The Heart of Rachael

The square entrance hall was sweet with flowers in the early

spring evening, Oriental rugs were spread on the dull mirror of

the floor, opened doors gave glimpses of airy colonial interiors,

English chintzes crowded with gay colored fruits and flowers,

brick fireplaces framed in classic white and showing a brave gleam

of brass firedogs in the soft lamplight. Not a book on the long

tables, not an etching on the dull rich paper of the walls, struck

a false note. It was all exquisitely in tone.

But Rachael Breckenridge, at best, saw less its positive

perfections than the tiniest opening through which an imperfection

might push its way, and in such an hour as this she saw it not at

all. Her mouth a trifle firm in its outline, her face a little

pale, she went quickly up the wide white stairway and along the

open balcony above. There were several doors on this balcony,

which was indeed the upper hall. Mrs. Breckenridge opened one of

them without knocking, and closed it noiselessly behind her.

The room into which she admitted herself presented exactly the

picture she had expected. The curtains, again of richly colored

cretonne, were drawn, a softly toned lamp on the reading table,

and another beside the bed, cast circles of pleasant light on the

comfortable wicker chairs, the cream-colored woodwork, and the

scattered books and magazines. Several photographs of Carol,

beautifully framed, were on bookcase and dresser, and a fine oil

painting of the child at fourteen looked down from the mantel. On

the bed, a mahogany four-poster, with carved pineapples finishing

the posts, the frilled cretonne cover had been flung back; Mr.

Breckenridge had retired; his blond head was sunk in the pillows;

he clutched the blankets about him with his arms, his face was not

visible.

A quiet manservant, who was by turns butler, chauffeur, and valet,

was stepping softly about the room. Rachael interrogated him in a

low tone: "Asleep, Alfred?"

"Oh, no, ma'am!" the man said quickly. "He's been feeling ill. He

says he has a chill."

"When did he get home?" the wife asked.

"About half an hour ago, Mrs. Breckenridge. Mr. Butler telephoned

me. Some of the gentlemen were going on--to one of the beach

hotels for dinner, I believe, but Mr. Breckenridge felt himself

too unwell to join them, so I went for him with the little car,

and Mr. Joe Butler and Mr. Parks came home with him, Mrs.

Breckenridge."

"Do you know if he went to bed last night at all?"

"No, ma'am, he said he did not. All the gentlemen looked as if

they--looked as if they might have--" Alfred hesitated delicately.

"It was Mr. Berry Stokes' bachelor dinner," he presently added.