All this while Charter had been away. He had left Washington almost
immediately and was taking his leave out of the sphere of its
influence; he even dreaded the possibility of a summons to report at
the War Department. Not that he was afraid to meet the problem and
grapple with it, but he was determined to conquer it, and Rachel's very
presence, under the altered conditions, had been too distracting a
pain. If he was ever to see his way through it, he must see it without
her. She had removed herself from his life and he had lived so long
near the thought of her that her absence seemed to take the magic part
of life away, to leave him a bare skeleton of meaningless days.
At first it was indeed impossible to believe in their final separation;
there seemed to exist some indestructible tie between them, spiritual
and therefore immortal, born of their community of soul, their absolute
sympathy, their old happy comradeship. He could not quite believe that
Rachel did not belong to him, that, instead, she belonged to Belhaven,
and it was the necessity of recognizing that which forced him to the
overt act of flight. He must feel that he was mistaken, that no
infrangible bond existed between their spirits, that he was free as
Rachel had shown that she felt herself to be free. He could not have
explained this feeling, his folly as he called it, to himself, but
he tried to urge on the process of dissolution, to slip out of the
shackles, and the fact that he knew intuitively that Rachel was unhappy
had not made the process of forgetting easier. To stand outside of her
life, put out of it by her own act, and to witness her misery was like
pouring gall into his wound; even his magnificent courage blenched
before it.
For a nature like his absence does very little; life regained
its normal aspect, but individually he felt lopsided. Rachel's
disappearance from her place in his plans and his hopes left them
toppling over, only half complete, and he was continually groping about
for a solution of his problem, a way to regain the old, equable poise.
He even wanted to go back to the Philippines, a desire which made his
brother officers smile sardonically. They thought that John had always
been a fool, and now he had apparently become besottedly fond of living
in a hole with the sole object of relieving the troubles of a few
common soldiers and helping the Filipinos.
The common soldiers and the Filipinos were fervent in their desire
to have John back but he did not get there. In fact he found himself
suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, appreciated. The War Department
was not disposed to let him hide his light under a bushel. For some
unheard of reason they began to realize his value. He did not get his
orders to the Philippine Islands, but he got a medal from Congress for
his distinguished courage at Caloocan, a matter that seemed to have
been just remembered. If he had been willing, young Captain Charter
would have been quite a hero; as it was, he had to spend most of his
time, while visiting his aunt at Newport, dodging social lion-tamers,
and he began to dread the sight of a motor filled with ladies in
fashionable attire making its way to the front door. If he had the
habit of command he had not the attendant love of publicity, and he
hated to move continually before the public eye, garbed, as it were, in
the pomp and panoply of war. He went on obscure fishing trips with old
seafaring characters; he went tramping in the woods and fields; but he
could not escape the incense of popular admiration as a hero, nor the
disturbing ripple of Pamela's letters. For Pamela kept him informed;
from her he heard that Eva had broken down in the heat of August and
the Astrys had consequently taken a flying trip to Europe. About Rachel
his fair correspondent was more discreet, but she let drop a hint now
and then, and he knew when, at the approach of fall, the Belhavens went
away together for a brief visit in Boston, Aunt Drusilla Leven having
returned from her exile to her little house in Cambridge, where she
was likely, so Pamela wrote, to have to live on salt cod and kippered
herring until the first of January, when her dividends would have
at last arrived. "You know," Pamela added, "that college towns are
fearfully expensive and even top round is out of sight up there!"
The knowledge that the Belhavens were probably still absent was a more
material comfort to Charter when, in December, he got the dreaded order
to report in Washington for staff duty at the White House. At the same
time Paul Van Citters wrote to invite him to spend Christmas with
them, and casually mentioned that the Belhavens had been away since
Thanksgiving, though the Astrys were home again. Pamela had carefully
instructed her husband in this portion of his letter and it had the
desired effect. John was lonely, he dreaded Christmas, and he had no
objections to going to the Van Citterses, as long as he had to be in
Washington by the first of the year. Paul talked of going south for a
shooting trip; John did not care a pin about it, but he did not want
to shoot himself and sometimes he felt dangerously like it. For there
are strenuous moments when even the most rational human being lets
go of the normal facts of life and feels those destructive forces at
work within himself, tearing away his resolutions, letting slip the
material bonds that make existence possible, turning back the wheels of
life, loosening the noose that holds the body and the will together.
