Rachel turned away, resting her chin in her hand, and conscious of a
thrill of alarm. What did the Scotchwoman mean? She knew that Bantry's
intentions were the best,--nothing else would have influenced her
to even listen to her suggestions,--but she was filled with disgust
at the nearer prospect of the situation. To be the subject of idle
gossip, perhaps even of scandal, was degrading. She felt suddenly that
the guidance of her affairs had slipped out of her own hands, that in
assuming the responsibility for Eva's actions she had lost control of
her own. The feeling of unreality, so poignant the night before, was
again with her, but it clothed her now with the fantastic shape of a
masquerader; her little world was real enough, but she was no longer
playing her own part in it. Instead she had assumed a character that
she did not even know by heart, and she had the despairing feeling that
she was sure to be caught and stripped of her borrowed plumes.
"It's not right to keep the thing in the house," Bantry resumed; "the
tongue in her head's a scandal for decent folks to hear. You can take
my word for it, Miss Rachel, dear; I wouldn't speak if I didn't have
to!"
"Well, we won't say anything more about it," Rachel replied, and her
voice, even in her own ears, sounded a long way off. The thing was
insufferable, yet, perhaps, she would have to speak to Eva.
Eva had long ago discarded Bantry as too old and too unfashionable; she
employed instead a little French girl who wore charmingly appropriate
black frocks and coquettish caps and aprons. Sidney Billop had once
been caught kissing Zélie in the pantry; he had never done it but
once, for it was his mother who caught him. Dr. Macclesfield remarked
upon that occasion that some men never went to Hades for punishment,
they found a private one in the bosoms of their families. Sidney found
his on emerging from the pantry and one scorching was enough; he had
occasion afterwards to cherish the ancient apothegm that a burnt child
fears the fire.
"Miss Rachel, dear, you're not angry?"
Rachel turned quickly and found that Bantry was in tears. She laid a
kindly hand on the old woman's shoulder.
"I'm not in the least angry, but I hate the whole business, Bantry; I
don't want to hear about it."
The Scotchwoman sobbed brokenly. "Miss Rachel--oh, for God's sake,
darling, it isn't true?"
Rachel's hand fell from her shoulder and she turned very pale. "I don't
understand."
"About Mr. Belhaven?"
"You mean about my engagement? Yes, it's true; I'm going to marry him."
Bantry covered her face with her hands and leaned against the wall,
sobbing.
Rachel was touched; she knew that the old woman regarded her almost
in the light of a foster-child, and she realized that there must be
strong reasons for her horror of the approaching marriage. Without even
imagining the depths of a kitchen scandal, she experienced a vague
feeling of terror, a terror that was chiefly concerned with the danger
to Eva. If Bantry felt such grief at the mere thought of her marriage
with Belhaven, of what terrible thing had Zélie accused her sister? As
yet Rachel's mind, perplexed and dulled with anguish, had not fully
realized her own situation; it almost seemed to her that some one else
was going to marry Belhaven. But now she began to appreciate her peril;
she must not let the old Scotchwoman discover the secret, for not even
the faithful Bantry could know that she was saving Eva. She tried to
assume a lighter tone.
"I'm sorry my marriage grieves you so much, Bantry, but it won't
separate us; I shall keep you with me."
"Oh, Miss Rachel!"
"And," Rachel risked adding this, "I'll speak to Mrs. Astry about
Zélie."
Bantry looked at her, almost indignantly, over the top of her crumpled
apron. Eva had not been in her thoughts, or Zélie either. In the
kitchen, that melting-pot of our social makeshifts, they said that Miss
Leven was marrying Belhaven to hush up an imminent scandal, and the old
Scotchwoman, in whose heart was a kind of fierce clan loyalty, longed
to rescue her favorite, to warn her, but there was something about
Rachel, an aloofness, a distinction, that set a gulf between them.
Bantry dared not tell her.
"Besides," Rachel went on in a low voice, "I don't want you to listen
to all this talk; keep it from the servants. Whatever it is, it's
false, but falsehoods are often believed; don't listen to them."
