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CHAPTER TWO
GOVERNMENT PROGRAMS TO SUPPORT FAMILIES AND CHILDREN

Competencies

Students will demonstrate competency in describing or explaining:

1. The characteristics of Americans most likely to be poor and the extent and effects of
poverty among the families of children and youth.
2. The historical background, the purpose and the primary provisions of today’s income
security program (TANF).
3. The major federal government programs to support work and family in the U.S.
4. The effectiveness of today’s work and family support programs in reducing welfare,
reducing poverty, and improving the quality of life for poor families
5. The purpose of the Head Start program, and its effectiveness
6. The major types of day care for children of working parents, and assessment of their
quality and availability.
7. The purpose of The National Indicators of Child Well-Being reports.

Key Concepts

Define and explain the significance of the following (short answer questions):

 Poverty line index

 Working poor
 Mothers’ Pensions
 Earned Income Tax Credit
 Children’s Health Insurance Program (CHIP)
 Aid to Families with Dependent Children
 Temporary Assistance for Needy Families (TANF)
 Time Limits
 Supplemental Security Income
 Head Start
 The Family and Medical Leave Act
 Day Care Regulation
 National Indicators of Child Well-Being

42
 CHILD WELFARE AND FAMILY SERVICES: POLICIES AND PRACTICE, 8E

Multiple Choice Questions

1. The latest report from the Interagency Forum on Child and Family Statistics on the well-
being of America’s children:
a. Shows that infant mortality has declined significantly.
b. Shows that American children do better than children of any other country.
c. Is limited to reports on children in the foster care system though plans are in place
to provide reports on other children in the future.
d. Shows that children seem to grow up earlier than they did 100 years ago, when
the reports first started.

2. All of the following are federal funding programs for day care except:
a. WPA
b. The Child Care and Development Block Grant
c. The Dependent Care Tax Credit
d. Head Start

3. Research on Head Start programs shows that:

a. they can prepare children to enter school ready to learn
b. they have no effect
c. they can permanently raise children’s IQ levels
d. those located in a school are superior to those located in other community settings

4. All of the following are public assistance programs except:

a. Medicaid
b. Child Well-Being Initiative
c. WIC (Woman-Infant-Children program)
d. Food Stamps

5. The Poverty Line Index is intended to be:

a. Only for U.S.citizens
b. Comparable to what a middle income family makes.
c. What a person uses when he/she wants a loan.
d. The amount of income required for a minimally adequate standard of living.

6. All of the following statements are true about the causes of poverty EXCEPT:
a. Increased job opportunities for high school graduates, thus discouraging people
from going to college.
b. Stagnation of wages.
c. Those who work experience less poverty than those who do not.
d. The minimum wage has eroded in value.

43
TEST BAN K

7. Which of the following programs provides income for disabled children?

a. Medicaid
b. Child Support Enforcement
c. CHIP
d. SSI

Short Answer

1. Identify one concern or criticism of TANF.

Essay Questions/Student Reports

2. Discuss trends in the extent of poverty among the families of children and youth. What
factors, both institutionally and individually, contribute to the growth of poverty?

3. Discuss the major provisions of TANF. Do you believe that this legislation is likely to help
or harm families. Support your position.

4. Describe the range of government programs to support work and families, including day
care. Identify the strengths and the gaps in this range of programs. What else is needed to
help families obtain work and live decently if they do work?

5. Use the following resource as a starting point for learning about the well-being of children in
a foreign country: The Clearinghouse on International Development in Child, Youth, and Family
Policies www.childpolicyintl.org Compare the U.S. and the foreign country you have
chosen. Identify disparities and try to find out the reasons for them. A variation of this
assignment is to do a comparison of child well-being between your state and the country as a
whole. Use the National Indicators of Child Well-Being, as presented by the Interagency
Forum on Child and Family Statistics.

6. Study the issues in providing or withholding income supports for non-citizens, and identify
the likely consequences to the U.S. and to non-citizens of each option.

