The long way

by Mary Imlay Taylor

II

It was midnight when Rachel went up-stairs to her own room and closed the door. She had dispensed with the attendance of her maid; she rarely let old Bantry, who had loved and tended her from babyhood, sit up late to wait on her, for Rachel was always thoughtful for others and had that natural sweetness of temperament which makes courtesy toward an inferior as much a matter of necessity as of inclination. She stood alone, therefore, in the dark room, looking out across the trim lawns, past the tall, Lombardy poplars and the tennis-court, to the distant city that, submerged as it was in night, was set with lines and cross-lines of vivid lights, as though arched and threaded and interwoven with a network of fallen stars.

Rachel went over to the window and, letting her hands rest lightly on the wide sill, looked out at a scene that seemed strangely unfamiliar. Even her recollections of the lovely and intimate prospect were suddenly disrupted and vague. The shock that had rudely disturbed her dream must have altered the outlines of the landscape and darkened the lovely profile of the Virginia hills. She was again conscious of the curious fancy that had submerged her world, with its wealth, its luxury, its inconsequence, in the mists of unreality, and to her fevered vision the scene before her began to assume a shadowy and impalpable aspect, while the lights of the distant city receded farther and farther into the night.

Aware that these whimsical imaginings were diverting her from the actual conflict of the moment, she strove to put them aside, to look at the problem before her with a clarified vision, but the effort was vain. The one force that was needful to rouse her lay within, and was as yet uncalled for and unappreciated,—that innate impulse which is called pride, an inherited spiritual force that had always enabled the women, as well as the men, of her family to meet the calamities of life with a decent courage, sufficient, in fact, as far as the women were concerned, to deceive the eyes of the world. And if the men had not deceived it, it was because there had been no need to deceive, since there are some troubles that a man may bear more openly than a woman and remain an object of sympathy, rather than ridicule, because he has worn his heart upon his sleeve. Rachel felt the sting of it even now, but, in this first moment of disillusionment, she seemed to need the abandonment, the luxury of grief. She could not, as yet, adjust her mind to this new aspect of her life; it struggled back to the recurrent thought of John Charter's last words to her. There had been no thought of finality between them. She had felt that he loved her, and the sudden substitution of Lottie Prynne was incredible. If he had ever loved her, he could not love Lottie; there was nothing analogous about them. Rachel rebelled against the suggestion of a comparison and her heart clamored, too, to be happy; she wanted happiness as keenly as a child.

She stretched out both arms with an involuntary gesture and then, feeling her helplessness, the futility of her rebellion, she hid her face in her hands. The whole world, splendid in the star-light, was as empty as a silver goblet. The wine had run out into the sand, and the cold brim of the empty cup pressed chill against her shrinking lips. She was brave but her heart sank and unshed tears burned in her eyes. She felt her helplessness, too, even while her soul cried out against the narrow bounds of a convention that enforced a hateful silence. She must suffer him to destroy this beautiful illusion, to murder it, without even a protest or a sign. Their understanding had been so perfect, it had clothed itself in a semblance so spiritual and so beautiful, that she had felt there was, at yet, no expression for it in the language of the commonplace. But it seemed that the dream had been hers alone; Charter had never dreamed at all, and Rachel's cheek reddened as she realized that he had been absorbed, instead, by another vision.

It was then that she thought hard things of Mrs. Prynne and, in her eagerness to find an excuse for the man she loved, she imagined some underhand maneuvers on the part of the little widow, and experienced a feeling of angry loathing for those arts, often as harmless as they were transparent, that had equipped Mrs. Prynne for the arena. Rachel made excuses for Charter which were accusations of her rival. She felt that his silence at parting, when he was so suddenly ordered to the Philippines, was caused by some obstacle, some inexplicable change in him, and while she had been waiting and watching his progress toward promotion, in infatuated ignorance of her peril, Mrs. Prynne had been undermining his devotion.

Yet, in the midst of this torrential accusation of Lottie Prynne, Rachel suddenly remembered that she was not so fully and deeply acquainted with Charter's habit of mind as to be certain that the small and appealing figure of the widow was not, after all, his ideal of feminine beauty and goodness. A girl's ignorance of the masculine mind has its moments of fearful awakening, and Rachel had seen far too much of the world not to know that the exterior appeal is more likely to reach the average male creature than the higher mental attitude and the richer spiritual endowment. It was at this point that her pride began to assert itself and she revolted at the idea that a man whom she had loved could prefer Lottie Prynne.

Rachel was human, and she turned from the window again, with an impotent gesture of anger and despair, and began to walk to and fro, once in a while covering her face with her hands. She was hurt and angry and, most of all, ashamed. The wound was new and she did not yet know how deeply it might hurt, but she must hide it, get away from it; and she paced with restless feet, fighting her battle alone. That power within her, whether pride or something deeper and nobler, was beginning to assert itself, to show her new and hitherto unsuspected resources of strength and endurance. She had reeled before the shock, stood dizzy, as it were, on the edge of a moral precipice, but she had kept her foothold with an intuitive instinct of self-preservation, and now, slowly but surely, she would retreat from the dangerous vicinity, she would safeguard herself from betrayal. As the feeling of giddiness passed off, she put her hand to her forehead and, pushing back her soft dusky hair, stood a moment looking at her own image in the mirror. She had lighted only one candle on her dressing-table and the effect of the pallid flame was to cast such vivid shadows that Rachel suddenly felt that she was looking at the face of a stranger, for she experienced the common sensation of surprise that the sufferer feels at the sight of his own face after the calamity.

She drew back, almost with dismay, and was just lighting another taper when, suddenly, there was a soft, hurried tapping at the door. At first she thought she had been mistaken and had heard nothing; then she saw the handle turn. She went swiftly across the room and bent her ear to the door. It was half-past one o'clock in the morning and she had supposed every one else in the house to be asleep.

"What is it?"