CHAPTER VIII
RACHEL CARTER
Kenneth strolled about the town for awhile before returning to the
tavern to shave, change his boots, and "smarten" himself
up a bit in preparation for the ceremonious call he had dreaded
to make. On all sides he encountered the friendliest interest and
civility from the townspeople. The news of his arrival had spread
over the place with incredible swiftness. Scores of absolute strangers
turned to him and tendered to him the welcome to be found in a broad
and friendly smile.
Shortly after three o'clock he set forth upon his new adventure.
Assailed by a strange and unaccustomed timidity,--he would have
called it bashfulness had Viola been other than his sister--he approached
the young lady's home by the longest and most round-about way, a
course which caused him to make the complete circuit of the three-acre
pond situated a short distance above the public square--a shallow
body of water dignified during the wet season of the year by the
high-sounding title of "Lake Stansbury," but spoken of
scornfully as the "slough" after the summer's sun had
reduced its surface to a few scattered wallows, foul and green with
scum. It was now full of water and presented quite an imposing appearance
to the new citizen as he skirted its brush-covered banks; in his
ignorance he was counting the probability of one day building a
handsome home on the edge of this tiny lake.
A man working in a garden pointed out to him Mrs. Gwyn's house half-hidden
among the trees at the foot of a small slope.
"That other house, a couple of hundred foot further on,--you
can just see it from here,--well, that belonged to Robert Gwyn.
I understand his long-lost son is comin' to live in it one of these
days. They say this boy when he was a baby was stolen by the Injins
and never heard of ag'in until a few months ago. Lived with the
Injins right up to the time he was found and couldn't speak a word
of English. I have heard that he--what are ye laughin' at, mister?"
"I was laughing at the thought of how surprised you are going
to be some day, my friend. Thank you. The house with the green window
blinds, you say?"
He proceeded first to the house that was to be his home. It was
a good stone's throw from the pretentious two-story frame structure
in which Rachel Carter and her daughter lived, but nearer the centre
of the town when approached by a more direct route than he had followed.
This smaller house, an insignificant, weather-beaten story and a
half frame, snuggling among the underbrush, was where his father
had lived when he first came to Lafayette. Later on he had erected
the larger house and moved into it with his family, renting the
older place to a man named Turner.
It was faced by a crudely constructed picket fence, once white but
now mottled with scales of dirty sun-blistered paint, and inside
the fence rank weeds, burdocks and wild grass flourished without
hindrance. He strode up the narrow path to the low front door. Finding
it unlocked, he opened it and stepped into the low, roughly plastered
sitting-room. The window blinds were open, permitting light and
air to enter, and while the room was comparatively bare, there was
ample evidence that it had been made ready for occupancy by a hand
which, though niggardly, was well trained in the art of making a
little go a long way. The bedroom and the kitchen were in order.
There were rag carpets on the floors, and the place was immaculately
clean. A narrow, enclosed stairway ran from the end of the sitting-room
to the attic, where he discovered a bed for his servant. Out at
the back was the stable and a wagonshed. These he did not inspect.
A high rail fence stretched between the two yards.
As he walked up the path to the front door of the new house, he
was wondering how Viola Gwyn would look in her garb of black,--the
hated black she had cast aside for one night only. He was oppressed
by a dull, cold fear, assuaged to some extent by the thrill of excitement
which attended the adventure. What was he to do or say if the door
was opened by Rachel Carter? His jaw was set, the palms of his hands
were moist, and there was a strange, tight feeling about his chest,
as if his lungs were full and could not be emptied. After a moment's
hesitation, he rapped firmly on the door with his bare knuckles.
The door was opened by a young coloured woman who wore a blue sunbonnet
and carried a red shawl over her arm.
"Is Miss Viola at home?" he inquired.
"Is dis Mistah Gwynne, suh?"
"Yes."
"Come right in, suh, an' set down."
He entered a small box of a hallway, opening upon a steep set of
stairs.
"Right in heah, suh," said the girl, throwing open a door
at his left.
As he walked into this room, he heard the servant shuffling up the
staircase. He deposited his hat and gloves on a small marble-top
table in the centre of the room and then sent a swift look of investigation
about him. Logs were smouldering in the deep, wide fireplace at
the far end of the room, giving out little spurts of flame occasionally
from their charred, ash-grey skeletons. The floor was covered with
a bright, new rag carpet, and there was a horse-hair sofa in the
corner, and two or three stiff, round-backed little chairs, the
seats also covered with black horse-hair. A thick, gilt-decorated
Holy Bible lay in the centre of the marble-top table, shamed now
by contact with the crown of his unsaintly hat. On the mantel stood
a large, flat mahogany clock with floral decorations and a broad,
white face with vivid black numerals and long black hands. The walls
were covered with a gaudy but expensive paper, in which huge, indescribable
red flowers mingled regularly with glaring green leaves. Two "mottoes,"
worked in red and blue worsted and framed with narrow cross-pieces
of oak, hung suspended in the corners beside the fireplace. One
of them read "God Bless Our Home," the other a sombre
line done in black: "Faith, Hope and Charity."
