Rachel-A sketch

== RACHEL: A SKETCH ==
=== By S. L. Bacon ===
Written for Short Stories 1899 
Miss Alicia Pemberton came up the white
pebbly walk, and her sister sitting on the low veranda put down her tatting'
and looked up expectantly toward her. 
The slanting sun rays caught Miss Alicia's neatly
mended silk gloves and rested squarely upon the white envelope she held. They touched
more gently her withered, gentle face, as though in sympathy for her in their
own going out of the day's life. There were pink and purple lights resting on
the range of hills which stretched away to the right of the low cottage. The
air was full of a peculiar softness, which seemed part of the settling down of
evening. "The letter is for you, sister, and it is from Alan." Miss
Alicia spoke with a nervous eagerness, and her hand trembled a little, 
"I was so glad it came," she went
on. "I had asked so often at the office I was quite ashamed ; I thought
the postmaster might notice, for Alan is not a good correspondent, though I am
sure the dear boy does not mean to be neglectful — why, sister, what is the
matter?" 
For the other had turned very white, and
the sheet was fluttering in her hand. "What is it? Let me see!" "Alan
is — oh, Alicia, he is married !" 
"Married!" echoed Miss Alicia,
the pupils of her mild blue eyes widening and darkening. "Are you — are
you sure?" 
"He has written it," said Miss
Sara grimly, "I suppose it is true." She had recovered from her
momentary agitation and turned the sheet sharply and deliberately. Miss Alicia,
on the contrary, was trembling. 
Married yesterday,' " read Miss Sara
in a thin, high voice. 
Rather suddenly' — I should think so — 1
know you will love my wife ; she is everything one could wish a woman to be, loving
and lovable, gentle and modest, although for three years she has had to battle
with the world, fighting her way ' " 
'What?" cried Miss Alicia. 
'Don't interrupt, please. 'She' — where was
I? Oh — 'we will give ourselves the pleasure of a little visit to you, and you may
expect us any day this week. Rachel sends her love. I am, dear sisters, your
affectionate brother, Alan.' " 
There was silence for a moment. The evening
breeze swayed the out-trailing tendrils of the clematis vine which clustered about
the porch; a bit of it brushed Miss Sara's face. The touch of it seemed to
recall her, and she folded the letter with a crackling sound. 
"It is just like Alan," she said.
"I cannot say I am surprised. But what can he mean by the girl supporting
herself? Do you suppose she was a school teacher, Alicia?" 
"Perhaps, or possibly she did
embroidery to sell. You know, sister, that is considered quite a genteel way of
earning money.. 
Some of the best ladies resort to it. I
have often thought " 
She hesitated, looking uncertainly at the
tatting in her sister's lap. 
"I do hope and pray she's respectable,
and not one of those women who write on typewriters in men's offices — ^brazen creatures
!" 
"Oh, she couldn't be that," said
Miss Alicia. 
"I don't know what to expect of
Alan," went on Miss Sara, pressing her lips sternly together; "he's
been a disappointment so often." Then, with a sudden change, softening and
beautifying her hard old face, "We will arrange the south room for them,
Alicia. The furniture is all white but the chest of drawers, and that can be
removed. I will put my screen in place of it, and the curtains are fresh, you
know." 
"Oh, yes," returned the other
eagerly. "And there is such a beautiful view from the window; it looks out
on the hills, the everlasting hills," she murmured softly. 
"We must have plenty of flowers in the
room," Miss Sara continued meditatively. "City folk always like them,
and if she's been used to being shut up in a schoolroom or — or an office,
they'll smell all the better. There's the bell, Alicia ; tea's ready. Louise
brought in some beautiful cream while you were out." 
They went in to their simple meal, Miss
Sara asking a blessing reverently. The white and yellow cat climbed onto the
back of Miss Alicia's chair, and the canaries in the window chirped as they
settled themselves in their swings to go to sleep. The white cloth was
spotless, and the cluster of scarlet geraniums in the centre intensified its
whiteness. The two old ladies stirred their tea and sweetened it respectively. 
