THE LONG WAY

THE LONG WAY

BY

MARY IMLAY TAYLOR

AUTHOR OF "CALEB TRENCH," "THE IMPERSONATOR,"
"THE REAPING," ETC.

BOSTON

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

1913

Copyright, 1913,
By Little, Brown, and Company.

All rights reserved

Published, May, 1913

THE COLONIAL PRESS
C.H. SIMONDS & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A.

TO

LADY HELEN

THE LONG WAY

I

Rachel Leven stopped on the landing and laid both hands on the banister. She was experiencing a new and curious sensation of unreality, and her impulse to touch something solid was rather to assure herself that her own personality had survived unchanged, than from any physical need of support.

The contact of her sensitive fingers with the polished wood was almost a relief; it convinced her that her sensations, so vague that they were like a nebulous mist before her spiritual vision, were not actualities at all, but only a fleeting deflection from a commonplace mood, that the uneasiness she had felt all the evening was a mere figment of her imagination, a shadowy specter which had no place in this charming mise-en-scène. For she was poignantly aware of the heavy perfume of flowers, of the vivid gleam of electric lights that hung, like huge, quivering dewdrops, in the midst of the tall fern fronds and giant palms of the conservatory; while through the vista of greenery, festooned with scarlet blooms of a climbing passion flower, she caught a glimpse of the flashing wings of Johnstone Astry's parrots.

Looking at this exotic scene, Rachel told herself that it was no wonder that her sensations were at once so varied and so unreal, since the very air she breathed was fevered and artificial. The conservatory, the imposing dining-room, the spacious hall, with its Doric columns, and the long, really beautiful drawing-rooms, that opened on the terrace, were all perfect in their way, yet none of them appealed to her but the last. The paved terrace, with its white balustrade and its wide and dignified prospect of the distant city and the classic, faintly bluish dome of the Capitol, brought her a feeling of pleasure, the freedom of space and the larger purposes of life; especially at sunset, when the white shaft of the Monument pierced the pink mist like the uplifted finger of a prostrate giant, admonishing the world.

But the luxury of the beautiful Georgian house, flagrantly extravagant and yet perfectly harmonious in detail, was precisely the setting for Rachel's sister, Eva Astry; some said—for rumor in Washington is pungent—that she had married the house with Johnstone Astry and the parrots thrown in. At least it interpreted her as houses seldom interpret their owners, though it did not even suggest Astry the student, the traveler, the millionaire. Yet the lavishness of the place, its aimless, beautiful extravagance, a country house just outside of Washington that was more costly than two town houses would have been, furnished Rachel with an explanation of her impressions. She argued to herself that it must be this very element of financial exuberance, this thoughtless expenditure of millions, that seemed so unreal to her; for the Levens had not been wealthy, only comfortably off, and Eva had amazed a limited but critical circle by her successful marriage. She had—to use the words of her paternal aunt, Drusilla Leven—landed a millionaire "as easily as old Josh Sterrit used to land carp." Rachel, more intimately acquainted with Eva's mental attitude at the time of her coup d'état, had remained determinedly silent. Even now she did not admit to herself her own feeling in regard to her sister's marriage. From her vantage-ground on the landing, appraising the beauty and luxury of her surroundings, she was still keenly aware that the price would have been too heavy for her to pay. Shut in, as she was to-night, by the warm and perfumed atmosphere of the house, oppressed by the littleness of that curiously complex social world that made up her sister's life, Rachel felt more than her usual repugnance to her task of entertaining the Astrys' guests.

She had stolen up-stairs after dinner for a little respite, but not even a convenient headache furnished a plausible excuse for a continued absence. As she descended, therefore, she heard the continuous ripple of talk, like a shallow but persistent fountain, and knew that Mrs. Billop was still entertaining little Mrs. Van Citters. The two were seated on a sofa inconveniently near the table where their host, Johnstone Astry, was playing bridge with Dr. Macclesfield, young Mrs. Prynne, the new and pretty widow, and Paul Van Citters, who had inherited a Knickerbocker descent that was too long for his short body, and a social responsibility that rested heavily on his comfortable, commonplace soul.

As Rachel entered, her brother-in-law glanced up from his cards, nodding to her with the casual manner of their relationship, while the others remained apparently absorbed in the fact that the stakes were five a point. Mrs. Billop went on giving Mrs. Van Citters classic advice about the latter's sixteen-months' baby, but Rachel, avoiding the eddies of this conversation, went over to the fire. For, although it was spring and the blackberries in blossom, a sudden chill in the night air had made a few logs desirable in the great fireplace. Rachel stood with one foot on the low fender, observing the players, her soft gown enfolding her slender figure as closely as the calyx of a flower; for she had that indefinable gift that is called "style" and, without great beauty, possessed an elusive and subtle charm. She stretched out one slender hand toward the blaze, her face slightly averted, and the shadowed beauty of her gray eyes eclipsed by their own thick-set, dark lashes.

Astry, with his head bent over his cards, was secretly irritated; he knew that the scene diverted Rachel, that her attitude was distinctly that of a spectator, and he played with sudden indifference.

"Diamonds!" said Van Citters disgustedly. "Astry, why the deuce didn't you make it hearts?"

Astry rose. "Rachel, come here and take my hand; Van Citters wants my blood. I never make hearts trumps," he added, with his cool smile; "I'm superstitious."

