THE ARBITER

A NOVEL

BY

LADY F. E. E. BELL

AUTHOR OF THE "STORY OF URSULA, " "MISS TOD AND THE PROPHETS, ""FAIRY-TALE PLAYS, " ETC. , ETC. 

LONDONEDWARD ARNOLD37 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND1901

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THE ARBITER

CHAPTER I

"It is a great mistake, " said Miss Martin emphatically, "for anysensible woman to show a husband she adores him. "

"Even her own, Aunt Anna?" said Lady Gore, with a contented smile whichAunt Anna felt to be ignoble. 

"Of course I meant her own, " she said stiffly. "I should hardly havethought, Elinor, that after being married so many years you would havemade jokes of that sort. "

"That is just it, " said Lady Gore, still annoyingly pleased withherself. "After adoring my husband for twenty-four years, it seems to methat I am an authority on the subject. "

"Well, it is a great mistake, " repeated Miss Martin firmly, as she gotup, feeling that the repetition notably strengthened her position. "As Isaid before, no sensible woman should do it. "

Lady Gore began to feel a little annoyed. It is fatiguing to hear one'saunt say the same thing twice. The burden of conversation is unequallydistributed if one has to think of two answers to each one remark ofone's interlocutor. 

"And you are bringing up Rachel to do the same thing, you know, " the oldlady went on, roused to fresh indignation at the thought of hergreat-niece, and she pulled her little cloth jacket down, and generallyshook herself together. Crabbed age and jackets should not livetogether. Age should be wrapped in the ample and tolerant cloak, hiderof frailties. It was not Aunt Anna's fault, however, if her garmentswere uncompromising and scanty of outline. Predestination reigns nowheremore strongly than in clothes, and it would have been inconceivable thateither Miss Martin's body or her mind should have assimilated theharmonious fluid adaptability of the draperies that framed andsurrounded Lady Gore as she lay on her couch. 

"I don't think it does her much harm, " said Lady Gore, a good dealunderstating her conviction of her daughter's perfections. 

"That's as may be, " said Miss Martin encouragingly. "Where is sheto-day, by the way?" she said, stopping on her way to the door. 

"For a wonder she is not at home, " Lady Gore said. "She has gone to stayaway from me for the first time in her life; she is at Mrs. Feversham's, at Maidenhead, for the night. "

"How girls do gad nowadays, to be sure!" said Miss Martin. 

"I hardly think that can be said of Rachel, " said Lady Gore. 

"Whether Rachel does or not, my dear Elinor, girls do gad--there is nodoubt about that. I'm sorry I have not seen William. He is too busy, Isuppose, " with a slightly ironical intonation. "Goodbye!"

"Can you find your way out?" said Lady Gore, ringing a hand-bell. 

"Oh dear, yes, " said Miss Martin. "Goodbye, " and out she went. 

Lady Gore leant back with a sigh of relief. A companion like Miss Martinmakes a most excellent foil to solitude, and after she had departed, Lady Gore lay for a while in a state of pleasant quiescence. Why, shewondered, even supposing she herself did think too well of her husband, should Miss Martin object? Why do onlookers appear to resent thespectacle of a too united family? There is, no doubt, somethingexasperating in an excess of indiscriminating kindliness. But it is anamiable fault after all; and, besides, more discrimination may sometimesbe required to discover the hidden good lurking in a fellow-creaturethan to perceive and deride his more obvious absurdities and defects. Itwould no doubt be a very great misfortune to see our belongings as theyappear to the world at large, and the fay who should "gie us thatgiftie" ought indeed to be banished from every christening. Let usconsole ourselves: she commonly is. 

But poor Miss Martin had no adoring belongings to shed the genial lightof affection on her doings, to give her even mistaken admiration, better than none at all. Life had dealt but bleakly with her; she hadalways been in the shadow: small wonder then if her nature was blightedand her view of life soured. Lady Gore smiled to herself, a littlewistfully perhaps, as she tried to put herself in Miss Martin'splace--of all mental operations one of the most difficult to achievesuccessfully. Lady Gore's sheer power of sympathy might enable her toget nearer to it than many people, but still she inevitably reckoned upthe balance, after the fashion of our kind, seeing only one side of thescale and not knowing what was in the other, and as she did so, itseemed to her still possible that Miss Martin might have the best of it, or at any rate might not fall so short of the best as at first appeared. For in spite of her age she still had the great inestimable boon ofhealth; she was well, she was independent, she could, when it seemedgood to her, get up and go out and join in the life of other people. While as for herself . .. And again the feeling of impotent misery, ofrebellion against her own destiny, came over Lady Gore like a wave whosestrength she was powerless to resist. For since the rheumatic feverwhich five years ago had left her practically an incurable invalid, theeffort to accept her fate still needed to be constantly renewed; aneffort that had to be made alone, for the acceptance of such a fate bythose who surround the sufferer is generally made, more or less, oncefor all in a moment of emotion, and then gradually becomes part of thehabitual circumstance of daily life. Mercifully she did not realise allat once the thing that had happened to her. In the first days when shewas returning to health--she who up to the time of her illness had beenso full of life and energy--the mere pleasure in existence, the mere joyof the summer's day in which she could lie near an open window, look outon the world and the people in it, was enough; she was too languid towant to do more. Then her strength slowly returned, and with it thedesire to resume her ordinary life. But weeks passed in which she stillremained at the same stage, they lengthened into months, and brought hergradually a horrible misgiving. Then, at last, despairingly she facedthe truth, and knew that from all she had been in the habit of doing, from all that she had meant to do, she was cut off for ever. She beganto realise then, as people do who, unable to carry their treasures withthem, look over them despairingly before they cast them away one by one, all that her ambitions had been. She smiled bitterly to herself duringthe hours in which she lay there looking her fate in the face and tryingto encounter it with becoming courage, as she realised how, with morethan half of her life, at the best, behind her, she had up to thismoment been spending the rest of it still looking onward, still livingin the future. She had dreamt of the time when, helped by her, herhusband should go forward in his career, when, steered under herguidance, Rachel would go along the smiling path to happiness. And now, instead, she was to be to husband and daughter but the constant objectof care and solicitude and pity. Yes, pity--that was the worst of it. "An invalid, " she repeated to herself, and felt that at last she knewwhat that word meant that she had heard all her life, that she hadapplied unconcernedly to one fellow-creature or another withoutrealising all that it means of tragedy, of startled, growing dread, followed by hopeless and despairing acceptance. Then there came a daywhen, calling all her courage to her help, she made up her mind bravelyto begin life afresh, to sketch her destiny from another point of view, and yet to make a success of the picture. The battle had to be foughtout alone. Sir William, after the agony of thinking he was going to loseher, after the rapture of joy at knowing that the parting was not to beyet, had insensibly become accustomed, as one does become accustomed tothe trials of another, to the altered conditions of their lives, and itwas even unconsciously a sort of agreeable certainty that whatever theweather, whatever the claims of the day, she would every afternoon befound in the same place, never away, never occupied about the house, always ready to listen, to sympathise. She had made up her mind thatsince now she was debarred from active participation in the lives of herhusband and daughter, she would by unceasing, strenuous daily effortkeep abreast of their daily interests, and be by her sympathy as much apart of their existence as though she had been, as before, theirconstant companion. 

The smallness of such a family circle may act in two ways: it may eithersend the members of it in different directions, or it may draw themtogether in an intense concentration of interests and sympathy. Thislatter was happily the condition of the Gores. The varying degrees oftheir strength and weaknesses had been so mercifully adjusted by destinythat each could find in the other some support--whether real or fancieddoes not matter. For illusions, if they last, form as good a workingbasis for life as reality, and in the Gore household, whether byimagination or not, the equipoise of life had been most skilfullyadjusted. The amount of shining phantasies that had interwoventhemselves into the woof of the family destiny had become so much a partof the real fabric that they were indistinguishable from it. 

As far as Sir William's career, if we may give it that name, wasconcerned, the calamity which had fallen upon his wife had in somestrange manner explained and justified it. The younger son of a countrygentleman of good family, he had, by the death of his elder brother, come into the title, the estate, and the sufficient means bequeathed byhis father. Elinor Calthorpe, the daughter of a neighbouring squire, hadbeen ever since her childhood on terms of intimate friendship with theGore boys; as far back as she could remember, William Gore, big, strong, full of life and spirits, a striking contrast to his delicate elderbrother, had been her ideal of everything that was manly and splendid:and when after his brother's death he asked her to marry him, she feltthat life had nothing more to offer. In that belief she had neverwavered. Sir William, by nature estimable and from circumstancesirreproachable, made an excellent husband; that is to say, that duringnearly a quarter of a century of marriage he had never wavered either inhis allegiance to his wife or in his undivided acceptance of herallegiance, and hers alone. She on her side had never once during allthose years realised that the light which shone round her idol came fromthe lamp she herself kept alive before the shrine, nor even that it washer more acute intelligence, blind in one direction only, whichsuggested the opinion or course of action that he quite unconsciouslyafterwards offered to the world as his own. It was she who infused intohis life every possibility beyond the obvious. It was her keenness, herardent interest in those possibilities, that urged him on. When shefinally persuaded him to stand for Parliament as member for their countytown, it was in a great measure her popularity that won him the seat. 

He was in the House without making any special mark for two years, witha comfortable sense, not clearly stated perhaps even to himself, thatthere was time before him. Men go long in harness in these days; someday for certain that mark would be made. Then his party went out, and inspite of another unsuccessful attempt in his own constituency, and thenin one further afield, he was left by the roadside, while the tide ofpolitics swept on. His wife consoled herself by thinking that at thenext opportunity he would surely get in. But when the opportunity came, she was so ill that he could not leave her, and the moment passed. Thenwhen they began to realise what her ultimate condition might be, and shewas recommended to take some special German waters which might work acure, he and Rachel went with her. Sir William, when the necessity ofgoing abroad first presented itself to him--a heroic necessity for theordinary stay-at-home Englishman--had felt the not unpleasant stimulus, the tightening of the threads of life, which the need for a givenunexpected course of action presents to the not very much occupiedperson. Then came those months away from his own country and his ownsurroundings--months in which he acquired the habit of reading anEnglish newspaper two days old and being quite satisfied with it, wheneverything else also had two days' less importance than it would athome, and gradually he tasted the delights of the detached onlooker whoneed do nothing but warn, criticise, prophesy, protest. With absolutesincerity to himself he attributed this attitude which Fate had assignedto him as entirely owing to his having had to leave England on hiswife's account. He had quite easily, quite calmly drifted into aconviction that for his wife's sake he had chivalrously renounced hischances of distinction. Lady Gore on her side--it was another bitternessadded to the rest--did not for a moment doubt that it was her conditionand the sacrifice that her husband had made of his life to her which hadruined his political career. And they both of them gradually succeededin forgetting that the alternative had not been a certainty. Theybelieved, they knew, they even said openly, that if it had not been forhis incessant attendance on her he would have gone into the House, hewould have taken office, and eventually have been one of the shapers ofhis country's destiny. The phraseology of their current talk to oneanother and to outsiders reflected this belief. "If I had continued inthe House, " Sir William would say, with a manner and inflection whichconveyed that he had left it of his own free will and not attempted toreturn to it, "I should have----" or, "If I had taken office----" oreven sometimes, "If I were leading the Liberal party----" and no one, indeed, was in a position to affirm that these things might not havebeen. If a man's capacities are hinted at or even stated by himself tohis fellow-creatures with a certain amount of discretion, and if he doesnot court failure by putting them to the proof, it does not occur tomost people to contradict him, and the possible truth of thecontradiction soon sinks out of sight. So Sir William sat on the brinkof the river and watched the others plunging into the waves, diving, rising, breasting the current, and was agreeably supported by theconsciousness that if Fate had so ordained it, he himself would havebeen capable of performing all these feats just as creditably. No neednow to stifle a misgiving that in the old days would occasionallyobtrude itself into the glowing views of the future, that he waspossibly not of a stature to play the great parts for which he might becast. On the contrary, what now remained was the blessed peace broughtby renunciation, the calm renunciation of prospects that in the light ofceasing to try to attain them seemed absolutely certain. No one nowcould ever say that he had failed. He had been prevented bycircumstances from achieving any success of a definite and conspicuouskind, although the position he had attained, the consideration nearlyalways accorded to the ordinary prosperous middle-aged Englishman of theupper classes who has done nothing to forfeit his claim to it, and morethan all, the plenitude of assurance which he received of his desertsfrom his immediate surroundings, might well have been considered successenough. And on his return to England, after eighteen months ofwandering, although he was no longer in Parliament and had no actualvoice in deciding the politics of his country, it pleased him to thinkthat if he chose he could still take an active line, that he couldbelong to the volunteer army of orators who make speeches at otherpeople's elections and who write letters to the newspaper that the worldmay know their views on a given situation. 

