The Heart of Rachael
Page 75This letter, creased from constant reading, Rachael showed to George
Valentine a week later. The doctor, who had spent the week-end with his
family at Clark's Hills, was in his car and running past the gate of
Home Dunes on his way back to town when Rachael stopped him. She looked
her composed and dignified self in her striped blue linen and
deep-brimmed hat, but the man's trained look found the circles about
her wonderful eyes, and he detected signs of utter weariness in her
voice.
"Read this, George," said she, resting against the door of his car, and
opening the letter before him. "This came from Billy--Mrs. Pickering,
you know--several days ago."
George read the document through twice, then raised questioning eyes to
hers, and made the mouth of a whistler.
"What do you think?" Rachael questioned in her turn.
"Lord! I don't know what to think," said George. "Do you suppose this
can be true?"
Rachael sighed wearily, staring down the road under the warming leaves
of the maples into a far vista of bare dunes in thinning September
sunshine.
"It might be, I suppose. You can see that Billy believes it," she said.
"Sure, she believes it," George agreed. "At least, we can find out. But
I don't understand it!"
"Understand it?" she echoed in rich scorn. "Who understands anything of
the whole miserable business? Do I? Does Warren, do you suppose?"
"No, of course nobody does," George said hastily in distress. He
regarded the paper almost balefully. "This is the deuce of a thing!" he
said. "If she didn't care for him any more than that, what's all the
fuss about? I don't believe the threat about sending his letters,
anyway!" he added hardily.
"Oh, that was true enough," Rachael said lifelessly. "They came."
George gave her an alarmed glance, but did not speak.
"A great package of them came," Rachael added dully. "I didn't open it.
I had a fire that morning, and I simply set it on the fire." Her voice
sank, her eyes, brooding and sombre, were far away. "But I watched it
burning, George," she said in a low, absent tone, "and I saw his
handwriting--how well I know it--Warren's writing, on dozens and dozens
of letters--there must have been a hundred! To think of it--to think of
it!"
Her voice was like some living thing writhing in anguish. George could
think of nothing to say. He looked about helplessly, buttoned a glove
button briskly, folded the letter, and made some work of putting it
away in an inside pocket.
"Well," Rachael said, straightening up suddenly, and with resolute
courage returning to her manner and voice, "you'll have, somebody look
it up, will you, George?"
"You may depend upon it-immediately," George said huskily. "It--of
course it will make an immense difference," he added, in his anxiety to
be reassuring saying exactly the wrong thing.
Rachael was pale.
"I don't know how anything can make a great difference now, George,"
she answered slowly. "The thing remains--a fact. Of course this ends,
in one way, the sordid side, the fear of publicity, of notoriety. But
that wasn't the phase of it that ever counted with me. This will
probably hurt Warren--"
"Oh, Rachael, dear old girl, don't talk that way!" George protested.
"You can't believe that Warren will feel anything but a--a most
unbelievable relief! We all know that. He's not the first man who let a
pretty face drive him crazy when he was working himself to death."
George was studying her as he spoke, with all his honest heart in his
look, but Rachael merely shook her head forlornly.
"Perhaps I don't understand men," she said with a mildness that George
found infinitely more disturbing than any fury would have been.
"Well, I'll look up records at the City Hall," he said after a pause.
"That's the first thing to do. And then I'll let you know. Boys well
this morning?"
"Lovely," Rachael smiled. "My trio goes fishing to-day, packing its
lunch itself, and asking no feminine assistance. The lunch will be
eaten by ten o'clock, and the boys home at half-past ten, thinking it
is almost sundown. They only go as far as the cove, where the men are
working, and we can see the tops of their heads from the upstairs'
porch, so Mary and I won't feel entirely unprotected. I'm to lunch with
Alice, so my day is nicely planned!"