"Nonsense!" said Van Citters, "we might have got four tricks with our eyes shut. Miss Leven, I'm a beastly player when I'm nervous, and Astry's on my nerves."

"My dear Paul," retorted Astry, "you've no more nerves than a Dutch clock; all you want is winding up and you'll tick till midnight. I'll send in some whiskey and soda. Feel his pulse, Macclesfield."

The old doctor, who was sorting his cards, looked over his spectacles. "Put out your tongue, Paul," he said dryly.

"Is Paul in trouble again?" asked Mrs. Van Citters, suddenly catching the drift of the talk.

"He's lost fifty dollars, Pamela," laughed Astry.

"We'll go to the poorhouse," she lamented.

"What was it you said about my long suit, Paul?" asked Mrs. Prynne sweetly, suddenly regarding him with her softest smile.

"He didn't advise you to tell everybody what you had in your hand," snapped Dr. Macclesfield; "it's Rachel's lead."

"I'll tell you all about that long suit when Dr. Macclesfield's gone to bed, Lottie," said Van Citters coolly; "go on, Rachel."

Dr. Macclesfield grunted, looking over his spectacles at Rachel's lead.

She put down the card mechanically, her eyes unconsciously following Astry's lean and striking figure as he moved deliberately down the long rooms and passed out into the hall, where he stood a moment speaking to Craggs, his confidential valet. Rachel could not see his face, but she had a curious feeling that he was conscious of her presence at the card-table. Her perceptions were as delicate and feeler-like as the tendrils of some air-plant and they made her aware of a subtle undercurrent, and she recalled that moment on the staircase when she had been glad to feel the solid banister under her hands.

The game went on, Mrs. Prynne losing prettily and appealing to Van Citters, Dr. Macclesfield irritable and exacting, as a good player is under such conditions, while Rachel tried to give her undivided attention to the hand, her seriousness almost adjusting the balance of the pretty widow's frivolity. The four players began to be more silent, yet, at the most critical moments, Mrs. Billop's voice broke in with maternal advice to Pamela.

"When Sidney was teething, I gave him catnip tea," she said, with a finality that disposed of the young mother's faintly suggested remedies.

Mrs. Prynne, having led the wrong card, was plunged into misery by Dr. Macclesfield's scowl, while Rachel, who was now playing dummy, laid her cards down on the table, but scarcely saw them. She was beginning to wonder where Eva was, and she was aware that Dr. Macclesfield was looking over her shoulder into the conservatory. The old man's shaggy brows were bent and he was playing skilfully, scorning Mrs. Prynne. Rachel stirred uneasily in her chair and glanced down unconsciously at her own capable white hands as they lay idle in her lap. She felt a keen and entirely impossible longing to look behind her and she heard distinctly the distant click of billiard balls.

"Never use pins, sew them on," broke in Mrs. Billop's voice impressively; "pins are dangerous. When Sidney was only two months old—"

"Good Lord, why didn't he die?" murmured Dr. Macclesfield, with feeling.

It was then that Eva Astry came through the conservatory with Belhaven and they appeared quietly at the threshold of the drawing-room. Eva, who was really lovely, small, dimpled, and blond, was gowned in black lace, and she had broken off a spray of scarlet passion flowers, which she held trailing against her black draperies. The whiteness of her brow and neck was almost dazzling, and her eyes were deeply violet with a caressing expression that won many hearts. This expression was the very acme of achievement; art, not emotion, had crystallized it, until people always found in it precisely what they were looking for, which is the secret of much personal success.

She walked across the room and put one arm around Rachel's neck, for she was fond of contrasting her intensely blond beauty with Rachel's ivory tints and shadowy brown hair.

"Where's Johnstone?" she asked carelessly, interrupting the game without a twinge of conscience.

"I took his hand," Rachel replied quietly; "he went into the conservatory."

She was conscious that the soft arm on her shoulder stirred a little as she spoke, but her sister's laugh came readily.

"We thought it was the parrot, Jim."

Belhaven nodded, watching Macclesfield play, and Rachel noticed how worn the man looked. In the last month he had aged perceptibly; he had seemed peculiarly boyish, but there was nothing boyish now in the pale cheek and haggard eyes. Rachel frowned; why did Eva play with men as a cat plays with mice? She had apparently no deep feeling; she could skim safely on the surface and even dip into dangerous shallows without so much as moistening her delicate finger-tips, yet she could produce a commotion in the pool quite out of proportion with her endeavors.

Rachel rose. "Won't you take my hand?" she said to Belhaven, "I'm tired."

Dr. Macclesfield gave her a keen professional glance.

"Oh, no one can play any more," interposed Eva lightly. "I've sent for refreshments and we're going to have conversation. Where are Sidney and Count Massena and Colonel Sedley?" she added, going toward the billiard-room.

As she pushed aside the portières and looked into the long narrow room, she smiled a little at the picture that the three men made, for Colonel Sedley was playing with the young Chargé d'Affaires of the Italian Embassy, while Sidney Billop stood looking on with that vacant expression that Astry called his "frog stare." Count Massena, graceful, olive-tinted, and astute, used his cue with an easy grace and finish that might have been called diplomatic, while Sedley, red and obviously short of breath, plunged at his ball with more zeal than accuracy. Their hostess regarded them a moment unperceived and then she allowed her presence to interrupt the game at precisely the moment when they would all be most likely to observe the beauty of her delicate, black-robed figure against the crimson draperies of the door.

