"He's coming back to marry Mrs. Prynne, I believe," she remarked quietly.
"Nonsense! That's all a lie of Addie Billop's. She picked up some nonsense, and Lottie Prynne never denies a matrimonial rumor; she's always in hopes that one will adhere long enough to develop a genuine case. John Charter isn't engaged to any one; Pamela told me she knew that for a fact."
Rachel said nothing.
"Charter's a fine fellow," the old man went on; "he's done splendid service out there, and they say he's to be promoted. Lottie Prynne—good Lord! I reckon all the ground Addie Billop had for that was the soldier's button on the top of Lottie's hatpin, and she got that from old Sedley. He told me so himself, said he'd be damned if he didn't wish she'd swallow it; he was too old to be ripping buttons off his uniform for pretty widows."
Rachel tried to laugh, but she had a sensation of strangling and bent over to arrange the blue and yellow flags. "I believe Paul has taken their house on Dupont Circle for another year," she said, in a low voice.
"I reckon he got it cheaper on a long lease. It would have been better taste to have taken this off his aunt's hands, but Pamela said she couldn't bear his architectural harangues and there was no sun parlor for the baby. By the way, the baby has cut its last double tooth; it's an occasion for public rejoicing; we've all lived on that baby's teeth and wrestled with them. Why—Rachel, my child!"
Rachel had suddenly covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
The old man set his teacup on the table and regarded her thoughtfully. For a moment she gave way and wept passionately, unrestrainedly; the barriers had broken down and she had lost control of herself. But it was not so much a spiritual surrender as a physical necessity; she had reached the limit of her endurance and she had to give up. For two weeks she had been building a battlement of stones for her own defense; she had been imagining how bravely she could meet her barren future behind her tower, but now—at a touch—it had crumbled into ruins. There had been terrible moments already, when it had seemed more than she could bear, but she had finally achieved a state that approached the normal; she had been trying to interest herself in the house, the garden, the life that she must lead, and she had been composed and even cheerful. But now the whole combination of circumstances had changed, and what had seemed endurable was no longer possible; she must break away from it, tear herself free or perish. Then, with that curious, superficial consciousness that makes us aware of extraneous things even at such moments as this, she became conscious of Dr. Macclesfield's cup on the table, set down hastily with the spoon in it. Her recognition of this was only mechanical but, in some way, it recalled her to herself; she must not confess her misery, since to confess it meant to involve Eva. She struggled with herself and began to come back; she came back a long way and heard Belhaven's voice at the door.
She dried her tears and looked up. Dr. Macclesfield had put on his spectacles and was writing a prescription, with his underlip thrust out. He handed it to her as Belhaven came across the hall.
"A hundred years ago that was good for nerves," said the old man; "you've got nerves, Rachel. Take that at bedtime and keep out of the house; open air and sunshine, that's the idea."