The bright look did not deceive him, nor the reassuring tone. But
George Valentine's friendship was more easily displayed by deeds than
words, and now, with an affectionate pat for her hand, he touched his
starter, and the car leaped upon its way. Just four hours later he
telephoned Alice that the wedding license of Margaret Rose Clay and
Richard Gardiner had indeed been issued a week before, and that Magsie
was not to be found at her apartment, which was to be sublet at the
janitor's discretion; that Bowman's secretary reported the absence of
Miss Clay from the city, and the uncertainty of her appearing in any of
Mr. Bowman's productions that winter, and that at the hospital a
confident inquiry for "Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner" had resulted in the
discreet reply that "the parties" had left for California. George, with
what was for him a rare flash of imagination, had casually inquired as
to the name of the clergyman who had performed the ceremony, being
answered dispassionately that the person at the other end of the
telephone "didn't know."
"George, you are an absolute WONDER!" said Alice's proud voice, faintly
echoed from Clark's Hills. "Now, shall you cable--anybody--you know who
I mean?"
"I have," answered the efficient George, "already."
"Oh, George! And what will he do?"
"Well, eventually, he'll come back."
"Do you THINK so? I don't!"
"Well, anyway, we'll see."
"And you're an angel," said Mrs. Valentine, finishing the conversation.
Ten days later Warren Gregory walked into George Valentine's office,
and the two men gripped hands without speaking. That Warren had left
for America the day George's cable reached him there was no need to
say. That he was a man almost sick with empty days and brooding nights
there was no need to say. George was shocked in the first instant of
meeting, and found himself, as they talked together, increasingly
shocked at the other's aspect.
Warren was thin, his hair actually showed more gray, there were deep
lines about his mouth. But it was not only that; his eyes had a tired
and haunted look that George found sad to see, his voice had lost its
and the children, and for Rachael and the boys.
"Rachael's well," George said. "She looks--well, she shows what she's
been through; but she's very handsome. And the boys are fine. We had
the whole crowd down as far as Shark Light for a picnic last Sunday.
Rachael has little Breck Pickering down there now; he's a nice little
chap, younger than our Katrina--Jim's age. The youngster is in
paradise, sure enough, and putting on weight at a great rate."
"I didn't know he was there," Warren said slowly. "Like her--to take
him in. I wish I had been there--Sunday. I wish to the Lord that it was
all a horrible dream!"
He stopped and sat silent, looking gloomily at the floor, his whole
figure, George thought, indicating a broken and shamed spirit.
"Well, Magsie's settled, at least," said George after a silence.
"Yes. That wasn't what counted, though," Warren said, as Rachael had
said. "She is settled without my moving; there's no way in which I can
ever make Rachael feel that I would have moved." Again his voice sank
into silence, but presently he roused himself. "I've come back to work,
George," he said with a quiet decision of manner that George found new
and admirable. "That's all I can do now. If she ever forgives me--but
she's not the kind that forgives. She's not weak--Rachael. But anyway,
I can work. I'll go to the old house, for the present, and get things
in order. And you drop a hint to Alice, when she talks to Rachael, that
I've not got anything to say. I'll not annoy her."
George's heart ached for him as Warren suddenly covered his face with
his hands. Warren had always been the adored younger brother to him,
Warren's wonderful fingers over the surgical table, a miracle that gave
their owner the right to claim whatever human weaknesses and failings
he might, as a balance. George had never thought him perfect, as so
much of the world thought him; to George, Warren had always been a
little more than perfect, a machine of inspired surgery, underbalanced
in many ways that in this one supreme way he might be more than human.
George had to struggle for what he achieved; Warren achieved by divine
right. The women were in the right of it now, George conceded, they had
the argument. But of course they didn't understand--a thing like that
had nothing to do with Warren's wife; Rachael wasn't brought into the
question at all. And Lord! when all was said and done Warren was
Warren, and professionally the biggest figure in George's world.
"I don't suppose you feel like taking Hudson's work?" said George now.
