VIII
Itwas true that John Charter was coming home from the Philippine Islands.
Out there in the Island of Luzon there was consequently much mourning in the regiment, for John Charter had borne the heat and burden of the day, and it remained to be seen whether he would receive his reward. That Charter greatly differed, at first sight, from other men of his class and his profession cannot be said; that he did differ greatly in soul is true. He was a tall, muscular, well-built, young American, a soldier by instinct, a West Pointer by training, and a first lieutenant in a regiment of regulars by promotion, but John wore his khaki with distinction. He had a clean hand and a clean soul, he was superbly honest, and he was so simple that it seemed that the eternal boy would never die in him. A certain habit of reserve had kept him unknown and not greatly liked until the cholera came. In seasons of stress and cases of cholera, men learn things. The regiment learned John. It was hot and men fell sick like flies; a steam rose from the rice paddies; the water was poison; and the soldiers cursed God and died,—that is, a good many of them.
It was a time when the officers were on leave, but John came back at the first call. He had been trying to write to Rachel Leven a long delayed letter,—a letter that he found hard to write, there was so much to be said in it, and it would have changed the course of so many lives. On a little thing hangs, sometimes, the fate of a lifetime, but John never wrote that letter, for the cholera broke out in Company B and he took off his coat and went to work. He could do anything better than write a letter.
The men were very sick and the regiment surgeon had chills and fever; he worked between shakes and swore fearfully, but John and the chaplain helped him without profanity. The first week three died and ten more sickened; the second week the chaplain died and John helped the surgeon alone, for the colonel was in bed with cholera. John seldom slept, and when he did, he slept in his clothes. The camp was a pest-house. It is true that we come into this world alone and that we must go out of it alone, but at the last a man likes to hear a kind word, to see a friend's face. The dying saw John; he wrote their last letters for them, took charge of their little bequests, made their wills, sat with the sick and the delirious; and one poor boy from Maryland raved and clung to him for twenty-four hours. Then he fell asleep and began to mend. He thought John had saved his life, and he was probably right, for the surgeon had had a chill the day of the crisis and was not able to lift a finger.
Charter worked on; he grew thin and his eyes sank back in his head, but he worked on. Then he found that the natives were sick, too, and in distress, and he rode out of camp at all hours to carry medicines and administer comfort under theniparoofs, where the skull of the carabao on the gate-post had failed of its charm to keep away cholera. He did the work of five men and superintended the burying of the dead, but after six weeks of it he fell in his tracks. They carried him into the hospital-tent and laid him on a cot, then they tiptoed out, bareheaded, white with fear; and the boy from Maryland stood outside in his socks and wept. The colonel got out of bed and came down to consult with the surgeon, and together they went and looked at John, who lay unconscious, with a blue ring around his mouth. The surgeon swore, a sign of fear and emotion with him, while the colonel's eyes were wet; they were both fighting mad and they had been boys together.
"Going to die?" the colonel asked hoarsely.
"How do I know?" snapped the surgeon; "I'm not omniscient; it would be a damned sight better if I had been!"
"We can't afford to lose him," said the colonel, blowing his nose. "If you're not a damned fool, you'll pull him through."
"I am a damned fool. If I hadn't been, I'd have stopped his racket; he's worked like a mule."
"He ought to be promoted," growled the colonel, "and here he is on his back, sick as a dog. Simon, I'll hang you if you let him slip; he's got to be promoted."
"Think likely he'll be promoted to heaven," snapped the surgeon; "this damned cholera—"
"Simon," said the colonel, "profanity and chills and fever won't save this boy, and I—I love him like a son!"
The surgeon went to the door and looked out. In the distance he saw the peaks of the Caraballo Sur, blue and vivid; a mist floated over the valley, the rice fields were green, thenipapalms and the cocoanuts looked gray. In his heart he cursed the Philippine Islands collectively and the cholera individually, but the flag must not come down. He wiped his forehead and turned back, and he and the colonel eyed each other grimly.
"How d'ye think I feel?" he asked fiercely. "You love John like a son? By the Lord Harry, Colonel, I'd give my right hand for him now—and my right eye! So would the boy from Maryland, so would Private Davitt, so would Private McPhee, so would Michael Larry, whom he carried up the long hill when the Moros stabbed Mike in the back; so would the Filipino woman whose baby he saved when the hill village burned, so would every man jack in this regiment, but it's only God Almighty that can save him now. I'm fighting, but so is the cholera."
The colonel took off his hat and buried his face in it. Let no man say that in that hour the rough old soldier and the profane doctor did not pray.