At the time of which we speak political parties in England were tryingin vain to re-adjust an equable balance. Conservatives and Unionists, almost indistinguishable, were waving the Imperialist banner in theface of the world. The Liberals, once the advanced and subversive party, were now raising their voices in protest, tentatively advocating theclaims of what they considered the oppressed races. Derisive epithetswere hurled at them by their enemies; the Pro-Boers, the LittleEnglanders took the place of the Home Rulers of the past. Sir Williamwas by tradition a Liberal. Inspired by that tradition he wrote anarticle on the "Attitude of England, " which appeared in a LiberalReview. Thrilled by the sight of his utterances in print, he determinedin his secret soul to expand that article into a book. The secret was ofcourse shared by his wife, who fervently believed in the yet unwrittenmasterpiece. The fact that in spite of the dearth of prominent men inhis party, of men who had in them the stuff of a leader, that party hadnot turned to Gore in its need, aroused no surprise, no misgiving, ineither his mind or that of his wife. It was simply in their eyes anotherstep in that path of voluntary renunciation which he was treading forher sake. 

With this possible interpretation of all missed opportunities entirelytaken for granted, Sir William's existence flowed peacefully andprosperously on. It was with an agreeable consciousness of his dignityand prestige that he sat once or twice in the week at the board meetingsof one or two governing bodies to which he belonged. They figured in hisscheme of existence as his hours of work, the sterner, more seriousoccupation which justified his hours of leisure. The rest of thatleisure was spent in happy, congenial uniformity: a morning ride, followed by some time in his comfortable study, during which he might besupposed to be writing his book; an hour or two at his club; a game ortwo of chess, a pastime in which he excelled; and behind all this abeautiful background, the deep and enduring affection of his wife, whosecompanionship, and needs, and admiration for himself filled up all thevacant spaces in his life. He would, however, have been genuinelysurprised if he had realised that it was by a constant, deliberateintention that she succeeded in entertaining him, in amusing him, asmuch as she did her friends and acquaintances; if he had thought thatshe had made up her mind that never, while she had power to prevent it, should he come into his own house and find it dull. And he never did. 

CHAPTER II

To be a popular invalid is in itself a career: it blesses those thatcall and those that receive. The visitors who used day by day to go andsee Lady Gore used to congratulate themselves as they stood on herdoorstep on the knowledge that they would find her within, and glad--orso each one individually thought--to see them. She was an attractiveperson, certainly, as she lay on her sofa. Her hair had turned whiteprematurely early, it enhanced the effect of the delicate fadedcolouring and the soft brown eyes. The sweet brightness of her mannerwas mingled with dignity, with the comprehensive sympathy and pliabilityof a woman of the world; an innate distinction of mind and personradiated from her looks. Those who watched the general grace and reposeof her demeanour and surroundings involuntarily felt that there might beadvantages in a condition of life which prevented the mere thought ofbeing hot, untidy, hurried, like some of the ardent ladies who used torush into her room between a committee meeting and a tea-party and tellher breathlessly of their flustered doings. Rachel had inheritedsomething of her mother's dainty charm. She had the same brown eyes anddelicate features, framed by bright brown hair. It was certainlyencouraging to those who looked upon the daughter to see in the motherwhat effect the course of the years was likely to have on such apersonality. There was not much dread in the future when confronted withsuch a picture. But in truth, as far as most of the spectators whofrequented the house were concerned, Rachel's personality had beenmerged in her mother's, and any comparison between the two was perhapsmore likely to be in the direction of wondering whether Rachel in thecourse of years would, as time went on, become so absolutely delightfula human product as Lady Gore. Rachel's own attitude on this score wasentirely consonant with that of others. Her mother was the centre of herlife, the object of her passionate devotion, her guide, her ideal. Itwas when Rachel was seventeen that Lady Gore became helpless anddependent, and the girl suddenly found that their positions were in someways reversed; it was she who had to take care of her mother, toinculcate prudence upon her, to minister incessantly to her daily wants;there was added to the daughter's love the yearning care that a lovingwoman feels for a helpless charge, and there was hardly room foranything else in her life. Rachel, fortunately for herself and forothers, had no startling originality; no burning desire, arrived atwomanhood, to strike out a path for herself. She was unmoved by theconviction which possesses most of her young contemporaries that theobvious road cannot be the one to follow. Lady Gore's perceptions, farmore acute as regarded her daughter than her husband, and rendered morevivid still by the whole concentration of her maternal being in Rachel, had entirely realised, while she wondered at it, the complete lack inher child of the modern ferment that seethes in the female mind of ourdays. But she had finally come to see that if Rachel was entirely happyand contented with her life it was a result to rejoice over rather thanbe discontented with, even though her horizon did not extend much beyondher own home. Besides, it is always well to rejoice over a result wecannot modify. Needless to say that the girl, who blindly accepted hermother's opinion even on indifferent subjects, was, biassed by her ownaffection, more than ready to endow her father with all the qualitiesLady Gore believed him to possess. She had arrived at the age oftwenty-two without realising that there could be for her any claims inthe world that would be paramount to these, anything that could possiblycome before her allegiance to her parents. 

One of the bitterest pangs of Lady Gore's bitter renunciation was themoment when she realised that she could not be the one to guide Rachel'sfirst steps in a wider world than that of her home, that all her plansand theories about the moment when the girl should grow up, when hermother would accompany her, steer her, help her at every step, mustnecessarily be brought to nought. And this mother, alas! had been sofull of plans; she had so anxiously watched other people and theirdaughters, so carefully accumulated from her observation the manywarnings and the few examples which constitute what is called theteaching of experience. But when the time came the lesson had beenlearnt in vain. Rachel's eighteenth and nineteenth years were spent inanxious preoccupations about her mother's health, in solicitous care ofher father and the household, and the girl had glided gently fromchildhood into womanhood with nothing but increased responsibility, instead of more numerous pleasures, to mark the passage. But the resultwas something very attractively unlike the ordinary product of the age. She had had, from the conditions of her life, no very intimate andconfidential girl friends by whose point of view to readjust andpossibly lower her own, and with whom to compare every fleetingmanifestation of thought and feeling. She remained unconsciouslysurrounded by an atmosphere of reticence and reserve, a certain shyaloofness, mingled with a direct simple dignity, that gave to herbearing an ineffable grace and charm. The mothers of more dashingdamsels were wont to say that she was not "effective" in a ballroom. Itwas true that she had nothing particularly accentuated in demeanour orappearance which would at once arrest attention, an inadequateequipment, perhaps, in the opinion of those who hold that it is betterto produce a bad effect than none at all. 

Mrs. Feversham, of Bruton Street, was an old friend of Lady Gore's, whose junior she was by a few years. She had no daughters of her own, and had in consequence an immense amount of undisciplined energy at theservice of those of other people. She was not a lady whose views wereapt to be matured in silence; she was ardently concerned about Rachel'sfuture, and she was constantly imparting new projects to Lady Gore, whoreceived them with smiling equanimity. 

It was at an "At Home" given by Mrs. Feversham one evening early in theseason, when the rooms were full of hot people talking at the top oftheir voices, that the hostess, looking round her with a comprehensiveglance, saw Rachel standing alone. There was, however, in the girl'sdemeanour none of that air of aggressive solitude sometimes assumed bythe neglected. The eye fell upon Rachel with a sense of rest, looking onone who did not wish to go anywhere or to do anything, who was standingwith unconscious grace an entirely contented spectator of what waspassing before her. Mrs. Feversham's one idea, however, as she perceivedher was instantly to suggest that she should do something else, that atany price some one should take her to have some tea, or make her eat orwalk, or do anything, in fact, but stand still. Rachel, however, at themoment she was swooped down upon, was well amused; a smile wasunconsciously playing on her lips as she listened to an absurdconversation going on between a young man and a girl just in front ofher. 

"By George!" said the boy, "it is hot. Let's go and have ices. "

"Ices? Right you are, " the girl replied, and attempted to follow hergallant cavalier, who had started off, trying to make for himself a paththrough the serried hot crowd, leaving the lady he was supposed to beconvoying to follow him as near as she might. 

"Hallo!" he said suddenly. "There's Billy Crowther. Do you mind if I goand slap him on the back?"

"All right, buck up, then, and slap him on the back, " replied the fairone. "I'll go on. " Thus gracefully encouraged, the youth flung himselfin another direction, and almost overturned his hostess, who was comingtowards Rachel. 

"Sorry, " he said, apparently not at all discomposed, and continued hiswild career. 

"Well! the young men of the present day!. .. " said Mrs. Feversham, as shejoined Rachel; then suddenly remembering that a wholesale condemnationwas not the attitude she wished to inculcate in her present hearer, shewent on: "Not that they are all alike, of course; some of them are--aredifferent, " she supplemented luminously. "Now, my child, have you hadanything to eat?"

"I don't think I want anything, thank you, " said Rachel. 

"Oh, nonsense!" said Mrs. Feversham. "You must. " And, looking round forthe necessary escort, she saw a new arrival coming up the stairs. "Thevery man!" she said to herself, but fortunately not aloud, as "Mr. Rendel!" was announced. A young man of apparently a little over thirty, with deep-set, far-apart eyes and clear-cut features, came up and tookher outstretched hand with a little air of formal politeness refreshingafter the manifestations she had been deploring. 

"I am so glad to see you, " she said cordially. Rendel greeted her with asmile. "Do you know Miss Gore?" Rendel and Rachel bowed. 

"I have met Sir William Gore more than once, " he said. 

"She is dying for something to eat, " said Mrs. Feversham, to Rachel'sgreat astonishment. "Do take her downstairs, Mr. Rendel. " The youngpeople obediently went down together. 

"I am not really dying for something to eat, " Rachel said, as soon asthey were out of hearing of their hostess. "In fact, I am not sure thatI want anything. "

"Oh, don't you?" said Rendel. 

"Two hours ago I was still dining, you see. "

"Of course, " said Rendel, "so was I. " They both laughed. They went onnevertheless to the door of the room from whence the clatter of glassand china was heard. 

"Now, are you sure you won't be 'tempted, ' according to the receivedexpression?" said Rendel, as a hot waiter hurried past them with somedirty plates and glasses on a tray. 

"No, I am afraid I am not at all tempted, " said Rachel. 

"Well, let us look for a cooler place, " said Rendel. What a soothingcompanion this was he had found, who did not want him to fight for anice or a sandwich! They went up again to a little recess on the landingby an open window. The roar of tongues came down to them from thedrawing-room. 

"Just listen to those people, " said Rendel. A sort of wild, continuoushowl filled the air, as though bursting from a company of the condemnedimmured in an eternal prison, instead of from a gathering of peaceablecitizens met together for their diversion. "Isn't it dreadful to realisewhat our natural note is like?" he added. "It is hideous. "

"It isn't pretty, certainly, " said Rachel, unable to help smiling at hisface of disgust. The roar seemed to grow louder as it went on. 

"It is a pity we can't chirp and twitter like birds, " said Rendel. 

"I don't know that that would be very much better, " said Rachel. "Haveyou ever been in a room with a canary singing? Think of a room with asmany canaries in it as this. "

"Yes, I daresay--it might have been nearly as bad, " Rendel said; "thoughif we were canaries we should be nicer to look at perhaps, " and his eyefell on an unprepossessing elderly couple who were descending the stairswith none of the winsomeness of singing birds. "Have you readMaeterlinck's 'Life of the Bees'?"

"No, " Rachel answered simply. 

"I agree with him, " Rendel said, "that it would be just as difficult toget any idea of what human beings are about by looking down on them froma height, as it is for us to discover what insects are doing when welook down on them. "

"Yes, imagine looking at that, " said Rachel, pointing towards thedrawing-room. "You would see people walking up and down and in and outfor no reason, and jostling each other round and round. "

"Yes, " said Rendel. "How aimless it would look! Not more aimless than itis, after all, " he added. 

"It amuses me, all the same, " said Rachel, rather deprecatingly. "Imean, to come to a party of this kind every now and then; perhapsbecause I don't do it very often. "

"Why, don't you go out every night of your life in the season?" saidRendel; "I thought all young ladies did. "

"I don't, " she said. "It isn't quite the same for me as it is for otherpeople--at least, I mean that I have only my father to go out with;" andthen, seeing in his face the interpretation he put on her words, sheadded, "my mother is an invalid, and we do not like to leave her toooften. "

"Ah! but she is alive still, " said Rendel, with a tone that sounded asif he understood what the contrary might have meant. 

"Oh yes, " said Rachel quickly. "Yes, yes, indeed she is alive, " in avoice that told the proportion that fact assumed in existence. 

"My mother died long years ago, " said Rendel, in a lower voice. "Not solong, though, that I did not understand. " Rachel looked at him with asoft light of pity flooding her face, and drawing the words out of him, he knew not how. "My father married again, " he said, "while I was stilla child--while I needed looking after, at least. "

"Oh, " said Rachel, "you had a stepmother?"

