But Rachel made no response; instead she eluded her sister's grasp and
went to the open door. She stood there, looking out past the young
hemlocks and the maples, across a field of wheat, where a flock of
crows skimming low over it showed black against the golden grain.
Suddenly she hid her face in her hands, and her whole slender figure,
shaken with emotion, quivered from head to foot.
"You needn't tell me," said Eva's voice behind her, "I know!"
There was a long silence. The hot, August sunshine filtered through
the foliage of the maples and flecked the gravel path with gold; there
was a dusky haze about the horizon, while the sky overhead was vividly
blue. A faint, hot wind ran over the yellow grain in long, quivering
waves and the vivid atmosphere seemed to pulsate and throb with heat.
"Rachel, I can't bear it, it's too much--and I did it--I did it all!"
Poor Rachel turned and went back to the table and began mechanically to
arrange and rearrange the roses. "It's no use to talk of it, Eva; it's
over and done with now!"
"No, it isn't, it can't be! You've got to face it and so have I--"
Her voice broke with self-pity, but her grief for Rachel was quite as
sincere. She looked at her in anguish--"You must hate me!"
"Do you think hate made me do it?"
"No, you were an angel, but you're human; you must hate me now!"
"No, I don't hate you, but--sometimes--I've been very angry with you,
Eva. God knows I wish you'd never done it!"
"You've every right to hate me," the penitent lamented. "I--I lied
about you to save myself."
Rachel could endure no more; she covered her ears with her hands. "Oh,
Eva, please go away, let me be; I can't stand it!"
Eva looked at her a moment in silence and then ran out of the house.
She went home blindly, not feeling the heat, and following the shade of
the woodpath by instinct. Before her went the anguished face of Rachel;
she knew at last that she had ruined her sister's life, she had lost
all, and gained nothing. She had set out gayly on the Way of the
Transgressors; with bleeding feet she was coming slowly and painfully
back from the Way.
Astry was alone in the library when his wife entered it an hour later
and he rose and put down his book. Something in her face warned him
that a climax had been reached. Eva flung her big white hat on the
table and sank into a chair.
"Take me away, please, to-morrow," she said. "I can't stand it here a
moment longer."
Astry turned to the window and deliberately lit his pipe, but his hand
shook as he struck the match. Was this an appeal for help? Was she
coming back to him to save her?
"We'll go to-morrow," he said, and his voice was almost kind. His old
anger against her had died down to ashes, he no longer felt the rage
and jealousy of passion; the small figure in the chair and the bent,
golden head looked almost childish, and he no longer hardened his
heart.