44
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
"I don't deserve it. I'm a scoundrel, for with every thought of my
heart, with every breath I draw, I'm making love to another man's
wife!"
"You mustn't do it!"
He laughed, and his laugh was so strange that it startled them both.
"Your advice is good; I can't follow it, that's all. Rachel, for God's
sake, tell me the truth: do you love Belhaven, did you marry him of
your own free will?"
Rachel turned from him and went to the fireplace; she folded her
arms and laid her head upon them. She did not remember that
Belhaven had stood there on the day of their marriage. She was
cruelly placed; her love for Charter seemed to be the only thing in
the world. What real claim had Belhaven upon her? He had deceived
her, he had traded upon her loyalty to her sister, he had accepted
her sacrifice, he was only her husband in name. But what if she told
Charter the truth? He was good, but if she told him the truth? She
loved him with all her soul.
"I don't believe you love him," he argued; "you're wretched, I can
see it. I believe these hideous stories. Rachel, I have a right to know
the truth, only the truth!"
She shuddered. The truth? Oh, God, how she longed to tell him the
truth; her heart leaped at the thought!
"I ask for nothing else; if you love him, if you married him of your
own free choice, tell me; it will help me, it will drive me away. I'm
asking for bread, Rachel, and you've given me a stone."
She was weeping now, for she dared not tell him the truth, she
dared not.
"Only the truth, Rachel!"
Her tears dried, they seemed burned into her eyes, and she pressed
her hands against her throat; she felt as if she must surely strangle
to death.
"Did you marry Belhaven of your own choice?" John asked again and
his voice cut her to the heart; it was not like him to force her into a
corner, but he was battling for life himself and this vivid revelation of
his love was an acute agony to her.
She raised her head; she did not look at him, and her voice was very
low as she replied, "Of my own choice!"
Charter turned from her and hid his face a moment in his hands,—
strong, muscular, expressive hands, they were like him.
There was an intense silence.
At last he went slowly to the door. "Forgive me, I've been a brute—
good-by."
But the limit of her endurance had been reached. "John," she cried,
"come back!"
He turned and faced her; he looked as he had looked at death in
battle. "It's no use, Rachel; thank you for telling me the truth."
"I didn't; I lied to you."
He uttered an inarticulate sound.
"I lied to you," said Rachel steadily; "now I'm going to tell you the
truth. It's wrong, but I shall do it; I shall tell you the whole truth. I
married Belhaven to shield my sister from Astry's anger. Astry
accused her and Belhaven, she begged me to save her from
disgrace. I yielded, I married him; I never loved him, I'm only his
wife in name."
"Good God, was there no one in the world to stop you? No one to
save you from such madness? Rachel, did you have no thought of
me?"
"I thought—" her voice broke a little; she steadied herself again,
"John, let it go—I married him."
"I couldn't let it go—Rachel, you knew I loved you?"
She shook her head sadly.
"You knew it, you must have known it!"
"No woman knows it until she's told."
"Is it possible that you married him thinking I didn't? What a fool I
was, what a dunce! If I had only written you! But, Rachel, there was
the cholera in the camp and I was with the poor fellows all the time.
I thought you knew I loved you, I only tormented myself because I
wasn't sure of you!"
"We were neither of us sure, it seems; it's our poor, stupid, little
tragedy, John; let it go—it's over."
"You love me?" he asked gravely.
"Yes."
They stood looking at each other. There was no light in either face,
no triumphant recognition of mutual feeling; to both the situation
was horrible. He understood perfectly her feelings; that the fact of
her marriage was unchanged, that it constituted an insuperable
barrier between them; but he could not be restrained.
"I can't stand this, Rachel. Your marriage is in fact no marriage.
Belhaven has no right to hold you to it; it must be broken, you shall
be free!"
"I can't; don't you see it?" She held out both hands with a pathetic
gesture. "Can't you see it? It would undo all I've done to save her."
"Do you think for a moment that I'll give you up for Eva?"
Her face quivered pitifully. She longed to give up, to let him take the
lead and sweep her on to liberty. Then her tortured soul rose again
to the struggle. "I knew you wouldn't give up; that's why I lied to
you just now. I never did before, John."
"Is it possible you want this to go on?"
"It must!"
"It can't and it shan't!" he cried hotly. "I'm human, I won't give you
up; you shan't be bound by such a miserable tie—the man was a
cowardly brute to let you shield him."
"I did it for Eva; I've betrayed her by telling you."
"Eva wasn't worth it," said John, in honest wrath. "No one is worth
it. Rachel, I won't endure it."
"We've got to endure it; I can't publicly disgrace my sister."
"You needn't; Belhaven can make the way easy,—he can and he
shall!"
She shook her head. "He won't."
"He must."
She still shook her head.
A light broke in on John. "He loves you!" he cried suddenly.
She blushed and her eyes filled with tears. "Yes."
He turned and walked to and fro, his white face set and hard. She
watched him, reading him, trembling for him, with that intuitive
knowledge of his strength and his weakness which is an instinct with
a woman who loves much.
He swung around suddenly and faced her. "And you?" he asked, with
great bitterness.
She met his eyes bravely; she tried to speak but it was too much.
John caught her in his arms. "You do love me still?" he cried
passionately.
"With all my heart!" she said, for one blind moment swept away,
and, yielding to her own grief and his rebellion, she clung to him.
Then she recalled herself, her heart struggled back to meet fate
again. "John, we must part now—I'd hoped to keep your friendship,
but we've lost even that—there was, after all, no middle course."
"Do you think I'll give you up now? This marriage is a mockery; it's
got to be annulled."
She looked up at him, struggling to be calm. "John, I've always
believed in you, I've always trusted you; I trust you now to help me
to do right. I'm weak; I'm broken down; you know it, you've felt it—
help me to be myself!"
"I can't, and it isn't right, it's an outrage; who ever heard of such a
thing? Eva has no right to your life, Belhaven has no right to you—