"Yes, " he said, "I had a stepmother, " and his face involuntarily becameharder as he recalled that long stretch of loveless years--the fatherhad never quite understood the shy and sensitive child--during which hehad been neglected, suppressed, lonely, with no one to care that he didwell at school and college, and that later he was getting on in theworld, with no place in the world that was really his home. Then he wenton after a moment: "And now my father is dead, too, so I am pretty muchalone, you see. "

"How terrible it must be!" said Rachel softly. "How extraordinary! Ican't quite imagine what it is like. "

"Well, it is not very pleasant, " said Rendel looking up, and againpenetrated by the sweet compassion in Rachel's face. "You can't thinkhow strange it is----" He broke off and got up as Sir William Gore camedownstairs towards them. Sir William, with the true instinct of afather, had chosen this moment to wonder whether Rachel was beingsufficiently amused, and was bearing down upon her and her companionwith an air of cheerful virtue which proclaimed that her conversationwith Rendel was at an end. Sir William's political principles did notpermit him to think very much of Rendel, since he was private secretaryto a man whose policy Sir William cordially detested, Lord Stamfordham, the Foreign Minister, whose acute and wide-reaching sagacity inspiredhis followers with a blind confidence to himself and his methods. LordStamfordham had soon discovered the practical aptitude, the politicalcapacity, the determined, honourable ambition that lay behind FrancisRendel's grave exterior, and had made up his mind, as indeed had others, that the young man had a distinguished future before him. 

"Ah, Rendel, how are you?" said Gore. "What is your Chief going to donext, eh?"

"I am afraid I can't tell you, Sir William, " said Rendel with a halfsmile. 

"Well, the people round him ought to put the brake on, " said Gore, "or Idon't know where the country will be. "

"I am afraid it is a brake I am not strong enough to work, " said Rendel;"like Archimedes, I have not a lever powerful enough to move theuniverse. "

"H'm!" said Sir William, with a sort of snort. There are fortunatelystill some sounds left in our vocabulary which convey primeval emotionswithout the limitations of words. "Come, Rachel, it is time for us to begoing. "

 * * * * *

Mrs. Feversham's watchful eye had managed to observe what appeared tobe the sufficiently satisfactory sequel to the introduction she hadmade. She was not a woman to let such a seed die for want of plantingand watering. She asked Rendel to dinner to meet the Gores, she talkedto Lady Gore about him, she it was who somehow arranged that he shouldgo to call at Prince's Gate, and he finally grew into a habit of findinghis way there with a frequency that surprised himself. Lady Goresubjugated him entirely by her sweet kindly welcome, and the interestwith which she listened to him, until he found himself to his ownastonishment telling her, as he sat by her sofa, of his hopes and fearsand plans for the future. 

Gradually new possibilities seemed to come into his life, or rather theold possibilities were seen in a new light shed by the womanly sympathywhich up to now he had never known. He came away from each visit withsome fresh spurt of purpose, some new impulse to achievement. Lady Gore, on her side, had been more favourably impressed by Rendel than by any ofthe young men she had seen, until she realised that here at last was apossible husband who might be worthy of Rachel. But with her customarywisdom she tried not to formulate it even to herself: she did notbelieve in these things being helped on otherwise than by opportunityfor intercourse being given. But where Mrs. Feversham was, opportunitywas sure to follow. Lady Gore one morning had an eager letter from herfriend saying, "I know that you and Rachel make it a rule of life thatshe can never go away from home. But you must let her come to me nextThursday for the night. I shall have"--and she underlined thissignificantly without going into more details--"_just the right peopleto meet her_. " And for once, as Lady Gore folded up the letter, she toowas seized with an ardour of matchmaking. She had a real affection forRendel, and the devotion of the young man to herself touched and pleasedher. His probably brilliant future and comfortable means were not theprincipal factors in the situation, but there was no doubt that theyhelped to make everything else easy. So it was that, to Rachel's greatsurprise, the day after the party at Bruton Street, her mother havingtold her without showing her the letter of Mrs. Feversham's invitation, advised her to accept it, and, to the mother's still greater surprise, the daughter, in her turn, after a slight protest, agreed to do so, stipulating, however, that she should not be away more than twenty-fourhours. The accusation that Rachel "gadded" as much as other girls of herage was obviously an unmerited one. 

CHAPTER III

"Alone?" said Sir William, as he came into the room. "Thank Heaven! Haveyou had no one?"

"Aunt Anna, " Lady Gore replied, in a tone which was comment on thestatement. 

"Aunt Anna? What did she come again for?" said Sir William. 

"I really don't know, " Lady Gore said. "I think to-day it was to tell methat Rachel and I ought not to worship you as we do. "

"I don't know what she means, " said Sir William, standing from force ofhabit comfortably in front of the fireplace as though there were a firein the grate. "I should have thought it was Rachel and I who adoredyou. "

"She would like that better, " Lady Gore replied. "But, oh dear, what aweary woman she is!"

"She has tired you out, " Sir William said. "It really is not a good planthat your door should be open to every bore who chooses to come and callupon you. One ought to be able to keep people of that sort, at any rate, out of one's house. "

Lady Gore heaved a sigh. 

"Well, it is rather difficult and invidious too, " she said, "to try tokeep certain people out when one is not sure who is coming--and it israther dull not to see any one, " with a little quiver of the lip whichSir William did not perceive. Then speaking more lightly, "It is a pitywe can't have some kind of automatic arrangement at our front doors, like the thing for testing sovereigns at the Mint, by which the heavy, tiresome people would be shot back into the street, and the light, amusing ones shot into the hall. "

"I am quite agreeable, " said Sir William, "as long as Aunt Anna is shotback into the street. "

"Ah, how delightful it would be!" said Lady Gore longingly. 

"And Miss Tarlton too, please, " said Sir William. 

"My dear William, " Lady Gore said, "Miss Tarlton is quite harmless. "

"Harmless?" repeated Sir William; "I don't know what you call harmless. The very thought of her fills me with impotent rage. A woman who talksof nothing but photography and bicycling, and goes about with herfingers pea-green and her legs in gaiters! It's an outrage on society. Iam thankful that Rachel has never gone in for any nonsense of thatsort--nor ever shall, while I can prevent it. "

"My good friend, " said Lady Gore, "you may not find that so easy. "

"I will prevent it as long as she is under my roof, " replied SirWilliam. "I suppose if she marries a husband with any fads of that sort, she will have to share them. "

"But"--Lady Gore checked herself on the verge of saying, "I don't thinkhe has, " as she suddenly realised what image was called up by themention of Rachel's possible husband--"but she might marry some one whohasn't, " she ended lamely. 

"Oh dear me, yes, " said Sir William, "there is time enough for that; sheis very young after all. "

"She is twenty-two, " said Lady Gore. "Perhaps that is young in thesedays when women don't seem to marry until they are nearly thirty. But Idon't think it is a good plan to wait so long. "

"I don't think it's a bad one, " said Sir William; "they know their ownminds at any rate. "

"They have known half a dozen of their own minds, " said Lady Gore. "Ithink it is much better for a girl to marry before she knows that thereis an alternative to the mind she has got, such as it is. "

Sir William smiled, but did not think it worth while to argue the point. It was not his province, but her mother's, to guide Rachel's career, andhe was content to remain in comfortable ignorance of the complicationsof the female heart of a younger generation. However, he was not allowedto remain in that detached attitude, for Lady Gore, with the subjectuppermost in her mind preoccupying her to the exclusion of everythingelse, could not help adding, "You often see Mr. Rendel at parties, whenyou and Rachel go out, I mean?"

"Rendel? Yes, " said Gore indifferently. "Why?"

Lady Gore did not explain. "I like him, " she said. 

"Oh yes, so do I, " said Gore, without enthusiasm. "I don't agree withhim, of course. I asked him one day what his Chief was about, and toldhim he ought to put the brake on. "

"Did he seem pleased at that?" said Lady Gore, smiling. 

"He will have to hear it, I'm afraid, " said Gore, "whether it pleaseshim or not. "

"I must say, " said Lady Gore, "I can't help admiring Lord Stamfordham. Ido like a man who is strong, and this man is head and shoulders aboveother people. "

"Head and shoulders above little people perhaps, " said Sir William. 

"Mr. Rendel says that when once one is caught up in Lord Stamfordham'strain, it is impossible not to follow him. "

"Rendel!" said Sir William. "Oh, of course, if you're going to listen towhat Stamfordham's hangers-on say. .. . "

"Oh, William, please!" said Lady Gore. "Don't say that sort of thingabout Mr. Rendel. "

"Why?" said Sir William, amazed. "Why am I to speak of Rendel with batedbreath?"

"Because . .. Suppose--suppose he were to be your son-in-law some day?"

"Oh, " said Sir William, staring at her, "is that what you are thinkingof?"

"Mind--mind you don't say it, " cried Lady Gore. 

"_I_ shan't say it, certainly, " cried Sir William, still bewildered;"but has he said it? That's more to the point. "

"He hasn't yet, " she admitted. 

"Well, he never struck me in that light, I must say, " said Sir William. "I always thought it was you he adored. "

"_Cela n'empêche pas_, " said Lady Gore, laughing. 

"I daresay he would do very well, " said Sir William, who, as he furtherconsidered the question, was by no means insensible to the advantages ofthe suggestion put before him; "it is only his politics that are againsthim. "

"I am afraid, " said Lady Gore, "that Rachel would always think herfather knew best. "

"Afraid!" said Sir William, "what more would you have?"

"My dear William, " said his wife, smiling at him, "she might think herhusband knew best, that is what some people do. "

"Quite right, " said Sir William, looking at her fondly, but believingwith entire conviction in the truth of what he was lightly saying. 

At this moment the door opened and a footman came in. 

"Young Mr. Anderson is downstairs, Sir William. "

"Young Mr. Anderson?" said Sir William, looking at him with somesurprise. 

"Yes, Sir William--Mr. Fred, " the man replied, evidently somewhatdoubtful as to whether he was right in using the honorific. 

"Fred Anderson back again!" said Sir William to his wife. "All right, James, I'll come directly. " "I wonder if his rushing back to England sosoon, " he said, as the door closed upon the servant, "means that thatboy has come to grief. "

"Let us hope that it means the reverse, " said his wife, "and that he hascome back to ask you to be chairman of his company--as you promised, doyou remember, when he went away?"

"So I did, yes, to be sure, " said Sir William, laughing at therecollection. "Upon my word, that lad won't fail for want of assurance. We shall see what he has got to say. " And he went out. 

The Andersons had been small farmers on the Gore estate for somegenerations. Fred Anderson, the second son of the present farmer, ayouth of energy and enterprise, had determined to seek his fortunefurther afield. Mainly by the kind offices of the Gores, he had beenstarted in life as a mining engineer, and had, eighteen months beforehis present reappearance, been sent with some others to examine andreport on a large mine lately discovered on British territory near theEquator. The result of their investigations proved that it was actuallyand most unexpectedly a gold mine, promising untold treasure, but at thesame time, from its geographical situation, almost valueless, since itwas so far from any lines of communication as to make the working of itpractically impossible. The young, however, are sanguine; undaunted bydifficulties, Fred Anderson, in spite of the discouragement and droppingoff of his companions, remained full of faith in the future of the mine, and of something turning up which would make it possible to work it; infact, he had actually gone so far as to obtain for himself a grant ofthe mining rights from the British Government. It was for this purposethat, giving a brief outline of the situation, he had written to SirWilliam some time before to ask him for the sum necessary to obtain theconcession. Sir William had advanced it to him. It was when, two yearsbefore, the boy of nineteen was leaving home for the first time that hehad half jestingly asked Sir William whether, if he and his companionsfound a gold mine and started a company to work it, he would be theirchairman, and Sir William, to whom it had seemed about as likely thatFred Anderson would become Prime Minister as succeed in such anundertaking, had given him his hand on the bargain. 

"Well, my boy, " said Sir William, and the very sound of his voice seemedto Fred Anderson to put him back two years--the two years that appearedto him to contain his life. "How is it you have hurried back to Englandso quickly?"

"I will tell you all about it, Sir William, " said the boy. "I thought itbest to come over and get everything into shape myself. "

"You seem to be embarking on very adventurous schemes, " said SirWilliam, feeling as he looked at the boy's bright, open face, full ofalert intelligence, that it was not impossible that the schemes might becarried through. 

"I think you will say so, sir, when you have heard what I have to tellyou, " said Anderson, resolutely keeping down his excitement in a waythat boded well for his powers of self-control. 

"I shall be much interested, " said Sir William. "Now, what about thosemining rights? Do I understand that you are the proprietor of a mine onthe Equator, a thousand miles from anywhere?"

"Yes, and no, " said Anderson. "At least, yes to the first question; noto the second. "

"What, " said Sir William, still speaking lightly, "has the mine comenearer since we first heard of it?"

"Yes, practically it has, " said Anderson, looking Gore in the face. Then, unrolling the paper which he held in his hand and rolling it theother way that it might remain open, he laid it carefully out on thetable before Sir William. "I have brought you the map with all theindications on it, that you may see for yourself. " Sir William adjustedan eyeglass and bent over the map, roused to more curiosity than heshowed. 