John lay a long while between life and death. Then one beautiful morning he opened his eyes on a new world, where a fresh breeze was blowing and the sun shone. He lay still and weak on his bed and watched a little lizard crawl in the sun at the tent door. His head felt quite light but his heart was filled with peace, for he had been dreaming a great deal and Rachel had spoken to him, not once but many times; he remembered her voice quite well.
He was amazed when the surgeon came in and sat down beside him. The old man looked ill and worn as he felt John's pulse. Then John remembered.
"I meant to have gone down to-day to see the boy from Maryland," he said. "I'll go—"
"The boy's well," said the doctor, "he's been well a month."
John tried to sit up in bed and failed. "What do you mean?" he gasped. "Have I been ill?"
"Six weeks; you're promoted to be a captain of the Tenth, and you're ordered home two weeks from to-day."
It was then that John fainted. In his own mind he had done only his plain duty. He had such a simple conception of life that he perplexed other people; they imagined him to be always trying to compass great ends, while in reality he only saw his work and did it. Simplicity is sometimes more perplexing than diplomacy and John had achieved perfect simplicity; he had done a hard duty well because he had no idea how to leave it undone, and he did not know that it was uncommon to do it in his way, or that he had done it uncommonly well. He was surprised that the men had so suddenly adopted him and he was a little shy under their enthusiasm. The boy from Maryland followed him around like a dog and wept when John took ship on the government transport with his tall, thin person fairly bulging with farewell letters and remembrances that he was carrying to the kindred of the dead soldiers. It was this multiplicity of commissions, this new and deadly popularity, that had kept John from writing that one important letter, Rachel's letter. But, if he did not write it, he thought it out a dozen times, for she was never long absent from his mind. All the way across the Pacific it may be said that Rachel traveled with him; she fairly walked the waves, and when he stood, as he often stood, on the deck and looked seaward with steadfast eyes, he was thinking of Rachel.
He had known her nearly all his life and he had loved her long before Rachel had even dimly perceived it. But John was deliberate; not even a great love could reverse the fixed habits of a lifetime, and he waited for the full time to come before he opened his heart, not knowing that opportunity had come like a thief in the night and stolen away again, thwarted and lost forever. He continued to look ahead with steadfast, blue eyes and that habit—as strong as his deliberation—the habit of determination. All that he had ever won in his life he had won by a quiet, determined perseverance. It was said of him in the regiment that Charter's perseverance was more deadly than a brickbat, and John's perseverance had the effect of a moral brickbat; it was a projectile that hit opposition fairly in the bull's-eye and crushed its way through it. He had worked his way steadily upward without favoritism,—no one had rolled logs for him; he had the qualities that win recognition in the teeth of circumstance, and he had outgrown his comrades, as he had outgrown himself; at thirty-three he was still growing, still pursuing his moral development. It was this quality that had lifted him above his fellows, and that had stretched him on a sick-bed for weeks in the islands. Sometimes our victories seem defeats because they are robbed of the fruits, and John's greatest victory had been won in the cholera camp; he had grown steadily during those weeks of service; the regiment adored him, but he had lost touch with the world, and it is not always safe to put aside an important letter.
By this it will be seen that, having been ill six weeks, and coming home on a transport, beset by many duties, John had heard nothing, and had missed many home papers and even one newsy letter from his cousin Pamela Van Citters. He was coming home to Rachel Leven; he had decided, after much deliberation, that it was better to speak than to write, for he was by no means sure of Rachel's love, though he was overwhelmingly sure of her kindness. It would be sweet to see Rachel; there was something in her strength, her tranquility, her sanity, that appealed to John's heart. He felt their community of spirit; she was clever and charming and all that, and yet he understood her and she understood him. He landed in San Francisco with a feeling of joy that he stood once more on the same continent, that the sea was no longer between them. But it was characteristic of Charter that he proceeded to attend to the various commissions that he had received from the dead soldiers out in Luzon. He traveled miles out of his way to carry a letter and a lock of hair to a bereaved old mother, and he took back a ring and a sword to a young widow. He did a dozen painful and tedious things before he set his face toward Washington, where he had to report to the War Department and where he hoped to find Rachel.