you're mine!"
"I'm not yours while I'm his wife," she said steadily, and she slipped
out of his arms and stood trembling.
"His wife!" John laughed bitterly. "You're not, you can't remain his
wife, loving me. I can't think that of you, Rachel!"
"Don't think it. I couldn't."
"And you call it right to keep up this sham? It's a lie, Rachel, a living
lie!"
She wrung her hands in a kind of agony. "John, I can't bear much
more; you'll have to leave me now. Give me a little time, I—I can't
bear it!"
"My darling, forgive me!"
"Don't, John," she sobbed, "don't kiss me again—I've got to give you
up."
"I won't give you up."
"I've no right to disgrace poor Eva, to disgrace Astry; he's had
enough to bear, and that's what it would cost. Can't you see it?"
"It needn't, but Belhaven must release you, I'll make him."
"John, I can't do it. I love you, let me believe in you."
"Have I got to suffer for Belhaven?"
She slipped down on her knees beside a chair, and burying her head
on her arms, gave way to her grief. The spiritual agony had given
birth to agony of the body and she wept bitterly. He tried to raise
her in his arms but she resisted, still weeping.
"Rachel, you'll make me kill Belhaven."
She looked up at that, her eyes still full of tears.
"John, I did it of my own free will. The man has suffered too; it's
cruel to him, I can't disgrace and ruin him now. I can't betray Eva, I
can't simply think of my own happiness; I'm not like that! I did it
myself. I thought you didn't care; I was angry, blind, and, yes, I did
want to save my sister, but I've often thought that perhaps I
wouldn't have done it but for my anger. I deserve to be punished,
and I've got to bear it somehow. What would be the use of it all if,
at the first temptation, I gave in and told the world the whole
miserable story? When mother was dying she made me promise to
be good to Eva; she said she might need all that I could give, she
knew her! I can't disgrace her. She's heart-broken about it all, she's
sorry; I think I can bring her back to her husband. It's worth trying,
John. I've always believed in you, I've always trusted you; help me
to be true to myself, help me—because you love me!"
"I can't give you up."
She turned away from him, struggling hard for more composure.
"Give me a little time, John. I—I can't bear any more now!"
"You mean you want me to go now? I'll do your bidding, Rachel, but
I'll never give you up; I can't."
"Oh, I know—I know, but go—please, John, I can't answer now—I
can't do wrong."
"I'm going—you see I'm not trying to force it; I won't even touch
you, but I won't give you up."
She did not answer, but stood with bowed head, the charm and
grace of her figure outlined against the soft, warm glow of the room,
her hands wrung together to hide their trembling. He turned at the
door and looked back at her and she tried to smile. There is
sometimes mortal agony behind a smile.
"Because I love you, John," she said, with a gesture of appeal.
He turned with a groan and went out into the night.
 XVI
IT was nearly an hour later when Charter made his way to the
fashionable club that he knew Belhaven commonly frequented. He
went deliberately, after a brief space of time given to what he would
have called deliberation, but which did not deserve the name. He
had left Rachel in a storm of feeling, so much more violent than
anything usual to his equable nature that he had been unable at first
to think with coherence. All smaller considerations, even the events
of yesterday, seemed relegated to the limbo of eternal forgetfulness,
and nothing was of consequence but this terrible fact, thrust so
rudely into his life, this trapping of the woman he loved by a coward
who was using her, so Charter felt, as a shield to save him from the
punishment which he so richly deserved. Yet, even in his passion, he
saw that Rachel's argument was true, that he could do nothing
without exposing both sisters to an open scandal, but, in his present
mood, even that seemed a small matter compared to Rachel's
vindication, and he had no pity for Eva at all.
It was certain, however, that he could not apply primitive methods to
the case, and he did not even dream of wringing Belhaven's neck,
but, in spite of his rage against him, he was also aware that he could
not let this go on without informing him of his own position. When
he left the old house on the hill, he had felt keenly the sting of
shame and disgust. It seemed to him that he had been there on
Belhaven's own errand, to make love to another man's wife, that he
was falling to the level of his adversary. But he would not give
Rachel up; every instinct battled against such a renunciation, and,
being determined to rescue her at any cost, he suddenly hit upon
the only course that seemed open to one of his temperament. He
would see Belhaven and warn him; he would tell him, face to face,
exactly what he intended to do. This idea taking possession of him,
he acted upon it with a sudden deviation from his usual tardy
deliberation; he went directly to the club and inquired for Belhaven.
As he supposed, he had no difficulty in finding him, seated in a
corner of the library reading, or pretending to read, a new book that
in reality was only a cover to prevent the interruption of his thought,
for Belhaven had more than enough to occupy his mind.
Catching sight of his dark head and handsome profile bent over his
book in a remote corner of the big room, Charter walked in, and
observing that the only other occupants, two rather elderly men,
were deeply engaged with their newspapers, he went over to
Belhaven's retreat and addressed him with an abruptness that made
him start slightly and lay his book upon his knee.
"I want a word with you."
Belhaven's face darkened with the recollection of John's hands on
his throat but he restrained himself with admirable determination.
"I can't exactly prevent you from saying it here," he remarked coolly.
But John took no notice of his manner; instead he leaned against
the wall opposite and folded his arms across his breast, perhaps to
be certain that he would not make too violent use of them, but he
spoke as calmly as Belhaven had, only with a slight stiffening of the
lips that with him was a sign of great anger hardly controlled.
"I came over here to tell you that I've just been to your house; I
don't want you to think I'm a sneak or a coward. I went there to see
Mrs. Belhaven because I've heard—pretty plainly—all the
circumstances of your marriage."
Belhaven took up the pipe which he had laid down at John's
approach and held it thoughtfully between his fingers, looking into