However, at that very moment, there was the stir of rising from the card-table and Dr. Macclesfield inadvertently stepped on Mrs. Prynne's skirt. She sweetly accepted his apologies, looking at him with a confiding smile that seemed to wreathe her mutilated gown in the roses of poetical oblivion, although it was a recent arrival from Paris.

Mrs. Billop raised her lorgnon and studied Mrs. Prynne's porcelain beauty with an impartial stare. Then she bent confidentially toward Rachel.

"My dear," she whispered, "have you heard? She's engaged to John Charter."

Rachel turned slowly toward her. "Who's engaged to—Mr. Charter?"

"Lottie Prynne; it isn't to be announced until his return from the Philippines; she told me so herself."

A footman was placing the silver-collared decanters on the table by the fire, while Van Citters had drawn up a chair and was telling Mrs. Prynne's fortune with cards. She was dressed in pale blue and her pretty face was bloomingly childlike; she rested one white elbow on the table and nestled her round chin in her upturned, pink palm, her hair showing exquisite blond tints except where it grew out dark at the roots. She looked so pretty and neat in her blue gown that she reminded you of those dear little, shallow, blue and white saucepans that are so useful to mix sweeties in, only she would have described herself as the "sweetie," had she been asked to interpret the analogy. Van Citters thought her "jolly pretty" and he rather liked to flirt with her when Pamela had been trying; not that this diversion made Pamela more amiable, but it was a counter-irritant.

Meanwhile Johnstone Astry came back with Colonel Sedley, whom Eva had previously rescued from Sidney Billop. The colonel was a fresh-faced man of fifty, whose increasing girth had ruined a dapper figure. He liked the open-air life in the country, but could not afford to keep horses and hounds as Astry did, so he visited Astry. Sidney Billop had transferred his attentions to Eva, and Eva, regretting her generosity to Sedley, was painfully aware that his pale hair was parted crooked and his pale eyes were more watery than usual. His head was so big and round and he tapered so abruptly toward the feet that in early life he had been called, by a small but appreciative circle of friends, "the Tadpole." Sidney was the only son of a fond and admiring mother, and Dr. Macclesfield had once remarked that a merciful Providence had withheld a duplicate. Sidney was the amazing result of an anxious maternal supervision that had engulfed him, like a poultice, from his cradle to his final exit from college, where he had been a kind of mental and moral sponge, absorbing only bad habits and small beer. He kept laughing incessantly now, with a succulent gurgle, at the interruptions of Count Massena, who had come over to help Eva out of her dilemma. But this triangular scene was completely disrupted by Mrs. Van Citters. She had been nibbling a piece of cake when a sudden thought diverted her from her peaceful occupation.

"Does any one know what became of the boy who was hurt so seriously by Eva's motor the other day?" she asked abruptly.

She had struck a discordant note and there was a slight awkward pause, of the kind which usually occurs when some one drops a piece of bread butter-side down.

"Rachel sent him to the hospital," replied Astry, with a smiling glance at his sister-in-law. "Rachel is a society for regulating the universe at her own expense."

Rachel looked up quickly. "I believe you paid half, Johnstone."

Eva laughed. "If Rachel asked Johnstone for my head on a charger she'd get it," she mocked. "I never worry about details; Rachel settles us all."

"But I thought you were in the motor," persisted Pamela.

"I was," said Eva, with a shudder, "but do you suppose I want to remember it? I couldn't help it; it was abominable. I hate pain, I hate to see suffering! Rachel loves to take care of sick people; isn't it fortunate?"

"It is," said Dr. Macclesfield. "I reckon the Levite hated to see suffering too," he added to himself, pouring a little more wine into his glass.

The desultory talk went on and Rachel kept her place, wondering a little why she joined in so easily, but she looked up at the clock more than once, convinced that it must be wrong, that the hands crawled toward the ensuing hour to-night at a snail's pace. For she had been trying to collect her thoughts, to force herself to accept the naked fact that seemed now, at the first shock, to be too amazing for belief. All through the trivialities of the discussion going on around her, Mrs. Billop's extraordinary assertion that Charter was to marry Mrs. Prynne ran like a strong, black thread in a gossamer woof, and that previous moment of unreality, when she had snatched at a material object for reassurance seemed about to repeat itself, only her feeling now was even more confused. She had received a blow that had affected her as keenly as the stab of a rapier, and the only clear perception which survived was the necessity to conceal the wound.

It cost her almost a physical effort to go across the room and lift one of the decanters to pour out a little wine, and she was shocked to find her hand so unsteady that she spilt a few drops on the table without pouring any into the glass.

Belhaven, who was standing near, turned and came to her aid. As he took the decanter, their fingers touched and she looked up into his eyes with an involuntary start of surprise.

"What is it?" she exclaimed, in a low tone.

A slight color went up to his hair. "Is anything the matter? Were you listening to Astry's parrot? It's screaming like a banshee."

She took the glass mechanically, shaking her head with a smile, and at that moment the parrot began to shriek in the conservatory.

"Eva, Eva!" it called.

