The long way

by Mary Imlay Taylor

She colored painfully. "That's another thing that lies heavy on my soul. I had no right to marry you—forgive me!"

"Rachel, could you ever—have loved me?"

She covered her face with her hands; she was thinking of Charter. "N-no."

Belhaven still regarded her. He thought that she really abhorred him and the idea stung him. He had traveled the long road, he had reached the end of it, and met disaster and defeat. "You've refused divorce," he said, in a strange voice, "yet you despise me. I suppose I'm a very toad in your sight, but you would still save Eva! You're right, I accept your wishes, but—there are other ways."

She did not understand him; she still hid her face, shutting out the horror of the situation. Eva's lover as her husband! She could not bring herself to speak to him.

"There are other ways," he repeated quietly, "but, for your sake, I wish it wasn't so hard. I wish I could lighten it, Rachel."

"In a way you've done much to lighten it. I'm—I'm grateful."

He stood looking at her bowed head, remembering grimly that the thought of his love had made her shudder as he had seen women shudder at the sight of a reptile. Then he turned and went out without another word.

It was a long time after that before Rachel seemed to be aware of sounds and movements in the house. She had remained where Belhaven left her, looking into the fire, her chin in her hand. Her gray eyes, lit by the glow of the falling embers, were intent on some distant thought, her gaze full of introspection; she saw nothing in the room and, for a while, heard nothing. She seemed to have been dragged through an endless chain of events, a series of agonizing scenes. She was no longer what she had been a week ago, or even yesterday; she seemed suddenly separated from herself, or was rather a new self, born of suffering and joy,—the joy of feeling that Charter knew,—and looking back at her old self,—the self of slow growth, of childhood and girlhood and womanhood. She had, indeed, been born again in anguish. She had renounced her own happiness, and what had she gained? In that dreadful moment she felt that she had not even gained her own salvation, for the awful feeling of complicity in their guilt remained. She and Eva and Belhaven had wretchedly cheated Astry; it was to Astry that she owed the inexorable debt. If she could only feel that she had saved Eva, brought her back to her husband!

Then came the temptation to escape from her sacrifice, to nullify her act by accepting the first means of escape. Her heart clamored for happiness and her love for Charter rebelled against all scruples. What right had she to make Charter unhappy? There is no argument so subtle, so unanswerable as the argument of love. Her own heart cried out against her judgment; it would gladly have broken her bonds and stultified her sacrifice. She thought that it would be easier to bear if Charter knew, but it was a million times harder, for Charter rebelled against it. Charter, who was good, saw no virtue in her self-immolation; he, too, craved happiness. While Belhaven had offered her divorce, at the cost, as she saw, of great personal misery, he had offered her freedom. Her presence in the house had become dear to him; her kindness, her quick sympathy, her womanliness, had penetrated the armor of his worldliness and, at last, his soul had risen to meet hers in an act of self-sacrifice. Though she did not know it, she had gone far to save Belhaven. It would have been natural for her to have despised him, to have let him feel himself outside of her life, the cause of all, but she had not despised him, she had been gentle and forbearing, and he had seen new and charming qualities in her simplicity.