Part 16

Astry laughed. "That's it, Paul," he agreed. "I'm off the bat." He held up the red sphere. "You're to touch it with the left hand only."

They all moved forward and touched it, their faces strongly suggestive of their temperaments. John's was scornful, Sedley's red and slightly embarrassed, Macclesfield's curious and amused, Van Citters' stolid, Belhaven's and Billop's both white.

Five hands were held up.

Astry looked from one to the other and laughed mockingly. "Billop, you're the man; every other hand is stained with red. You were the only one afraid to touch it; what's your crime?"

They stood looking at Sidney, who turned from white to red.

"Look here, I don't know what you mean, anyhow," he stammered; "it's all rotten!"

Astry continued to laugh, his eyes very narrow. "This lies between you and Belhaven," he said courteously, "and I'll leave you to him. He's a kind of interpreter of the Red Sphere to-night. Come, gentlemen," he added to the others, with a sudden grave change of manner, "I think I hear Mrs. Astry calling us. We'd better leave them to settle it between them; the sphere closes the episode."

XXI

Left alone to his task, Belhaven lost no time in stating the case plainly and without mercy to the unfortunate talebearer; he presented it with a peculiar nakedness that would be popularly described as being "without frills." Sidney Billop, like all other busybodies when confronted with the result of their labors, was seized with an overwhelming panic. His hand shook slightly as he held the damning sheet close to his face and his near-sighted eyes seemed to fade with fright, while he occupied considerable time in adjusting his glasses to read an article that he already knew by heart. For he and his mother had been filled with mingled feelings of alarm and amusement on reading it at the breakfast-table that morning. They had relished the whispered discussions in cosy corners and the hints over a cup of tea, but the actual appearance of the story in type was rather discomfiting, for they had never intended it to get that far, and were not even certain how it had traveled, growing in size and momentum like a snow-ball, until it finally exploded in the open and spattered the surrounding landscape with the fragments.

Belhaven watched him moodily, his handsome, haggard face dark with contending emotions. "I suppose you know that story is framed by the malice of a discharged servant now in the employ of your mother?"

Sidney wriggled. "Of course I don't know anything about this," he said.

"Probably not; but you do know the things that started it, the whispers and chatterings and talebearings. You know, too, that the girl--I believe her name is Zélie--is employed by your mother."

"Yes; that is, I know she's got a French maid."

"Then you can see that she's discharged."

"Oh, come now! Isn't that butting into our affairs?"

"Can you deny discussing her story, her malicious, scandalous story, in public?"

"I don't know that I have. Perhaps we've heard things, and, good heavens, man, things travel!"

"In the usual channel, yes," Belhaven assented dryly. "Come, Billop, you're a man, you'll have to answer for this; we'll have to settle it once for all."

"Oh, I say--do you think this is just the time or the--the place?" Sidney glanced miserably about the room for a means of escape.

"Astry knows that I intend to settle it," Belhaven replied sternly. "We may as well do it here as anywhere--unless you prefer the terrace," he added grimly.

"Oh, I say--perhaps--"

"A woman may gossip with impunity, but a man can't lend himself to a thing like this. You'll be glad no doubt to prove that you had no hand in circulating a villainous scandal; we're giving you the opportunity to clear yourself, Billop."

Sidney was angry; his flaccid face was purple and his watery eyes winked restlessly, but his courage was not equal to the emergency; he was not fond of heroics.

"Oh, I say--I hate a scene, you know."

"So do I," agreed Belhaven grimly, "let's avoid one. We can settle it quietly; make a statement here in writing that you'll discharge the girl from the employ of your family."

"Oh, but that's butting in; you know she's my mother's maid and--"

"Do you prefer to stand for it?"

Belhaven's words snapped clear as a pistol shot. He was standing opposite the culprit, one hand resting on the table, the other hanging at his side. All the agony and piled-up fury of the last few weeks burned in his eyes. The primeval instinct to kill an adversary was mingled, at the moment, with the impulse that makes a man grind a venomous snake under his heel.

"Oh, I say--I think you ought to give a fellow time to--to answer! I'm not the French maid, you know, and my mother--why, my mother manages her own affairs. I don't see but that it's all a devilish bad mix-up and I don't want to commit myself; I don't know what you're driving at anyhow, don't you see?"

"Well, I'm in a position to let you know it. See here, Billop, this has got to stop."

It always seemed to Sidney a miracle that a servant came to the door at that very moment.

"A telephone for you, Mr. Billop; we're holding the wire."