"This, " said the young man, pointing to a large tract in pink, "isBritish territory; that is Uganda; here is the Congo Free State. There, you see, are the Germans where the map is marked in orange. There isthe Equator, and _there_ is the mine. Look, marked in blue. "

"That is a pretty God-forsaken place, I must say, " remarked Sir William. 

"One moment, " said Fred. "That thin, dotted ink line running north andsouth from the top of Africa to the bottom is the Cape to Cairo Railway, of which the route has now been determined on, and this, " with a ringingaccent of triumph, bringing his hand down on to the map, "is the placewhere the railway will pass within a few miles of us. "

"What?" said Sir William, starting. 

"Yes, there it is, quite close, " Anderson answered. "When once it isthere, all our difficulties of transport are over. "

Sir William recovered himself. 

"Cape to Cairo!" he said. "You had better wait till you see the linemade, my boy. "

"That won't be so very long, Sir William, I assure you, " said the youngman. "This cross in ink marks where the line has got to from thenorthern end, and this one, " pointing to another, "from the south, andthey have already got telegraph poles a good bit further. "

"Before the two ends have joined hands, " said Sir William, "anotherGovernment may be in which won't be so keen on that mad enterprise. Asif we hadn't railways enough on our hands already. "

"Not many railways like this one, " said the young man. "Did you see anarticle in the _Arbiter_ about it this morning? It is going to be themost tremendous thing that ever was done. "

"Oh, of course, yes, " said Sir William with an accent of scorn in histone. "Just the kind of thing that the _Arbiter_ would have a goodflare-up about. I have no doubt that the scheme is magnificent on paper. However, time will show, " he added, with a kinder note in his voice. Heliked the boy and his faith in achieving the impossible. 

"It will indeed, " said Anderson. "Only, you see, we can't afford to waittill time shows--we must take it by the forelock now, I'm afraid. "

"Then what do you propose to do next?" said Sir William. 

"We are going to form a company, " said the boy, his colour rising. "Weare going to have everything ready, and the moment the railway isfinished we are ready to work the mine, and our fortune is made. "

"You are going to form a company?" said Sir William, incredulously. 

"Yes, " Anderson replied. "In a week we shall have the whole thing inshape, and I hope that when the mine and its possibilities are madepublic, we shan't have any difficulty in getting the shares taken up. "

"Well, I am sure I hope you won't, " said Sir William. "I'll take someshares in it if you can show me a reasonable prospect of its coming toanything. But I should like to hear something more about it first. "

"You shall, of course, " said Anderson, as he took up his map again. "Butit was not about taking shares I came to ask you, Sir William. "

"What was it, then?" said Sir William. 

"You said, " the boy replied, with an embarrassed little laugh, lookinghim straight in the face, "that you would be the chairman of the firstcompany I floated. "

"By Jove, so I did!" said Sir William. "Upon my word, it was rather arash promise to make. "

"I don't think it was, I assure you, " the boy said earnestly; "thisthing really is going to turn up trumps. "

"Well, let's hope it is, for all concerned, " said Sir William. "And whatare you going to call it?"

"Oh, we are going to call it, " said Fred, "simply 'The Equator, Limited. '"

"The Equator! Upon my word! Why not the Universe?" said Sir William. 

"That will come next, " said the boy, with a happy laugh of sheerjubilation. "Then, Sir William, will you--you will be our chairman?"

"Oh yes, " said Sir William. "A promise is a promise. But mind, I shallbe a very inefficient one. I don't suppose you could find any one whoknew less about that sort of thing than I do. "

"Oh, that will be all right, Sir William, " the boy said quickly. "Therewill be lots of people concerned who know all about it. Now that themine is going to be accessible, the right people will be more than readyto take it up. I just wanted to have you there as the nominal head toit, because you have always been so good to me, and you have brought meluck since the beginning. "

"Nonsense!" said Sir William. "You'll have only yourself to thank, myboy, when you get on. "

"Oh, I know better than that, " said Anderson. Something very like tearscame into his eyes as he took the hand Sir William held out to him, andthen left the room as happy a youth of twenty-one as could be found inLondon that day. 

CHAPTER IV

There was another young creature, at that moment driving across Londonto Prince's Gate, to whom the world looked very beautiful that day. Rachel was still in a sort of rapturous bewilderment. The wonderful newexperience that had come to her, that she was contemplating for thefirst time, seemed, as she saw it in the company of familiarsurroundings, more marvellous yet. At Maidenhead everything had beenunwonted. The new experience of going away alone, the enchanting reposeof the hot sunny days on the river, the look of the boughs as theydipped lazily into the water, and the light dancing and dazzling on theripples of the stream--all had been part of the setting of the newaspect of things, part of that great secret that she was beginning tolearn. Yet all the time she had had a feeling that when the setting wasaltered, when she left this mysterious region of romance, life wouldbecome ordinary again, the strange golden light with which it wasflooded would turn into the ordinary light of day, and she would findherself where she had been before. But it was not so. Here she was backagain in the town she knew so well, driving towards her home--but thenew, strange possession had not left her, the secret was hers still. Ithad all come so quickly that she had not realised what she felt. Was she"in love, " the thing that she had taken for granted would happen to hersome day, but that she had not yet longed for? Rachel, it must beconfessed, had not been entirely given up to romance; she had not beenwaiting, watching for the fairy prince who should ride within her kenand transform existence for her. Her life had been too full of love ofanother kind. But now she had a sudden feeling of experience having beencompleted, something had come to her that she had wished for, longedfor--how much, she had not known until it came. What would they say athome? What would her mother say? And gradually she realised, as shealways ended by realising, that whatever the picture of life she wascontemplating her mother was in the foreground of it. There was no doubtabout that; her mother came first, her mother must come first. Butnothing was quite clear in her mind at this moment. The past forty-eighthours, the sudden change of scene and of companionship, a possiblealternative path suddenly presenting itself in an existence which hadbeen peacefully following the same road, all this had been disturbing, bewildering even--and when the hansom drew up in Prince's Gate, Rachelfelt an intense satisfaction at being back again in the haven, at thethought of the welcome she was going to find. And as on a summer's dayto people sitting in a shaded room, the world beyond shut out, theopening of a door into the sunshine may reveal a sudden vista of light, of flowers shining in the sun, so to the two people who were awaitingRachel's arrival she brought a sudden vision of youth, brightness, colour, hope, as she came swiftly in, smiling and confident, with theface and expression of one who had never come into the presence ofeither of these two companions without seeing her gladness reflected inthe light of welcome that shone in their eyes. 

"Well, gadabout!" said her father as she turned to him after embracingher mother fondly. 

"I am very sorry, " said Rachel, "I won't do it again. "

"And how did you enjoy yourself, my darling?" said Lady Gore. 

"Oh, very much, " Rachel said. "It was delightful. " The mother looked ather and tried to read into her face all that the words might mean. Rachel was in happy unconsciousness of how entirely the ground wasprepared to receive her confidence. 

"Was there a large party?" said Sir William. 

"No, " said Rachel, "a very small one. " She was leaning back comfortablyin the armchair, and deliberately taking off her gloves. "In fact, therewere only two people beside myself, Sir Charles Miniver, and--Mr. Rendel. " There was a pause. 

"Miniver!" said Sir William, "Still staying about! He appeared to me anold man when I was twenty-five. " Rachel opened her eyes. 

"Did he?" she said. "That explains it. He is quite terribly old now, much, much older than other old people one sees, " she said, with theconviction of her age, to which sixty and eighty appear pretty much thesame. "You didn't mind, " she went on to her mother hastily, somewhattransparently trying to avoid a discussion of the rest of the houseparty, "my staying till the afternoon train? Mrs. Feversham suggestedboating this morning, and the day was so lovely, it was too tempting torefuse. "

"I didn't mind at all, " said Lady Gore. "It must have been lovely in theboat. Did you all go?"

"N--no, not all, " replied Rachel. "Mrs. Feversham would have come, butshe had some things to do at home, and Sir Charles Miniver was----"

"Too old?" Lady Gore suggested. 

"I suppose so, " said Rachel, "though he called it busy. "

"As you say, " remarked Sir William, "that does not leave many people togo in the boat. " Rachel looked at her father quickly, but with apliability surprising in the male mind he managed to look unconscious. "Well, Elinor, " he continued, "I think as you have a companion now, Ishall go off for a bit. I shall be back presently. Let me implore younot to let me find too many bores at tea. "

"If Miss Tarlton comes, " said Lady Gore, "I will have her automaticallyejected. " Sir William went out, smiling at her. The mother anddaughter, both unconsciously to themselves, watched the door close, thenRachel got up, went to the glass over the chimneypiece and begandeliberately taking off her veil. 

"I do look a sight, " she said. "It is astonishing how dirty one's facegets in London, even in a drive across the Park. "

"Rachel!" her mother said. Rachel turned round and looked at her. Thenshe went quickly across the room and knelt down by her mother's couch. 

"Mother!" she said, "Mother dear! it is such a comfort that if I don'ttell you things you don't mind. And why should you? It doesn't matter. It is just as if I had told you--you always know, you alwaysunderstand. "

"Yes, " said Lady Gore, "I think I understand. And you know, " she addedafter a moment, "that I never want you to tell me more than you wish totell. Only, very often"--and she tried to choose her words with anxiouscare, that not one of them might mean more, less, or other than sheintended, "it sometimes helps younger people, if they talk to people whoare older. You see, the mere fact of having been in the world longer, brings one something like more wisdom, one can judge of the proportionof things somehow, nothing seems quite so surprising, soextraordinary--or so impossible, " she added with a faint smile, with theintuition of the point that Rachel had arrived at. And Rachel was readyto take perfectly for granted that she should have been so followed. Herabsolute reliance on the wise and tender confidante by her side, thehabit of placing her first and referring everything to her was strongerunconsciously to herself, than even the natural desire of her age to hugthe secret she was carrying, to keep it jealously from any eyes but herown. 

"Of course, of course, I know that, " she said without looking up, "andmy first thought always is that I will tell you. In fact, " she went onwith a little laugh, "I never know what I think myself until I have toldyou, and heard what it sounds like when I am saying it to you, and seenwhat you look like when you listen--only----" she stopped again. 

"Darling, " said Lady Gore, "never feel that you must tell me a word morethan you wish to say. "

"Well, " said Rachel hesitating, "the only thing is that to-day Imust--perhaps--you would know something about it presently in anycase. .. . " And she stopped again. 

"Presently? why?" said Lady Gore. Rachel made no answer. 

"Is Mr. Rendel coming here to-day?" said Lady Gore, trying to speak inher ordinary voice. 

"Yes, " said Rachel, "he is coming to see you. "

"I shall be very glad to see him, " said Lady Gore. "I always am. "

"I know, yes, " said Rachel. Then with a sudden effort, "It is no use, mother, I must tell you; you must know first. " Then she paused again. "This morning we went out in the boat----" she stopped. 

"Yes, " said Lady Gore, "and Sir Charles Miniver was unfortunately tooold to go with you--or fortunately, perhaps?"

"I am not sure which, " said Rachel. "I am not sure, " she repeatedslowly. 

"Rachel, did Francis Rendel. .. . "

"Yes, " said Rachel, "he asked me to marry him. "

Lady Gore laid her hand on her daughter's. "What did you say to him?"

Rachel looked up quickly. "Surely you know. I told him it would beimpossible. "

"Impossible?" her mother repeated. 

"Of course, impossible, " Rachel said. "We needn't discuss it, motherdear, " she went on with an effort. "You know I could not go away fromyou; you could not do without me. You could not, could you?" she went onimploringly. "I should be dreadfully saddened if you could. "

"I should have to do without you, " Lady Gore said. "I could not let yougive up your happiness to mine. "

"It would not be giving up my happiness to stay with you, you know thatquite well, " Rachel said. "On the contrary, I simply could not be happyif I felt that you needed me and that I had left you. "

"Rachel, do you care for him?"

"Do I, I wonder?" Rachel said, half thinking aloud and letting herselfgo as one does who, having overcome the first difficulty of speech, welcomes the rapturous belief of pouring out her heart to the rightlistener. "I believe, " she said, "that I care for him as much as I couldfor any one, in that way, but"--and she shook her head--"I know all thetime that you come first, and that you always, always will. "

"Oh, but that is not right, " said Lady Gore. "That is not natural. "

"Not natural, " Rachel said, "that I should care for my mother most?"