the bowl of it.
"After what occurred the other day I suppose I needn't say I think
it's none of your business."
"That's just the point; it is. I love Mrs. Belhaven and I won't give her
up to you—after all I've found out!"
Belhaven threw back his head and their eyes met.
"Has she told you?"
Charter hesitated, his face flushing as darkly as his interrogator's. He
had not foreseen this natural question.
"I refuse to answer."
Belhaven smiled bitterly. "In other words you've been making love to
my wife."
"Exactly; that's what I want to say. I don't propose to be a sneak
about it; I love her and I won't allow her to be nothing more than a
shield to protect you from Astry."
Belhaven considered this a moment. His first impulse was to resent it
angrily, but, after a little thought, he decided to let it go
unquestioned. "Perhaps you don't know that she's determined to
protect Mrs. Astry."
"I don't consider that Mrs. Astry is worth her life."
"You think she's ruining her life to marry me?"
"You know well enough that you had no right to marry her!"
Belhaven's hand trembled slightly, but he emptied the ashes out of
his pipe before he replied.
"You're taking the natural view of a man in love with another man's
wife."
"That's neither here nor there; she's the one to consider. If you're a
man you'll simply give her her freedom. It's the least thing you can
do, the only reparation you can make."
"I don't suppose it occurs to you that, perhaps, she wouldn't take it."
"That's inconceivable."
"You don't know then that she has peculiar ideas about the
sacredness of the marriage ceremony?"
"Which couldn't apply to this case; you must see that yourself."
"You mean because she's married me? But I don't suppose I've
anything to do with a fixed principle."
"You think she'd apply her scruples even to such a mockery of
marriage as this?"
Belhaven assented grimly.
"You've no right to let her do it!"
"Has it occurred to you that I've a right to have my own feelings
about it?"
"You haven't; you've got to consider her, to give her up."
"And if I refuse?"
John's angry blue eyes glowed deeply. "Do you think that I'm going
to stand it? I'm a factor in this case."
Belhaven eyed him coldly. "Has she made you so?"
Charter winced; he felt keenly that Rachel had not. "No!" he said
sharply.
"Well, she won't. I know her well enough for that. You think you
know all about her because you're in love with her, but you don't if
you imagine she's like that; she—" he stopped and drew a deep
breath that was nearer pain than a sigh—"she's too fine for that! I
know her better than you do and if I choose to hold her to it I can;
she won't listen to you if she feels it to be wrong, and she will."
"And you mean to take advantage of her very goodness to keep her
to such a bargain?"
His scorn cut like a knife but Belhaven met it without self-betrayal.
"Why should I give her up to you?" he asked, after a moment.
Charter looked at him attentively. He remembered that Rachel had
admitted that Belhaven loved her and he began to suspect now that
he would never give her up, that he meant to use his claim upon her
to keep her against her will. Such an attitude was almost
inconceivable to John.
"You intend to make her stay because you've fallen in love with
her?"
"That's no affair of yours."
John glanced across at the old man opposite, who was hunting now
for another newspaper on the table. In the distance he saw Count
Massena coming through the corridor.
"I'm sorry that this is a place where I can't tell you just what I think
of you," he said.
Belhaven did not move. "I can't see that you're in a better situation
than I am," he retorted coolly. "You've no right to make love to my
wife."
"You've no right to make your wife endure this misery and I tell you
now I won't allow it."
Rachel's husband watched him thoughtfully, a drawn look changing
his face yet more deeply.
"See here, Charter," he said suddenly, "I'm willing to say this: I've
lived in the same house with Rachel long enough to be a changed
man. She's humanized me. I'm not quite what you think me, and I'll
let her decide in the end, but, by Jove, I won't give her up just for
you; I'd die first!"
John looked at him squarely. "If you're a man," he said again, "you'll
set her free; then she could choose. Now—if you hold her—"
"Well, and if I do?"
"Then," said John, "you're a damned scoundrel!" and he turned his
back on him and walked out of the room.
 XVII
ASTRY was amusing himself driving the billiard balls about on the
table, practising some of his favorite strokes. He was an unusually
graceful man and he showed it as he handled his cue, his cigarette
between his teeth and his eyes narrowed in thought. He had long
ago ceased to be a happy man. There had been moments, years
before, when he had been considered rather jolly; men liked him
and women liked him too. He was greatly changed; the hardening
process had destroyed some of the more tender amenities of life.
He drove the ball successfully and stopped to chalk his cue; on the
wire over his head one of his parrots balanced, sidling along and
talking once and a while in strange jargon. Astry watched him, half
amused, then he continued to play with the balls. The house was
profoundly quiet; at the moment they had no house guests, though
Eva courted company for she dreaded being alone with her husband.
He had asked John Charter to come to them but John had refused.
The refusal did not surprise Astry; it only confirmed him in certain
suspicions and, as the balls danced away from his driving cue, he
was thinking of Rachel. Hers was undoubtedly the figure of the
drama and he knew that she was unhappy; he divined much more
though he made no sign. But he was as other men; he desired love,
he craved happiness, he had been embittered by the loss of both,
poisoned by the contact of treachery, and he had ceased to believe,
he had even ceased to forgive. Forgiveness is godlike, and very few
of us ever know it, feel it, or receive it. Forgiveness is like the work
in a stone quarry; it takes hard labor and only the morally great
accomplish it. But Astry saw revealed Rachel's love for Eva and the
sight of it was almost irritating; it seemed as if she wasted it, that
Eva gave back so little. He had come to think that Eva had very little
to give.
He continued to play with the balls. Presently the old clock in the hall
chimed sweetly, five o'clock. Then he heard his wife coming. She
had been out and had just returned; she came through the drawing-
room, her dress rustling, her light footstep uneven. He reached up
and, taking the chattering parrot from the wire, put him into the
