The Heart of Rachael

Of some of these things the woman who sat idly before the library

fire was thinking, as the quiet evening wore on, and the purring

of the flames and the ticking of the little mantel clock accented

rather than disturbed the stillness. She was unhappy with a cold,

dry wretchedness that was deeper than any pang of passion or of

hate. The people she met, the books she read, the gowns she

planned so carefully, and the social events that were her life,

all--all--were dust and ashes. Clarence was less a disappointment

and a shame to her than an annoyance; he neglected her, he

humiliated her, true, but this meant infinitely less than that he

bored her so mercilessly. Billy, with her youthful complacencies

and arts, bored her; the sympathy of a few close friends bored her

as much as the admiration and envy of the many who were not close.

Cards, golf, dinners, and dances bored her. Rachael thought

tonight of a woman she had known closely, a beautiful woman, too,

and a rich and gifted woman, who, not many months ago, had quietly

ended it all, had been found by horrified maids in her gray-and-

silver boudoir lovelier than ever, in fixed and peaceful beauty,

with the soft folds of her lacy gown spreading like the petals of

a great flower about her and the little gleam of an empty bottle

in her still, ringed hand...

A voice broke the library stillness. Rachael roused herself.

"What is it, Helda?" she asked. "Doctor Gregory? Ask him to come

in. And ask Alfred--is Alfred still downstairs?--ask him to go up

and see if Mr. Breckenridge is awake.

"This is very decent of you, Greg," she said, a moment later, as

the doctor came into the room. "It doesn't seem right to interfere

with your dinner for the same old stupid thing!"

"Great pleasure to do anything for you, Rachael," the newcomer

said promptly and smilingly with the almost perfunctory courtesy

that was a part of Warren Gregory's stock in trade. "You don't

call on me often! I wish you did!"

She said to herself, as they both sat down before the fire, that

it was probably true. Doctor Gregory was notoriously glad of an

opportunity to serve his friends. He had not at all regretted the

necessity of leaving his dinner partner at the salad for a

professional call. He was quite ready to enjoy the Breckenridge

sitting-room, the fire, the lamplight, the company of a beautiful

woman. Rachael and he knew each other well, almost intimately;

they had been friends for many years. She had often been his guest

at the opera, had often chaperoned his dinner-parties at the club,

for Warren Gregory's only woman relative was his old mother, who

was neither of an age nor a type to take any part in his social

life.