"You'll have to excuse me for a minute, Belhaven." Sidney flushed with relief; even ten minutes' respite would be a godsend, for he was entirely at loss what to say to his interrogator.

In fact he was thinking, with an inward shudder, of the terrible face of the man as he made his way across the wide hall and down a little entry to the telephone room. A black-uniformed, white-capped maid was at the 'phone but Sidney was too confused to even give her a languishing glance as he took the receiver. It was a call from his mother and she wanted him home at once; the storm was frightful and increasing so that she feared he would be in danger on his way home. Besides, the weather-man had threatened a blizzard and he knew he was subject to tonsilitis,--Sidney, not the weather-man, she said,--and if dinner happened to be over he must come at once; she had sent a taxicab.

"Make any excuse," she 'phoned wildly. "Come--it's a blizzard and you always take cold when you get your feet wet. I had overshoes put in the cab."

He made a reassuring reply, hung up the receiver and looked around. The little room was empty; beyond, the hall was empty too; only a discreet footman sat by the front door, and Sidney remembered that, for some providential reason, he had left his coat and hat in the hall instead of going up to the dressing-room. For a moment he hesitated, his face deeply flushed, then the recollection of the figure waiting in the den, of that inexorable look in Belhaven's eyes, decided his wavering mood. He went quietly out, almost on tiptoe; he passed the conservatory and the drawing-room door unobserved, and in another moment the footman had him into his fur coat and the taxi was waiting at the terrace step. Sidney scribbled a line on a card for Mrs. Astry,--he had been summoned home by his mother, he said,--and then he gave the man a dollar, for he was really grateful, and went out rather hurriedly and got into the cab. But he did not breathe freely until it was speeding swiftly down-hill toward the city with the snow white on the glass of the windows and the wind driving past like a hurricane.

Belhaven waited a long time. The cowardly absurdity of Billop's attitude had not affected him as it would have done at another time. Where he would only have felt contempt, he was experiencing a feverish rage; he longed to take the fool, as he called him, and shut his mouth forever. Billop's very cowardice, his patent desire to escape even for a moment, only added fuel to the other man's wrath. What right had this idiot to thrust himself into a situation so delicate and so painful, to tattle of it to the world for his own amusement?

Belhaven walked restlessly about the room, storming against the fate that permitted such imbeciles a place in civilized communities, and it was not until the clock on the mantel suddenly chimed the hour that he awoke to the possibility that "the idiot" had decamped. After a moment of angry amazement he went to the door and summoned the same servant who had delivered the telephone call. It happened that the man had seen Sidney's abrupt departure, and Belhaven had the mortification of finding that his quarry had slipped through his fingers. That flight was an admission of guilt would amount to nothing with a man like Sidney Billop, and Belhaven realized that he would probably evade another climax, or meet it only under his mother's sheltering wing, and he experienced a maddened feeling of defeat. For the time, at least, "the idiot" had got the better of him.

At every point, then, he was facing defeat and mortification. He had been insulted by Charter, tortured by Astry, and yet was unable to defend himself without tearing open the gaping seams of the scandal. For he was trapped, crucified, made helpless by his own act. He felt that Rachel must despise him, that she must remember that his acceptance of her sacrifice had caused the whole miserable situation, that had he faced Astry like a man and taken his punishment, he would have been delivered from the shackles that bound him. If he had died by Astry's hand, he would, at least, have died a free man; now he could turn neither to the right nor to the left, and he felt that the immeasurable distance between Rachel and himself could never be spanned,--she would always regard him as her sister's discarded lover, as the poltroon who refused to face her sister's husband. Even a kind glance, a reassuring word, a smile from her, meant nothing but pity, pity for the weakness that had cowed him in horror of his own moral obliquity. The terrible clarity of this new mental vision showed him the lasting shame of his punishment, the disgrace of cowardice!