The voice was so human and so shrill that the group about the card-table looked up startled.

"By godfrey, I thought it was fire!" said Dr. Macclesfield.

Young Mrs. Astry rose from her chair. "I hate parrots," she said, so abruptly that Sidney Billop dropped his glass.

Astry smiled. "I like them," he retorted. "Sidney, you'll step on the glass if you wobble so."

"Eva," shrieked the parrot, coming nearer and then, with discordant laughter: "you're a liar!"

Eva looked over her shoulder. "Merci du compliment," she mocked. "How charming! Johnstone, do get another parrot."

II

It was midnight when Rachel went up-stairs to her own room and closed the door. She had dispensed with the attendance of her maid; she rarely let old Bantry, who had loved and tended her from babyhood, sit up late to wait on her, for Rachel was always thoughtful for others and had that natural sweetness of temperament which makes courtesy toward an inferior as much a matter of necessity as of inclination. She stood alone, therefore, in the dark room, looking out across the trim lawns, past the tall, Lombardy poplars and the tennis-court, to the distant city that, submerged as it was in night, was set with lines and cross-lines of vivid lights, as though arched and threaded and interwoven with a network of fallen stars.

Rachel went over to the window and, letting her hands rest lightly on the wide sill, looked out at a scene that seemed strangely unfamiliar. Even her recollections of the lovely and intimate prospect were suddenly disrupted and vague. The shock that had rudely disturbed her dream must have altered the outlines of the landscape and darkened the lovely profile of the Virginia hills. She was again conscious of the curious fancy that had submerged her world, with its wealth, its luxury, its inconsequence, in the mists of unreality, and to her fevered vision the scene before her began to assume a shadowy and impalpable aspect, while the lights of the distant city receded farther and farther into the night.

Aware that these whimsical imaginings were diverting her from the actual conflict of the moment, she strove to put them aside, to look at the problem before her with a clarified vision, but the effort was vain. The one force that was needful to rouse her lay within, and was as yet uncalled for and unappreciated,—that innate impulse which is called pride, an inherited spiritual force that had always enabled the women, as well as the men, of her family to meet the calamities of life with a decent courage, sufficient, in fact, as far as the women were concerned, to deceive the eyes of the world. And if the men had not deceived it, it was because there had been no need to deceive, since there are some troubles that a man may bear more openly than a woman and remain an object of sympathy, rather than ridicule, because he has worn his heart upon his sleeve. Rachel felt the sting of it even now, but, in this first moment of disillusionment, she seemed to need the abandonment, the luxury of grief. She could not, as yet, adjust her mind to this new aspect of her life; it struggled back to the recurrent thought of John Charter's last words to her. There had been no thought of finality between them. She had felt that he loved her, and the sudden substitution of Lottie Prynne was incredible. If he had ever loved her, he could not love Lottie; there was nothing analogous about them. Rachel rebelled against the suggestion of a comparison and her heart clamored, too, to be happy; she wanted happiness as keenly as a child.

She stretched out both arms with an involuntary gesture and then, feeling her helplessness, the futility of her rebellion, she hid her face in her hands. The whole world, splendid in the star-light, was as empty as a silver goblet. The wine had run out into the sand, and the cold brim of the empty cup pressed chill against her shrinking lips. She was brave but her heart sank and unshed tears burned in her eyes. She felt her helplessness, too, even while her soul cried out against the narrow bounds of a convention that enforced a hateful silence. She must suffer him to destroy this beautiful illusion, to murder it, without even a protest or a sign. Their understanding had been so perfect, it had clothed itself in a semblance so spiritual and so beautiful, that she had felt there was, at yet, no expression for it in the language of the commonplace. But it seemed that the dream had been hers alone; Charter had never dreamed at all, and Rachel's cheek reddened as she realized that he had been absorbed, instead, by another vision.

It was then that she thought hard things of Mrs. Prynne and, in her eagerness to find an excuse for the man she loved, she imagined some underhand maneuvers on the part of the little widow, and experienced a feeling of angry loathing for those arts, often as harmless as they were transparent, that had equipped Mrs. Prynne for the arena. Rachel made excuses for Charter which were accusations of her rival. She felt that his silence at parting, when he was so suddenly ordered to the Philippines, was caused by some obstacle, some inexplicable change in him, and while she had been waiting and watching his progress toward promotion, in infatuated ignorance of her peril, Mrs. Prynne had been undermining his devotion.

Yet, in the midst of this torrential accusation of Lottie Prynne, Rachel suddenly remembered that she was not so fully and deeply acquainted with Charter's habit of mind as to be certain that the small and appealing figure of the widow was not, after all, his ideal of feminine beauty and goodness. A girl's ignorance of the masculine mind has its moments of fearful awakening, and Rachel had seen far too much of the world not to know that the exterior appeal is more likely to reach the average male creature than the higher mental attitude and the richer spiritual endowment. It was at this point that her pride began to assert itself and she revolted at the idea that a man whom she had loved could prefer Lottie Prynne.