John was tired of the struggle; he had put Rachel out of his life,
but, as yet, he had not replaced her. To escape the bonds of such a
passion it is a vital necessity, they say, to supplant it, and John's
great simplicity of soul had not yet reached this easy solution. To him
it would not have been easy, chiefly because there were so few like
Rachel, so few had her sweetness and her subtle charm.
The day that he arrived in Washington he was received only by Mr. Van
Citters' mother, as it happened that Paul had been called to Baltimore
to see a sick friend and Pamela was out at a formal luncheon at the
White House. These engagements were sufficiently pressing to excuse
their temporary failure to welcome their cousin, and, after lunching
with his elderly hostess, Charter found time to go out for a stroll
before Pamela was likely to return. He had intended to avoid the
neighborhood of the Belhaven house, but they were absent, so he found
it easy to excuse himself for turning his steps in that direction.
The road outside of the city was more inviting, the tempter argued
insidiously, and he was less likely to meet chance acquaintances;
besides, it was unnecessary to go within a bow-shot of the dangerous
neighborhood.
It was a crisp December day; there was snow behind the hedgerows
and here and there he saw a snowbird or a woodpecker. The growing
familiarity of the scene afforded him a curious kind of comfort. He was
only vaguely aware of those mysterious forces that were continually
turning him in one direction, and he thought that he had conquered
himself, that he could risk even the sights and sounds that recalled
most vividly that supreme moment when his universe had toppled over
like a house of cards. Moreover, the city had grown beyond his
recollection during his absence in the Philippines, and a new block of
houses had so entirely altered the appearance of the neighborhood, and
he had been so occupied with his own thoughts, that he was surprised
to find himself at a turn of the road where he must pass the lower
driveway between the entrance to Astry's estate and the old Belhaven
place. But, after a moment's hesitation, he went on and, glancing
down at the low rambling house, saw the smoke ascending from the
chimneys and a large, gray motor standing in the stable-yard. Then he
suddenly remembered that Paul's statement that they had been away since
Thanksgiving did not contain a guarantee that they would remain away
until spring. Sharply aware of the shock that he had received, John
called himself a fool to have risked meeting Rachel so soon again.
Yet the thought of it gave him a pleasure nearly as poignant as
pain. She arose before his mind's eye with the clearness of a perfect
revelation; he seemed to see at once the graceful erectness of her
slight figure, the delicate face, the charming eyes, the mouth that had
both tenderness and strength.
John averted his eyes from the house, for that made Belhaven certain;
it clothed the situation in flesh and drove it to his heart. But the
long grove of cedars, their pungent odor, the sweep of the frozen
field, the bare poles of the wood through which he caught here and
there the glorious leap and flash of the sun on the snowy slopes
beyond, these things reminded him of Rachel. They made the thought of
her so vivid, so persuasive, that it seemed natural to see her in the
flesh as he turned the last lap of the Astry meadows. She was alone;
she had been to the house and was going home by a short cut through the
woods. She wore no hat and the wind had ruffled her brown hair until it
curled in little vagrant tendrils about her temples. A long, gray coat
covered her to her feet and she had thrust her hands into the pockets,
boy fashion, and was walking fast. A swift change passed over her face
as she caught sight of him, a change that deepened the soft color in
her cheeks and darkened her eyes.
John met her gravely, almost bluntly. "I didn't know until a moment ago
that you were here!"
"Or you wouldn't have come?"
"Or I wouldn't have come."
"Can't we let it all go, John?" she asked, a little, pitiful quiver
about her lips. "I hate to lose your friendship; it--has always been
dear to me."
He stood still, looking down at the frosted grass. "I thought it was
dear to me until I lost you!"
"It's cruel that there can be no middle course; must it be love or
hate?"
"It must always be love, I think--I've tried to kill it, Rachel."
"It will die after a while a natural death. We can't talk about it;
John, haven't I done enough to kill it? I've married some one else."
"As if I didn't know it!"
"I'm trying to help you kill it!"
"You can't," bitterly, "every word you say makes it more alive. I've
no right to stand here and look at you; I ought to remember the Mosaic
law about my neighbor's wife. I've always despised men who made love to
married women, and now I'm one of them; how you must hate me, Rachel!"
