Part 3

"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."