It was now nearly the first of August and the hot sun on the paved streets made him recall the cool-looking rice paddies and the river that had flowed so near the camp. Sickening memories came back, and some sorrow; he remembered dying faces and the clinging of chilly hands. He hurried through the city without even a visit to his club and therefore he heard nothing. The calm of midsummer had settled on the place and he saw no one he knew, except at the War Department, and there he received his promotion. Afterwards, he went over to the White House and the President himself spoke a few words to him, so full of appreciation and kindness that John blushed like a girl. When he was finally through with this ordeal, for it was an ordeal to him, he walked down Pennsylvania Avenue, where even the gay chatter of people about him sounded cheerful and homelike. He walked on, unaware that many glanced curiously at the tall, soldierly figure, the bronzed face, the straight-looking, blue eyes. He was not handsome, but he was distinguished looking, with that crisp blond hair that seldom shows a streak of white until the approach of extreme old age. People thought him absorbed and happy, but, in reality, his spirit was traveling ahead of him, and it continued to journey ahead of the trolley which carried him the rest of the way.
He knew that Rachel was usually with the Astrys in July and August and he had started without hesitation for the Astry place. He had sent no word ahead of him; he longed to see the glad surprise in Rachel's eyes, for he knew that, in any case, she would be glad to see him, and her eyes were wonderful when she was pleased. Charter was quite unaware that they had a look for him that they had for no other in the world; but he was at peace with himself, no premonition stirred in his own heart, no shadow fell before him upon the perfect sunshine of the day. At last he would see Rachel! He believed in her; his large, simple nature centered itself on that one thing, his belief in her.
It was late afternoon when he got off at the end of the avenue and set off across country; purposely he walked, for it was no great distance now, and he could think. Besides, he loved the hedgerows where the wild carrot was riotously abloom and the wild grapevine was heavy with green fruit. He broke off a spray of wild flowers and pressed them against his face. It was good to be home again; down in that lane there used to be swamp magnolias; he looked across a golden field of rye and saw the deep blue of the Virginia hills; another bend of the road would bring him to a little wood below the Astry meadows. He climbed the stile and struck through the wood path. Ferns grew about his feet, the afternoon sunshine made glorious vistas between the tall trunks of pines and hemlocks. A solitary silver birch caught the light on its slender stem far ahead.
Below the wood, another path crossed the Astry estate; it led to the old tavern that belonged to Van Citters' aunt. John knew all about it; Pamela was his first cousin and she had written him a humorous account of Paul's architectural madness and his aunt's wrath. A grove of trees shielded its old gables from sight, but John felt its presence; he even thought he saw the highest chimney. He had come past the silver birch now; below him lay the meadow, and the path, diverging from his own, was fringed with a tall, plume-like growth of sumach. He descended the slope, crossed the stream on the old stepping-stones, and looked up. On the further bank stood Rachel.
She had seen him coming and had had that brief interval to recover her self-control. Of course he knew, Pamela must have told him, and it would be soon over; he would say something conventional, she had only to play her part. It was almost a relief to her to feel that Pamela must have given him all the details, but she was startled at the look on his face, the joy that flashed into his eyes when he saw her. It was disconcerting, but she held out her hand mechanically and made her trite little speech.
"I'm so glad to see you home again."
His speech was not quite so ready, but his hand closed warmly over hers and his eyes were eloquent. There was nothing wanting now in his world, with Rachel in it. The joy of seeing her again blinded him to the change in her, the shyness and constraint of her manner; he was occupied, instead, with the delicate oval of her face, the dusky hair, the clear, gray tint of her eyes. She had on a clinging, creamy gown and a wide-brimmed hat that shaded her forehead, and he took in every detail of the slender, graceful figure, holding her hand a good deal longer than even such an occasion warranted.
"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you!" he said finally, his eyes deeply kindled with happiness. "It seems a thousand years since I saw you last, but you're unchanged!"
Was it possible that Pamela had not told him? She withdrew her hand gently.
"Am I?" her lips trembled; "it's a long time, everything has happened."
"Yes, we've had war, pestilence, and almost famine out in the Philippines. It's been a jolly hard row to hoe, and I had to see so many poor fellows die, but it's done; they've let me come home to stay a while, you know?"
"We've heard a great deal more than that, and we've honored the hero; they've made you a captain, so I'm told." She was doing very well now; after all, he might know and take it casually!
He blushed like a girl. "I didn't expect it to come so soon; I believe the dear old colonel had something to do with it. I was glad chiefly because I thought it would please—you."
"It does please me so much."
They had turned and were walking together across the meadow; neither of them knew where they were going; the warm sunshine bathed them with its caresses, a flock of purple martins descended before them and whirled over the long grass in ever narrowing circles, their wings flashing in the sunlight.