In crossing the hall he heard the sound of voices in the drawing-room and Pamela's light touch on the piano. Some one laughed gayly and the parrot in the conservatory suddenly screamed out its mocking cry of "Eva, Eva!" He had again the feeling of being outside of it all, of viewing it with the detachment of a stranger, and even recalled that moment, earlier in the evening, when he had thought that things would look thus to his disembodied spirit. His intimacy with the place, the people, the artificial life they led, seemed to have dissolved; he no longer belonged to them, or if he did, he was so greatly changed that, if they recognized him at all, they would disown him. He had forfeited his place among them, he had forfeited his right to a place among men; he was a coward! The thought stung him so keenly that he shrank, naturally and unconsciously, from that familiar scene in the drawing-room; he could not force himself to go in and see Pamela lightly strumming out a popular tune and Sedley playing bridge! He turned, instead, and unnoticed except by one of the servants, went on into the library. As he passed through the room, he glanced around at the warm, tinted walls, the richly lined book-shelves, the big table with its study lamp, the fire on the hearth; and the comfort and the luxury of it touched some incoherent consciousness of home. He sighed, and going to the fire, tore up and burned the scurrilous paper that Astry had given him, watching it until the last charred fragment fell into a blackened cinder. Then he opened one of the long, French windows and, closing it carefully behind him, went out on the terrace.

He was greeted with the sting of sleet in his face and the sudden shock of unprecedented cold roused him from the stupor of despair into which he had fallen. He was without coat or hat and his thin evening clothes felt like so much paper in the gale. For an instant he hesitated, half inclined to go back, and then the same impulse that had driven him out returned with overwhelming force. He must find a way out of it, he must force Rachel to accept her freedom; he could no longer hold her to her bargain and feel that by the very act of her marriage she had made him a miserable creature ready to seek shelter behind a woman rather than face the man against whom he had planned an injury as cowardly as it was base. He had traveled so far upon that long road that it seemed incredible that he had ever deliberately chosen it, that his moral turpitude had been so great that he had not recognized that his waywardness could never prevail against the eternal principles of right and wrong, and that his sins would only invoke an inevitable and complete retribution, that he would be crushed at last beneath the weight of that edifice which he had erected in the days of his transgressions. He believed vaguely in God and for a moment he almost cried out incoherently to that Supreme Being Who had created him and against Whom he had deliberately sinned. But there seemed to be no ear, even the Eternal One, that could hear him through the blasts of that fearful storm, and, smitten alike with cold and despair, he plunged forward into a space that seemed to be limited to a frozen circle of white, in which he turned around and around, and which never expanded beyond the ring that his dazed senses made in the mist of the tempest. Yet the one idea that survived the whirlpool of his mood was the desire to see Rachel, to beg her to forgive him, to set her free, even if by that one act of renunciation he wiped out forever the desire of life.

With this thought in his heart he turned and made his way blindly across the terrace, and the greatest snow-storm of many seasons, driving around the northeast corner, enfolded him deeply and softly in its heavy flakes.

XXII

It was much later in the evening when Charter finally escaped from Colonel Sedley and, under a pretext of looking out at the weather, made his way into the conservatory. The whole party of dinner guests had been much chagrined an hour before by the astounding news that they were snow-bound.

The predictions of Mrs. Billop's weather-man had been startlingly fulfilled, and had Sidney not escaped as he did, not even overshoes and a taxicab would have sufficed to get him home. The snow had drifted so heavily that no conveyances were at hand and even the telephone had gone quietly out of commission. There was nothing to do, as Astry said, but to stay the night with them. But this arrangement, accepted with more or less laughter and uneasiness by the others, was not to Charter's taste. He had found the evening bad enough as it was without prolonging it until morning, and he escaped from the drawing-room with the frank intention of taking French leave. He was too hardy a soldier to dread even the extreme cold, and he went now to the door of the conservatory to ascertain the depth of the drifts before he started. The frost had affected the electric system sufficiently to blot out many of the lamps and the shadowy aisles of the conservatory showed only an occasional light. A disgruntled parrot sat on the stem of the banana tree, but not even he uttered a sound as Charter passed on his way to the vestibule. As he opened the door, the cold seemed to pounce upon him and he saw nothing but a vast sheet of unbroken snow and sleet. But the tempest had ceased and the clouds were clearing away from a sky that was brilliant with stars.

He thought of Rachel with a vision of the old, low-ceiled room with the glow of the fire behind her graceful figure and the sorrow, the sweetness, the subtle tenderness in her face. Involuntarily he clenched his hand; what right had that fellow to hold her? He turned, deeply incensed at the thought and determined to get his overcoat and go down to the city. He was already back in the conservatory before he encountered his host.

Astry had just discovered that Billop had gone home in a taxicab hours ago and he was looking for Belhaven. A game of bridge had kept him in the drawing-room until the usual hour for the breaking up of the gathering and he had supposed that Belhaven and Billop were still in the house. It was impossible to telephone to Rachel now to ascertain where her husband was and Astry had taken the last chance of finding him either in the library or the conservatory. Instead, he found Charter coming back from the door alone. A sudden recollection of Eva's statement that Charter and Rachel loved each other startled Astry with a new and swift suspicion. Had Charter anything to do with Belhaven's absence? But the young officer's face, though grave, was quite composed. Astry looked at him thoughtfully.