"He's crazy to get away, and he was telling me yesterday that he didn't
see himself breaking out of it. Mrs. Hudson wants to go to her own
people, in Montreal, and I suppose Jack would be glad to go, too."
"Take it in a minute!" Warren said, his whole expression changing. "Of
course I'll take it. I'm going to spend this afternoon getting things
into shape at the house, and I think I'll drop round at the hospital
about five. But I can start right in to-morrow."
"It isn't too much?" George asked affectionately.
"Too much? It's the only thing that will save my reason, I think,"
Warren answered, and after that George said no more.
The two men lunched together, and dined together, five times a week,
with a curious change from old times: it was Warren who listened, and
George who did the talking now. They talked of cases chiefly, for
Warren was working day and night, and thought of little else than his
work; but once or twice, as September waned, and October moved toward
its close, there burst from him an occasional inquiry as to his wife.
"Will she ever forgive me, George?" Warren asked one cool autumn
dawning when the two men were walking away from the hospital under the
fading stars. Warren had commenced an operation just before midnight,
it was only concluded now, and George, who had remained beside him for
sheer admiration of his daring and his skill, had suggested that they
walk for a while, and shake off the atmosphere of ether and of pain.
"It's a time like this I miss her," Warren said. "I took it all for
granted, then. But after such a night as this, when I would go home in
those first years, and creep into bed, she was never too sleepy to
rouse and ask me how the case went, she never failed to see that the
house was quiet the next morning, and she'd bring in my tray
herself--Lord, a woman like that, waiting on me!"
George shook his head but did not speak. They walked an echoing block
or two in silence.
"George, I need my wife," Warren said then. "There isn't an hour of my
life that some phase of our life together doesn't come back to me and
wring my heart. I don't want anything else--our sons, our fireside, our
interests together. I've heard her voice ever since. And I'm changed,
George, not in what I always believed, because I know right from wrong,
and always have, but I don't believe in myself any more. I want my kids
to be taught laws--not their own laws. I want to go on my knees to my
girl---"
His voice thickened suddenly, and they walked on with no attempt on
either side to end the silence for a long time. The city streets were
wet from a rain, but day was breaking in hopeful pearl and rose.
"I can say this," said George at last: "I believe that she needs you as
much as you do her. But Rachael's proud--"
"Ah, yes, she's that!" Warren said eagerly as he paused.
"And Warren, she has been dragged through the muck during the last few
years," George resumed in a mildly expostulatory tone.
"Oh, I know it!" Warren answered, stricken.
"She hates coarseness," pursued George, "she hates weakness. I believe
that if ever a divorce was justified in this world, hers was. But to
have you come back at her, to have Magsie Clay break in on her, and
begin to yap breezily about divorce, and how prevalent it is, and what
a solution it is, why, of course it was enough to break her heart!"
"Don't!" Warren said thickly, quickening his pace, as if to walk away
from his own insufferable thoughts.
For many days they did not speak of Rachael again; indeed George felt
that there was nothing further to say. He feared in his own heart that
nothing would ever bring about a change in her feeling, or rather, that
the change that had been taking place in her for so many weeks was one
that would be lasting, that Rachael was an altered woman.
Alice believed this, too, and Rachael believed it most of all. Indeed,
over Rachael's torn and shaken spirit there had fallen of late a peace
and a sense of security that she had never before known in her life.
She tried not to think of Warren any more, or at least to think of him
as he had been in the happy days when they had been all in all to each
other. If other thoughts would creep in, and her heart grow hot and
bitter within her at the memory of her wrongs, she resolutely fought
for composure; no matter now what he had been or done, that life was
dead. She had her boys, the sunsets and sunrises, the mellowing beauty
these memories she found much to blame in herself, but much to pity,
too. A rudderless little bark, she had been set adrift in so inviting,
so welcoming a sea twenty years ago! She had known that she was
beautiful, and that she must marry--what else? What more serious
thought ever flitted through the brain of little Rachael Fairfax than
that it was a delicious adventure to face life in a rough blue coat and
feathered hat, and steer her wild little sails straight into the heart
of the great waters?