"No, " Lady Gore said, "not in the long run. Of course, " she went on witha smile, "to say a thing is not 'natural' is simply begging thequestion, and sounds as if one were dismissing a very complicatedproblem with a commonplace formula, but it has truth in it all the same. It is difficult enough to fashion existence in the right way, even withthe help of others, but to do it single-handed is a task few people arequalified to achieve. I am quite sure that a woman has more chance ofhappiness if she marries than if she remains alone. It is right thatpeople should renew their stock of affection, should see that their holdon the world, on life, is renewed, should feel that fresh claims, forthat is a part, and a great part, of happiness, are ready at hand whenthe old ones disappear. All this is what means happiness, and you knowthat the one thing I want in the world is that you should be happy. Iwas thinking to-day, " she went on, with a slight tremor in her voice, "that if I were quite sure that your life were happily settled, that youwere beginning one of your own not wholly dependent on those behindyou, I should not mind very much if mine were to come to an end. "

"To an end?" said Rachel, startled. "Don't say that--don't talk aboutthat. "

"I do not talk about it often, " Lady Gore said; "but this is a momentwhen it must be said, because, remember, when you talk of sacrificingyour life to me----"

"Sacrificing!" interjected Rachel. 

"Well, of devoting it to me, " Lady Gore went on; "and putting asidethose things that might make a beautiful life of your own, you mustremember one thing, that I may not be there always. In fact, " shecorrected herself with a smile, "to say _may_ not is taking arose-coloured view, that I _shall_ not be there always. And who knows?The moment of our separation may not be so far off. "

Rachel looked up hurriedly, much perturbed. 

"Why are you saying this now?" she said. "You have seemed so much betterlately. You are very well, aren't you, mother? You are looking verywell. "

Lady Gore had a moment of wondering whether she should tell her daughterwhat she knew, what she expected herself, but she looked at Rachel'sanxious, quivering face and refrained. 

"It is something that ought to be said at this moment, " she answered. "You have come to a parting of the ways. This is the moment to show youthe signposts, to help you to choose the best road. "

"Listen, mother, " said Rachel earnestly. "In this case I am sure I knowby myself which is the best road to choose. I am perfectly clear that aslong as I have you I shall stay with you. That I mean to do, " shecontinued with unwonted decision. "And besides, if--if you were nolonger there, how could I leave my father?"

"Ah, " said Lady Gore, "I wanted to say that to you. Now, as we arespeaking of it, let us talk it out, let us look at it in the face. Consider the possibility, Rachel, the probability that I may be takenfrom you; my dream would be that you should make your own life with someone that you care about, and yet not part it entirely from yourfather's, that while he is there he should not be left. If I thoughtthat, do you know, it would be a very great help to me, " she said, forcing herself to speak steadily, but unable to hide entirely thewistful anxiety in her tone. 

"I will never, never leave him, " Rachel said. "I promise you that Inever will. "

"Then I can look forward, " her mother said, "as peacefully, I don't sayas joyfully, as I look back. Twenty-four years, nearly twenty-five, " shewent on, half to herself and looking dreamily upwards, "we have beenmarried. You don't know what those years mean, but some day I hope youwill. I pray that you may know how the lives and souls of two people whocare for one another absolutely grow together during such a time. "

"It is beautiful, " Rachel said softly, "to know that there is suchhappiness in the world, " and her own new happiness leapt to meet theassurance of the years. 

"It is beautiful indeed, " Lady Gore said. "It means a constant abidingsense of a strange other self sharing one's own interests--of a closecompanionship, an unquestioning approval which makes one almostindependent of opinions outside. "

"Some people, " said Rachel, pressing her mother's hand, "have theoutside affection and approval too. "

"Yes, the world has been very kind to me, " Lady Gore said, "and all thatis delightful. But it is the big thing that matters. Do you rememberthat there was some famous Greek who said when his chosen friend andcompanion died, 'The theatre of my actions has fallen'?" Rachel's facelighted up in quick response. "When I am gone, " her mother went on, "don't let your father feel that the theatre of _his_ actions hasfallen--take my place, surround him with love and sympathy. "

"I will, indeed I will, " said Rachel. 

"What a man needs, " said Lady Gore, "is some one to believe in him. "

"My father will never be in want of that, " said Rachel, with heartfeltconviction. "Mother, " she added, "I never will forget what I am sayingnow, and you may believe it and you may be happy about it. I won't leavemy father; he shall come first, I promise, whatever happens. "

"First?" said Lady Gore gently. "No, Rachel, not that; it is right thatyour husband should come first. "

"The people, " said Rachel smiling, "whose husbands come first have nothad a father and mother like mine. "

There was a knock at the house door. Rachel sprang hurriedly to herfeet, the colour flying into her cheeks. Lady Gore looked at her. Shehad never before seen in Rachel's face what she saw there now. 

"I must take off my things, " the girl said, catching up her gloves andveil. 

"Don't be very long, " said her mother. 

"I'll--I'll--see, " Rachel said, and she suddenly bent over her motherand kissed her, then went quickly out by one door as the other wasthrown open to admit a visitor. 

CHAPTER V

Francis Rendel came into the room with his usual air of ceremony, amounting almost to stiffness. Then, as he realised that his hostess wasalone, his face lighted up and he came eagerly towards her. 

"This _is_ a piece of good fortune, to find you alone, " he said. "I wasafraid I should find you surrounded. "

"It is early yet, " Lady Gore said, with a smile. 

"I know, yes, " Rendel said. "I must apologise for coming at this time, but I wanted very much to see you----" He paused. 

"I am delighted to see you at any time, " Lady Gore said. 

"It is so good of you, " he answered, in the tone of one who is thinkingof the next thing he is going to say. There was a silence. 

"I hope you enjoyed yourself at Maidenhead?" said Lady Gore. 

"Very, very much, " Rendel answered with an air of penetrated conviction. There was another pause. Then he suddenly said, "Lady Gore----" andstopped. 

She waited a moment, then said gently, "Yes, I know. Rachel has beentelling me. "

"She has! Oh, I am so glad, " Rendel said. Then he added, findingapparently an extreme difficulty in speaking at all, "And--and--do youmind?"

"That is a modest way of putting it, " said Lady Gore, smiling. "No, Idon't mind. I am glad. "

"Are you really?" said Rendel, looking as if his life depended on theanswer. "Do you mean that you really think you--you--could be on myside? Then it will come all right. "

"I will be on your side, certainly, " said Lady Gore; "but I don't knowthat that is the essential thing. I am not, after all, the person whoseconsent matters most. "

"Do you know, I believe you are, " Rendel said. "I verily believe that atthis moment you come before any one else in the world. " There was noneed to say in whose estimation, or to mention Rachel's name. 

"Well, perhaps at this moment, as you say, " said Lady Gore, "it ispossible, but there is no reason why it should go on always. "

"She is absolutely devoted to you, " Rendel said. 

"Rachel has a fund, " her mother said, "of loyal devotion, of unswervingaffection, which makes her a very precious possession. "

"I have seen it, " said Rendel. "Her devotion to you and her father isone of the most beautiful things in the world, even though. .. . "

"Even. .. ?" said Lady Gore, with a smile. 

"Did she tell you what she said to me this morning?"

"I gathered, yes, " Lady Gore replied, "both what you had said and heranswer. "

"I didn't take it as an answer, " said Rendel. "I thought that I wouldcome straight to you and ask you to help me, and that you wouldunderstand, as you always do, in the way that nobody else does. "

"Take care, " said Lady Gore smiling, "that you don't blindly acceptRachel's view of her surroundings. "

"Oh, it is not only Rachel who has taught me that, " said Rendel, hisheart very full. "It is you yourself, and your sympathy. I wonder, " hewent on quickly, "if you know what it has meant to me? You see, it isnot as if I had ever known anything of the sort before. To have had itall one's life, as your daughter has, must be something very wonderful. I don't wonder she does not want to give it up. "

Lady Gore tried to speak more lightly than she felt. "She need not giveit up, " she said, with a somewhat quivering smile. "And you need notthank me any more, " she went on. "I should like you to know what a greatinterest and a great pleasure it has been to me that you should havecared to come and see me as you have done, and to take me into yourlife. " Rendel was going to speak, but she went on. "I have never had ason of my own. It was a great disappointment to me at first; I was veryanxious to have one. I used to think how he and I would have planned outhis life together, and that he might perhaps do some of the things inthe world that are worth doing. You see how foolish I was, " she ended, with a tremulous little smile. 

Rendel, in spite of his gravity, experience and intuitive understanding, had a sudden and almost bewildering sense of a change of mental focus ashe heard the wise, gentle adviser confiding in her turn, and confessingto foolish and unfulfilled illusions. He felt a passionate desire to beof use to her. 

"I should have been quite content if he had been like you, " she said, and she held out her hand, which he instinctively raised to his lips. 

"You make me very happy, " he said. "You make me hope. "

"But, " she said, trying to speak in her ordinary voice, "--perhaps Iought to have begun by saying this--I wonder if Rachel is the right sortof wife for a rising politician?"

"She is the right sort of wife for me, " said Rendel. "That is all thatmatters. "

"I'm afraid, " Lady Gore said, "she isn't ambitious. "

"Afraid!" said Rendel. 

"She has no ardent political convictions. "

"I have enough for both, " said Rendel. 

"And--and--such as she has are naturally her father's, and thereforeopposed to yours. "

"Then we won't talk about politics, " Rendel said, "and that will be awelcome relief. "

"I'm afraid also, " the mother went on, smiling, "that she is not abreastof the age--that she doesn't write, doesn't belong to a club, doesn'teven bicycle, and can't take photographs. "

"Oh, what a perfect woman!" ejaculated Rendel. 

"In fact I must admit that she has no bread-winning talent, and that incase of need she could not earn her own livelihood. "

"If she had anything to do with me, " said Rendel, "I should be ashamedif she tried. "

"She is not as clever as you are. "

"But even supposing that to be true, " said Rendel, "isn't that a stateof things that makes for happiness?"

"Well, " replied Lady Gore, "I believe that as far as women are concernedyou are behind the age too. "

"I am quite certain of it, " Rendel said, "and it is therefore to berejoiced over that the only woman I have ever thought of wanting shouldnot insist on being in front of it. "

"The only woman? Is that so?" Lady Gore asked. 

"It is indeed, " he said, with conviction. 

"And you are--how old?"

"Thirty-two. "

"It sounds as if this were the real thing, I must say, " she said, with asmile. 

"There is not much doubt of that, " said he quietly. "There never was anyone more certain than I am of what I want. "

"That is a step towards getting it, " Lady Gore said. 

"I believe it is, " he said fervently. "You have told me all the thingsyour daughter has not--that I am thankful she hasn't--but I know, besides, the things she has that go to make her the only woman I want topass my life with--she is everything a woman ought to be--she reallyis. "

"My dear young friend, " said Lady Gore, with a shallow pretence oflaughing at his enthusiasm, "you really are rather far gone!"

"Yes, " said Rendel, "there is no doubt about that. I have not, by theway, attempted to tell you about things that are supposed to matter morethan those we have been talking about, but that don't matter reallynearly so much--I mean my income and prospects, and all that sort ofthing. But perhaps I had better tell Sir William all that. "

"You can tell him about your income, " said Lady Gore, "if you like. "

"I have enough to live upon, " the young man said. "I don't think that onthat score Sir William can raise any objection. "

"Let us hope he won't on any other, " she replied. "We must tell him whathe is to think. "

"And my chances of getting on, though it sounds absurd to say so, arerather good, " he went on. "Lord Stamfordham will, I know, help mewhenever he can; and I mean to go into the House, and then--oh, then itwill be all right, really. "

At this moment the door opened and Sir William came in. 

"You are the very person we wanted, " his wife said. 

"You want to apologise to me for the conduct of your party, I suppose, "said Gore to Rendel, half in jest, half in earnest, as he shook hands. 

"I'm very sorry, Sir William, " said Rendel, "if we've displeased you. Pray don't hold me responsible. "

"Oh yes, " said Lady Gore lightly, to give Rendel time, "one always holdsone's political adversary responsible for anything that happens todisplease one in the conduct of the universe. "

"I hope, " said Rendel, trying to hide his real anxiety, "that SirWilliam will try to forgive me for the action of my party, andeverything else. Pray feel kindly towards me to-day. "

Sir William looked at him inquiringly, affecting perhaps a moreunsuspecting innocence than he was feeling. Rendel went on, speakingquickly and feeling suddenly unaccountably nervous. 

"I have come here to tell you--to ask you----" He stopped, then went onabruptly, "This morning, at Maidenhead, I asked your daughter to marryme. "

"What, already?" said Sir William involuntarily. "That was very prompt. And what did she say?"

"She said it was impossible, " Rendel answered, encouraged more byGore's manner and his general reception of the news than by his actualwords. 

"Impossible, did she say?" said Sir William. "And what did you say tothat?"

"That I should come here this afternoon, " Rendel replied. 

Sir William smiled. 

"That was prompter still, " he said. "It looks as if you knew your ownmind at any rate. "

"I do indeed, if ever a man did, " said Rendel confidently. "And I reallydo believe that it was because she was a good daughter she said it wasimpossible. "

"Well, if it was, that's the kind that often makes an uncommonly goodwife, " Sir William said. 