What had they in common with the couple
who, at that moment, were speeding toward them? The man, black-browed and heavy
featured, had spoken with an odd, new tenderness in his voice as he settled his
wife in her seat by the window. 
"My sisters will be sure to love you,
Rachel. They are old maids and rather prim, but they have always loved
me." 
She looked at him and smiled. That seemed
easy and natural to her now. He read her thoughts in her eyes, and his heart
gave an odd quiver. 
"I've never lived at home since I was
a boy; they do not know all my wicked ways even so well as you." 
She smiled again and the trustfulness of
her smile smote him. 
It is such natures as this which struggle
most against the impossible, beating helpless wings against the bars of their cage.
Perhaps Alan read as much in the eyes and smile* of his young wife, for he was
glad of an excuse to turn away and buy some grapes of a train boy. 
"You have eaten nothing all day,"
he said as he handed them to her. 
She enjoyed the welcome his sisters gave
her. Perhaps she, in her utterly unabashed, calm manner, wondered at Miss Alicia's
trembling hands and Miss Sara's little gasp of speech in meeting their
brother's wife. 
She could scarcely realize what an immense
event this was in their lonely lives. Her own life, so used to action and experience,
made her feel, in spite of her twenty-three years, an older woman than these
two kindly souls. Her troubled past seemed .so entirely of another sphere than
this. And the peacefulness of the little village, the quiet rest of it, came to
her like an elixir of life. 
She took in the scent of the flowers, the
color of the unsmoked clouds, the clear, untainted air as strong wine. 
"How could you ever leave it,
Alan?" she said to her husband. 
He laughed. 
"I would not have thought you Hked
stagnation, Rachel," he said. 
She did not answer. They were looking at
the view from their window, a view stretching far out beyond the range of mountains,
reaching away across the meadow lands and revealing the white line of the
river. The sun going down put brilliant patches of light in the sky. 
Alan was restless. 
"We must get back in a day or
two," he told Miss Sara. "Poor people can't afford long indulgences,
you know," he added. 
And Miss Sara felt a little thrill of
gladness that Alan was taking a more serious view of life. She hoped he would
work harder now, with a wife for inspiration. 
Truth to tell, she was a trifle disappointed
in his choice. For it was undeniable that she was decidedly plain. 
"Except her eyes," Miss Alicia
interposed. 
They were large and clear and dark, with
heavy lashes, but for the rest she was slight and pale, with a quiet manner, which,
however, seemed quickened into life and being at sight of her husband. 
"She shows her feelings too
plainly," Miss Sara could not refrain from saying. "I was always
taught to avoid demonstration of any kind as much as possible, and under the
circumstances it does not strike me as becoming." 
"I think we ought to be glad she loves
Alan so much," Miss Alicia said gently. 
Her nature was the opposite of her
sister's. The very weakness of it made up in love and charity for the keener
justice and reason of the other. But she was as much shocked and startled as
her sister when a glimpse into Rachel's past revealed Itself. 
Alan and his wife had been walking and came
in late for tea. The girl looked tired. 
"Perhaps you are not used to much
walking," said Miss Sara, as she poured the tea. 
"No," said Rachel, flushing a
little ; "I do not walk a great deal" 
"Did you teach?" ventured Miss
Alicia timidly. Her curiosity on this subject was very strong. 
"I should think you would be the kind
of person to get on nicely with children." 
There was a moment's pause. Alan looked at
his wife with an amused smile in his eyes. There was a smile on Miss Alicia's
lips, but it faded utterly. 
"Oh, no!" Rachel spoke without
any show of embarrassment. "I had a part in an opera company ; not much of
a one, to be sure," she went on apologetically, "but I hoped for
promotion. The manager gave me encouragement, too; but now" — ^her eyes
softening and shining with immeasurable love as she turned toward Alan —
"I have no such plans. We have let that all go. I used to fancy I could
never give up my profession, but now it is so easy — with Alan." 
She had forgotten the two shocked old ladies.