She would have broken Stephen's heart; but Stephen was dead. She had
seized upon Clarence with never a thought of what she was to give him,
with never a prayer as to her fitness to be his wife, nor his fitness
to be the father of her children. She had laughed at self-sacrifice,
laughed at endurance, laughed at married love--these things were only
words to her. And when she had tugged with all her might at the problem
before her, and tried, with her pitiable, untrained strength to force
what she wished from Fate, then she had flung the whole thing aside,
and rushed on to new experiments--and to new failures.
Always on the surface, always thinking of the impression she made on
the watching men and women about her, what a life it had been! She had
never known who made Clarence's money, what his own father had been
like, what the forces were that had formed him, and had made him what
he was. He did not please her, that began and ended the story. He had
presently flung himself into eternity with as little heed as she had
cast herself into her new life.
Ah, but there had been a difference there! She had loved there, and
been awakened by great love. Her child's crumpled, rosy foot had come
to mean more to her than all the world had meant before. The smile, or
the frown, in her husband's eyes had been her sunshine or her storm.
Through love she had come to know the brimming life of the world, the
pathos, the comedy that is ready to spill itself over every humble
window-sill, the joy that some woman's heart feels whenever the piping
cry of the new-born sounds in a darkened room, the sorrow held by every
shabby white hearse that winds its way through a hot and unnoticing
street. She had clung to husband and sons with the tigerish tenacity
that is the rightful dower of wife and mother; she had thought the
world well lost in holding them.
And then the sordid, selfish past rose like an ugly mist before her,
and she found at her lips the bitter cup she had filled herself. She
was not so safe now, behind her barrier of love, but that the terrible
machinery she had set in motion might bring its grinding wheels to bear
upon the lives she guarded. She had flung her solemn promise aside,
once; what defence could she make for a second solemn promise now? The
world, divorce mad, spun blindly on, and the echo of her own complacent
"one in twelve" came faintly, sickly back to her after the happy years.
"Divorce has actually no place in our laws, it isn't either wrong or
right," Rachael said one autumn day when they were walking slowly to
the beach. Over their heads the trees were turning scarlet; the days
were still soft and warm, but twilight fell earlier now, and in the air
at morning and evening was the intoxicating sharpness, the thin blue
and clear steel color that mark the dying summer. Alice's three younger
children were in school, and the family came to Clark's Hills only for
the week-ends, but Rachael and her boys stayed on and on, enjoying the
rare warmth and beauty of the Indian Summer, and comfortable in the old
house that had weathered fifty autumns and would weather fifty more.
"In some states it is absolutely illegal," Rachael continued, "in
others, it's permissible. In some it is a real source of revenue. Now
fancy treating any other offence that way! Imagine states in which
stealing was only a regrettable incident, or where murder was
tolerated! In South Carolina you cannot get a divorce on any grounds!
In Washington the courts can give it to you for any cause they consider
sufficient. There was a case: a man and his wife obtained a divorce and
both remarried. Now they find they are both bigamists, because it was
shown that the wife went West, with her husband's knowledge and
consent, to establish her residence there for the explicit purpose of
getting a divorce. It was well-established law that if a husband or
wife seek the jurisdiction of another state for the sole object of
obtaining a divorce, without any real intent of living there, making
their home there, goes, in other words, just for divorce purposes, then
the decree having been fraudulently obtained will not be recognized
anywhere!"
"But thousands do it, Rachael."
"But thousands don't seem to realize--I never did before--that that is
illegal. You can't deliberately move to Reno or Seattle or San
Francisco for such a purpose. All marriages following a divorce
procured under these conditions are illegal. Besides this, the divorce
laws as they exist in Washington, California, or Nevada are not
recognized by other states, and so because a couple are separated upon
the grounds of cruelty or incompatibility in some Western state, they
are still legally man and wife in New York or Massachusetts. All sorts
of hideous complications are going on: blackmail and perjury!