Rachel was human, and she turned from the window again, with an impotent gesture of anger and despair, and began to walk to and fro, once in a while covering her face with her hands. She was hurt and angry and, most of all, ashamed. The wound was new and she did not yet know how deeply it might hurt, but she must hide it, get away from it; and she paced with restless feet, fighting her battle alone. That power within her, whether pride or something deeper and nobler, was beginning to assert itself, to show her new and hitherto unsuspected resources of strength and endurance. She had reeled before the shock, stood dizzy, as it were, on the edge of a moral precipice, but she had kept her foothold with an intuitive instinct of self-preservation, and now, slowly but surely, she would retreat from the dangerous vicinity, she would safeguard herself from betrayal. As the feeling of giddiness passed off, she put her hand to her forehead and, pushing back her soft dusky hair, stood a moment looking at her own image in the mirror. She had lighted only one candle on her dressing-table and the effect of the pallid flame was to cast such vivid shadows that Rachel suddenly felt that she was looking at the face of a stranger, for she experienced the common sensation of surprise that the sufferer feels at the sight of his own face after the calamity.

She drew back, almost with dismay, and was just lighting another taper when, suddenly, there was a soft, hurried tapping at the door. At first she thought she had been mistaken and had heard nothing; then she saw the handle turn. She went swiftly across the room and bent her ear to the door. It was half-past one o'clock in the morning and she had supposed every one else in the house to be asleep.

"What is it?"

"It's I, Eva," her sister's voice breathed on the other side, "let me in, Rachel; for God's sake, let me in!"

Thoroughly alarmed, Rachel opened the door. The hall was dark and out of the night her sister, lovely and disheveled, almost fell into the room. In fact Rachel caught her to keep her from falling, and Eva's golden hair, like floss and very abundant, fell across her shoulder.

"Shut the door and lock it!" she whispered, with shaking lips.

Rachel locked it and her sister slipped out of her arms and threw herself into an old-fashioned, chintz-covered, winged chair that had belonged to their grandmother and was Rachel's favorite resting-place in happier moods. Eva cowered there, hiding her face against the high back. Her white silk kimono was covered with little pink butterflies and her bare feet were thrust into gold embroidered sandals, while her wonderful hair completed an alluring picture. Rachel stood looking at her in some amazement, a strange dread tugging at her heart.

"What has happened, Eva?" she asked at last; "are you frightened, or are you really ill or in pain?"

"I dare not tell you!"

Eva's voice was quite changed; the usual caressing tone was gone; it was almost harsh.

"I can't imagine what you mean," said Rachel.

Eva suddenly sat up, shaking back her beautiful hair. "You could never imagine it," she cried passionately, "you could never dream it. I've told a horrible lie about you. Rachel, I've taken away your good name."

"You're mad, quite mad!"

"I'm not mad, I wasn't mad when I did it, but I think I'll go mad soon!" Then she rose and fell on her knees at Rachel's feet. "Rachel, save me—if you don't have mercy on me I'm disgraced. Johnstone has accused me of—of wrong-doing; he believes I'm an unfaithful wife, that I've committed the worst sins; he accuses me of everything horrible; he says I love Belhaven too well!"

Rachel's face quivered. "Do you?" she asked faintly.

Eva burst into tears, weeping passionately, her pretty head bowed so low that it wrung Rachel's heart to see her humiliation.

"Do you love him, Eva?" she asked again, very low. "I know he loves you."

"With all my heart!" sobbed Eva, "and he loves me—Johnstone is cruel!"

"I don't think Johnstone cruel to want his wife to cease loving another man! Eva, what have you done?"

Eva, still clinging to her sister, averted her face.

"Why don't you answer me?"

"Rachel, it's all too dreadful—Johnstone must have set that wretch, Craggs, to watch me, I—I couldn't say a word to Belhaven, he followed us about so, I—Rachel, Johnstone believes some story Craggs has told him—"

Rachel seemed suddenly turned to stone. "You mean about you and Belhaven? Eva, what mad indiscretion has led to this? It's past forgiveness; how could you do it?"

"I—I never thought!" sobbed Eva, clinging closer, her blond head on Rachel's breast.

"You should think," sternly; "you're not a child, and you know what any evil-minded person would think. They don't know you as I know you; they won't believe in your innocence. And Johnstone? Eva, what did you tell him?"

Eva trembled. "He was dreadful, Rachel. I—I nearly died of fright. He—oh, I know he'll kill Belhaven!"

"He'll do nothing of the sort; it would make for scandal. Eva, you must prove your innocence to him. He has every right to judge you harshly; you've deeply wronged him in your heart, you've no right to expect much mercy. You've imperiled your good name. Eva, Eva, why will you be so foolish? Is mere admiration worth your reputation? How few husbands would ever forgive you! How, can you expect Johnstone to forgive you?"

"He won't, he h-hates me—I was afraid for my life! I never saw him like that before. Rachel, I—oh, God, Rachel, I've done something dreadful to you!"

She sank lower, clasping Rachel's knees, shaken with sobs, a picture at once lovely and pitiful. Her sister, watching her, felt her own heart sink lower; a shuddering premonition of evil shot through her and she trembled.

"Eva, what is it? Tell me—"

"Rachel, I—I told him it was you and Jim; t-that I was trying to save your reputation."

There was a silence. In that silence the thing grew monstrous.

At last it became intolerable. The only sound was Eva's weeping; her sister did not stir, she did not seem to breathe. Eva, stricken with a great fear, raised her head and met a look of such loathing that she cried out, clutching at Rachel's knees again. Rachel suddenly shook her off; she tore her skirt from Eva's detaining fingers, leaving a fragment of the lace behind, and stood free of her.