She had forgotten the supper table, the vicinity erf anything. Her spirit, uplifted
out of the real, had taken flight into the infinitude of the ideal. She was
bewildered to hear Alan's voice with his lips against her ear. 
"Do not mind my sisters; they are
old-fashioned and not used to such things." 
She turned from him in astonishment to find
that they were alone. 
Miss Alicia had fled to her own room where
the tears might have uninterrupted flow. But Miss Sara had taken it as she had
done the other disappointments Alan had brought to her. Standing grimly, with
clenched hands and eyes looking out unseeingly, hardening her heart to meet its
burden. 
The next was the last day of their stay,
and Miss Alicia felt a certain wistfulness at their parting. Her tears had
washed away any bitterness from her heart. She loved this woman because Alan
had chosen her. 
"You must be sure to come and see us
again, my dear," she said, holding Rachel's hand between her own.
"And sometime maybe we can come and see how you are getting along. If you
go to housekeeping I will copy my recipes for you. Alan never liked baker's
bread here, and it isn't very nourishing. I do hope" — the tears coming
into her eyes — "that you will be very happy. Alan has — ^well — ^maybe
not always been as strict as we would like, but then, talent must be excused, and
he has always been very good to us." 
"I am not afraid," said Rachel,
looking at her husband with eyes whose faith required no knowledge nor
reasoning faculty. "He has promised to be good to me," she added
simply. 
"Please God, I will !" said Alan,
with a sudden burst of half-shamed love struggling in his heart. 
He put his arm about her, and it was still
there as they waved good-by. 
They settled down into their new life very
naturally. Alan had a fairly good engagement with a leading publication. He had
begun a good many more ambitious attempts, but they did not progress very
rapidly. He had had enough praise to make him cognizant of his own ability, and
he always had a feeling that he could draw upon it at any time. 
They had comfortable rooms, though they
were small, and on the third floor. Rachel kept them spotlessly clean. She had
no one to help her, but there was very little to do. She sang from the very joy
of her heart as she dusted and swept. When Alan worked at all steadily he liked
her to sit near him. Idle .perhaps, but where he could see her. 
"My best thoughts come from your
face," he told her. There were moments then when life seemed unreal to her
in its happiness. If there were ever others in which she missed the life she
had left, her husband had no reason to suspect it. He had won her love, and she
had given it to him wholly, unconstrainedly. He took that for granted, but if
she was less bright than usual it irritated him. 
They went to the theatre sometimes when he
had a little money. 
"Do you wish you were behind the
curtain again, with the lights and the tinsel?" he said. 
"Not if you like me just as well
without them," she answered. 
It was hard for her nature to take in the
restlessness of his or to look back and repine. She had loved the old life, but
she had loved him more. She could not imagine combining the two. Her life there
was too much a thing apart. As his wife she could not think of herself before
the footlights. 
Alan had begun a series of articles that
promised well. She tried to help him with the copying and to stimulate him, for
it was hard to get along, and Alan never
could account for his money. Not that she asked him or showed any suspicion of distrust.
Her belief in him and in his ability was perfect. 
"If you would only keep to it,
Alan," she ventured, as he pushed aside the manuscript and reached for his
hat. "You do not give enough time to it," she went on, for she felt a
sudden sinking of heart at the sight of his empty chair. "I will write if
you will dictate." 
"Don't nag at me, Rachel," said
Alan, not sharply, for he was not often that. "There's nothing more
disagreeable in a woman. I’ll be back directly, but don't sit up for me." 
She heard him run downstairs. It was just
about the time he had been used to come and walk with her to the theatre. She
remembered so well those walks through the noisy streets. They had been
something to look forward to all day. 
She got up and crossed the room, pressing
her forehead against the window-pane. She was not unhappy; but there was an
intensity of earnestness in living which seemed almost suffocating. 
They had been married not quite seven
months. 
After that night there were others when she
sat up waiting for him. The dawn came stealing in while the stars were still visible.