"You're going to have the south room, Charter," he said easily, "next to Sedley. I hope he won't bore you to death; he snores like a Corliss engine."

"If you don't mind, I won't stay," Charter replied, a little awkwardly. "I'm used to roughing it, you know, and it isn't snowing now."

"Oh, but we couldn't think of it. The snow's knee-deep and not even the tram is moving. I can't allow it; besides, you know, the Van Citterses are staying."

"Oh, yes, but I can walk in easily, and it will be a comfort to Mrs. Van Citters,--the old lady, I mean,--to be sure they're safe."

Astry leaned back against one of the Doric pillars and deliberately rolled a cigarette. "I can't think of it; you've got to stay. It's too far to walk in those drifts; at least wait until they get the snow-plough going. I'm sorry we're so objectionable, you know."

Charter reddened. "I've been a jolly idiot again," he thought, but what he said was quite simple.

"I don't want to be a bother and I really like a snow-storm."

"It looks as if we must be very inhospitable when a man prefers that--" he waved his hand toward the door--"to a good bed and a fire."

"Oh, you can't understand how a fellow feels who's been soldiering for years. It's like being shut up to get into a house; sometimes I really long for the open. I'm going back there, too."

Astry offered a cigarette and a light, but he was observing the young man narrowly. "I didn't know you were going back. Don't like us over here then?"

"Well, I'd like to get out with a fighting squad just now. I suppose the vagabond life has spoiled me; I'm only a dancing bear here!"

Astry knocked the ashes from the end of his cigarette.

"Ah, I see--it's pretty bad, isn't it? You're hard hit?"

Charter turned sharply and looked at him, then he reddened yet more deeply. Of course Astry knew. He was aware of a shock of surprise; if he knew, what did he think of Eva? After an instant of thought he decided to let it pass without an attempt at denial.

"Yes," he assented dryly, "I'm hard hit but I can take my medicine."

"She's refused to get a divorce."

Charter stiffened. "Pardon me, I decline to answer."

Astry smiled. "My dear fellow, I know! Do you think for a moment I'd speak if it wasn't all in that scurrilous sheet, the Meopilus Journal?"

"I heard there was something, but I never see that paper."

"It seems to me useless to try to conceal it now; but I can't make her see it so, and of course, personally, I'd rather she didn't. She's got scruples, you see."

Charter turned and walked across the conservatory twice; he was blanched and his lips were set. At last he stopped in front of Astry.

"See here, I can't talk of it; she's too fine and sweet and good to be talked about. If she wants me to go and jump in the river--I'll do it, but, by God, I'd like to kill him!"

Astry smiled bitterly but said nothing; he only continued to puff at his cigarette. The pause was awkward and after a little Charter resumed: "I'd better be going; it's pretty late and--" he stopped short and turned around.

They had both heard some one trying the conservatory door. It was nearest the end of the terrace and the first door from the side entrance to the grounds. Astry flung away his cigarette.

"It's Belhaven," he said dryly. "I knew he must have gone out this way."

He went back and unlocked the door and opened it. There was a piercing blast of cold air and the lights danced up and down with a weird effect as some one came in. Charter had turned, too, but he stood still, aghast.

It was Rachel!

She had thrown on a long fur coat, but she was covered with snow to her knees and her dark hair had escaped its bonds and was curling in little wild tendrils about her white face. She did not see him and she stood leaning against the door, gasping.

"Oh, Johnstone, quick! I was looking out--a long while ago--and I saw a man come out on the terrace; you know I can see this end of it from my window. He fell in the snow at the gate. I've been looking for him ever and ever so long and I can't find him!"

"Good heavens, Rachel, in this snow? You're mad!"

"No, I--" She stopped; she had just seen Charter and she gave a little cry of joy. "Oh, John--John, I thought it was you!"

He was at her side now and caught hold of her.

"You're half frozen. For heaven's sake, Astry, get some brandy; look at her, feel of her hands!"

"Oh, I don't care!" she cried again wildly, "you're safe! Oh, John, I--" She caught the look in Astry's eyes. "Johnstone, who was it? Who's missing?"

He swung around, averting his face. "No one. I'll see--Charter, take her into the library."

But Rachel caught his arm. "I know--it's Belhaven!"

"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."