as sorry for you as I am for myself, which is saying a good
deal," she added, with the ghost of a smile.
Belhaven pulled himself together. "I don't deserve your pity," he said
hoarsely.
Again Rachel felt a thrill of doubt, but she passed it over. "I'm sorry
we have to go through with it--this marriage--but it's the only thing
to do."
Belhaven was silent; he wanted to tell her that he would face the
worst, that he would not accept the sacrifice, but words choked him. He
had not courage enough; he stormed in his heart but it was true, he was
a coward! He heard Rachel's voice again and it seemed a long way off.
"I suppose--oh, really I don't know what to say to you," she cried,
almost breaking down after her fine beginning; "it's--it's hard to
talk of it, but I suppose we've got to do it. You and I alone know that
she's innocent and you and I are forced to save her from--from the
consequences of her indiscretion!"
She broke off, waiting for him to answer but he did not; he, too,
flushed a dark red during her speech and then paled to the lips. He was
silent.
"It was her folly," Rachel began again, in a low voice, "but
you--you're a man of the world, it's just unpardonable in you; you
can't blame Johnstone for what he's done! If only Eva had told the real
truth--but she was so frightened, she's afraid he'll kill you and she's
flung the thing upon me--so I've got to save her. I'm doing it for her
sake, I--I--" Her voice failed her altogether, she turned scarlet, and
her lips trembled.
He looked up into her eyes. He had never before encountered this kind
of a woman and he was impressed. There was a dignity about her, even in
the midst of her embarrassment, that made him feel that her soul kept a
space to move in too elevated for him to enter.
"I think it's fine of you," he said haltingly; "it's tremendously
plucky--of course I can make no excuses. I don't. I love her; it's my
fault; I suppose such things have happened before;" this was a very old
excuse but he used it unconsciously; "I'd give my right hand to save
her from it all, but I feel I'm a coward to let you do this."
Rachel turned from him. Looking out into the beautiful sunshine, she
saw a busy little bevy of white butterflies skim past the window; a
bird sang persistently, sweetly; it was free, it was good to be free.
Her hands trembled in her lap; she did not look back at him.
"It will be only a marriage in name," she forced herself to say. "I'll
try to interfere with your life as little as I can and I shall expect
you to consider my feelings too."
"I quite understand."
There was again a painful silence, then they both heard Eva's laugh,
an exceedingly sweet, light-hearted, care-free laugh that was her
characteristic. It came to them from the tennis-court and Belhaven
shuddered. Rachel rose, steadying herself with a hand on the back of
the chair.
"I believe there's nothing more to say," she said gently.
He had risen too. "The marriage?" he asked, hesitatingly.
She turned white to the lips. "Johnstone has set next Thursday; these
people leave to-morrow and Wednesday; would you--" She looked up; for
one wild moment she felt that she must appeal to him to be man enough
to save her.
But his answer killed the last faint hope. "Any time will do," he said,
avoiding her eyes.
She turned away with a slight gesture of despair; there was nothing to
hope from such a man as this, and she went quietly to the door. As she
reached it, he came quickly over and opened it for her. He had been
like a man in a dream and now his face flushed deeply again.
"I humbly beg your pardon," he said hoarsely.
Rachel bent her head and passed out. Belhaven closed the door behind
her and threw himself into the nearest chair with a groan.
"You and I alone know that she's innocent and you and I are forced
to protect her!" Could Rachel have invented a more refined torment?
He thought not. He saw himself as in a mirror; she had held it up to
reflect his image and he found it hideous. He was a coward! It burns a
man's soul to realize that. We are fond of heroics, we like to picture
ourselves undaunted in the firing line; more causes have been won in
day-dreams than were ever lost in reality, more forlorn hopes have
found a leader than there were hopes of any kind to lead. But when the
crisis comes, the hero suddenly collapses, the old cowardly self comes
out from behind the hayrick, is affrighted and runs back. Belhaven had
never known himself until those three awful hours when Astry kept him a
prisoner in that same room waiting for Rachel's decision, waiting for
a woman to save him for her sister's sake; not even for his own sake,
but for some one else's. Alone he was obviously not worth saving;
she had told him so. Belhaven, left alone in the most uncomfortable
moment of his life, began to realize forcibly that he was not worth
it; he was marooned on an island of sentimental purpose and he had no
sentiment. He was thirty-two and he had never done a useful thing in
his life unless it was to give his old clothes to his man servant,
whom they fitted rather better than most cast-off clothes do. He had
lived hard, drank hard, spent his money hard; he would have spent all
of it, if a wise and frugal parent had not trusteed a large portion
of the principal so that the worst that could happen were periods of
impecuniosity, seasons of financial drought, like a summer after a dry
St. Swithin's day, before the interest from those trusteed thousands
began to come in again.
Yet Belhaven was not vicious, he was not even hardened, and he had
fallen foolishly in love with Eva Astry chiefly because she wanted him
to fall in love with her. Like most of his predecessors in flirtation,
he did not know that that was her perpetual attitude; he supposed
that he was an exception, he thought Eva really loved him better than
herself. But Rachel knew better; something in her manner told him that
she knew better, but she did not dream that her sister was anything
but innocent. Belhaven had caught a glimpse of her soul, he had dimly
discerned the mental attitude; he knew that Eva had deceived her and he
was deeply ashamed. Yet he was not strong enough to go out and face
Astry; his three hours with Astry had almost been the death of him; the
man was as relentless as an Indian and as clever as a devil.
Belhaven got up and walked about the library. What should he do? If he
went away it would do no good; it was cowardly and it would do no good,
Astry would pursue him and blazon out the truth. If he refused to marry
Rachel, Astry would kill him. If Eva--his mind stopped there; Eva had
betrayed him. At the last ditch, the hardest pinch, she had bargained
with the enemy for her own safety; she had delivered him, bound hand
and foot, to Astry. She was cruel. Eva, the darling, little creature,
the soft pink and white beauty, whose tender flesh could endure no
pain, whose heart could endure no suffering,--this paragon had suddenly
failed him. She had left him in the lurch, she had gathered up her
skirts and fled before the deluge. He began dimly to understand Eva;
he was slowly, painfully, laboriously, to climb the road which Astry
had traveled before him. It is a long road and it is well worn by the
footprints of many pilgrims; he whose feet are once set upon this road,
turns not back.