"Tell me about yourself," he said; "it is a long time really, and we heard nothing out there, or next to nothing. I used to hope for a letter from you, and kept on hoping until I realized that I was too poor a correspondent to expect remembrance; but all the same I was starving for news."
She had the feeling of a condemned criminal who has a brief, unlooked-for reprieve with no hope of pardon later on.
"Haven't you heard anything? I thought Pamela wrote."
"When she feels like it. You know Pamela does things spasmodically,—and there's the baby; nearly everything gives way to his highness. The rest of us merely cumber the earth. Let me see, I think my last letter from Pamela was at New Year's."
Then of course he did not know! She must tell him, but her tongue refused to utter it.
"I thought Pamela would have written you," she chose her words slowly. The opportunity to tell him was plain, but she could not do it, not yet! "Quite a number of things have happened."
"But you've been well, I see that,—and Mrs. Astry?"
She snatched at the digression.
"Very well indeed; they're going to stay here all summer and go to Lenox in October, I believe. I suppose Johnstone is staying on because Congress does this year; you know he takes an interest in politics. I hope it won't be too hot for Eva."
"You ought to feel the Philippines; one has to, to appreciate them! I was very ill out there. I believe old Dr. Lewis thought I was going to die, but I didn't; I only lay there in a sort of a trance and had visions of you. You were very kind to me in my dreams. I think I was content to lie there in the blistering heat and fever just to dream of you."
"Poor fellow!" she said softly. She was walking beside him, trailing her furled parasol in the grass, and she had a vague feeling of amazement that she could still go on, for there is no torture so great as the necessity to hurt one who is greatly loved, and Rachel was tasting the dregs of her cup.
"When that old chap told me that I was promoted and ordered home, I fainted. You see what a jolly fool I was, Miss Leven, but the joy was too great; I was going to see you again. I thought of that all the way; I was thinking of it when I came through the wood just now,—that I'd soon see you, that I could speak to you at last, tell you all that's been in my heart through these three years of exile. You know I never could write a decent letter; I'm a perfect lumpkin with a pen! Rachel, when I came across the brook and saw you, I—"
She stopped him. "Hush!" she said, with white lips. "I'm married."
He stood still. All the joy of life slipped out of his face and she saw it grow gray before her eyes. He straightened himself with a shuddering start as if a shot had struck him, for his faith in her, one of the vital realities of his life, had received a terrible shock. She had led him on into fond and foolish talk; she had led him on to bare his heart to her!
"I've made a jolly fool of myself!" he said bitterly.
"John!" she cried, in involuntary anguish.
But not even his large heart was proof against the gall and wormwood of betrayal. "You must forgive a fellow for butting in. I didn't know—of course you understand that?"
"I never for a moment dreamed that you knew," she said finely.
He looked up then and saw the white agony of her face and his head swam. Had the fever come back on him?
"Will you tell me—his name?" he asked hoarsely.
She tried twice to speak before she could answer him. "Belhaven," she said at last.
John turned his face away; she could not see his expression, but she saw the strong hand at his side clench nervously and she felt and shared the still agony. They were walking on; before them the green meadowland sloped beautifully to the edge of the brook; beyond it, rose the low growth of laurel and young dogwood, and through the shadowy grove she caught glimpses of Belhaven's house, her home!
"Have you been married long?" John asked at last, though he could not look at her.
"Nearly three months."
"I don't know why I didn't hear," he said, after a long moment. "You'll have to forgive me, I—" he stopped abruptly.
Rachel looked up and met his eyes. The despair in them cut her to the soul; she could have borne anything but this, to see his pain! She broke down suddenly, hiding her face in her hands, and her grief was anguish. He looked at her in pained surprise; hitherto he had thought only of his own trouble, now he became aware of hers, for she was weeping dreadfully.
"Rachel!"
She did not reply; she had stopped and was leaning against the slender stem of the silver birch, which they had reached again together. He could see only the curve of cheek and brow and the long, slender fingers clasped convulsively over her eyes; she was still weeping silently.
"I can't bear to see you like this, Rachel; is it because you're sorry for me?"
She tried to answer him but she could not.
"You're—you're not in trouble yourself?"
She shook her head; it was best to lie to him, but what a poor liar she was!
Her grief appealed to him, moving him to generosity and even to gentleness. "Don't think of me; it's just my portion. I've always loved you, Rachel; I wouldn't grieve you for the world."
"I grieved you!"
"Well, you couldn't help it. I was a fool not to know, I—I—" Then he broke out in spite of himself: "Rachel, did you love him when I went away?"