"Don't touch me," she said, in a choking voice, "don't dare to touch me!"

Eva cowered in a new and deeper terror. She had hardly realized the effect of her confession; she had not measured, until now, the enormity of her crime against her sister. Even now she did not think of Rachel, she was thinking of herself. If Rachel felt thus, if she cast her off and denounced her, so would Johnstone, and he would cast her off in open disgrace. The finger of scorn would be pointed at her, at Eva, who had always been so lovely, so courted, so beloved. She broke into horrible weeping; her beautiful body, so exquisite in its white and pink tints, its dimpled flesh, was shaken with agony; the soul was in travail but it was not yet born. It was significant that, at that moment, she did not remember Belhaven. Astry had threatened to kill him, he was capable of killing him; men have been killed before for such sins and misdemeanors. Later, Eva remembered Belhaven; now she was only torn with self-pity. Rachel had dared to judge her and she had only sought to hide herself behind Rachel, to use her for a cloak; she did not mean to injure her so deeply. It was dreadful, but she had never thought, she had never thought of any one but herself. Rachel was to have been the buffer.

"Rachel," she moaned, "it will kill me—I can't face it alone, you must help me; mother said you'd always help me in trouble!" That was Eva's strongest card; she knew it and played it.

Rachel heard her, but did not move.

"I'm innocent, I was terribly frightened, I didn't know what to say—I never thought—forgive me, Rachel!"

Rachel did not speak.

"I knew he'd kill Belhaven, I saw it in his face, I—" Eva's wild sobs grew fainter; she was terribly frightened now—"Rachel, if you don't save me, I'm lost! Johnstone hates me, he'll disgrace me, he'll say that I'm—I'm guilty, he'll tell the whole world. Rachel, Rachel, I'm not very well, I—I will die!"

"It would be best to die!" said Rachel wildly, then she broke down, she stretched out her quivering hands. "Eva, Eva, it can't be true, you didn't do it—I'm dreaming—say that I'm dreaming!" she implored her.

"Oh, Rachel, can't you forgive me? I didn't know what I said!"

"Oh, how could you?" cried Rachel passionately; horror and humiliation swept over her, wave upon wave; she felt all the agony of Eva's treachery, she suffered as Eva could not suffer.

"I didn't mean to make him think you'd done wrong; I only meant that you and Belhaven had been foolish, thoughtless. It was Johnstone who thought the evil; he has a bad mind, he said at once that he'd make Belhaven marry you."

"But I won't marry Belhaven."

"Then he'll kill him!" Eva rose and stood, clutching at the chintz winged chair; she was very beautiful, very childlike. Such women often are; these shallow souls sometimes have only enough soil for weeds, and weeds grow mightily.

Rachel steadied herself; she began to realize at last that this honor must be true. "I'm not concerned for Belhaven, I'm concerned for my own good name. I never imagined that my own sister would slander me."

Eva turned and held out both her beautiful arms pleadingly. Her beauty had never failed of its appeal; would it fail now in its appeal to the sister who loved her?

"I was crazed with grief, I never thought, I hadn't time, I spoke in a moment of agony. Johnstone wouldn't believe what I said. I thought he was going to kill me—I was afraid for my life, I made wild excuses, I scarcely knew what I said and your name slipped out. In an instant he seized upon it—forgive me!" She went nearer and laid a hand upon Rachel's arm, then, as Rachel did not repulse her, she threw both arms around her neck. "I'll bear it all!" she sobbed, "I'll let him disgrace me; I'll see Belhaven die—I'll die myself, but I can't do it without your forgiveness!"

Rachel did not repulse her; all her life she had shielded Eva, watched over her; she could not quite shake off the fetters of a habit fixed as the seven hills of Rome. Eva clung closer.

"He'll kill Belhaven, he'll shoot him down and be tried for murder; and I—oh, God!" she laid her head on Rachel's shoulder and wept passionately, "I wish I could die!"

Rachel looked down at the prone, golden head with a shudder of anguish; she remembered her mother's last words to her, when she had extracted a promise from Rachel to take care of her younger sister. She said that Eva was tender and helpless and easily led; she must, therefore, be taken care of. It is strange, but the beautiful child in a family is always apparently more in need of care and sacrifice than are her commonplace brothers and sisters; there seems to be a brittle quality about her, she is like blown-glass, attractive but not substantial. Beauty is like the flame of a candle, in some eyes; it not only draws the moths but it is easily extinguished.

"It will be horrible," Eva sighed. "It will kill me—after I'm dead—will you forgive me, Rachel?"

"You've done a very terrible thing; you've sacrificed your sister's good name to save yourself from the consequences of your own folly."

"No one knows what I said but Johnstone, no one will ever know but Johnstone. I didn't mean it, I thought you'd help me, that you'd marry Belhaven to save us both. I believed in you, you're so good!"

"Why should I marry Belhaven? I don't even like him."

"Johnstone will kill him."

"Oh, I don't believe that!"

Eva let go her hold upon her and went to the window. "Look!" she said, and pointed.

Rachel followed her to the open window. There was a light on the lower veranda, which cast a soft radiance on the terrace, paved with flagstones and guarded by a marble balustrade. Below them a figure paced to and fro.

