[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

A LETTER.

Blake took the letter. With its taking there came to him a premonition that the things that he had suspected--the things that he had heard--the things that to him were as unbelievable, as utterly absurd, and ridiculous, and impossible, as might be the vainest imaginings of the vainest, had been proven true.

Over the first of the letter, he skipped cursorily.... At length he found John Schuyler's name. The pa.s.sage relative to the name was brief. He read it, slowly, word by word. Then he handed back the letter to Elinor.

She had seated herself, waiting. One knee was crossed over the other; and over the upper, her hands were clasped. She was eyeing him keenly, closely, eyes half closed, brows contracted.

To her Blake turned.

"Well?" he interrogated.

"I've known Martha Dale for sixteen years. She, Kathryn, and I were children together.... I think you knew her, too.... She's not the woman to make a charge like that unless it's true."

Blake shrugged his shoulders. A great pain shot through his heart; a great numbness clamped his brain. He had heard things himself. He had seen people who themselves had seen, or thought that they had seen. One man he had knocked down. With two more, his good friends, he had quarreled irrevocably. And in his own soul, something had told him that it was he who was wrong.

He said to Elinor; even as over and over and over he had said to himself:

"There's some mistake. There must be some mistake. It's impossible."

She eyed him shrewdly.

"There's no mistake" she returned. "She talked with him. She saw him with this woman. They were at the same hotel where Martha stayed. And the morning after she came, they left.... There's no mistake."

"But Jack wouldn't do a thing like that," he protested.

"You're a bad liar, Tom. You knew."

"No!" he cried.

"You did. You know you did.... How long have you known this thing and kept it from those who should be told?"

"Who should be told?"

"Kathryn."

"No!"

"But I say yes!" She went on, almost fiercely: "Do you think I'll have my sister--the sister whom I love better than anyone in the whole world-- fooled and shamed and disgraced and dishonored by a man like that?"

He raised his hand, protestingly.

"You wouldn't tell her!" he cried.

She nodded, jaw set.

"I would," she declared.

"It would kill her!"

"Nearly; but not quite. She has too much of her father in her for that.

And she must know. It is her right."

"And take away her every chance of happiness--and his of redemption."

"Her every chance of happiness is gone; as is his for redemption," she said, bitterly. And then: "He should have thought of these things before he did what he did.... There's one thing to be done, and only one. I shall tell her."

He remarked, slowly:

"The woman's way: To bring suffering where suffering might be spared."

She rounded on him, swiftly.

"The man's way: to stick to the husband, and deceive the wife.... You men have two codes of ethics--a loose, convenient one for yourselves, a tight, uncompromising one for us. There are no two codes of ethics. Right is right, and wrong is wrong; and there can be no compromise. When a man marries a woman, he owes to that woman every bit as much as she owes to him.... Suppose," she went on, tensely, "that it were Kathryn who had done this thing--who had lied and deceived where she had promised to love and honor. What then? Would you tell the husband, or wouldn't you?"

He considered; and said, slowly, positively:

"I'd lie like the devil."

She whirled about.

"You would?"

"I would."

"Well, I won't. And," she declared, lips tight pressed, jaw tight set, "I shall tell her."

Then from the house came Kathryn, happily, gaily. In her hand there was a letter, a letter with a foreign post-mark, a letter that, from its jagged end, had been torn open, with eager hands.

"A note from Jack!" she cried.

"What does he say?" demanded Elinor, tensely, her lithe fingers interwoven.

"Oh, terribly lonely," returned her sister--"trying so hard to finish his work and get back to us. I'm adding a postscript." She seated herself before the writing table. "Do you two want to send any messages?"

For a moment--for a long, long moment--did Mrs. VanVorst stand, silent, motionless. All that the thing meant that she was about to do, no one knew better than she. She stood, silent, eyes half closed, hands clenched. Blake watched her, shrewdly.

After a long, long time, she took a short step forward.

"Kate," she began. "Kate, dear. I have something to tell you."