Three black oval oak frames, laden with stiff leaves that glistened
under a coat of varnish, contained faded, unlovely portraits,--one
of a bewhiskered man wearing a tall beaver hat and a stiff black
stock: another of a sloping-shouldered woman with a bonnet, from
which a face, vague and indistinct, sought vainly to emerge. The
third contained a mass of dry, brown leaves, some wisps of straw,
and a few colourless pressed blossoms. On a table in front of one
of the two windows stood a spindling Dutch lamp of white and delft
blue, with a long, narrow chimney. There were two candlesticks on
the mantel.
All these features of the room he took in while he stood beside
the centre table, awaiting the entrance of Viola Gwyn. He heard
a door open softly and close upstairs, and then some one descending
the steps; a few words spoken in the subdued voice of a woman and
the less gentle response of the darky servant, who mumbled "Yas'm,"
and an instant later went out by the front door. Through the window
he saw her go down the walk, the red shawl drawn tightly about her
shoulders.
He smiled. The clever Viola getting rid of the servant so that she
could be alone with him, he thought, as he turned toward the door.
A tall woman in black appeared in the doorway, paused there for
a second or two, and then advanced slowly into the room. He felt
the blood rush to his head, almost blinding him. His hand went out
for the support of the table, his body stiffened and suddenly turned
cold. The smile with which he intended to greet Viola froze on his
lips.
"God Al--" started to ooze from his stiff lips, but the
words broke off sharply as the woman stopped a few steps away and
regarded him steadily, silently, unsmilingly. He stood there like
a statue staring into the dark, brilliant eyes, sunken deep under
the straight black eyebrows. Even in the uncertain light from the
curtained windows he could see that her face was absolutely colourless,--the
pallor of death seemed to have been laid upon it. Swiftly she lifted
a hand to her throat, her eyes closed for a second and then flew
wide open again, now filled with an expression of utter bewilderment.
"Is it--is it you, Robert? Is it really you, or am I--"
she murmured, scarcely above a whisper. Once more she closed her
eyes, tightly; as if to shut out the vision of a ghost,--an unreal
thing that would not be there when she looked again.
The sound of her voice released him from the brief spell of stupefaction.
"I know you. I remember you. You are Rachel Carter," he
said hoarsely.
She was staring at him as if fascinated. Her lips moved, but no
sound issued from them.
He hesitated for an instant and then turned to pick up his hat and
gloves. "I came to see your daughter, madame,--as well you
know. Permit me to take my departure."
"You are so like your--" she began with an effort, her
voice deep and low with emotion. "So like him I--I was frightened.
I thought he had--" She broke off abruptly, lowered her head
in an attempt to hide from him the trembling lips and chin, and
to regain, if possible, the composure that had been so desperately
shaken. "Wait!" she cried, stridently. "Wait! Do
not go away. Give me time to--to--"
"There is no need for us to prolong--" he began in a harsh
voice.
"I will not keep you long," she interrupted, every trace
of emotion vanishing like a shadow that has passed. She was facing
him now, her head erect, her voice steady. Her dark, cavernous eyes
were upon him; he experienced an odd, indescribable sensation,--as
of shrinking,--and without being fully aware of what he was doing,
replaced his hat upon the table, an act which signified involuntary
surrender on his part.
"Where is Viola?" he demanded sternly. "She left
word for me to come here. Where is she?"
"She is not here," said the woman.
He started. "You don't mean she has--has gone away with--"
"No. She has gone over to spend the afternoon with Effie Wardlow.
I will be frank with you. This is not the time for misunderstanding.
She asked Isaac Stain to give you that message at my request,--or
command, if you want the truth. I sent her away because what I have
to say to you must be said in private. There is no one in the house
besides ourselves. Will you do me the favour to be seated? Very
well; we will stand."
She turned away to close the hall door. Then she walked to one of
the windows and, drawing the curtain aside, swept the yard and adjacent
roadway with a long, searching look.