She breathed hard as if in physical pain. "Don't, John; let us forget
it--thrust it out of sight. Don't you see that it's wrong for me to
listen? If you care so much I must mean something to you; have I
deserved this at your hands?"
"Rachel!"
"You've forced me to say that; can't you see how it seems to me? I'm
married to Belhaven and you think I ought to hear this. If I were
married to you, John, would you want me to hear it from him?"
She had driven it home.
"Forgive me," he said hoarsely.
She saw the drawn look about his mouth and eyes and his pain deepened
hers. "I don't want you to be less than yourself," she said gently.
"I'll try to get my lesson by rote," he said bitterly, "I shan't be a
brute again."
She stooped down and, picking up a fallen acorn, turned it over in her
hands as if she had discovered some new interest or virtue in it; she
was trying to hide her face from him, for if he saw it he could surely
read it. "I was going home by the woodpath," she said. "I've been to
see Eva, but she's out somewhere, perhaps on her way to my house; I
must go on."
"May I go with you? Or--"
"Of course you may come; we're going to be friends, aren't we?" Then,
as they turned into the path: "I've heard all about your work in the
Philippines; it was like you to say nothing of it. I was so glad of the
promotion, too."
"I suppose it's all right," he said drearily. "I haven't thought much
about it. I've been in Newport for five months, being invited to meet
widows and orphans. Then I got orders to report here and Van Citters
asked me down for Christmas. They told me that you and the Astrys were
away for a while."
"Eva had to go in August: she broke down; but they came back in
October. Johnstone has just imported a new Chinese god."
"I see that he hasn't reformed; I mean Johnstone, not the god. Has he
gone in for any more new fads?"
They were forcing themselves to talk commonplaces.
"Occult science and Shintoism, I believe," she replied, still trifling
with her acorn. "He has some new toy from the West Indies, but I don't
know much about it; he calls it the red sphere."
"I wish I could have brought him a few odds and ends from the
Philippines. I didn't--I remembered the story of Jim Fealey coming home
with six church candlesticks and a mahogany sideboard as the spoils of
war."
She did not answer him for a moment, she could not; and then she tried
to divert his glance. "Look, isn't that view pretty? I love that
bit--and see, there's a glimpse of the Astry gateposts."
They stopped midway in the woods and looked southward. There was a
clearing, and in it a few gray rocks loomed out of the snow, while
the hemlocks, still mantled in snow, parted to show the long curve
of the meadows beyond and the stately gateway in the dark line of
hedge. As they looked, a man and a woman crossed the path below them
without looking up; she was weeping passionately and clinging to her
companion's arm.
Rachel turned slowly away and walked on, and John dared not look at
her, for they had both recognized the two below them in the wood. It
was Belhaven with Eva.
Rachel walked ahead, turning her acorn over and over in her hand and
looking at it curiously, unconscious that she did it. John walked
behind her, blind with rage, the old primeval instinct to kill tearing
at his heart. This was the man she had married, the man she had
preferred to him!
They came to the edge of the woods; before them was the old, tavernlike
house, with Paul's expensive roof and Colonial porch, that had cost his
aunt three years of bonnets. Rachel paused an instant.
"They wanted to cut away those cedars in summer," she said, in a
lifeless voice, "but I wouldn't let them. I love their graceful shapes
and they screen the garden. There are some box borders there a hundred
years old. I planted one whole square to heliotrope and I could
smell the blossoms fifty yards away. I suppose, though, you've seen
heliotrope hedges?"
"I've seen swamps, mosquitoes and Filipinos," said John dryly.
"One would think you took no interest in it, yet I know you gave your
heart and soul to the cause; that's your way, John."
"You think better of me than I deserve. At heart I'm a raging savage,
selfish and revengeful."