It was then that she would hear his first footstep on the stairway. Her face
paled and her eyes were heavy with the weight of unshed tears. On the days
following nights like these Alan would not be well enough to write, but by
evening he could generally dictate any promised article. He kissed her very
often on such days, and was full of a moody regret. 
"At least, I am better for having you,
Rachel. Without you to lean on where would I be f 
But she drew away from him, saying, almost
in a tone of fear: 
"Oh, but you mustn't lean on me, Alan.
The body isn't the soul." 
Once she said, lifting a heap of manuscript
in her hand : 
"Are we never to do anything but this
machine work, Alan?" 
He did not answer, but putting out his
hand, drew her face down to his own. He had promised to be good to her. 
But she wrote to his sisters, "We are
very happy." 
They said to themselves that Alan was so
much the better for his wife. 
"I wish her letters were a little less
vague," Miss Sara said, folding one of the closely written sheets. "I
cannot understand if they live in a flat, and I have never known if Rachel had
good servants, though I have made a point of asking it." 
“She does not go much into detail," said
Miss Alicia. "But she writes a great deal of Alan. I — I am so glad she
does not mention the opera or — or anything of that kind. I was afraid at first
she might not be domestic ; but she seems to stay very much at home." 
"She does not tell us everything,"
said Miss Sara shrewdly. "And they have never asked us to come and see
them." 
Miss Alicia sighed. 
“I would be a little afraid of the journey.
I am so unused to traveling, and we read of so many dreadful accidents almost every
day." 
"I have written several times that we
wished they would visit us," Miss Sara continued. "They have been
married a year now, and no doubt, with the advantages Alan has given her, Rachel
has improved. I would like to have them come, and we might have a few friends
to meet them — ^just a little informal gathering. It would not be expensive,
with only thin sliced bread and butter and cakes. Perhaps a glass of wine, though
I don't know," she added, some remembrance of the past clouding her face. 
"I think tea with cream," said
Miss Alicia softly. "I will write to-night if you like, sister." 
The letter lay on Alan's desk unopened. He
had told Rachel that he would be away all day. He had asked her to copy a
little for him. She deciphered carefully the blotted manuscript. Alan had
worked more steadily of late. He had finished two articles begun some time
back. They had been accepted promptly, and he put the money from them in her
hand. , .1 
"It is yours," he said. "You
must have a new dress — something pretty — blue, or whatever suits you best ;
you used to wear brighter colors, Rachel." 
His voice had a murmur of reproach in it. 
She smiled. "I am getting an old woman
now, Alan," she said, and he had turned her head back and kissed her. 
She put the manuscript away presently, and
set about preparing supper for him. There were long delicate rolls tonight. She
had chosen them in place of a loaf, and she made the coflFee carefully. She
laid the letter on her husband's plate smiling to herself at the small, fine
writing of the address. 
After all, it was only a half-hour that he
was late. She heard his step and ran forward. 
"I am so glad you are come,
Alan." 
He came in moodily. His eyes were
bloodshot, and the lower jaw dropped a little. She looked at him and was
silent. 
He sat down and rested his face in his
hands. Once she tried to draw them away, but he pushed her aside. 
“Have you — have you spent the money I gave
you for the dress?" The words came falteringly, and he did not look at
her. 
She crossed the room, and taking a purse
out of her drawer laid it before him. 
"I do not need any dresses,
Alan." 
His face unbent a little. “rm only
borrowing it, understand ; ril pay it back to-morrow." 
He crossed the room once or twice, turning
the purse over in his hand. 
“ Here's a letter, Alan." 
He took it from her and opened it, standing
under the high gas jet to read the pale violet ink. 
Presently he put the letter down and turned
to his wife. 
"They — my sisters — want you to come
and see them, to make a visit. It's quite a godsend." 
“I go now? Oh, Alan!" 
“Why not? The truth is, Rachel, I'm in
trouble. I didn't want to speak of it, but I might as well. The Press doesn't want
me any longer, and Judkins says we can't hold these 
rooms after the first. We are behind now.
So, you see " 
He paused. “Don't be foolish, Rachel."