The strong light fell full upon her face; its warmth seemed suddenly
to paint the glow of life upon her pallid skin. He gazed at her
intently. Out of the past there came to him with startling vividness
the face of the Rachel Carter he had known. Despite the fact that
she was now an old woman,--he knew that she must be at least forty-six
or -seven,--she was still remarkably handsome. She was very tall,
deep-chested, and as straight as an arrow. Her smoothly brushed
hair was as black as the raven's wing. Time and the toil of long,
hard hours had brought deep furrows to her cheeks, like lines chiselled
in a face of marble, but they had not broken the magnificent body
of the Rachel Carter who used to toss him joyously into the air
with her strong young arms and sure hands. But there was left no
sign of the broad, rollicking smile that always attended those gay
rompings. Her lips were firm-set, straight and unyielding,--a hard
mouth flanked by what seemed to be absolutely immovable lines. Her
chin was square; her nose firm and noticeably "hawk-like"
in shape; her eyes clear, brilliant and keenly penetrating.
She faced him, standing with her back to the light.
"Sooner or later we would have had to meet," she said.
"It is best for both of us to have it over with at the very
start."
"I suppose you are right," said he stiffly. "You
know how I feel toward you, Rachel Carter. There is nothing either
of us can say that will make the situation easier or harder, for
that matter."
"Yes,--I understand," said she calmly. "You hate
me. You have been brought up to hate me. I do not question the verdict
of those who condemned me, but you may as well understand at once
that I do not regret what I did twenty years ago. I have not repented.
I shall never repent. We need not discuss that side of the question
any farther. You know my history, Kenneth Gwynne. You are the only
person in this part of the world who does know it. When the controversy
first came up over the settlement of your father's estate, I feared
that you would reveal the story of my--"
He held up his hand, interrupting her. "Permit me to observe,
Rachel Carter, that for many months after being notified of my father's
death and the fact that he had left me a portion of his estate,
I was without positive proof as to the identity of the woman mentioned
in the correspondence as his widow. It was not until a copy of the
will was forwarded to me that I was sure. By that time I had made
up my mind to keep my own counsel. I can say to you now, Rachel
Carter, that I do not intend to rake up that ugly story. I do not
make war on helpless women."
Her lips writhed slightly, and her eyes narrowed as if with pain.
It was but a fleeting exposition of vulnerability, however, for
in another instant she had recovered.
"You could not have struck harder than that if you had been
warring against a strong man," she said gently.
A hot flush stained his cheek. "It is the way I feel, nevertheless,
Rachel Carter," he said deliberately.
"You can think of me only as Rachel Carter," she said.
"My name is Rachel Gwyn. Still it doesn't matter. I am past
the point where I can be hurt. You may tell the story if it suits
your purpose. I shall deny nothing. It may even give you some satisfaction
to see me wrap my soiled robes about me and steal away, leaving
the field to you. I can sell my lands to-morrow and disappear. It
will matter little whether I am forgotten or not. The world is large
and I am not without fortitude. I wanted you to come here to-day,
to see me alone, to hear what I have to say,--not about myself,--but
about another. I am a woman of quick decisions. When I learned early
this morning that you would be in Lafayette to-day, I made up my
mind to take a certain step,--and I have not changed it."
"If you are referring to your daughter--to my half-sister,
if you will--I have only to remind you that my mind is already made
up. You need have no fear that I shall do or say anything to hurt
that innocent girl. I am assuming, of course, that she knows nothing
of--well, of what happened back there in Kentucky."
"She knows nothing," said the woman, in a voice strangely
low and tense. "If she ever knew, she has forgotten."
"Forgotten?" he cried. "Good God, how could she have
forgotten a thing so--"
She moved a step nearer, her burning eyes fixed on his.
"You remember Rachel Carter well enough. Have you no recollection
of the little girl you used to play with? Minda? The babe who could
scarcely toddle when you--"
"Of course I remember her," he cried impatiently. "I
remember everything. You took her away with you and--why did you
not leave her behind as my father left me? Why could you not have
been as fair to your child as he was to his?"
She was silent for a moment, pondering her answer. "I do not
suppose it has ever occurred to you that I might have loved my child
too deeply to abandon her," she said, a strange softness in
her voice.
"My father loved me," he cried out, "and yet he left
me behind."
"He loved you,--yes,--but he would not take you. He left you
with some one who also loved you. Don't ever forget that, Kenneth
Gwynne. I would not go without Minda. No more would your mother
have gone without you. Stop! I did not mean to offend. So you DO
remember little Minda?"
"Yes, I remember her. But she is dead. Why do you mention her--"
"Minda is not dead," said she slowly.
"Not--why, she was drowned in the--"
"No. Minda is alive. You saw her last night,--at Phineas Striker's
house."