She did not look at him, but his voice told her that he had recognized
Belhaven as quickly as she had, and a deep flush of mortification rose
slowly to her hair. He thought that she was actually Belhaven's wife
and that she was enduring Belhaven's love-making to Eva. The thought
sickened her, the impulse to tell him the truth tore her heart with the
fierceness of passion. She saw his anger for her and loved him for it,
while she shrank from the shame of her situation. Her wounded pride was
in arms; the first sickening realization that Eva was again to blame
was, for the moment, lost in her quickened sense of personal shame. She
felt a complicity in Eva's guilt, for had she not helped her deceive
Astry? Was not Astry now fully avenged? Her own act had recoiled upon
herself; she was reaping as she had sown. Her own act had made it
impossible for her to right herself in John's eyes; she could not tell
him the truth without betraying Eva. Her lips were sealed. Meanwhile,
they had reached the door of the house and John halted, his attitude
unmistakable.
"It's teatime," she said, and her voice sounded strange, even in her
own ears, "won't you come in?"
"Not to-day."
She did not hold out her hand; it was trembling and she put it behind
her. "Tell Pamela that I shall expect you all to-morrow," she said,
with an effort.
John was conscious of mumbling some reply, and she turned and went into
the house.
He was amazed at her composure, unaware that she was overwhelmed with
shame at her own awkwardness. He was in no mood to see any fault in
her manner; he was at a white heat of passion. He longed fiercely to
take Belhaven by the nape of the neck, as a terrier takes a rat, and
shake the life out of him, but he was aware that it was an age of law
and order and the conventions. To go to the electric chair for killing
Belhaven would not help Rachel; besides, for all he knew, Rachel loved
her husband. John ground his teeth at the thought; to have Rachel's
love cast away upon such an object was gall and wormwood. A situation
that has occurred many times in this world seemed new to him and of
intolerable wretchedness. To love well and to see the object of that
affection bestowing love unworthily in quite another quarter is not
uncommon, but to John it seemed the last straw. He plunged back into
the wood with a grim determination in his heart. He was quite simple
and sincere; there were no fine shades of reasoning and sarcastic
self-examination about John: a beautiful spiritual endowment of honesty
and faith was unaccompanied by brilliant worldly gifts, and he was
peculiarly unfitted to deal with a man like Belhaven. John saw the
truth sharply, spoke it and lived it, because it was his nature to
be simple and sincere, and he was going to deal directly now with a
problem so complex that another man would have paused before it. He
did not; he pursued his purpose through the snowy path with the same
singleness of heart with which Sir Galahad pursued the Holy Grail. The
brickbat of John's perseverance was in evidence.
Nor was he disappointed. That which we seek diligently we shall find,
and in the center of the wood he found Belhaven. The two men had known
each other for years, though they had nothing in common, but even
John saw the change in Belhaven's face. For six months he had been
journeying upon the road which Astry had journeyed before him and he
showed that he had passed many milestones, that he was well on toward
the end. He looked, even to John's angry eyes, like a man sick at
heart, but he spoke first.
"Hello, Charter, I hadn't heard you were here!"
Having made up his mind, John was not one to waste words, or to
approach the subject circuitously. "I came about two hours ago,"
he said slowly, "and I walked through this way twenty minutes ago.
Inadvertently I saw you and Mrs. Astry in the path below me."
John paused to let this sink in, and it sank; a deep red flush burned
on Belhaven's face. "I might say," he remarked slowly, "that it was
none of your business."
John's head went up. "I've known Mrs. Belhaven for many years and it
is my business; anything that injures her or causes her disgrace is
the business of her friends. No scoundrel, seeing what I saw, would
hold his tongue. You've exposed your wife to the misery of a double
betrayal, you're insulting her, and making love to her sister. If you
bring disgrace on her, I'll--I'll thrash you!" John ended fiercely.
The surging passions that had been chained for weeks in Belhaven's
heart broke loose like furies and his face turned from magenta to
ashes; he lost himself and flew at John. The assault was as violent as
it was unexpected; he struck a fierce blow and John, parrying it, was
caught again, then they closed. The path was icy beneath their feet and
both men reeled for a moment and swayed together. A sudden, fierce joy
leaped into John's heart. He longed to kill him; for one wild moment
he was a savage, feeling his power, for Belhaven was no match for
him physically, and it was the primitive man fighting for his woman.
John's training, his tranquil life, his hard military service, had
made his muscles like steel. He had Belhaven by the throat and hurled
him back against a tree and held him there. The force of his grip and
the consciousness of defeat wrung the life out of his adversary's eyes,
but there was no surrender. John held him against the tree and gloried
in the hatred and revenge, the savage let loose. Then it all passed.
