She prayed, thrusting her whole soul and spirit into her urgency—
Then, even as she sat there, her darkest hour was suddenly upon her. It leapt upon her, as it were a beast out of some sudden darknesses—leapt upon her, seized her, tore her, crushed her little dried withered soul in its claws and tossed it to the fire.
She was held by the sudden absolute realization of Death. She had never seen it or known it before. Others had died and she had not cared; many were dying now and it did not concern her.
But this beast crouching in front of her, with its burning eyes on her face, said to her: "All your life I've been beside you, waiting for this moment. I knew that it would come. I have waited a long time—you have played and thought yourself important and have cared for meddling in the affairs of the world, but Reality has never touched you. You have gathered things about you to pretend that I was not there. You have mocked at others when they have seen me—you have enjoyed their terror—now your own terror has come."
Death.... She had never—until this instant—given it a thought. Everything was gone before its presence. In a week or two, a month or two, silence—
Rachel—she saw her standing there by the fire, full of life and energy, so young, so strong.
She, the Duchess of Wrexe, the great figure, courted by kings, princes, artists, all the men and women of her time, now must crumble into the veriest dust, be forgotten, be followed by others, banished by this new world.
She and her Times were slipping, slipping into disuse. Who cared now for those other glories? What minds now were fit to tackle those minds that she had known? What beauty now could stand beside that beauty that had shone when she was young?
The beast crouched nearer. The room darkened. She could feel the hot breath, could be dazed by the shining of those eyes. Behind her, around her, the trumpery toys that she had gathered faded.
Darkness rose; a great space and desolation was about her—She tried to summon all her energy.