"I wonder why divorce laws are so little understood?" Alice mused.
"Because divorce is an abnormal thing. You can't make it right, and of
course we are a long way from making it wrong. But that is what it is
coming to, I believe. Divorce will be against the law some day! No
divorce on ANY GROUNDS! It cannot be reconciled to law; it defies law.
Right on the face of it, it is breaking a contract. Are any other
contracts to be broken with public approval? We will see the return of
the old, simple law, then we will wonder at ourselves! I am not a woman
who takes naturally to public work--I wish I were. But perhaps some day
I can strike the system a blow. It is women like me who understand, and
who will help to end it."
"It is only the worth-while women who do understand," said Alice. "You
are the marble worth cutting. Life is a series of phases; we are none
of us the same from year to year. You are not the same girl that you
were when you married Clarence Breckenridge--"
"What a different woman!" Rachael said under her breath.
"Well," said Alice then a little frightened, "why won't you think that
perhaps Warren might have changed, too; that whatever Warren has done,
it was done more like--like the little boy who has never had his fling,
who gets dizzy with his own freedom, and does something foolish without
analyzing just what he is doing?"
"But Warren, after all, isn't a child!" Rachael said sadly.
"But Warren is in some ways; that's just it," Alice said eagerly. "He
has always been singularly--well, unbalanced, in some ways. Don't you
know there was always a sort of simplicity, a sort of bright innocence
about Warren? He believed whatever anybody said until you laughed at
where his work is concerned that you ever see Warren positive, and
dictatorial, and keen--"
Rachael's eyes had filled with tears.
"But he isn't the man I loved, and married," she said slowly. "I
thought he was a sort of god--he could do no wrong for me!"
"Yes, but that isn't the way to feel toward anybody," persisted Alice.
"No man is a god, no man is perfect. You're not perfect yourself; I'm
not. Can't you just say to yourself that human beings are faulty--it
may be your form of it to get dignified and sulk, and Warren's to
wander off dreamily into curious paths--but that's life, Rachael,
that's 'better or worse,' isn't it?"
"It isn't a question of my holding out for a mere theory, Alice,"
Rachael said after a while; "I'm not saying that I'm all in the right,
and that I will never see Warren again until he admits it, and everyone
admits it--that isn't what I want. But it's just that I'm dead, so far
as that old feeling is concerned. It is as if a child saw his mother
suddenly turn into a fiend, and do some hideously cruel act; no amount
of cool reason could ever convince that child again that his mother was
sweet and good."
"But as you get older," Alice smiled, "you differentiate between good
and good, and you see grades in evil, too. Everything isn't all good or
all bad, like the heroes and the villains of the old plays. If Warren
had done a 'hideously cruel' thing deliberately, that would be one
thing; what he has done is quite another. The God who made us put sex
into the world, Warren didn't; and Warren only committed, in his--what
is it?--forty-eighth year one of the follies that most boys dispose of
in their teens. Be generous, Rachael, and forgive him. Give him another
trial!"
"How CAN I forgive him?" Rachael said, badly shaken, and through tears.
"No, no, no, I couldn't! I never can."
They had reached the beach now, and could see the children, in their
blue field coats, following the curving reaches of the incoming waves.
The fresh roar of the breakers filled a silence, gulls piped their
wistful little cry as they circled high in the blue air. Old Captain
Semple, in his rickety one-seated buggy, drove up the beach, the water
rising in the wheel-tracks. The children gathered about him; it was one
of their excitements to see the Captain wash his carriage, and the old
mare splash in the shallow water. Alice seated herself on a great log,
worn silver from the sea, and half buried in the white sand, but
Rachael remained standing, the sweet October wind whipping against her
strong and splendid figure, her beautiful eyes looking far out to sea.
