our london house was not shut up—two servants were there on board-wages against the possibility of such a temporary return as i was now making—rachel was away with you three children at cromingham. i had not told her i was returning to london, and i had put up at one of my clubs. until i had had a second interview with maxwell hartington i still would not let myself think that it was possible that mary and i would fail with our explanations. we had the common confidence of habitually unchallenged people that our word would be accepted. i had hoped indeed to get the whole affair settled and abolished without anything of it coming to rachel's ears. then at my leisure i should be able to tell her exactly how things had come about. but each day made it clearer that things were not going to be settled, that the monstrous and the incredible was going to happen and that justin had set his mind implacably upon a divorce. my sense of complete innocence had already been shaken by maxwell hartington; i had come to perceive that we had been amazingly indiscreet, i was beginning to think we had been criminally indiscreet.

i saw maxwell hartington for a second time, and it became clear to me i must abandon any hope of keeping things further from rachel. i took my luggage round to my house, to the great astonishment of the two servants,—they had supposed of course that i was in italy—and then went down on the heels of a telegram to rachel. i forget the wording of that telegram, but it was as little alarming as possible; i think i said something about "back in london for documents; shall try to get down to you." i did not specify any particular train or indeed state definitely that i was coming that day.

i had never been to cromingham before. i went to the house you occupied on the esplanade and learnt that you were all upon the beach. i walked along the sea-wall scrutinizing the various bright groups of children and nursemaids and holiday people that were scattered over the sands. it was a day of blazing sunshine, and, between the bright sky and the silver drabs of the sand stretched the low levels of a sea that had its customary green-grey touched for once with something of the sapphire glow of the mediterranean. here and there were gay little umbrella tents or canvas shelters, and a bather or so and pink and white wading children broke the dazzling edge of foam. and i sought you with a kind of reluctance as though finding you would bring nearer the black irrational disaster that hung over us all.

and when i found you at last you were all radiantly[pg 345] happy and healthy, the prettiest of families, and only your mother was touched with any gravity deeper than the joy of sunshine and sea. you and mademoiselle potin—in those days her ministrations were just beginning—were busy constructing a great sea-wall that should really and truly stop the advancing tide. rachel two was a little apart, making with infinite contentment an endless multitude of conical sand pies with her little tin pail. margaret, a pink inarticulate lump, scrabbled in the warm sand under jessica's care. your mother sat and watched you—thoughtfully. and before any of you knew that i was there my shadow fell across you all.

you accepted my appearance when i ought to have been in italy with the unquestioning confidence with which you still take all my comings and goings. for you, italy, america, any place is just round the corner. i was kissed with affection but haste, and you got back to your sand-works as speedily as possible. i inspected rachel two's mounds,—she was giving them the names of her various aunts and uncles—and patted the crowing margaret, who ignored me. rachel had sprung to her feet and kissed me and now hovered radiant over me as i caressed you youngsters. it was all so warm, so real, that for an instant the dark threat that hung over us all vanished from my skies, to return with the force of a blow.

"and what has brought you back?" said rachel. "i had expected a month of widowhood. what can have brought you back?"

the dancing gladness in her eyes vanished swiftly as she waited for an answer to her question. she caught the note of tragedy from my face. "why have you come back from italy?" she asked in an altered voice.

"rachel," i said taking her arm, with a desolating sense of the futility in my gesture of protection; "let us walk along the beach. i want to tell you something—— something rather complicated."

"is there going to be war, stephen?" she asked abruptly.

it seemed then that this question which merely concerned the welfare of a hundred million people or so and pain, destruction and disaster beyond measure, was the most trivial of digressions.

"no," i said. "i haven't thought about the war."

"but i thought—you were thinking of nothing else."

"this has put it out of my head. it's something—— something disastrous to us."

"something has happened to our money?"

"i wish that was all."

"then what is it?" her mind flashed out. "it has something to do with mary justin."

"how did you know that?"

"i guessed."

"well. it is. you see—in switzerland we met."

"you met!"

"by accident. she had been staying at the hotel on engstlen alp."

"you slept there!" cried rachel.

"i didn't know she was in the hotel until the next day."

"and then you came away!"

"that day."

"but you talked together?"

"yes."

"and for some reason—— you never told me, stephen! you never told me. and you met. but—— why is this, disaster?"

"because justin knows and he means to divorce her—and it may be he will succeed...."

rachel's face had become white, for some time she said nothing. then slowly, "and if he had not known and done that—i should never have known."

i had no answer to make to that. it was true. rachel's face was very still, and her eyes stared at the situation laid bare to her.

"when you began," she choked presently, "when she wrote—i knew—i felt——"

she ceased for fear she might weep, and for a time we walked in silence.

"i suppose," she said desperately at last, "he will get his divorce."

"i am afraid he will."

"there's no evidence—you didn't...."

"no."

"and i never dreamt——!"

then her passion tore at her. "stephen my dear," she wept, "you didn't? you didn't? stephen, indeed you didn't, did you? you kept faith with me as a husband should. it was an accident—a real accident—and there was no planning for you to meet together. it was as you say? i've never doubted your word ever—i've never doubted you."

well, at any rate i could answer that plainly, and i did.

"and you know, stephen," she said, "i believe you. and i can't believe you. my heart is tormented. why did you write to her? why did you two write and go on writing? and why did you tell me nothing of that meeting? i believe you because i can't do anything but believe you. it would kill me not to believe you in a thing that came so near to us. and yet, there it is, like a knife being twisted in my heart—that you met. should i have known of your meeting, stephen—ever? i know i'm talking badly for you.... but this thing strikes me suddenly. out of this clear beautiful sky! and the children there—so happy in the sunshine! i was so happy. so happy. with you coming.... it will mean shames and law-courts and newspapers, losses of friends, losses of money and freedom.... my mother and my people!... and you and all the work you do!... people will never forget it, never forgive it. they will say you promised.... if she had never written, if she had kept to her bargain——"

"we should still have met."

"stephen!... stephen, you must bear with me...."

"this is a thing," i said, "that falls as you say out of the sky. it seemed so natural—for her to write.... and the meeting ... it is like some tremendous disaster of nature. i do not feel i have deserved it. it is—irrational. but there it is, little rachel of my heart, and we have to face it. whatever happens we have to go on. it doesn't alter the work we have to do. if it clips our wings—we have to hop along with clipped wings.... for you—i wish it could spare you. and she—she too is a victim, rachel."

"she need not have written," said rachel. "she need not have written. and then if you had met——"

she could not go on with that.

"it is so hard," i said, "to ask you to be just to her—and me. i wish i could have come to you and married you—without all that legacy—of things remembered.... i was what i was.... one can't shake off a thing in one's blood. and besides—besides——"

i stopped helplessly.