"For God's sake, Rachel, don't rub it in!"
"You're right; I hate reproaches, yet I always seem to reproach you! At least I feel sure now that you'll help me take care of Eva."
"I'll help you."
Rachel left him. She went slowly across the hall and began to ascend the stairs. From the landing she could see him still standing by the fireplace and the dejection of his attitude touched her heart. Their brief interview had been illuminating; she was intensely sorry for him, for he needed her love, and if she could have given it to him she could have saved him from himself. Rachel knew this, she knew the strength and tenderness of her own spirit, she knew her power to love and to forgive, and Belhaven needed both. Suddenly it came to her, like the still, small voice within, that she had sworn to give him all these, that by mocking him with marriage she had robbed him of his chance to win honest love and honest faith, that she stood between this wretched man and freedom, between him and all that might make his life worth living. The thought was hideous but it was true; it was Belhaven's case, the other side, the plea for the defendant, and it cut her to the soul. She had been judging and condemning one whom she had greatly wronged; she was both false and cruel, false to her vows, cruel to another soul struggling upward to the light, and as hideously shackled as her own. He had sinned, but he had been tempted; had she been tempted to her sin against him? Rachel turned her face to the wall. Her mind was suddenly flooded with light; was it God's purpose working in her? She was Belhaven's wife.
A shudder ran through her; keen, physical repulsion seized upon her. She saw herself in a new light and she could not do her duty. She loved Charter, with all her heart she loved Charter, she was his. It did not matter if she never belonged to him in fact, she was his in spirit. A great humility fell upon Rachel; she could no longer condemn any one, for she was as bad as the worst; she was a wedded wife in name to one man, in heart she belonged to another, and she could feel for poor Eva. She covered her burning face with her hands; she was ashamed. She saw her duty and she could not do it; she was Belhaven's wife.
Poor Rachel, pressing her forehead against the wall, wept bitterly.
XIV
Pamela's little five o'clock tea-table always stood in the south bow-window, situated at an angle that commanded Dupont Circle and the wide stretch of Massachusetts Avenue, where, at that hour, the long rows of electric lights showed like stars through the dusk of an early December evening.
Here and there the red eyes of an approaching motor emerged from the distance, or an equipage, gorgeous with ambassadorial liveries, dashed past. It was a bird's-eye glimpse, the external aspect of the absorbing gayety of the gay capital city. Pamela's little drawing-room, with its rich-toned mahogany, its ancient Turkey rugs, its one or two heavily framed portraits of old Van Citterses of Knickerbocker fame, was like a quiet haven where one could look out upon the passing show. The samovar and the more antique Delft teapot had belonged to Paul's grandmother, while the delicate shell-like cups ornamented with little Dutch windmills were objects of envy to her feminine friends.
Aware that her possessions had the value of being both charming and unique, Pamela made tea with that languid grace which permits the recipient to examine both the teapot and the sugar-tongs as well as the lovely turn of the tea-maker's wrist.