He did not look at her. She stood quite
still, with her fingers outthrust toward him. The noise of the street came in
through the open window, and a slow wind rising fluttered the pages of some
manuscript on the desk. She moved mechanically, and put a paperweight upon it. 
The man stood irresolute, his hand on the
door. He started out, and then came back. Rachel was standing where he had left
her — ^by the desk. 
“I can't go, Alan," she said. 
"Oh, suit yourself," he returned
fretfully. 
The money in his hand turned his thoughts,
and he was anxious to be gone. 
"You're making a mistake ; but you've*
made that all along." He went out. . From the window she saw his face
plainly in the flare of the electric light as he crossed the street. 
A week later Miss Alicia had a letter from
Alan. She began to read it, and then grasping it more tightly, with a little
flush of excited color in her face, ran to where Miss Sara was, with Louisa's
help, skimming the milk. 
"Why, what is the matter? Here,
Louisa, take this. Alicia, what is it?" 
"I have a letter, and — oh, Alan has a
little daughter !" cried Miss Alicia, the pink stain of color deepening in
her faded cheeks. "Born the 30th, and Rachel is getting on splendidly, and
they have not decided on the name. They are going to move, and — ^but you had
better read it for yourself," panted Miss Alicia, stopping utterly out of
breath. 
Miss Sara sat down and wiped her hands on
her apron. Her lips made a motion as if to speak, but she took the letter
without any sound issuing from them. The birds were singing outside, and a
redbird, whose nest was over the porch, hopped on to the windowsill
inquisitively. It seemed as though a sudden glory of light had settled upon
them. There was almost a halo about Miss Alicia's head. It was but the
beginning of the fervent prayers which went up to God for that new life He had
seen fit to grant. How much of His tender mercy was begged for that untried
soul. Perhaps Rachel, looking down at her child, in the first strange joy of
her consummated womanhood, felt almost afraid to pray, to ask of God anything. The
love she felt was so God-given of itself. It was a small, delicate baby, ailing
most of the time, and showing no great hold on life. Alan looking at it half in
awe, felt a strange sinking of heart. He could not help feeling that it would
have been better if it had not come. 
As soon as Rachel was well they began to
move. Her sickness had thrown them back, and Alan was behind in everything. He
had tried to write, and though he turned out fairly good articles, and was
popular, the inspiration that had been so easy failed to come. 
"I'm losing my grip," he said
impatiently, "or my ideas are all scattered." 
Rachel was sympathetic, but she was not
quite the same. He felt that. She had the child— her child ! 
They moved into smaller rooms — barer and
less cheerful. There was only one window, and Alan's desk was by that. He cursed
his luck. It was beastly, and the baby's crying spoiled his work. 
Rachel was silent, hushing the child in her
arms. She was not lonely now. When Alan did not come, and it was often so, she
scarcely felt it. Her child — her child! To hold the tiny form against her
breast, the little wrinkled face against her own, the little hands, the feet. 
She had loved her husband with a strong
maternal instinct of love. Then she had had no child. 
Alan took very little notice of his
daughter. She was christened for his mother, and the christening dress and a
number of little gifts had come from his sisters. Rachel looked at the sacques
and tiny knit socks and smiled. How could they understand? 
They moved again after awhile, for the rent
was not forthcoming. This time over a grocery. The smell of the decayed fruit
and vegetables came up penetratingly. Rachel was not strong, and the summer had
been very warm. The baby cried a great deal, and Alan did not like to have the doctor.
He came in late one evening. Rachel was
holding the child in her arms. Her hair lay in damp, flat curls on her
forehead, and her face, with its Madonna glow upon it, was like a cameo. 
Alan came and sat down by her. He put his
arm around her shoulders and turned her face to his. His heart misgave him as
he looked into her eyes — eyes lit up with a trust and faith in the impossibilities
of the future. The child in her lap stirred a little. The September air was
heavy with the regret of summer. 
"I did not get your copy quite
finished, Alan; the baby kept me so, but I will finish it to-night if you
like." 