Bantry bent suddenly over Rachel's evening gown, folding it with
careful hands, her eyes still full of tears.
"Very well, Miss," she said, "I--I've only told you the truth."
"I know it; I won't forget that, Bantry."
"It's only right for you to believe me, Miss."
"I always believe you!"
Bantry's answer was inaudible; she bent low over the clothes on the
lounge to allow Rachel to pass without seeing that she was still
crying, for Bantry was storming in her heart against Mrs. Astry. It had
always been so, she told herself. Eva had always traded on her sister's
generosity and abused her affection.
"Jealous little cat!" the grim old Scotchwoman said to herself,
"selfish isn't the name for her; she's like an Angora when it's got all
the cream."
Meanwhile Rachel made her way to young Mrs. Astry's room. She entered
the boudoir, which opened on the balcony outside her own window, and
she shuddered involuntarily at the thought of last night. Eva had come
up from tennis and had just been dressed for luncheon, and the French
maid courtesied and left the room as her sister entered.
Rachel came in gravely and closed the door. "Eva, you must dismiss
Zélie."
Eva looked up with a violent start, her pretty face wet with tears.
"Why?" she exclaimed, and there was a thrill of terror in her voice.
Rachel did not notice it; she told her quite simply all that Bantry had
said. "She mustn't stay a day longer in this house, Eva. Dismiss her
with a month's wages in lieu of notice. I'm sure she doesn't deserve
it, but I'd do that."
Eva trembled; she knew that Rachel was inexorable and she knew also
that she was in Zélie's power. She could not tell Rachel the whole
truth, she could not refuse to dismiss Zélie, and she dared not resist
her sister, so she temporized.
"Wouldn't it be better to keep her a while? If we dismiss her, she'll
talk more--"
"Of what? If you keep her, you practically admit that you're afraid of
her, the servants will believe her, and the end will be a scandal. Eva,
you must dismiss her; I insist upon it."
"I--I can't!"
"You can't? Why?" Rachel's face flushed deeply.
Eva saw it; she busied herself arranging and rearranging the little
silver articles on her toilet-table, though her fingers trembled.
"Well, for one thing, don't you think it's just old Bantry's spite?
She's always jealous of a new servant."
"I think Bantry's immensely good and honest; she wouldn't accuse Zélie
falsely. You haven't an idea how she feels; she's crying in my room
now."
"Then, of course, it's all jealousy; she can't bear to have you marry
and set up a household; she's afraid you'll take Zélie."
"She knows I wouldn't; besides I haven't thought of the household--oh,
Eva, how can you talk of it?"
Eva covered her face with her hands. "It's killing me!" she sobbed.
Her sister looked at her with sudden contrition. She had been suffering
so much herself that she had forgotten how much Eva must have to
endure, and her cheek reddened again at the thought that Eva loved
Belhaven, that to see him marry her would be bitter. Yet there was
nothing she could say that would make it any easier to bear, and it was
impossible to let this French girl make matters worse.
"You really must send Zélie away," she persisted. "I'm sure that
Bantry's right about it."
Eva twisted in her chair, afraid to tell Rachel any more. "I hate to
dismiss a servant," she said weakly.
Rachel could understand this, for she hated to do it herself, but
sometimes even surgical operations are necessary and she was willing to
concede something to Eva's nervous condition.
"I'll dismiss her for you," she said quietly.
Eva shivered, watching her as she moved to the door.
"Now?" she gasped.
"At once," said Rachel, but before she could touch the bell some one
knocked at the door.
It was Pamela Van Citters. "I've come to say good-by," she explained.
"Paul and I are going to drive back to town this afternoon."
Eva rose hastily from the dressing-table and threw herself into
Pamela's arms. "Don't go!" she cried.
"It's sweet of you to ask me to stay, my dear, but think of my
offspring. I haven't seen the baby for three days."
"What of it? He'll be all the more delighted to see you and he'll have
cut a new tooth. Oh, Pamela, stay; Rachel's going to leave me."