conservatory and came back with his cue in his hand just as Eva
looked in.
"Playing billiards alone," she remarked languidly. "I should think it
would bore you to death."
"My dear Eva, I'm bored to extinction, but one must have something
to do."
She came slowly into the room and, going to the window, stood
there looking out.
"I suppose you'd really be happier if you weren't so rich," she
remarked.
"Do you think it's altogether a matter of money? That the possession
of it brings misery?"
"Sometimes I think it does. I don't seem to think of any one I know
who's very rich and happy too."
Astry put his cue down on the table and sat down; he seemed
willing to discuss the point. "Suppose you were poor to-morrow,
Eva; would you be any less wretched?"
She gave him a startled look over her shoulder. "Who said I was
wretched?"
He smiled grimly. "He who runs may read."
She drew a quick breath of alarm, pressing her cheek against the
window-pane and looking out with unseeing eyes. Before her was
the wide terrace, the level stretch of lawn with here and there a
mound of unmelted snow, and beyond the bare, brown trees and
the winter sky.
Astry spoke again with a certain moderation, a mental detachment
that made her feel how wide was the chasm between them.
"I can see you're unhappy and I'm sorry. I don't know that there's
much to do about it. Divorce is common but a little vulgar. I'm not
sure that you care to have me offer you such an avenue of escape."
"I must have been very unpleasant," she said slowly. "I didn't intend
to make people think things like that."
"Like what?" he asked gently.
"What you said—just now—that I might want a divorce."
"Do you?"
She did not reply; her face was turned now directly to the window
and he only saw the hand that rested on the pane tremble slightly.
He moved uneasily in his chair.
"I didn't know it was as bad as that, Eva!"
"As bad as that?" her voice trembled. "I don't understand."
"I didn't know that you wanted a divorce."
"It isn't that!"
He leaned forward, watching her, his expression singularly grave.
"Would you mind telling me just what you do mean?"
Eva turned from the window and came toward him, and as the light
fell on her face Astry was startled. He rose involuntarily from his seat
and Eva stood still, her slender hands clutching at the back of a
chair. She tried to speak twice before the words came.
"I can't bear it any longer, Johnstone; I'm going to tell the truth—the
whole truth."
He did not speak; he was watching her strangely.
She shivered and then went on, not looking at him, her voice at first
a mere whisper, growing a little firmer.
"Rachel married Belhaven—to save my good name."
He was still silent for a moment, regarding her.
"You mean that you—told me a falsehood that night?"
"About Rachel? Yes."
"Good God!"
She hid her face in her hands, but her voice, small and thin and
quivering, struggled on. She had to confess, she had to tell him, she
could endure it no longer.
"I lied about Rachel."
"And you—" he dragged out the words—"you were guilty?"
"Indeed—no! In thought, in the intention, yes." She broke off and
then after a moment of agony went on, her face still hidden in her
hands. "I was going to run away with him that day."
Astry did not speak, he did not even move, and Eva sank down into
a chair.
"I was going and you caught me; you accused me and—" she
stopped again and then went on, "and I was frightened. I'm a
coward; I told you a falsehood about Rachel, then I went to her—"
"And Rachel?" his voice was hoarse.
"She forgave me, she sacrificed herself for me; she's an angel."
"And you let her marry that—that scoundrel to save you?"
"I was afraid you'd kill him."
"He ought to have been killed."
Her head sank lower.
"It's incredible! To let your sister marry that scoundrel to save his
life, to shield you!"
"She's forgiven me," Eva's voice broke pitifully. "I told her—she—"
He had risen in his agitation and he swung around now, facing her.
"Did she know?"
"That I was guilty?" Eva turned darkly crimson. "No, not until the
other day—I told her—and she forgave me."
"It's past belief."
"That she should forgive me? Rachel? She's so good to me."
"I know Rachel, but it's past belief that you could let her do it,
sacrifice her to save that hound."
"Wait!" Eva rose; she tried to face him steadily. "Listen, you told me
that if she didn't marry him you'd kill him."
"Well?"
"That you'd kill him because of me. I told her that and she married
him to save my good name."
"It was my business to take care of your good name."
"No, it was mine," she was gaining strength now. "It was mine and
I'd failed. I was weak, wicked, foolish; I thought I loved him."
"You thought you loved him? Do you mean you didn't?"
"Not—not afterwards."
"Not after you saw the coward shield himself behind a woman?"
She wrung her hands together. "Yes, it was that; I hated that!"
Astry stood looking at her, a strange conflict of emotions in his face.
"Are you telling me the truth, Eva, or are you trying to shield him
again?"
"I'm telling you the truth. I thought I loved him, I was afraid of you,
—you frightened me sometimes then,—and I had loved him once, I
—"
"You never loved me then?"
She hesitated; again a dark blush mounted from throat to brow. "At
first I married you because—because Aunt Drusilla wanted it,
because—" she stopped.
"Yes—because?" he was watching her sternly.
"Because I wanted to make a great match."
"Oh, for my money!"
"If you want to put it that way."
"And afterwards you called back Belhaven?"
Again she assented.
"You thought it easy to be free of the millionaire after—" He
stopped, something in the mute agony of her attitude, her evident
humiliation, checking him.
"I thought I loved Belhaven," she said simply, determined not to
spare herself. "I was going to run away with him. He begged me to
—but it wasn't any more his fault than mine. I'm trying to tell you
the truth, the whole truth. Then came that night and your anger and
—and I saw he was afraid."
"The hound!"
"I saw he was afraid," her voice trailed on, quivering, "and I saw
how Rachel suffered. Johnstone, I've been punished; I deserve it,
but—the way is fearful, that way of the transgressors. Not my feet
only, but my heart bleeds. I went to Rachel; I begged her, I've
begged her twice, to get a divorce, to marry Charter; they love each
other. She won't do it—because—" Eva's voice broke with a sob
—"she says she can't, that it would ruin me."
"So it would—now."
"Then let it! I can't bear this, Johnstone; cast me out, help Rachel to
get free. I can't bear it any longer, it's killing me!"