"It's Johnstone. Belhaven's in the library. If you refuse to marry him, Johnstone says he'll know my story is false, he'll not believe in our innocence, he'll shoot Belhaven."

"It would be murder," said Rachel, aghast, "cold-blooded murder; he'd die for it."

"He doesn't care."

The two sisters looked at each other, white-lipped. Rachel knew Astry, and she did not now doubt Eva's words, for he held life cheap, even his own.

"Is Belhaven such a coward as that?" she cried.

Eva's parched lips moved, and it was a moment before the words came. "He's shielding me; he loves me; he'd shield me with his life."

Rachel drew a deep breath. What a beautiful thing it was to be so loved! Sudden tears blinded her eyes, while Eva sank gently down at her feet again and clasped her knees.

"Rachel, you can save your own sister from disgrace, you can save our parents' memory from dishonor; only say you'll marry Belhaven. We'll find a way out, surely we'll find a way out; you won't really have to marry him! Oh, Rachel, it's killing me, I can't stand public disgrace. Johnstone has no pity, he'll take it all into the divorce court, he'll drag me on to the witness-stand, he'll blazon it all out, he—" She fell forward, burying her face against Rachel's knees, weeping horribly.

Her sister shuddered. The picture was appalling and she knew that Eva did not exaggerate. She stood there, the culprit clinging to her knees, and looked out across the distant city to the beautiful dome of the Capitol, outlined now against the eastern sky. A strange, ghostly light was slowly emerging from the night; the rim of the world was white, day was breaking; like the fragile lips of a morning-glory, it deepened to violet as it opened, but the heart of the dawn was translucently white.

"If I marry Belhaven, I admit the truth of your words, and your words are false."

"No one knows what I said but Johnstone!" Eva replied, with a low sob.

"Oh, I can't do it!" gasped Rachel, with a shudder of repulsion.

Eva gave a little cry of despair and slipped to the floor; she lay there white and still and she scarcely seemed to breathe.

Her sister knelt, raised her head, and she pushed back the fair hair. Eva's face was soft and childlike and it bore no line of thought, or passion, or even remorse,—only childish grief. Tears filled Rachel's eyes; she had been cruel, her sister's case was desperate, the family honor was involved, the hope of any future happiness for Eva, even for Eva's soul. Rachel gathered her into her arms and her sister, feeling her embrace, sighed and opened her eyes.

"You're like God, Rachel; you always forgive!"

"Hush!" Rachel looked solemnly into the violet eyes. "Eva, as you'll answer at the last day, answer me now. Are you innocent? Have you done wrong?"

Eva trembled; she was afraid of those inexorable eyes. She was not afraid of wrong-doing, she was not afraid of untruth, she was not even afraid of God, but she was afraid of Rachel.

"I'm innocent," she said, but her heart quaked.

Rachel, still kneeling, with her arms around the culprit, closed her eyes. She tried to shut out the world, to see her way. "If I marry Belhaven, will you swear to me now, as a condition, that you will, from this hour, break with him and never again permit him to make love to you? That you'll try to be a true and loyal wife to Astry, to remember that he's given you his name?"

The color came back to Eva's cheeks, the light to her eyes; she saw hope, escape from the disgrace, and she snatched at it.

"I promise! Rachel—you will?"

Rachel raised her gently to her feet and put away her clinging hands, then she went to the window and looked out at the light which grew and grew across the city. God's day was wonderful; it was coming to her at last and she must meet it. Love was lost, happiness was lost, but truth was not lost. Her sister was innocent, it was a duty to save her; she had promised to always take care of her, she was called upon now to fulfil that promise. Was she ready? She stood there for a moment longer, a moment that seemed to Eva's anxiety interminable, before she turned and covered her face with her hands. She wanted to shut it all out, to hide this horror from her own eyes, and again the unreality of it possessed her. She let her hands fall at her sides and Eva saw that her face was colorless and worn.

"I suppose there's nothing else to be done," she said, with a shudder, "and if it's to save you—"

"Oh, Rachel, you'll do it?"

"I must."

III

Rachel's engagement to Belhaven was announced by Astry, before twelve o'clock the following day, in the library.

Matrimonial engagements do not, as a rule, occur during week-end parties without some preliminary symptoms. The entire family might be taken by measles unawares much more easily than to be wholly surprised by an engagement. This absence of preliminary symptoms, in fact of any symptoms at all, had the effect of making Astry's announcement as violently abrupt as an explosion of nitroglycerine.

Paul Van Citters remarked afterwards, in private, that it had quite bowled him over, but Mrs. Van Citters, though a dutiful wife, made no response; she had impressions of her own, having just heard from her husband the report of that other engagement between Charter and Mrs. Prynne. Charter was Pamela Van Citters' first cousin and she did not relish the Prynne idea, though she withheld her reasons from Paul. Being a wise woman, Pamela had never criticized Mrs. Prynne, but she was really stunned by Rachel's engagement to Belhaven. So were the others.