"You two have no quarrel," the older woman added mildly. "You and
Warren were rarely companionable. I used to say to George that you were
almost TOO congenial, too sensitive to each other's moods. Warren knew
that you idolized him, Rachael, and consequently, when criticism came,
when he felt that you of all persons were misjudging him, why, he
simply flung up his head like a horse, and bolted!"
"Misjudging?" Rachael said quickly, half turning her head, and bringing
her eyes from the far horizon to rest upon Alice's face. The children
had seen them now, and were running toward them, and Alice did not
attempt to answer. She sighed, and shrugged her shoulders.
A dead horseshoe crab on the sands deflected the course of the racing
children, except Derry, who pursued his panting way, and as Rachael sat
down on the log, cast himself, radiant and breathless, into her arms.
She caught the child to her heart passionately. He had always been
closer to her than even the splendid first-born because of the giddy
little head that was always getting him into troubles, and the reckless
little feet that never chose a sensible course. Derry was always being
rescued from deep water, always leaping blindly from high places and
saved by the narrowest possible chance, always getting his soft mop of
hair inextricably tangled in the steering-gear of Rachael's car, or his
foot hopelessly twisted in the innocent-looking bars of his own bed,
always eating mysterious berries, or tasting dangerous medicines,
always ready to laugh deeply and deliciously at his own crimes. Jim
assumed a protective attitude toward him, chuckling at his
predicaments, advising him, and even gallantly assuming the blame for
his worst misdeeds. Rachael imagined them in boarding-school some day;
in college; Jim the student, dragged from his books and window-seat to
go to the rescue of the unfortunate but fascinating junior. Jim said he
was going to write books; Derry was going--her heart contracted
whenever he said it--was going to be a doctor, and Dad would show him
what to do!
Ah, how proud Warren might have been of them, she thought, walking home
to-day, a sandy hand in each of hers, Derry hopping on one foot,
twisting, and leaping; Jim leaning affectionately against her, and
holding forth as to the proper method of washing wagons! What man would
not have been proud of this pair, enchanting in faded galatea now, soon
to be introduced to linen knickerbockers, busy with their first toiling
capitals now, some day to be growling Latin verbs. They would be
interested in the Zoo this winter, and then in skating, and then in
football--Warren loved football. He had thrown it all away!
Widowed in spirit, still Rachael was continually reminded that she was
not actually widowed, and in the hurt that came to her, even in these
first months, she found a chilling premonition of the years to come.
Warm-hearted Vera Villalonga wrote impulsively from the large
establishment at Lakewood that she had acquired for the early winter.
She had heard that Rachael and Greg weren't exactly hitting it
off--hoped to the Lord it wasn't true--anyway, Rachael had been
perfectly horrible about seeing her old friends; couldn't she come at
once to Vera, lots of the old crowd were there, and spend a month? Mrs.
Barker Emery, meeting Rachael on one of the rare occasions when Rachael
went into the city, asked pleasantly for the boys, and pleasantly did
not ask for Warren. Belvedere Bay was gayer than ever this year, Mrs.
Emory said; did Rachael know that the Duchess of Exton was visiting
Mary Moulton--such a dear! Georgiana Vanderwall, visiting the Thomases
at Easthampton, motored over one day to spend a sympathetic half
morning with Rachael, pressing that lady's unresponsive hand with her
own large, capable one, and murmuring that of course--one heard--that
the Bishop of course felt dreadfully--they only hoped--both such dear
sweet people--
Rachael felt as if she would like to take a bath after this well-meant
visitation. A day or two later she had a letter from Florence, who said
that "someone" had told her that the Gregorys might not be planning to
keep their wonderful cook this winter. If that was true, would Rachael
be so awfully good as to ask her to go see Mrs. Haviland?
"The pack," Rachael said to Alice, "is ready to run again!"