"You've quite forgotten me, Eva."
"No, no, I haven't!" She burst into sudden, violent weeping. "I
haven't; I know now—I know you've suffered too. Johnstone, you
won't kill him?"
"Not now. It would disgrace Rachel. Think what I—your husband—
owe to Rachel."
"Then it's for her, you mean? It can't be done on her account?"
He nodded; speech was not easy.
Eva stood up, stretching out her arms with her impotent, childish
gesture of despair. "I never thought—oh, God, why can't I die?"
"Why didn't you tell me the truth then, as you're telling me now?
What if I killed him?"
"I was afraid; I'm a coward, I've told you so!" She stopped and
stood looking at him, then suddenly her face quivered. "Can you
forgive me? I've suffered, I'd like to feel that you'd forgiven me."
"Does it make any difference? Does it matter?"
"It matters to me."
He turned and met her eyes and his face paled. "Eva," he said
gently, "did you ever even for one moment love me?"
She pressed her hands together tightly, looking at him strangely.
"Would—would it make it easier to forgive me?"
"Yes," he replied slowly, "I, too, have traveled a long way, Eva; I,
too, came to find that there was no love for me; I, too, have
suffered,—I'm really quite human. But I could forgive you, I would
forgive you even this, if I felt that you'd ever been honest with me,
ever loved your husband for a moment in your life."
She drew a step nearer, her eyes dilated. "Did—did you ever love
me?"
"Once."
"And I lost it?"
"You didn't want it."
She covered her face with her hands again.
"And you—did you ever love me?" he asked bitterly.
"Not then."
"Do you mean?" he paused, and then unsteadily: "Have you come
back to your husband, Eva?"
"Not then—but now!"
Astry stood still; for a moment the fundamental forces of life seemed
suspended. He was amazed. Then he took a step forward, but
before he spoke Eva suddenly swayed and would have fallen but for
his arms around her.
He lifted her and carried her up-stairs. She was unconscious and her
head lay helpless, her pretty soft hair against his breast. He carried
her across the hall and into her own room and laid her on the bed
with a touch as tender as a woman's. The disdain and anger and
bitterness that had been waging a battle in his soul receded before
the wave of humanity, of pity, almost of tenderness, that suddenly
submerged his being. Her helplessness, the appeal of her childish
face, the evident grief and humiliation that she had suffered to tell
him the truth, touched his heart. He summoned her maid and then
went out softly and closed the door.
Before him he seemed to see the long, cruel way that her small,
bleeding feet had traveled, coming back at last to him.
In his heart he had already forgiven her.
 XVIII
IT was nearly dusk on Thursday afternoon when Belhaven came in
and found Rachel in the living-room. He was pale and fagged and
came slowly across the room to the tea-table. She was sitting in a
deep chair by the fire but she rose mechanically and went to pour
tea for him. The little service had become so familiar that it was a
matter of habit. He glanced at her as he took the cup from her
hands and was startled by her face.
"There's something wrong, Rachel?"
"No, I'm a little tired, that's all."
His glance traveled around the room and came back to her again,
with a peculiar significance.
"I know that you're unhappy here," he said, a strong note of
restraint in his voice, unaware that he was repeating Astry's words
to Eva.
Rachel rallied her thoughts. "Not more so than you are," she replied
without bitterness.
"In a way that's true; you've been unhappy but, none the less,
you've made this house a home to me. I can pay no greater tribute
to your unselfishness; you've been cruelly placed but you've uttered
no reproaches."
"Oh, that isn't so much to my credit; reproaches are idle enough!"
He set his untasted tea on the table and leaned forward, looking at
her, his clasped hands between his knees, his dark face perturbed.
The light of the candelabrum on the tea-table flickered softly
between them; the long room was full of keen shadows. Rachel's
face, pale and spiritualized, was thrown into high relief; it had never
seemed so nearly beautiful, with the subtle charm of the shadowed
eyes and the soft, dark hair. She had passed through deep waters
but Charter knew she loved him; there was comfort in that. The
feeling of Charter's presence was with her, as it must be in great
love, even in the immortal moment of renunciation.
Belhaven, looking at her with a comprehension of suffering,
discerned the crisis. He saw that she had been deep in the struggle,
he divined that Eva had, at last, confessed the truth, and his soul
drew back shuddering from the thought of Rachel's judgment of him
—and the justice of it. There was a long silence. At last he broke it.
"Rachel, I've been thinking it all over and I've tried to put myself out
of it; for you it's intolerable."
She looked up in vague surprise; in the pause her mind had floated
with the stream and she had almost forgotten Belhaven's point of
view. "Not more intolerable than it has been—except I know now
that Eva deceived me. But I still believe you told me the truth, that
it's past with you both now, and I suppose it's best to let things go—
even for Astry."
"You never seem to think of yourself."
She colored deeply. "I've thought much of myself."
He saw the blush and a pang of hideous jealousy tore through the
remorse of his mood, but he gripped himself again. "I know you
hate me!" he began.
Rachel looked up quickly. "I don't hate you, far from it. I'm sorry for
you."
He smiled grimly, thinking of Charter. Had he come here to do
Charter's bidding after all? But he was resolved to go on. "Thank
you," he said, "I have, it seems, the beggar's meed—pity! Yet I feel
that my very presence here must be hateful to you. I've traded on
your generosity, your womanliness, even your pity. I've felt at times
that I'd be content to be a dog on your hearth-rug, but it's not so
now. Every day I'm with you I grow to love you more deeply—"
She turned to interrupt him but he held up a protesting hand. "Let
me finish. I know my love's hideous to you, but, none the less, I love
you for your sweetness, your justice, your kindness, and at last a
spark of generosity has been born in my own heart. I've been a
good deal of a scoundrel, Rachel; I can plead no decent excuse, but
there's enough manhood in me to feel that I've got to set you free."
A sudden hope, keen as joy, leaped in her heart for an instant, only
to pass into eclipse. "It's impossible without ruining Eva. I did it
