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