Sidney Billop nearly swallowed his collar-button, which he had in his mouth when his mother burst into his room to inform him. She had been one of the group in the library; Sidney had not, having sat up uncommonly late the night before trying to discover why Astry kept Belhaven so long in tête-à-tête. The engagement offered a solution, but not a satisfactory one. It was scarcely necessary for Belhaven to ask Astry's consent to his sister-in-law's marriage, and everybody knew that the Leven money, what there was of it, was in charge of a trust company and tied up in real estate, so there could have been no question of a settlement. Sidney recovered the collar-button but not his peace of mind; it was all certainly very curious.

Colonel Sedley, with an elephantine effort at playfulness, congratulated Rachel with the remark that he had hoped, at one time, that she would join the army, but she met this shaft with composure and even smiled gently at the colonel's impossible pleasantry.

The subtle charm of her personality had never been more apparent and, although she was very pale, her face had the delicate loveliness of a Greuze. The low arch of the brow, framed by dusky hair, and the thick-set, dark lashes that shadowed her dark gray eyes, seemed perfect enough, in the subdued light of the library, to establish an actual claim to beauty almost as great as Eva Astry's. She had suddenly become the central figure of the drama and her friends were surprised and even impressed by the unexpected resources she showed, for no matter how awkward and incongruous it seemed, she remained the mistress of the situation. That the situation was incongruous could not be denied; it had the appearance, at first sight, of a nine days' wonder.

"Surprised?" Pamela Van Citters exclaimed, replying to Dr. Macclesfield. "Don't ask me; I've been figuratively snatching at things to keep on my feet. I'm like Paul; it's bowled me over."

"Yet we were wondering the other day how Rachel had escaped the infection so long."

"It isn't that. Rachel's lovely and she must have refused dozens of offers already, but—it's the man!"

Dr. Macclesfield cocked an erratic eyebrow. "Why the man? Belhaven's good looking, you know, and reasonably rich, and I rather thought you women liked him."

"Oh, did you?"

The old man laughed. "Out with it, Pamela; I'm safe as the confessional."

Pamela considered; of course the doctor was safe enough, but ought she to speak the truth? She edged around the idea, fascinated with it; she was possessed with a wild desire to talk it over; she was loyal enough to Rachel, but that very loyalty made her indignant; from her point of view the engagement was an injury to Rachel.

"I suppose you know what people say?" she ventured.

"Oh, that's sometimes wide of the mark!"

"Well, it's true, I think, don't you? At least he's in love with Eva."

"My dear Pamela, how do you know that?"

"Know it?" She gave a quick glance back at the long room—they were standing in the door of the hall—to assure herself that she was unheard. "Why, it's as plain as the nose on your face!"

Macclesfield laughed. "You can't expect me to be accomplished in these details; besides, Belhaven has probably only been telling Eva how much he loved her sister."

Mrs. Van Citters met this suggestion with scorn. "Is that all you know?"

"Isn't it enough for a mere man?"

"Perhaps I shouldn't expect any more, but the idea of deliberately choosing a man who's in love with your sister! It's hard enough to keep a husband devoted anyway, and I'd want him to begin by being in love with me."

"Wouldn't it be just as well if he ended there?"

"You mean that you think he can't help falling in love with Rachel in the end?"

"Something like that, only I think he's in love with her already."

"Pff! Nothing of the sort; look at his face."

"You couldn't expect a mere man to keep his sang-froid at such a moment as this?" the doctor retorted, adjusting his eye-glasses to look at the bridegroom elect.

"At least he needn't look as if he expected to be hung!"

"Oh, that's natural enough, my dear," Macclesfield retorted, with a chuckle. "Mrs. Billop's got him in tow."

"He looked just the same before she got him, which shows where he is! It makes me indignant—not on his account, of course you know that! He's not half good enough for Rachel and he ought to be down on his knees to get her; but he's mad about Eva. He's been watching Eva all the time; any one can see it."

The doctor smiled grimly. "She'll bear watching."

"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.

IV

Rachel was very tired when she opened the door of her room and found her maid still engaged in folding up and rearranging her clothes.

Bantry, a tall, gaunt, Scotchwoman, was an old servant; she had been in the Leven family before the two girls were born and naturally claimed the privileges of long and faithful service. A glance at her face told Rachel that the end was not yet.

"What is it?" she asked involuntarily.

Bantry closed the door and locked it, her homely face magenta color. "Miss Rachel, that French girl of Miss Eva's ought to be dismissed. I beg your pardon for bringing it to you, but I must,—" the big woman's eyes filled with tears,—"I'm thinking of you, my lamb."

Rachel sank down into the big, winged chair that had received Eva the night before. "I hate servants' gossip, Bantry; is it really necessary to mention it to me?"

"It is so, Miss Rachel, or I wouldn't; she says things that she shouldn't, and I can't stop her!"

Rachel still leaned back in her chair, looking out of the window. This nightmare grew worse every moment; it was like a labyrinth to which she had lost the guiding thread. She could not question a servant, but she knew, intuitively, that Zélie had gossiped of her engagement. It was not hard to divine the curiosity it must have excited, for Belhaven had been a devoted admirer of Eva Astry's and had never before bestowed a glance on her sister. Rachel's cheek reddened at the thought.

"I think we won't discuss it further, Bantry," she said at last.

But the old woman was not satisfied. "You'll speak to Miss Eva, Miss?"

Rachel looked up and met her eyes. "You think it's necessary?"

Bantry nodded. "That girl mustn't stay in this house, Miss Rachel."

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.