"I don't doubt it, " Rendel said, with conviction. "And I feel that ifonly you and Lady Gore----"

He stopped, as the door opened gently, and Rachel appeared, in a freshwhite summer gown. She stood looking from one to the other, arrested onthe threshold by that strange consciousness of being under discussionwhich is transmitted to one as through a material medium. Then whatseemed to her the full horror of being so discussed swept over her. Wasit possible that already the beautiful dream that had surrounded her, that wonderful secret that she had hardly yet whispered to herself, washaving the light of day let in upon it, was being handled, discussed, asthough it were possible that others might share in it too?

Rendel read in her face what she was going through. He went forwardquickly to meet her. 

"I am afraid, " he said, putting his thoughts into words more literallythan he meant, "that I have come too soon. I hope you will forgive me?"

"It is rather soon, " Rachel answered, not quite knowing what she wassaying. 

"But you don't say whether you forgive him or not, Rachel, " said SirWilliam, whose idea of carrying off the situation was to indulge in thetime-honoured banter suitable to those about to become engaged. 

"Don't ask her to say too much at once, " Lady Gore said quickly, realising far better than Rachel's father did what was passing in thegirl's mind. 

"I'm afraid I can't say very much yet, " Rachel said hesitatingly. 

"I don't want you to say very much, " said Rendel, "or indeed anything ifyou don't want to, " he ended somewhat lamely and entreatingly. 

"Miss Tarlton!" announced the servant, throwing the door open. 

The four people in the room looked at each other in consternation. Events had succeeded each other so quickly that no one had thought ofproviding against the contingency of inopportune visitors by saying LadyGore was not at home. It was too late to do anything now. Miss Tarltonhappily had no misgivings about her reception. It never crossed her mindthat she could be unwelcome, especially to-day that she had brought withher some photographs taken from the Gores' own balcony some weeksbefore, on the occasion of some troops having passed along Prince'sGate. She had half suggested on that occasion that she should come, inorder that she might have a post of vantage from which to take some ofthe worst photographs in London, and the Gores had not had the heart torefuse her. If she had had any doubt, however--which she had not--abouther hosts' feelings in the matter, she would have felt that she had nowmade up for everything by bringing them the result of her labours, andthat nothing could be more opportune or more agreeable than her entranceon this particular occasion. 

Miss Tarlton was a single woman of independent means living alone, adestiny which makes it almost inevitable that there should be aluxuriant growth of individual peculiarities which have never needed toaccommodate themselves to the pressure of circumstances or ofcompanionship. She was perfectly content with her life, and none theless so although those to whom she recounted the various phases of itwere not so content at second hand with hearing the recital of it. Shewas one of those fortunate persons who have a hobby which takes theplace of parents, husband, children, relations--a hobby, moreover, whichappears to afford a delight quite independent of the varying degrees ofsuccess with which it is pursued. Unhappily the joy of those who thuspursue a much-loved occupation is bound to overflow in words; and ifthey have no daily auditor within their own four walls, they are drivenby circumstances to choose their confidants haphazard when they go out. Miss Tarlton's confidences, however, were all of an optimisticcharacter: she inflicted on her hearers no grievances against destiny. She recorded her vote, so to speak, in favour of content, and therebyestablished a claim to be heard. 

To see her starting on one of her photographing expeditions was to beconvinced that she considered the scheme of the universe satisfactory, as she went off with her felt hat jammed on to her head, with an air, not of radiant pleasure perhaps, but of faith in her occupation ofunflinching purpose. With her camera slung on to her bicycle and her fatlittle feet working the pedals, she had the air of being the forerunnerof a corps of small cyclist photographers. Life appealed to Miss Tarltonaccording to its adaptability to photography. For this reason she wasnot preoccupied with the complications of sentiment or of the softeremotions which not even the Röntgen rays have yet been able to reproducewith a camera. 

"How do you do, Lady Gore?" she said as she came in. "I am later than Imeant to be. I was so afraid I should not get here to-day, but I knewhow anxious you would be to see the photographs. "

"How kind of you!" Lady Gore said vaguely, for the moment entirelyforgetting what the photographs were. 

Miss Tarlton, after greeting the other members of the party, and makingacquaintance with Rendel, all on her part with the demeanour of one whoquickly despatches preliminaries before proceeding to really importantbusiness, drew off her gloves, displaying strangely variegated fingers, and proceeded to take from the case she was carrying photographs invarious stages of their existence. 

"I have brought you the negatives of one or two, " she said, holding oneafter another up to the light, "as I didn't wait to print them all. Ah, here is one. This is how you must hold it, look. "

Lady Gore tried to look at it as though it were really the photograph, and not the equilibrium of a most difficult situation, that she wastrying to poise. Sir William was about to propose to Rendel to come downwith him to his study, but Miss Tarlton obligingly included everybody atonce in the concentration upon her photographs which she felt thesituation demanded. 

"Look, Sir William, " she said. "I am sure you will be interested in thisone. That is Lord X. He is a little blurred, perhaps; still, when oneknows who it is, it is a very interesting memento, really. Look, MissGore, this is the one I did when we were standing together. Do youremember?"

"Oh! yes, of course, " Rachel said. She did, as a matter of fact, verywell remember the occasion, the length of time that had been necessaryto adjust the legs of the camera, which appeared to have a miraculouspower of interweaving themselves into the legs of the spectators; thepiercing cry from Miss Tarlton at the feather of another lady's hatcoming across the field of vision just as the troops came within focus;and a general sense of agitation which had prevented any one in thephotographer's immediate surroundings from contemplating with a detachedmind the military spectacle passing at their feet. 

"These plates are really too small, " said Miss Tarlton; "I have beenwishing ever since that I had brought my larger machine that day. " Herhearers did not find it in their hearts to echo this wish. "Of course, though, a small machine is most delightfully convenient. It is soportable, one need never be without it. I am told there is quite a tinyone to be had now. Have you seen it, Sir William?"

"No, I haven't, " said Sir William, in an entirely final and decidedmanner. Miss Tarlton turned to Rendel as though to ask him, but saw thathe was standing apart with Rachel, apparently deep in conversation. Shefelt that it was rather hard on Rachel to be called away when she mighthave been enjoying the photographs. 

"Do you know whether Mr. Rendel photographs?" she said to Lady Gore, ina more subdued tone. 

"I really don't know; I think not, " Lady Gore said, amused in spite ofherself at her husband's rising exasperation, although she was consciousof sharing it. 

"Rendel, " said Sir William, obliged to let his feelings find vent inspeech at the expense of his discretion, "Miss Tarlton is asking whetheryou photograph?"

"I'm afraid I don't, " said Rendel. 

"Ah, I thought not, " said Sir William, giving a sort of grunt ofsatisfaction. 

"It is only. .. " said Miss Tarlton, who had relapsed into her photographsagain, and was therefore constrained to speak in the sort of absent, maundering tone of people who try to frame consecutive sentences whilethey are looking over photographs or reading letters--"ah--this is theone I wanted you to see, Lady Gore----"

"Oh! yes, I see, " said Lady Gore, mendaciously as to the spirit, if notto the letter, for she certainly did not see in the negative held up byMiss Tarlton, which appeared to the untutored mind a square piece ofgrey dirty glass with confused black smudges on it, all that MissTarlton wished her to behold there. Then she became aware of a welcomeinterruption. 

"How do you do, Mr. Wentworth?" she said, putting down the photographwith inward relief, as a tall young man with a fair moustache and merryblue eyes came into the room. 

"Photographs?" he said, after exchanging greetings with his host andhostess, nodding to Rendel and bowing to Rachel. 

"Yes, " said Lady Gore. "Now you shall give your opinion. "

"I shall be delighted, " he said. "I have got heaps of opinions. "

"Do you photograph?" said Miss Tarlton, with a spark of renewed hope. 

"I am sorry to say I don't, " answered Wentworth. "I believe it is acharming pursuit. "

"It is an inexhaustible pleasure, " said Miss Tarlton, with conviction. 

"I congratulate you, " said Wentworth, "on possessing it. "

"Yes, " said Miss Tarlton solemnly, "I lead an extremely happy life. Itake out my camera every day on my bicycle, and I photograph. When I gethome I develop the photographs. I spend hours in my dark room. "

"It is indeed a happy temperament, " said Wentworth, "that can findpleasure in spending hours in a dark room. "

"Have you ever tried it?" said Miss Tarlton. 

"Certainly, " said Wentworth. "In London in the winter, when it is foggy, you know. "

"Oh, " said Miss Tarlton, again with unflinching gravity. "I don't thinkyou quite understand what I mean. I mean in a photographic dark room, developing, you know. "

"I see, " said Wentworth. "When I am in a dark room in the winter Igenerally develop theories. "

"Develop what?" said Miss Tarlton. 

"Theories, about smuts and smoke, you know; things people write to thepapers about in the winter, " said Wentworth, whose idea of conversationwas to endeavour to coruscate the whole time. It is not to be wonderedat, therefore, if the spark was less powerful on some occasions than onothers. 

"Oh, " said Miss Tarlton, not in the least entertained. 

Wentworth, a little discomfited, could for once think of nothing to say. 

"I suppose, " said Miss Tarlton, still patiently pursuing herinvestigations in the same hopeless quarter, "you don't know the name ofthat quite, quite new and tiny machine?"

"Machine? What sort of machine?" said Wentworth. 

"A camera, " said Miss Tarlton, with an inflection in her tone whichentirely eliminated any other possibility. 

"No, I'm afraid I don't, " said Wentworth. "I don't know the name of anycameras, except that their family name is legion. "

"What?" said Miss Tarlton. 

"Legion, " said Wentworth again, crestfallen. 

"Oh, " said Miss Tarlton. 

"Pateley would be the man to ask, " said Wentworth, desperately trying toput his head above the surface. 

"Pateley? Is that a shop?" said Miss Tarlton eagerly. "Where?"

"A shop!" said Sir William, laughing. "I should like to see Pateley'sface"--but the door opened before he completed his sentence, and hiswish, presumably not formed upon æsthetic grounds, was fulfilled. 

CHAPTER VI

Robert Pateley was a journalist, and a successful man. Some peoplesucceed in life because they have certain qualities which enlist thesympathy and co-operation of their fellow-creatures; others, withoutsuch qualities, yet succeed by having a dogged determination and powerof push which make them independent of that sympathy and co-operation. Robert Pateley was one of the latter. When he was discussed by twopeople who felt they ought to like him, they said to one another, "Whatis it about Pateley that puts people off, I wonder? Why can't one likehim more?" and then they would think it over and come to no conclusion. Perhaps it was that his journalism was of the very newest kind. He wascertainly extremely able, although his somewhat boisterous personalityand entirely non-committal conversation did not give at the firstmeeting with him the impression of his being the sagacious andkeen-witted politician that he really was. Was it his laugh that peopledisliked? Was it his voice? It could not have been his intelligence, which was excellent, nor yet his moral character, which was blameless. In fact, in a quiet way, Pateley had been a hero, for he had been left, through his father's mismanagement of the family affairs, with twosisters absolutely on his hands, and he had never, since undertaking thewhole charge of them, for one instant put his own welfare, advancementor interest before theirs. Absorbed in his resolute purpose, he hadcoolness of head and determination enough to govern his ambitionsinstead of letting himself be governed by them. The son of a solicitorin a country town, he had made up his mind that, as he put it tohimself, he would be "somebody" some day. He had got to the top of thelocal grammar school, and tasted the delights of success, and hedetermined that he would continue them in a larger sphere. It is notalways easy to draw the line between conspicuousness and distinction. Pateley, who went along the path of life like a metaphoricalfire-engine, had very early become conspicuous; he had gone steadily on, calling to his fellow-creatures to get out of his way, until now, assteerer of the _Arbiter_, a dashing little paper that under his guidancehad made a sudden leap into fame and influence, he was a personage to bereckoned with, and it was evident enough in his bearing that he wasconscious of the fact. 

Such was the person who, almost as his name was on Sir William Gore'slips, came cheerfully, loudly, briskly into the room, includingeverybody in the heartiest of greetings, stepping at once into theforeground of the picture, and filling it up. 

"Did I hear you say that you would like to see my face, Gore? How verypolite of you! most gratifying!" he said with a loud laugh, which seemedto correspond to his big and burly person. 

"You did, " said Sir William. "Wentworth says you know everything aboutphotography. "

"Ah! now, that, " said Pateley, galvanised into real eagerness andinterest as he turned round after shaking hands with Lady Gore, "Ireally do know at this moment, as I have just come from the PhotographicExhibition. "

"Oh!" said Miss Tarlton with an irrepressible cry, the ordinaryconventions of society abrogated by the enormous importance of theinformation which she felt was coming. 

"Let me introduce you to Miss Tarlton, " said Sir William. Miss Tarltonbowed quickly, and then proceeded at once to business. 

"Do you know the name of a quite tiny camera?" she said; "the verynewest?"

"I do, " said Pateley. "It is the 'Viator, ' and I have just seen it. " Asort of audible murmur of relief ran through the company at this burningquestion having been answered at last. "And it is only by a specialgrace of Providence, " Pateley went on, "assisted by my high principles, that that machine is not in my pocket at this moment. "

"Oh! I wish it were!" said Miss Tarlton. 

