"I'll go right out, Rachel; he'll be all right!" he tried to put her
off.
But Charter took her gently away. "Come," he said firmly, "you've got
to get warm. We're going to look at once; nothing but a fall in snow at
the worst, and very likely you were mistaken."
"No--no! I saw him. Johnstone, get a lantern; I'll show you where I
think it was."
Astry had already called the man from the hall and in a moment there
were lights on the terrace.
"Don't come, Rachel, but tell me,--the snow's drifted,--which way?"
"I'll go--"
"No," Charter held her firmly, "this will kill you, you'll have to stay
here; tell us the way."
She pointed, trembling. "At the end there, by the little gate--oh, the
snow's awful!"
Astry and his men went down into it and she turned and looked at
Charter.
"I thought it was you, John. I ran out--I think I must have been
mad--for I didn't call any one; I just rushed out."
"You might have fallen in the drifts yourself! Oh, Rachel, my dear, my
dear, you're mine--don't you see you are? I won't give you up!"
"I never thought of him, God forgive me! John, let me go--no, I must,
he's--he's my husband--and I think I know almost where he fell!"
"They'll find him."
"John--"
They looked at each other mutely, then he drew the furs up about her
throat and opened the door; together they went along the terrace.
"Rachel."
"Yes?"
"Forgive me!"
"Oh, I do! I've been a brute, I never once thought of him, only of you;
but I must go now--you see that I must?"
He did not reply; he had seen that the lights were stationary over
the snow and they outlined the dark figures of Astry and his men.
They delved in the snow and labored with it. It was so deep that
Charter helped Rachel down the last few yards with difficulty until
they reached the path that the others had broken. Astry was kneeling
in the drift, his head against the breast of the figure that they had
uncovered.
Rachel went forward unsteadily and stood beside him. The others brushed
away more snow and the form of Belhaven was fully revealed; he lay
quite easily, his head on his arm as though he slept.
Astry rose from his knees and took Rachel's hands and turned her gently
away.
"It's all over," he said gravely, "all over."
* * * * *
"It wasn't the cold; it was heart failure," Van Citters explained
patiently, for the third time.
He was alone with his wife and Lottie Prynne. Eva had been carried
up-stairs and Rachel and Dr. Macclesfield were with her. It had been
necessary to tell all the guests at once, and under Pamela's skilful
leading Paul told all he knew.
"I thought he looked ill," said Pamela, "but there'll be an inquest.
Oh, poor Rachel, and poor Eva, too!"
"I can't get over it!" sobbed Lottie Prynne. "I always liked
Belhaven--it's--it's dreadful. I should think we'd had thirteen at
table."
Paul looked at her, exasperated; he was not sure, after all, that he
admired her. Pamela showed sense at a crisis, he recognized, with a
thrill of pride; Pamela really was a trump.
"Lord, it's awful to see a man go like that so suddenly!" was all he
said, however.
Pamela rose. "See here, Paul," she said decisively, "you've got to take
me in town somehow; we're just in the way here."
Paul demurred. "My dear, do you think?" he paused meaningly.
"Yes, I do! Rachel's a woman. I don't care a pin for your horrid
stories; if she didn't love him she feels dreadfully. Any one can see
that, poor dear! I don't believe Eva remembered anything; she just
collapsed; but there's nothing to do now but get out of the way and
come back to-morrow when one can be useful. You know we must be a
nuisance here with all this happening!"
Paul surrendered. "You're right, but it's as cold as the devil and
they've only just got the snow-plough through."
"I don't care," said Pamela stoutly. "Lottie, stop crying; it makes
your nose red, dear, and I'm so nervous I just can't bear it."
Paul came back with his own coat and Pamela's wrap. "I say, they've
actually got a motor out and it's waiting. I thought perhaps you'd
better go on in it to our house, Mrs. Prynne, with Pamela; it's nearly
morning--"
Lottie's face cleared. "I'll go straight home if you'll take me," she
said, "and be only too thankful to go. I'm all upset!"
In the hall they met John Charter; he had been out and was splashed
with snow from the drifts.
"We're going; we thought we'd better," Pamela told him, in a low voice.
"But to-morrow I'm coming back to be with Rachel."
John looked at her fresh, kind face. "I wish you would!" he said
fervently.
She put out her hand and he took it, aware for the first time that she
understood.
He helped them into the motor, for Astry was with Sedley and Dr.
Macclesfield in the library beside Belhaven's body. When they were gone
Charter went out to the end of the long terrace. The whitened landscape
seemed to make every object clear and he noticed the heavy sweep of the
big hemlocks under their load of snow. Behind him the house was full of
lights; servants moved silently to and fro, for the business of death
was there.
He felt the shock of it; this sudden end had found him filled with
anger against the dead. He had been in deep rebellion against the
fate that had thrust this man into Rachel's life; he had called him
coward a thousand times, and now he was overtaken with the abrupt pause
that follows the death of an adversary, the feeling that silences
reproach on the lips of the living and appeals from man's judgment to
that supreme tribunal where there can be neither anger nor malice nor
false-witness, and where the soul, climbing slowly and painfully up
that long way that men call life, may have already made an atonement
deep as life itself. The overwhelming certainty that as a man sows he
shall reap was brought home to him in that moment when, thinking of
the dead man within, he thought also of Eva, who seemed to have saved
herself. But he had seen Eva when the body of Belhaven was borne in,
a mute witness of the deed that she had done, and he knew that Eva had
need of Astry's mercy, as great as Belhaven's need of salvation.
Standing on the terrace, Charter looked out across the frozen landscape
and saw, a long, long way off, the light in the open door of Belhaven's
house, where they made ready for his silent return. That light upon the
snow made a long and exceedingly narrow way, and over it he seemed to
see the figure of the woman he loved coming toward him. For, by her one
unthinking act to save her sister, Rachel, too, had stumbled upon the
way, and he seemed to see her traveling along it now, stooping always
to help those who had stumbled lower or fallen, and bearing always the
burden of another's transgressions, but coming at last through the
light to meet him and reaping, not in pain and sorrow, but in joy and
peace, because her love was greater than theirs.