He started violently. "The girl I saw last night was--Minda?"
he cried. "Why, Striker told me she was--"
"I know,--I know," she interrupted impatiently. "Striker
told you what he believed to be true. He told you she was Robert
Gwyn's daughter and your half-sister. But I tell you now that she
is Minda Carter. There is not a drop of Gwyn blood in her body."
"Then, she is not my half-sister?" he exclaimed, utterly
dazed, but aware of the exquisite sensation of relief that was taking
hold of him.
"She is no blood relation of yours."
"But she is,--yes, now I understand,--she is my step-sister,"
he said, with a swift fall of spirits.
"I suppose that is what you might call her," said Rachel
Gwyn, indifferently. "I have not given it much thought."
"Does she know that she is not my father's daughter?"
"No. She believes herself to be his own flesh and blood,--his
own daughter," said she with the deliberateness of one weighing
her words, that they might fall with full force upon her listener.
"Why are you telling me all this?" he demanded abruptly.
"What is your object? If she does not know the truth, why should
I? Good God, woman, you--you do not expect ME to tell her, do you?
Was that your purpose in getting me here? You want me to tell her
that--"
"No!" she cried out sharply. "I do not want you or
any one else to do that. Listen to me. I sha'n't beat about the
bush,--I will not waste words. So far as Viola and the world are
concerned, she is Robert Gwyn's daughter. That is clear to you,
is it not? She was less than two years old when we came away,--too
young to remember anything. We were in the wilderness for two or
three years, and she saw but one or two small children, so that
it was a very simple matter to deceive her about her age. She is
nearly twenty-two now, although she believes she is but nineteen.
She does not remember any other father than Robert Gwyn. She has
no recollection of her own father, nor does she remember you. She--"
"Last night she described her father to me," he interrupted.
"Her supposed father, I mean. She made it quite plain that
he did not love her as a father should love his own child."
"It was not that," she said. "He was afraid of her,--mortally
afraid of her. He lived in dread of the day when she would learn
the truth and turn upon him. He always meant to tell her himself,
and yet he could not find the courage. Toward the end he could not
bear to have her near him. It would not be honest in me to say that
he loved her. I do not believe he would have loved a child if one
had come to him and me,--no child of mine could take the place you
had in his heart." She spoke with calm bitterness. "You
say she told you about him last night. I am not surprised that she
should have spoken of him as she did. It was not possible for her
to love him as a father. Nature took good care of that. There was
a barrier between them. She was not his child. The tie of blood
was lacking. Nature cannot be deceived. She has never told me what
her true feelings toward him were, but I have sensed them. I could
understand. I think she is and always has been bewildered. It is
possible that away back in her brain there is something too tiny
to ever become a thought, and yet it binds her to a man she does
not even remember. But we are wasting time. You are wondering why
I have told you the truth about Viola. The secret was safe, so why
should I reveal it to you,--my enemy,--isn't that what you are thinking?"
"Yes. I don't quite grasp your motive in telling me, especially
as I am still to look upon Viola as my half-sister. I have already
stated that under no circumstances will I hurt her by raking up
that old, infamous story. I find myself in a most difficult position.
She believes herself to be my sister while I know that she is not.
It must strike even you, Rachel Carter, as the ghastliest joke that
fate ever played on a man,--or a woman, either."
"I have told you the truth, because I am as certain as I am
that I stand here now that you would have found it all out some
day,--some day soon, perhaps. In the first place your father did
not mention her in his will. That alone is enough to cause you to
wonder. You are not the only one who is puzzled by his failure to
provide for her as well as for you. Before long you would have begun
to doubt, then to speculate, and finally you would have made it
your business to find out why she was ignored. In time you could
have unearthed the truth. The truth will always out, as the saying
goes. I preferred to tell it to you at once. You understand I cannot
exact any promises from you. You will do as you see fit in the matter.
There is one thing that you must realize, however. Viola has not
robbed you of anything--not even a father's love. She does not profit
by his death. He did not leave her a farthing, not even a spadeful
of land. I am entitled to my share by law. The law would have given
it to me if he had left no will. I am safe. That is clear to you,
of course. I earned my share,--I worked as hard as he did to build
up a fortune. When I die my lands and my money will go to my daughter.
You need not hope to have any part of them. I do not ask you to
keep silent on my account. I only ask you to spare her. If I have
sinned,--and in the sight of man, I suppose I have,--I alone should
be punished. But she has not sinned. I have thought it all out carefully.