myself, I dreaded the public scandal for her; it's just as much my
fault, in a way, as yours."
"There are ways that involve but little scandal."
Rachel sat looking at the fire. Her heart cried out again; she desired
happiness as fiercely as the most unreasoning child of circumstance,
but she remembered the obligations that had led to her sacrifice.
"It would be the end for Eva. Besides," she hesitated, "perhaps you
don't understand how I feel about marriage—I don't think I've got a
right to get a divorce. I knew what I was doing. You've blamed
yourself; have you ever thought of the wrong I did?"
"You?" He looked at her amazed, and encountering her eyes, that
had the sweet, abashed look of a frightened girl, a sudden wild hope
leaped up. "You mean you consider your marriage too sacred to
break?"
She inclined her head.
He drew a quick breath. "Rachel!" then the sight of her face, stricken
with grief and reluctance, brought him back to his senses. "I see,
you mean from the religious point of view. I've always understood
that; I knew you had scruples."
"I've always abhorred the light view, as if it wasn't sacred at all. I
know, I feel I wronged you when I married you. I haven't any right
to bring discredit on you by a divorce, unless—" she looked up
gravely—"if you wish to be free to—to find happiness elsewhere,
then I don't think I'd have the same right to—to insist on bearing my
share of it."
He met her eyes directly; his own face blanched. "You forget that I
love you!" he said slowly.
She colored painfully. "That's another thing that lies heavy on my
soul. I had no right to marry you—forgive me!"
"Rachel, could you ever—have loved me?"
She covered her face with her hands; she was thinking of Charter.
"N-no."
Belhaven still regarded her. He thought that she really abhorred him
and the idea stung him. He had traveled the long road, he had
reached the end of it, and met disaster and defeat. "You've refused
divorce," he said, in a strange voice, "yet you despise me. I suppose
I'm a very toad in your sight, but you would still save Eva! You're
right, I accept your wishes, but—there are other ways."
She did not understand him; she still hid her face, shutting out the
horror of the situation. Eva's lover as her husband! She could not
bring herself to speak to him.
"There are other ways," he repeated quietly, "but, for your sake, I
wish it wasn't so hard. I wish I could lighten it, Rachel."
"In a way you've done much to lighten it. I'm—I'm grateful."
He stood looking at her bowed head, remembering grimly that the
thought of his love had made her shudder as he had seen women
shudder at the sight of a reptile. Then he turned and went out
without another word.
It was a long time after that before Rachel seemed to be aware of
sounds and movements in the house. She had remained where
Belhaven left her, looking into the fire, her chin in her hand. Her gray
eyes, lit by the glow of the falling embers, were intent on some
distant thought, her gaze full of introspection; she saw nothing in
the room and, for a while, heard nothing. She seemed to have been
dragged through an endless chain of events, a series of agonizing
scenes. She was no longer what she had been a week ago, or even
yesterday; she seemed suddenly separated from herself, or was
rather a new self, born of suffering and joy,—the joy of feeling that
Charter knew,—and looking back at her old self,—the self of slow
growth, of childhood and girlhood and womanhood. She had,
indeed, been born again in anguish. She had renounced her own
happiness, and what had she gained? In that dreadful moment she
felt that she had not even gained her own salvation, for the awful
feeling of complicity in their guilt remained. She and Eva and
Belhaven had wretchedly cheated Astry; it was to Astry that she
owed the inexorable debt. If she could only feel that she had saved
Eva, brought her back to her husband!
Then came the temptation to escape from her sacrifice, to nullify her
act by accepting the first means of escape. Her heart clamored for
happiness and her love for Charter rebelled against all scruples.
What right had she to make Charter unhappy? There is no argument
so subtle, so unanswerable as the argument of love. Her own heart
cried out against her judgment; it would gladly have broken her
bonds and stultified her sacrifice. She thought that it would be easier
to bear if Charter knew, but it was a million times harder, for Charter
rebelled against it. Charter, who was good, saw no virtue in her self-
immolation; he, too, craved happiness. While Belhaven had offered
her divorce, at the cost, as she saw, of great personal misery, he
had offered her freedom. Her presence in the house had become
dear to him; her kindness, her quick sympathy, her womanliness,
had penetrated the armor of his worldliness and, at last, his soul had
risen to meet hers in an act of self-sacrifice. Though she did not
know it, she had gone far to save Belhaven. It would have been
natural for her to have despised him, to have let him feel himself
outside of her life, the cause of all, but she had not despised him,
she had been gentle and forbearing, and he had seen new and
charming qualities in her simplicity.
If Rachel could have known this, it would have comforted her a little,
but she had not even that small comfort as she sat brooding over
the fire. This was the Thursday of the dinner at the Astrys' and
Belhaven had reluctantly promised to go, for there were many
reasons that made him careful of the conventionalities; Rachel had
dined alone and early.
A big fire leaped in the old-fashioned chimney and there was a rich
and luxurious glow of color and light; the heavy, crimson curtains
were drawn over the windows, but it was storming outside, and she
heard the sleet on the window-panes. The wind shouted under the
old gables. Rachel went to a window and looked out; it was still light
enough to discern the cedars beaten by the gale. An old hemlock
near the house stretched spectral arms, sheeted in ice. The gray veil
of fog and rain cloaked the long slope of the landscape, and she
could not discover the distant city. It grew dark fast. She let the
curtain fall across the sash again and went to the fire, stretching out
both hands to the blaze with a shiver. A strange feeling of
uneasiness stirred in her heart, some vague forewarning; delicate
and floating like a tendril, it trembled back again into uncertainty.
She opened a book at random and began to read. It chanced to be a
life of St. Francis of Assisi, exquisitely illuminated, that Belhaven had