"I'm afraid it may be before many days are over, " said Pateley. "Inever saw anything so perfect. And do you know, it takes a snapshot in aroom even just as well as in the open air. If I had it in my hand Icould snap any one of you here, at this moment, almost without yourknowing anything about it. "

"I am so glad you haven't, " Lady Gore couldn't help ejaculating. 

"The man who was showing it took one of me as I turned to look at it. Itis perfectly wonderful. "

"And that in a room?" Miss Tarlton said, more and more awestruck. "Andsimply a snapshot, not a time exposure at all?"

"Precisely, " Pateley said. 

"I shall go and see it, " Miss Tarlton said, and, notebook in hand, shecontinued with a businesslike air to write down the particularscommunicated by Pateley. 

"I am quite out of my depth, " Lady Gore said to Wentworth. "What does a'time exposure' mean?"

"Heaven knows, " said Wentworth. "Something about seconds and things, Isuppose. "

"I can never judge of how many seconds a thing takes, " said Lady Gore. 

"I'm sure I can't, " Wentworth replied. "The other day I thought we hadbeen three-quarters of an hour in a tunnel and we had only been twominutes and a half. "

"Now then, " Pateley said with a satisfied air, turning to Sir William, "I have cheered Miss Tarlton on to a piece of extravagance. " SirWilliam felt a distinct sense of pleasure. "I have persuaded her to buya new machine. "

"The thing that amuses me, " said Sir William with some scorn, havingapparently forgotten which of his pet aversions had been the subject ofthe conversation, "is people's theory that when once you have bought abicycle it costs you nothing afterwards. "

"It is not a bicycle, Sir William, it is a camera, " said Miss Tarlton, with some asperity. 

"Oh, well, it is the same thing, " Sir William said. 

"_The same thing?_" Miss Tarlton repeated, with the accent of one whofeels an immeasurable mental gulf between herself and her interlocutor. 

"As to results, I mean, " he said. Arrived at this point Miss Tarltonfelt she need no longer listen, she simply noted with pitying tolerancethe random utterance. "A camera costs very nearly as much to keep as ahorse, what with films and bottles of stuff, and all the otheraccessories. And as for a bicycle, I am quite sure that you have tocount as much for mending it as you do for a horse's keep. "

"The really expensive thing, though, is a motor, " said Wentworth. "Lotsof men nowadays don't marry because they can't afford to keep a wife aswell as a motor. "

Rendel, who was standing by Rachel's side at the tea-table, caught thissentence. He looked up at her with a smile. She blushed. 

"I have no intention of keeping a motor, " he said. Rachel said nothing. 

"Are you very angry with me?" Rendel said. 

"I am not sure, " she answered. "I think I am. "

"You mustn't be--after saving my life, too, this morning, in the boat. "

"Saving your life?" said Rachel, surprised. 

"Yes, " Rendel said. "By not steering me into any of the things we met onthe Thames. "

"Oh!" said Rachel, smiling, "I am afraid even that was more your doingthan mine, as you kept calling out to me which string to pull. "

"Perhaps. But the extraordinary thing was that when you were told youdid pull it, " said Rendel. 

"Oh, any one can do that, " replied Rachel. 

"I beg your pardon, it is not so simple, " Rendel answered, thinking tohimself, though he had the good sense at that moment not to formulateit, what an adorable quality it would be in a wife that she shouldalways pull exactly the string she was told to pull. 

"I've been asking Sir William if I may come and speak to him. .. . " hesaid in a lower tone. "He said I might. " Rachel was silent. "You don'tmind, do you?" he said, looking at her anxiously. 

"I--I--don't know, " Rachel said. "I feel as if I were not sure aboutanything--you have done it all so quickly--I can't realise----"

"Yes, " he said penitently, "I have done it all very quickly, I know, butI won't hurry you to give me any answer. My chief's going awayto-morrow for ten days, and I am afraid I must go too, but may I come assoon as I am back again?"

"Yes, " said Rachel shyly. 

"And perhaps by that time, " he said, "you will know the answer. Do youthink you will?" Rachel looked at him as her hand lay in his. 

"Yes, by that time I shall know, " she said. 

As Rendel went out a few minutes later he was dimly conscious of meetingan agitated little figure which hurried past him into the room. MissJudd was a lady who contrived to reduce as many of her fellow-creaturesto a state of mild exasperation during the day as any female enthusiastin London, by her constant haste to overtake her manifold duties towardsthe human race. Those duties were still further complicated by the factthat she had a special gift for forgetting more things in one afternoonthan most people are capable of remembering in a week. 

"My dear Jane, how do you do?" said Lady Gore. "We have not seen you foran age. "

"No, Cousin Elinor, no, " said Miss Judd, who always spoke in littlegasps as if she had run all the way from her last stopping-place. "Ihave been so frightfully busy. Oh, thank you, William, thank you; but doyou know, that tea looks dreadfully strong. In fact, I think I hadreally better not have any. I wonder if I might have some hot waterinstead? Thank you so much. Thank you, dear Rachel--simply water, nothing else. "

"That doesn't sound a very reviving beverage, " said Lady Gore. 

"Oh, but it is, I assure you, " said Miss Judd. "It is wonderful. And, you see, I had tea for luncheon, and I don't like to have it too often. "

"Tea for luncheon?" said Sir William. 

"Yes, at an Aërated Bread place, " she replied, "near Victoria. I havebeen leaving the canvassing papers for the School Board election, and Ihad not time to go home. "

"What it is to be such a pillar of the country!" said Lady Gorelaughing. 

"You may laugh, Cousin Elinor, " Miss Judd said, drinking her hot waterin quick, hurried sips, "but I assure you it is very hard work. You see, whatever the question is that I am canvassing for, I always feel boundto explain it to the voters at every place I go to, for fear they shouldvote the wrong way: and sometimes that is very hard work. At the lastGeneral Election, for instance, I lunched off buns and tea for afortnight. "

"Good Lord!" said Sir William to Pateley as they stood a little apart. "Imagine public opinion being expounded by people who lunch off buns!"

"And the awful thing, do you know, " said Pateley laughing, "is that Ibelieve those people do make a difference. "

"It is horrible to reflect upon, " said Sir William. 

"By the way, " said Pateley, with a laugh, "your side is going in for thesex too, I see. Is it true that you are going to have a Women's PeaceCrusade?"

"Yes, " said Sir William with an expression of disgust, "I believe thatit is so. _My_ womenkind are not going to have anything to do with it, Iam thankful to say. "

"Oh, yes, I saw about that Crusade, " said Wentworth, joining them, "inthe _Torch_. "

"Don't believe too firmly what the _Torch_ says--or indeed anynewspaper--ha, ha!" said Pateley. 

"I should be glad not to believe all that I see in the _Arbiter_, thismorning, " Sir William said. "Upon my word, Pateley, that paper of yoursis becoming incendiary. "

"I don't know that we are being particularly incendiary, " said Pateley, with the comfortable air of one disposing of the subject. "It is onlythat the world is rather inflammable at this moment. "

"Well, we have had conflagrations enough at the present, " said SirWilliam. "We want the country to quiet down a bit. "

"Oh! it will do that all in good time, " said Pateley. "I am bound to saythings are rather jumpy just now. By the way, Sir William, I wonder ifyou know of any investment you could recommend?"

Wentworth discreetly turned away and strolled back to Lady Gore's sofa. 

"I rather want to know of a good thing for my two sisters who are livingtogether at Lowbridge. I have got a modest sum to invest that my fatherleft them, and I should like to put it into something that is prettycertain, but, if possible, that will give them more than 2-1/2 percent. "

"Why, " said Sir William, "I believe I may know of the very thing. Onlyit is a dead secret as yet. "

"Hullo!" said Pateley, pricking up his ears. "That sounds promising. Forhow long?"

"Just for the moment, " said Sir William. "But of necessity the wholeworld must know of it before very long. "

"Well, if it really is a good thing let us have a day or two's start, "said Pateley laughing. 

"All right, you shall, " said Sir William. "You shall hear from me in aday or two. "

CHAPTER VII

The days had passed. The great scheme of "The Equator, Ltd. , " was beforethe world, which had received it in a manner exceeding Fred Anderson'smost sanguine expectations. The possibilities and chances of the mine, as set forth by the experts, appeared to be such as to rouse the hopesof even the wary and experienced, and Anderson had no difficulty offorming a Board of Directors most eminently calculated to inspireconfidence in the public--none the less that they were presided over bya man who, if not possessed of special business qualifications, was ofgood social position and bore an honourable name. Sir William Gore, theChairman of the company, was well pleased. He invested largely in theundertaking. The savings of the Miss Pateleys, under the direction oftheir brother, had gone the same way. The _Arbiter_ had indeed reason tocheer on the Cape to Cairo railway, which day by day seemed more likelyof accomplishment. 

Sir William, on the afternoon of the day when the success of the companywas absolutely an assured fact, came back to his house from the city, satisfied with the prospects of the "Equator, " with himself, and withthe world at large. He put his latchkey into the door and looked roundhim a moment before he went in with a sense of well-being, of rejoicingin the summer day. Then as he stepped into the house he became consciousthat Rachel was standing in the hall waiting for him, with an expressionof dread anxiety on her face. The transition of feeling was so suddenthat for a moment he hardly realised what he saw--then quick aslightning his thoughts flew to meet that one misfortune that of allothers would assail them both most cruelly. 

"Rachel!" he said. "Is your mother ill?"

"Yes, " the girl answered. "Oh, father, wait, " she said, as Sir Williamwas rushing past her, and she tried to steady her quivering lips. "Dr. Morgan is there. "

"Morgan--you sent for him. .. . " said Gore, pausing, hardly knowing whathe was saying. "Rachel. .. Tell me. .. ?"

"She fainted, " the girl said, "an hour ago. And we couldn't get herround again. I sent--ah! there he is coming down. " And a steady, slowstep, sounding to the two listeners like the footfall of Fate, was heardcoming down from above. Sir William went to meet the doctor, knowingalready what he was going to hear. 

Lady Gore died that night, without regaining consciousness. Hers hadbeen the unspeakable privilege of leaving life swiftly and painlesslywithout knowing that the moment had come. She had passed unconsciouslyinto that awful gulf, without having had to stand for a momentshuddering on the brink. She had never dreaded death itself, but she haddreaded intensely the thought of old age, of a lingering illness and itsattendant horrors. But none of these she had been called upon to endure:even while those around her were looking at the beautiful aspect of lifethat she presented to them the darkness fell, leaving them the memoryonly of that bright image. Her daughter's last recollection of her hadbeen the caressing endearment with which Lady Gore had deprecatedRachel's remaining with her till Sir William's return--how thankful thegirl was to have remained!--her husband's last vision of her, thesmiling farewell with which she had sped him on his way in the morning, with a caution as to prudence in his undertakings. As he came back hehad found himself telling her already in his mind, before he wasactually in her presence, of what he had done. That was the thing whichgave an edge to every action, to each fresh development of existence. Life was lived through again for her, and acquired a fresh aspect fromher interest and sympathy, from her keen, humorous insight andfar-seeing wisdom. But now, what would his life be without that lightthat had always shone on his path? He did not, he could not, begin tothink about the future. He knew only that the present had crumbled intoruins around him. That, he realised the next morning when, after somesnatches of uneasy sleep, he suddenly wakened with a sense of absolutehorror upon him, before he remembered shuddering what that horror was. He had wanted to tell her about yesterday, about the "Equator, " he saidto himself with a dull aching pain almost like resentment--he wanted tohave her approval, to have the sense that for her what he did was right, was wise. But he knew now in his heart, as he really had known all thetime, that it was she who had been the wise one. And part of the horror, as the time went on, would be to realise that when she had gone out ofthe world something had gone out of himself too, which she had told himwas there. And he had dreamt that it was true. But that would come whenthe details of misery were realised by him one by one, as after somehideous explosion it is not possible to see at once in the wreck made bythe catastrophe all the ghastly confirmations of disaster that come tolight with the days. The first days were not the worst, either for himor for Rachel, as each one of them afterwards secretly found. For thoughlife had come to a standstill, had stopped dead, with a sudden shockthat had thrown everything in it out of gear, there were at first newand strange duties to be accomplished that filled up the hours and keptthe standards of ordinary existence at bay. There were letters ofcondolence to be answered, tributes of flowers to be acknowledged, sentby well-meaning friends moved by some impotent impulse of consolation, until the air became heavy with the scent of camellias and lilies. Rachel moved about in the darkened rooms, feeling as if the faint, sweet, overpowering perfume were a kind of anodyne, that was mercifully, during those early days, lulling her senses into lethargy. To the end ofher days the scent of the white lily would bring back to her the feelingof actually living again through that first time of numbing grief. Howmany hours, how many days and nights she and her father had lived withinthat quiet sanctuary they could not have told--lived in the darkstillness, with one room, the stillest of all, containing the belovedsomething strangely aloof all that was left of the thing that had beentheir very life. Then out of that quiet hallowed darkness they came onedreadful day into the brilliant sunlight, a day that was lived throughwith the acutest pain of all, of which every detail seemed to have beenarranged by a horrible cruel convention of custom in order to intensifythe pangs of it. They drove at a foot's pace through the crowded, sunlitstreets, with a shrinking agony of self-consciousness as one and anotherpasser-by looked up for a moment at what was passing. "Look, Jim, 'ere'sa funeral!" one small boy called to another--and Rachel, shuddering, buried her face in her hands and could have cried out aloud. Some men, not all, lifted their hats; two gaily-dressed women who were just goingto cross stopped as a matter of course on the pavement and waitedindifferently, hardly seeing what it was, until the obstruction had goneby, as they would have done had it been anything else. Rachel, leaningback by her father, trying to hide herself, yet felt as if she couldnot help seeing everything they met. Every step of the way was a slowtorture. And oh, the return home! that drive, at a brisk trot this time, through the same crowded, unfeeling streets, which still retained theassociation of the former progress through them, the sense that now, asthe coachman whipped up his horses, for every one save for the twodesolate people who sat silently together inside the carriage, lifemight--indeed, would--throw off that aspect of gloom and go on asbefore! And then the worst moment of all, the finding on their returnthat the house had taken on a ghastly semblance of its usual aspect, that the blinds were up, the windows open, the sun streaming ineverywhere--the hard, cruel light, as it seemed to Rachel, shining intothe rooms that were for evermore to be different. 