She writhed, hiding her face.
John watched her, a perception of something wrong creeping into his reluctant mind. Then he was conscience-stricken; what right had he to thrust himself into her confidence? Yet passion, denied and betrayed, tore his heart.
"Forgive me, I had no right to ask you, but somehow I couldn't help it; I felt as if I must know! There are little moments in those old days that are dear to me. Rachel, you understand? I wanted to feel that they were mine still; I didn't want to be robbed of them, I—"
"They're all yours," she said, controlling herself, "all yours, John."
"Rachel, did—did you love me a little then? I wasn't altogether a fool—you did?"
"Oh, God!" she moaned softly, wringing her hands.
"I can't understand!" he broke out fiercely; "this is fearful!"
"Don't try to understand—" She was walking on again blindly, trying to recover herself, her face bloodless, the muscles drawn about the eyes and mouth.
"I'm a brute," said John bitterly. "I'm hurting you!"
"It kills me to hurt you!" she cried.
"Rachel—" his voice was hoarse with pain—"do you love him?"
She walked ahead of him, her head bent; once she stumbled and almost fell, then she recovered herself and stood still. They were at the edge of the wood; Belhaven's house stood before them and there were flowers abloom on the low terrace. John came up to her, his white face set and stern, passion in his eyes.
"I meant it," he said hoarsely. "I'm a brute—but I meant it, Rachel."
"I've married him."
They looked at each other. They were two souls in torment and she would have given hers to save him this anguish. At that moment she felt that she could have died for him. They were silent a long time and then he thrust his clenched hands into his pockets.
"I'll take you home; forgive me again—if you can!"
"There's nothing to forgive," her white lips stiffened. "Don't go on with me now—come some other time, to-morrow. Now I can't bear it!" The tears ran down her cheeks.
Something in his throat choked him and he turned away. "You're right—of course, but I wish you'd tell me all; it—it would be easier to bear."
She shook her head. "Not easier, harder."
"Good God, as if it could be!"
"Good-by, John!"
He did not answer her, but turned away, ashamed of the hard-wrung tears in his eyes. She stood watching him go, her lips quivering,—she had grieved the heart she loved best in the world. When he was gone, she made her way blindly into the house and crept up-stairs to her own room, and once there she fell on her knees beside the bed and buried her face on her outstretched arms.
It was indeed more than she could bear. Then she was ashamed of her rebellion. God Almighty would not give her more than she could bear; He knew her, He would not do it. Perhaps she could bear more than others, perhaps she had a greater power of endurance, as she had a greater power of love. Her soul, reeling in darkness, cried out for release. Then suddenly she remembered and understood. God was punishing her for her sin. Was not that the old Biblical idea? She had sworn to a falsehood before Him; to save her sister she had flung a challenge at God. She had vowed to love Belhaven when she could not; she had vowed to honor him when she despised him; she had vowed to obey him when she was determined to have nothing to do with him. She was perjured; she had called Eva a liar in her heart because Eva had maligned her, and now she was herself a living lie. That was it; God was punishing her! It was fair, it was just, it was what men would call a square deal; she had no right to beg off, she was a coward. She had done it on an impulse. She searched her own heart with merciless severity and she knew that she would never have done it but for the thought that Charter had left her for Mrs. Prynne. It stultified even her sacrifice; it made her the more frivolous and contemptible in her own eyes, and she was a coward, for she wanted to beg off. She wanted to tell John the truth; it was hard to let him suffer as she had suffered. If she could only have told him that she loved him and shared his pain, but she dared not. John was good but she dared not. He would not be resigned to such a fate; he would rebel against it, and if he rebelled, would she resist him? Would she stand out for her own cause, or would she yield to him? She was a strong woman, but she loved much; would she want to yield, would she resist?
It had always cost her an effort to contradict Charter; her impulse was always to give up, to be guided by him, and her happiness lay in pleasing him. Would she be strong enough not only to resist John but to resist her own heart? The enemy was within, the enemy of her resolutions, her own heart, was John's ally; it was pleading for him now. If she betrayed Eva, if she told John the truth, would he submit to this miserable marriage to save Eva and Belhaven from Astry? Not for a day, not for an hour! She knew John and she dared not tell him. Then the desolate loneliness of it came back to her and she cast herself, face downward, upon the floor and lay prone beside her bed, submerged in supreme weakness and misery. All her strength was gone, all her resistance, all her self-control; she lay there—broken and desperate—overwhelmed at last. There was nothing left in the world.