“Rachel," his voice sounded with a
half-shamed tenderness, "don't be hurt by what I'm going to say. There's a
good deal in life besides romance, you know; and ours hasn't been a very
successful one." 
"What is it?" 
Her questioning eyes abashed him, and his
own shifted a little. 
"I saw O'Neil to-day," he began,
speaking rapidly, but with his arm still about her shoulders. "He needs
another voice in the company. The woman who took your place has gone into a
consumption ; he — he would be glad to have you back." 
She looked at him still questioningly, her
mind in nowise grasping, as yet, his meaning. He saw it and went on
desperately. 
"We are dreadfully in need of money,
Rachel. I don't see my way at all ; if — if you could go " He stopped, the
horror upon her face arrested him. 
It was an irritation, too. He removed his
arm and got up. 
"Oh, don't look so shocked. It isn't
as if you had never done it before," he added brutally. 
"But that was before Oh, Alan, how can
you ask it? 
How could I leave my baby?" 
"You love the child more than you love
me I I have seen that." 
"Oh ! I do not !" 
She laid the baby in its crib and came to
him. Her slight figure swayed and leaned on his. Her face rested on the hands she
clasped upon his shoulder. 
"I love her just as I love you — ^both
the more because of the other. Oh, won't you understand I" 
He unclasped her hands, and put her from
him. 
"I don't want to talk if you are not
going to consent," he said doggedly "It's a good chance, and not hard
work. You used to like it well enough ; but a woman is always contrary." 
There was silence for a moment. Rachel sat
with her head turned from him. He took two or three turns across the floor. 
"I told O'Neil I'd let him know
to-morrow night," he said. 
Then he went out. Rachel knelt down,
letting her arm slip under the baby's head, for it breathed uneasily in the
hot, close air. The long lashes lay on the little waxen cheeks, the pale silky
hair was moist from the heat. 
She yielded to him as she had yielded her
love. She had felt from the beginning that it would be so, even in the first
horror of it. 
After all, the work came much more
naturally and easily to her than she had thought. The familiar faces, the
lights, the smell of the burnt powders. When she went to the rehearsals the
kindly grocery woman's daughter looked after the baby for a small sum, and in
the evenings Alan promised to see to it. It was with this promise that she had
agreed. 
He was steadier now, and stayed at home
more. He wrote one or two really good things, and he came for her regularly after
the performance. 
The baby was a weak, gentle little thing,
crying very little now, and lying for the most part very still, with large,
wondering eyes, which looked as though they questioned the good of trying to
make an effort here. 
"If we can accumulate enough,"
said Alan, "and get out of this wretched hole into some decent place, one
of my sisters might come and stay a while. It would be such a help with the
baby." 
But Rachel shook her head. 
Letters came and went less often. What
indeed had she to write of to those two? She whose interests were with the
noises of the street, with the saloons, the men whose faces she learned to
dread. 'True, there was the child; but how could they understand the woman
whose tears fell upon her baby's face, and who trembled before the awful
responsibility of that tiny soul ! 
Miss Sara and Miss Alicia felt the
estrangement and sorrowed over it. That they might not even see their brother's
first born seemed a cruelty of fate. They did not know how kind a one it was
that kept their simple hearts in ignorance. 
The months passed on, and the winter was
well advanced. There were a few evenings when Alan did not come for his wife ;
was out when she got home. The terror, the wretchedness of anxiety as she bent
over the baby sleeping all alone in her little crib, might have stung a lower
man than Alan into self-reproach. 
Over and over again she said to herself,
"I will give it up, I will not go." 
But she always went. Her strength before
this man, who had taken her life into his keeping, was like wax before a redhot
fire. She would not have married him had it not been so. And she struggled
still in her belief of and for him. 
There came a day — a dull, smoky one, with
a misty rain falling — that the baby was ailing more than usual. The little flushed
face was pitiful in its distressed expression, and shemoaned now and then. 
"Alan, won't you go for a
doctor?" Rachel's voice was full of suppressed misery. "Won't you
go?" 