picked up for its artistic setting rather than its religious teachings, for
he was something of a connoisseur in books.
Rachel turned the leaf.
"Never set an empty pot to boil on the fire, in hope that your
neighbor will fill it!" ran the proverb.
She sighed. Had not Belhaven set his empty heart on the fire with
the hope that she would fill it for him? And she had not. In this,
then, Brother Giles understood the world; evidently he entertained
no hope for the filling of the pot.
Rachel turned the page, her fingers trembling slightly.
"And they twain ate the pottage of flour by reason of his
importunate charity. And they were refreshed much more by
devotion than by the food."
"And they twain ate of the pottage—" and she and Belhaven had
eaten of it to their despair. They had not been refreshed by
devotion, they had eaten it of necessity; had she found the key at
last? They had eaten the pottage and the taste of it was very bitter.
Rachel leaned forward and looked into the fire, where the red
embers fell and the flame continued to leap merrily.
"And they twain ate the pottage."
She heard the outer door open and close and a step come across
the hall. She turned sharply; some one had braved the storm. It was
Astry.
He stood in the door looking at her, as Belhaven had done. His fur
coat was thrown back and disclosed his evening dress; his face, as
usual, was pale and fair.
"I came for Belhaven," he said.
Rachel was surprised. "He's getting ready now; I thought the hour
was eight."
"It is, but I was determined to have no failures and I particularly
want Belhaven; you know he didn't want to come."
"Has any one failed you?"
"Only Mrs. Billop."
She smiled involuntarily. "Eva won't regret that."
"There are special dispensations. I don't see why we keep on inviting
those creatures unless it is because they're related to Paul. I
suppose Belhaven really means to come; it isn't informal enough to
let him off, you know."
"There seems to be no question about his coming."
Astry smiled again. "My dear Rachel," he said carelessly, "there
might be a question about it; if I were Belhaven there would be a
question about it."
She colored and Astry saw that she understood.
"Even an Arab has a right to protection; his bread and salt should
not be abused," he said, watching her.
"But his bread and salt protect the life of the stranger who tastes
them," she answered quickly.
Astry smiled bitterly. "I never thought of you as one to plead for the
transgressor."
Rachel put the little book down on the table and sat looking at him
with grave eyes, her heart throbbing heavily. Had Eva told him or—
some one else?
He came over and stood beside her. "Rachel, I'm deeply sorry that
there seems no way out, that you've got to bear it—or else your
sacrifice goes for nothing."
"You mean—" she could not go on.
"Eva has told me."
Rachel sank back in her chair, her hands trembling in her lap.
"Johnstone—you've forgiven her?"
He had averted his face and she saw only the outlines of the strong,
lithe figure and fine head. There was a brief significant pause, then
he turned, and Rachel saw the wreck of happiness in his face.
"I've tried to."
She hid her own face in her hands; the relief was intense that the
concealment was over! Astry turned and walked twice across the
room.
"Why didn't you let me kill him that night?"
"I couldn't—and I had to save Eva."
"That would have saved her and he—he needed killing!"
Rachel's hands fell in her lap again; she looked at him gravely, her
face tear-stained and pale. "Would it have saved the poor child to
have destroyed her name, to murder a man, and hang for it
yourself?"
He was silenced.
"That was it, that is what you would have done, Johnstone, and I
had to save you both. I did wrong, I've suffered for it, but oh, thank
God, Eva's told you the truth!"
"Rachel, I've felt, and I know Eva feels, that we've no right to accept
your sacrifice; we want to set you free even at the price of scandal.
Eva begs me to set you free, but—"
"You see how it is? If I get a divorce it will ruin Eva."
"I see how it is, otherwise I'd shoot that fellow now, but I can't
touch him without injury to you both. Yet—my God, Rachel, I've no
right to hold you to it."
"You don't. I feel so differently from you about it, you don't
understand. I can't break the marriage; I've got to take the
punishment, for I did it myself. I've got to keep my contract."
"You mean that your scruples won't permit you to break it?"
"Don't you understand? I was wrong to do it; I see it. I did it to save
Eva, but I had no right to take the vows as I did. I dare not break
them."
"Do you mean you're afraid of the scandal, or the odium of it all?"
"I'll have to be very plain—I'm afraid of God."
He stood looking at her a while in silence. Then his face changed
and softened.
"Like Felix, I'm almost persuaded," he said.
Rachel made a slight deprecating gesture. "Would I have made this
sacrifice if I'd contemplated making it void?"
He reflected. "I suppose not; you're a singular woman."
"I'm singularly placed."
He walked to and fro again. Rachel, meanwhile, heard Belhaven
slowly descending the stairs.
"Johnstone, you—you don't mean to quarrel with him now?"
"I've told you I can't; he's safe enough."
"I'm thankful for that!"
Astry stood still, regarding her earnestly, his heavy pale eyes
seeming to concentrate thought.
"You're unhappy."
She turned away. "Pardon me, we've said enough."
"I accept my rebuke as I long ago accepted my congé," he said
gently. "Nevertheless you're wretched, and you've been a good angel
to Eva; I owe about all I've got left to you."
Her lips quivered. "Please don't!"
He looked at her strangely. "I've been a brute, I've always been a
brute, and I've hurt you again. I feel as if we'd trapped you, Rachel;
can you forgive us?"
She looked beyond him, struggling to regain her composure, and she
heard the wind shouting under the gables while the rain leaped
against the window-panes. She could not answer Astry and before
he spoke again Belhaven came to the door.
"I heard you were waiting for me, Astry; it's certainly obliging to go
after your guests in such a storm. The rain's turning into snow and
sleet."
"My dear Belhaven," said Astry easily, "I particularly wanted you. I
have a word to say to you beforehand."
Belhaven glanced keenly from Astry to Rachel.
"I've no intentions of shirking my responsibilities," he said. "You'll
find me ready."
Astry turned. "Then we'd better be off. Good night, Rachel."
She made no reply but as she looked up she met Belhaven's eyes
and they were full of regret, of kindness, of appeal. The glance was