I have lain awake till all hours of the night, debating what was
the best thing to do. To tell you or not to tell you, that was the
question I had to settle. This morning I decided and this is the
result. You know everything. There is no need for you to speculate.
There is nothing for you to unravel. You know who Viola is, you
know why she was left out of your father's will. The point is this,
when all is said,--she must never know. She must always,--do you
hear me?--she must always look upon you as her brother. She must
never know the truth about me. I put her happiness, her pride, her
faith, in your hands, Kenneth Gwynne."
He had listened with rigid attention, marvelling at the calm, dispassionate,
unflinching manner in which she stated her case and Viola's,--indeed,
she had stated his own case for him. Apparently she had not even
speculated on the outcome of her revelations; she was sure of her
ground before she took the first step.
"There is no other course open to me," he said, taking
up his hat. He was very pale. "There is nothing more to say,--now
or hereafter. We have had, I trust, our last conversation. I hate
you. I could wish you all the unhappiness that life can give, but
I am not such a beast as to tell your daughter what kind of a woman
you are. So there's the end. Good-day, Rachel Carter."
He turned away, his hand was on the door-latch, before she spoke
again.
"There is something more," she said, without moving from
the spot where she had stood throughout the recital. The same calm,
cold voice,--the same compelling manner. "It was my pleading,
back in those other days, that finally persuaded Robert Gwyn to
let me bring Minda up as his daughter. He was bitterly opposed to
it at first. He never quite reconciled himself to the deception.
He did not consider it being honest with her. He was as firm as
a rock on one point, however. He would bring her up as his daughter,
but he would not give her his name. It was after he agreed to my
plan that he changed the spelling of his own name. She was not to
have his name,--the name he had given his own child. That was his
real reason for changing his name, and not, as you may suspect,
to avoid being traced to this strange land."
"A belated attempt to be fair to me, I suppose," he said,
ironically.
"As you like," she said, without resentment. "In
the beginning, as I have told you, he believed it to be his duty
to tell her the truth about herself. He was sincere in that. But
he did not have the heart to tell her after years had passed. Now
let me tell you what he did a few weeks before he passed away,--and
you will know what a strange man he was. He came home one day and
said to me: 'I have put Viola's case in the hands of Providence.
You may call it luck or chance if you like, but I call it Providence.
I cannot go to her face to face and tell her the truth by word of
mouth, but I have told her the whole story in writing.' I was shocked,
and cried out to know if he had written to her in St. Louis. He
smiled and shook his head. 'No, I have not done that. I have written
it all out and I have hidden the paper in a place where she is not
likely to ever find it,--where I am sure she will never look. I
will not even tell you where it is hidden,--for I do not trust you,--no,
not even you. You would seek it out and destroy it.' How well he
knew me! Then he went on to say, and I shall never forget the solemn
way in which he spoke: 'I leave it all with Providence. It is out
of my hands. If she ever comes across the paper it will be a miracle,--and
miracles are not the work of man. So it will be God Himself who
reveals the truth to her.' Now you can see, Kenneth, that the secret
is not entirely in our keeping. There is always the chance that
she may stumble upon that paper. I live in great dread. My hope
now is that you will find it some day and destroy it. I have searched
in every place that I can think of. I confess to that. It is hidden
on land that some day will belong to Viola,--that much he confided
to me. It is not on the land belonging to you,--nor in your house
over there."
"You are right," he said, deeply impressed. "There
is always the chance that it will come to light. There is no telling
how many times a day she may be within arm's length of that paper,--perhaps
within inches of it. It is uncanny."
He cast a swift, searching look about the room, as if in the hope
that his eyes might unexpectedly alight upon the secret hiding place.
"He could not have hidden it in this house without my knowing
it," she said, divining his thought.
He was silent for a moment, frowning reflectively. "Are you
sure that no one else knows that she is not his daughter?"
"I am sure of it," she replied with decision.
"And there is nothing more you have to tell me?"
"Nothing. You may go now."
Without another word he left her. He was not surprised by her failure
to mention the early morning episode at Striker's cabin. His concluding
question had opened the way; it was clear that she had no intention
of discussing with him the personal affairs of her daughter. Nevertheless
he was decidedly irritated. What right had she to ask him to accept
Viola as a sister unless she was also willing to grant him the privileges
and interests of a brother? Certainly if Viola was to be his sister
he ought to have something to say about the way she conducted herself,--for
the honour of the family if for no other reason.
As he walked rapidly away from the house in the direction of Main
Street, he experienced a sudden sense of exaltation. Viola was not
his sister! As suddenly came the reaction, and with it stark realization.
Viola could never be anything to him except a sister.