"I could easily kill you," he said slowly, "but I won't; we're both
mad, this only makes for scandal. Go home!"
As he spoke he released him, and Belhaven stood, leaning against the
tree. He felt the receding powers of life flowing back but his rage
was spent; he could not murder John now, it did not seem worth while.
The struggle had revealed something to both men. Belhaven knew that
John loved Rachel, John knew intuitively that Belhaven did not love
Eva Astry, yet neither of them recognized the hidden powers that had
revealed these things to them. John turned and walked rapidly away;
he dared not trust himself again with his hand on Belhaven's throat.
The fierce leap of passion in his blood warned him to retreat and he
remembered Rachel at last and his desire to shield her from disgrace.
Had he not been doing that which, once known, would lead to scandal? He
scorned himself.
Belhaven stood a long while where John had left him, shame and rage
contending with another and a deeper passion in his heart. For months
he had lived in torture, he had just been dragging his chains; there
seemed to be no way out and he was consumed with the fierce fires of
remorse and despair.
It was long past six o'clock and the short winter twilight was over
when he finally entered the house. A glance showed the old tap-room
empty and Rachel's little tea-table deserted. Belhaven experienced
a feeling of relief; it would have been a trial to drink a cup of
tea and talk about the outside world to her to-day, for he was in no
mood to talk. He went on, and passing down the hall, approached his
den, a small room where he read and worked and smoked alone. Whether
Rachel considered her presence there an intrusion or shrank from any
appearance of intimacy, he did not know, but she never came there and
he was the more surprised when he opened the door to find her standing
before the fire, still dressed in her out-of-door clothes, her heavy
coat thrown on the back of a chair, just as she slipped it off more
than an hour ago. He stood a moment looking at her in surprise. Her
expression had a certain concentration, a spiritualized anger, which
amazed him.
"Please close the door," she said quietly. "I have something to say to
you, and unhappily servants listen."
He closed the door and went over to the fire. "Won't you sit down?" he
asked, remembering that he was the host, with an effort.
"I've been waiting to see you for an hour," she replied, without
taking the chair he offered. "I was coming home through the woods this
afternoon; I had no thought of playing spy but I saw you with Eva."
"Apparently we were quite observed," retorted Belhaven bitterly.
"Charter also saw us."
"He was with me."
Belhaven glanced at her and raged in his heart. He would have given
his all to have stood in Charter's place at that moment. "You're more
candid than he was," he said bitingly.
Rachel colored. "It was impossible not to see you; the place is
public. We've had months of very bitter experience; I know it's been
as bitter to you as to me. We've taken up a yoke that we ought never
to have assumed, which we would never have assumed had I known that
you wouldn't keep your promise to me--to let poor Eva alone! I married
you to shield her from Astry's anger, not to practise a deceit upon
Astry. I understood from you both that there was the end of it all. My
sister's folly, her conduct, I can't understand, I don't attempt to,
but you--" Rachel drew a deep breath--"you're a man of the world; you
know what you do! I can't stand here to shield you from Astry; there
must be an end. You must give Eva up, I must save my sister--if she
can't save herself."
Belhaven had listened in silence, his clenched hands strained at his
sides. There was a moment's pause before he spoke. "I don't suppose
you'll believe me, but I can swear to you that, since our marriage,
there's been absolutely nothing between your sister and myself except
her reproaches."
"Which you've deserved," said Rachel relentlessly.
"Which I've deserved," he assented dryly, "and I've had them pretty
often."
"You're laying the blame upon her, you're accusing her, and it's
cowardly. If you love her it is, at least, best to be honest; if you
don't love her your conduct is still more unpardonable. I wish I hadn't
seen you to-day, but I did and I'm forced to speak. I can't let you go
on. There's Johnstone Astry; what right have you to make clandestine
love to his wife? And Eva--what misery your love will bring her! If you
love her, I implore you to remember her honor, her good name, her folly
in caring for you at all!"
Belhaven walked away from her and stood with his back toward her. What
seemed to be his indifference spurred Rachel on.
"She's young, she's thoughtless, she's at your mercy," she went on
passionately. "If you love her--you must spare her!"
He swung around, his face tense with feeling, ghastly. "My God, Rachel,
it's you I love!"
