Part 52 (2/2)

Something in Magsie's manner had made her feel that Magsie had good reason for keeping the name of her admirer hid. Billy had felt for weeks that she would know the name if Magsie ever divulged it. And this morning she had noticed the admission that the wronged wife was a beautiful woman--and the hesitation with which Magsie had answered ”Two girls.” Then Magsie had said that she would ”write him,” not at all the natural thing to do to a man one was sure to see, and Rachael had said that Warren was away!

But most significant of all was her answer to Billy's question as to whether the children were grown. Magsie had admitted that she knew the wife, had ”known her before,” and yet she pretended not to know whether or not the children were grown. Billy had had just a fleeting idea of Warren Gregory before that, but this particular term confirmed the suspicion suddenly.

So while Magsie was getting her marriage license, Billy was in Magsie's apartment turning over the contents of her wastepaper basket in feverish haste. The envelope was ruined, it had been crushed while wet; a name had been barely started anyway. But here was the precious sc.r.a.p of commencement, ”My dearest Greg--”

Billy was almost terrified by the discovery. There it was, in irrefutable black and white. She stuffed it back into the basket, and left the house like a thief, panting for the open air. A suspicion only ten minutes before, now she felt as if no other fact on earth had ever so fully possessed her. For an hour she drove about in a daze. Then she went home, and sat down at her desk, and wrote the following letter:

”Mv DEAR RACHAEL: The letter with the darling little 'B' came yesterday. I think he is cute to learn to write his own letter so quickly. Tell him that mother is proud of him for picking so many blackberries, and will love the jam. It is as hot as fire here, and the park has that steamy smell that a hothouse has. I have been driving about in Joe Butler's car all afternoon. We are going to Long Beach to-night.

”Rachael--Magsie Clay and a man named Richard Gardiner were married this afternoon. He is an invalid or something; he is at St. Luke's Hospital, and she and his mother are going to take him to California at once. What do you know about that? Of course this is a secret, and for Heaven's sake, if you tell anybody this, don't say I gave it away.

”If Magsie Clay should send you a bunch of letters, she will just do it to be a devil, and I want to ask you to burn them up before you read them. You know how you talked to me about divorce, Rachael! What you don't know can't hurt you. Don't please Magsie Clay to the extent of doing exactly what she wants you to do. If anyone you love has been a fool, why, it is certainly hard to understand how they could, but you stand by what you said to me the other day, and forget it.

”I feel as if I was breaking into your own affairs. I hope you won't care, and that I'm not all in the dark about this--”

”Affectionately, BILLY.”

CHAPTER VI

This 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 doc.u.ment 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 suns.h.i.+ne.

”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 n.o.body 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, b.u.t.toned a glove b.u.t.ton briskly, folded the letter, and made some work of putting it away in an inside pocket.

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