He got up sullenly, reaching for his hat.
"You fuss yourself to death over that child, Rachel." 
She sat holding the little form more
closely, with a terrible fear gnawing at her heart. It seemed a long time
before Alan came back. Then he was alone. He threw himself into a chair without
looking at his wife. 
"He said he couldn't come. I guess he
thought he wouldn't get his money. I don't look half-way respectable, that's
the truth." 
The heavy, dissipated face, the untidy
dress, the whole degradation of the soul did plainly show itself, though in
that wondrous love of hers it passed the woman by. 
"Oh, try another. There's one not far
from here on the other street." 
"It isn't necessary, and, besides, it
isn't pleasant to be refused." 
Then he rose and, crossing the room to her
side, touched the baby gently enough. 
"Don't fret so, Rachel; there isn't
much the matter. I can tell that. She'll be all right by morning." 
The child went presently to sleep, and Alan
was in a kinder vein and talked for a while, as he had been used to, in the bright,
sparkling way which made his writings popular. He overruled her fears, and
persuaded her not to miss her engagement that evening. It was an important one.
There was a chance for promotion. 
"Will you go for a doctor first, Alan?
I can't go unless you will." 
She handed him two dollars as she spoke. 
"You can pay him beforehand," she
said. 
He hesitated, looking at the silver in his
hand. 
"It isn't far," she added. 
He hesitated still, not looking at her ;
then he got up. 
"All right," he said. 
He was not long gone. Her eyes met his and
went on beyond him ; but he was alone. 
"He'll be here presently ; don't wait,
Rachel, it's late !" 
"Are you sure he'll come?" 
"Yes, yes ; come on." 
She kissed the child, lingering with that
terrible pain at her heart. 
"You'll get the medicine he prescribes
at once, won't you, Alan?" 
"Yes; come on!" 
He went to the door with her. At the foot
of the steps she thought she heard the baby stirring. She started with her foot
on the step to go back. Then shutting her lips tightly she went on. The wind
caught her cloak and swept it against her. It seemed to drive her back as she
hurried on. The noises and the brawl of the streets went with her. 
It was later than usual before she was at
liberty. Alan was not waiting for her, and a man standing under the electric light
spoke to her as she passed. She did not turn her head, but her heart beat the
faster. The damp wind blew against her face. It was growing colder. Back at
last ! 
She ran upstairs. The door of the room was
slightly ajar. She pushed it open and went in. No one ! The gas flickered and
flared up. The fire was out, and the room was cold. There seemed a deadly chill
in it. A heap of manuscript lay on the table ; some of the sheets had fluttered
to the floor. There was a splash of ink on the table cover, and the pen was
still in the bottle. Rachel's eyes seemed to gather in every detail as she stood
for one moment as though paralyzed. The next she was kneeling by the little bed
with a cry to God upon her lips. 
Was she so fast asleep— those little hands
so cold? The tiny lips half in a smile, the baby eyes fast closed ! To slip so gently,
so noiselessly away, facing alone the infinity ! In the silence His word had
come, and the prayers that had gone up for the little life were in His mercy
granted. 
The clocks were striking three when Rachel
heard her husband's step, not dragging, nor heavy, but coming steadily. She did
not move, nor cry out, nor call to him. He came in, shutting the door quickly.
He was flushed and excited, but he had not been drinking. 
“Why, Rachel, still up? Not fretting over
the child, I hope. I've good news for you." 
His voice had a joyous ring long unheard.
She did not turn her head. He came a step nearer. 
"Here's money for you to make up for
the two I borrowed to-night. That was a mean trick rather, but I had to do it. And
now, Rachel, listen, I've a place offered me on a paper out West — one of those
booming places, you know. The man read my paper in The Sun. That was a neat
thing. I knew it at the time. Now, we'll get away. We'll start over again. It
will be different — why, Rachel !" 
He started, for she had turned her face for
an instant toward his. For an instant only. He came to her and looked down upon
the child. 
Her child — and his 1 
==
Category:Sketch
Category:Bacon