She stood looking at him blankly, dumbfounded, frozen in her amazement
and horror. It seemed to her an enormity for him to transgress the
silent compact between them, to speak of love to her. "How can you?"
she gasped.
"I'm human, I've about reached the limit. I'm neither a saint nor a
paladin, only a good deal of a scoundrel."
"You're taking an unfair advantage--you've no right to speak so to me!"
"I told you I was a good deal of a scoundrel; do you want me to admit
more? I've pleaded guilty to all your indictments, I've stood here
for months at the bar of your justice, I've borne my punishment, and
I--I've learned to love you."
She turned away, deeply and sadly moved. She did not know what to say;
there seemed so little that she could say.
Belhaven, who had never been greatly loved, looked at her with a kind
of despair. A great change had been wrought in the nature of the man.
He had seen only women like Eva before, or worse women, and there were
places in his past which he would not have liked those clear eyes of
Rachel's to look upon; indeed, there had been moments when he would not
even have valued her. But it was not so now; the scales had fallen
from his eyes; he saw Rachel as she was, and his heart reached up,
breathless, trying to climb to her heights, but always falling back,
always despairing. Rachel, as he had grown to know her, was greater
than his heart.
"I love you," he said steadily. "I haven't lived under the same roof
with you for months without knowing you as you are. I'm quite aware
that you despise me; possibly I deserve it. At any rate I expect no
quarter; but it's fair that you should know how impossible it is for me
to betray my promise to you when I've learned to love you."
"And you throw the blame on Eva?"
"I've nothing to say against her!"
They looked at each other. Rachel read the grim agony in the man's
face; he had bitten the dust, he was speaking the truth, he loved her!
The color rushed up to her hair, and she was suddenly conscious of the
undissolved bonds between them, that she was actually his wife. And
now there was an added, infrangible bond, a sort of complicity in his
despair.
"I'm sorry," she said quite simply, and her lips trembled.
He made a slight, significant gesture which seemed to dismiss his part
in it and, turning to the fireplace, rested his elbow on the mantel and
leaned his head on his hand.
"I'm sorry to have done you an injustice," she went on, with an
effort. "I believe what you've said, but I implore you to protect my
sister."
"I'll do my best."
"Oh, if you'd only done your best at first!" she cried involuntarily.
"For God's sake, Rachel, don't rub it in!"
"You're right; I hate reproaches, yet I always seem to reproach you! At
least I feel sure now that you'll help me take care of Eva."
"I'll help you."
Rachel left him. She went slowly across the hall and began to ascend
the stairs. From the landing she could see him still standing by the
fireplace and the dejection of his attitude touched her heart. Their
brief interview had been illuminating; she was intensely sorry for him,
for he needed her love, and if she could have given it to him she could
have saved him from himself. Rachel knew this, she knew the strength
and tenderness of her own spirit, she knew her power to love and to
forgive, and Belhaven needed both. Suddenly it came to her, like the
still, small voice within, that she had sworn to give him all these,
that by mocking him with marriage she had robbed him of his chance to
win honest love and honest faith, that she stood between this wretched
man and freedom, between him and all that might make his life worth
living. The thought was hideous but it was true; it was Belhaven's
case, the other side, the plea for the defendant, and it cut her to
the soul. She had been judging and condemning one whom she had greatly
wronged; she was both false and cruel, false to her vows, cruel to
another soul struggling upward to the light, and as hideously shackled
as her own. He had sinned, but he had been tempted; had she been
tempted to her sin against him? Rachel turned her face to the wall. Her
mind was suddenly flooded with light; was it God's purpose working in
her? She was Belhaven's wife.
A shudder ran through her; keen, physical repulsion seized upon her.
She saw herself in a new light and she could not do her duty. She loved
Charter, with all her heart she loved Charter, she was his. It did not
matter if she never belonged to him in fact, she was his in spirit. A
great humility fell upon Rachel; she could no longer condemn any one,
for she was as bad as the worst; she was a wedded wife in name to one
man, in heart she belonged to another, and she could feel for poor Eva.
She covered her burning face with her hands; she was ashamed. She saw
her duty and she could not do it; she was Belhaven's wife.
Poor Rachel, pressing her forehead against the wall, wept bitterly.