Then followed the time which is incomparably the worst after a greatloss, the time when, ordinary life being taken up again, the suffererhas the additional trial of too large an amount of leisure on hishands--the horror of all those new spare hours that used to be passed ina companionship that is gone, that must be filled up with somethingfresh unless they are to stand in wide, horrible emptiness, to assailrecollection with unendurable grief. And especially in that house werethey empty, where the existence of both father and daughter had revolvedround that of another to a greater extent than that of most people. Theproblem of how to readjust the daily conditions was a hard, hard one tosolve, harder obviously for Sir William than it was for Rachel. Thegirl was uplifted in those days by the sense that, however difficult shemight find it to carry out in detail, the general scheme of her life layclear before her. She was going to devote it to her father, she wasgoing to carry out that unmade promise, which she now considered morebinding on her than ever, although her mother had warned her againstmaking it, the promise that her father should come first. But thewarning at the moment it was made had not been accepted by Rachel, andin the exaltation of her self-sacrifice it was forgotten now. She sawher way, as she conceived, plainly in front of her. Rendel, with hisusual understanding and wisdom, did not obtrude himself on her duringthose days. He had quite made up his mind not to ask for her decisionuntil there might be some hope of its being made in his favour. He hadfelt Lady Gore's death as acutely as though he had the right of kinshipto grieve for her. He was miserably conscious that something inestimablyprecious had gone out of his life, almost before he had had time torealise his happiness in possessing it. But neither he nor Rachelunderstood what Lady Gore's death had meant to Sir William. And the poorlittle Rachel, rudderless, bewildered, tried to do the best she couldfor her father's life by planning her own with absolute reference to it, by putting at his disposal all the bare, empty hours available forcompanionship which up to now had been so straitly, so tenderly, sohappily filled. And he on his side, conscious of some of her purpose, but unaware of the extent to which she carried her deliberate intentionof consecrating herself to him, of bearing the burden of his destiny, believed that he had to bear the overwhelming burthen of guiding hers. Instead of going in the late afternoon hours of those summer days to hisclub, where he would have found some companionship that was notassociated with his grief, and passing an hour agreeably, he wistfullywent home, feeling that Rachel would be expecting him. And Rachel on herside felt it a duty to put away any regular occupation that might haveproved engrossing, and so to ordain her life that she should be alwaysready and at her father's orders if he should appear. And, thusdeliberately cutting themselves loose from such minor anchorages as theymight have had, they tried to delude themselves into the belief that notonly was such makeshift companionship a solace, but that it actually wasable to replace that other all-satisfying companionship they had lost. But they knew in their hearts, each of them, that it was not so. And SirWilliam realised, more perhaps than Rachel did, that it never could be. The relation between a father and daughter, when most successful, isformed of delightful discrepancies and differences, supplementing oneanother in the things that are not of each age. It means a protectingcare on the side of the father, an amused tender pride in seeing theyounger creature developing an individuality which, however, is hardlyin the secret soul of the elder one quite realised or believed in. Theexperience of the man in such a relation has mainly been derived fromwomen of his own standing; his judgment of his daughter is apt to be agood deal guesswork. The daughter, on the other hand, brings to therelation elements necessarily and absolutely absent on the other side. If she cares for her father as he does for her, she looks up to him, sheadmires him, she accepts from him numberless prejudices and rules aboutthe government of life, and acts upon them, taking for granted all thetime that he cannot understand her own point of view. And yet, even soconstituted, it can be one of the most beautiful and even satisfyingcombinations of affection the world has to show, provided the father hasnot known what it is to have the fulness of joy in his companionshipwith his wife, in that equal experience, mutual reliance, understandingof hopes and fears, which is impossible when the understanding is beinginterpreted through the imagination only, by one standing on a differentplane of life. Neither Rachel nor her father had realised all this; butthe mother with her acuter sensibilities had known, and had sodeliberately set herself to fulfil her task that they had all theseyears been interpreted to one another, as it were, by that otherinfluence that had surrounded them, that atmosphere through whicheverything was seen aright and in its most beautiful aspect. And thetime came when Sir William suddenly grasped with a burning, startlingvividness the fact that his life could not be the same again, that hemust henceforth take it on a lower plane. The day was fine andbright--too warm, too bright; the hopeful light of spring had givenplace to the steady glare of summer. He had been used before to go outriding with Rachel in the early morning, in order to be back by the timeLady Gore was ready to begin her day. They had tacitly abandoned thishabit now. Then one day it occurred to Sir William that it might be agood thing for Rachel to resume it. He proposed to her that they shouldgo out as they used. She, in her inmost heart shrinking from it, butthinking it would be a satisfaction to him, agreed. He, shrinking fromit as much as she did, thought to please her. And so they went out androde silently side by side, overpowered by mute comparison of this daywith days that had been. And when they got home they went each their ownway, and made no attempt at exchanging words. Sir William went miserablyto his study, his heart aching with a rush of almost unbearable sorrowas he thought of the bright little room upstairs to which he had beenwont to hurry for the welcome that always awaited him. What should he dowith his life? How should he fill it? he asked himself in a burst ofgrief, as he shut himself in. And so much had the theory, firmlybelieved in by himself and his wife, that he had by his own free will, and in order to devote his life to her, abandoned any quest of a publiccareer become an absolute conviction in his mind, that he felt a dullresentment at having been so noble. He recognised now that it had beenquixotic. He had let the time pass. Fifty-five! To be sure, in thesedays it is not old age; it may, indeed, under certain circumstances bethe prime of life, for a man who has begun his career early, politicalor otherwise. Had this been Sir William's lot he could have sought someconsolation, or at any rate alleviation, in his misfortune, by turningat once to his work and plunging into it more strenuously than before. But even that mitigation, for so much as it might be worth, was deniedto him. And he sat there, trying to face the fact that seemed almostincredible to a man of what seemed to him his aptitudes and capacity, the awful fact that he had not enough to do to fill up his life. He didnot state this pitiless truth to himself explicitly, but it wasbeginning to loom from behind a veil, and he would some day be forced tolook at it. He could not start anything fresh. He had not the requisiteimpulse. He could have continued, he could not begin; the theatre of hisactions, as Lady Gore had foreseen, had indeed fallen when she fell, andwithout it he could initiate no fresh achievements. Oh, to have hadsomething definite to turn to in those days, something that called forinstant completion! To have had some inexorable daily task, some dutyfor which he was paid, in a government office, or in some privateundertaking of his own, for which he would have been obliged, like somany other men, to leave his house at a fixed hour, and to be absorbedin other preoccupations till his return. What a physical, materialrelief he would have found in such a claim! Round most men of his agelife has woven many interests, many ties, many calls, on their time andenergies from outside as well as from those near to them, but all thosespare, available energies of his had been absorbed and appropriated, filled up, nearer home, and so completely that he had never neededanything else. And now, whither should he turn? What should he do? Thenhe remembered his Book, the Book his wife and he had been accustomed totalk of with such confidence, such certainty--he now realised howvery little there was of it done, or how much of what might be fruitfulin the conception was owing to the way that she, in their talking overit, had held it up to him, so that now one light played round it, nowanother. Well he remembered how, only two days before she was taken ill, they had talked of it for a long time until she, with an enthusiasm thatmade it seem already a completed masterpiece, had said with a smile, "Now then, all that remains is to write it!" And he had almost believed, as he left her, that it would spring into life some day, that it wouldnot only hold the place in his life of the Great Possibility that isnecessary to us all, but that he would actually put his fate to theproof by carrying it into execution. He took out the portfolio in whichwere the notes he had made about it now and again. They bore the searedoutward aspect of an entirely different mental condition from that withwhich they came in contact now. What is that subtle, mocking change thatcomes over even the inanimate things that we have not seen since wewere happy, and now meet again in grief? It is like a horrible inversionof the golden touch given to Midas. To Gore, during those days, thedarkness fell upon every fresh thing to which he went back. Theimpression was so strong on him as he turned over the manuscript, thathe shuddered. What was the use of all this? What was it worth? He knewin his heart that the person of all others to whom it had been of mostworth was gone--he would not be doing good to himself or to any one elseby going on with it. He would be defrauding no one by letting thedarkness cover it for ever. And another reason yet lay like cold lead atthe bottom of his heart--the real, cruel, crushing reason--he could notwrite the book, he was not capable of writing it. That was the truth. And he desperately thrust the stray leaves into the cover, and the wholething away from him, hopelessly, finally; there was nothing that wouldhelp him. That curtain would never lift again. And he covered his facewith his hands as though trying to shut out the deadly knowledge. 

But of all this Rachel, as she sat waiting for her father at breakfast, was utterly unconscious. She did not realise the unendurablecomplications that had piled one misery on another to him. To her thewound had been terrible, but clean. The greatest loss she could conceivehad stricken her life, but there were no secondary personal problems toadd to it, no preoccupations of self apart from the one greatdesolation. 

Sir William turned over his letters listlessly as he sat down, openedthem, and looked through them. 

"What am I to say to that?" he said, throwing one over to Rachel. 

The colour came into her cheeks as she saw that it was from Rendel. 

"I have one from him too, " she said. 

"Oh! well, I don't ask to see that, " Sir William said, with an attemptat cheerfulness. "I know better. "

"I would rather you saw it, really, father, " and she handed him Rendel'sletter to herself--a straightforward, dignified, considerate letter, inwhich he assured her that he did not mean to intrude himself upon heruntil she allowed him to come, and that all he asked was that she shouldunderstand that he was waiting, and would be content to wait, as long asthere was a chance of hope. 

"Well, when am I to tell him to come?" Sir William said. 

"Father, what he wants cannot be, " Rachel said. 

"Cannot be?" said Sir William. "Why not?"

"Oh!" Rachel said, trying to command her voice, "I could not at thismoment think of anything of that kind. "

"At this moment, perhaps, " Sir William said. "But you see he is not in ahurry. He says so, at any rate, though I am not sure that it is veryconvincing. "

"How would it be possible, " said Rachel, "that I should go away? Whatwould you do if I left you alone?"

"Well, as to that, " Sir William replied, speaking slowly in order thathe might appear to be speaking calmly, "I don't know, in any case, whatI shall do. " And his face looked grey and worn, conveying to Rachel, asshe looked across at him, an impression of helpless old age in thefather who had hitherto been to her a type of everything that wascapable and well preserved. She sprang up and went to him. 

"Father, dear father, " she cried amidst her sobs, as she hid her face onhis shoulder. "You know that you are more to me than any one else in theworld. Let me help you--let me try, do let me try. " And at the sound ofthe words Gore became again conscious of the immeasurable, dark gulfthere was between what one human being had been able to do for him andwhat any other in the world could try to do. And his own sorrow rosedarkly before him and swept away everything else--even the sorrow of hischild. It was almost bitterly that he said, as if the words were wrungfrom him involuntarily--

"Nobody can help me now. "

"Oh, father!" Rachel cried again miserably. "Let me try. "

"Darling, I know, " he said, recollecting himself at the sight of herdistress, "and you know what my little girl is to me; but there are somethings that even a daughter cannot do. And, " he went on, "it wouldreally be a comfort to me, I think, if"--he was going to say, "if youwere married, " but he altered it as he saw a swift change pass overRachel's face--"if I knew you were happy; if you had a home of your ownand were provided for. "

"Do you think that would be a comfort to you?" asked Rachel, trying tospeak in an almost indifferent tone. "That you would be glad if I wereto go away from you to a home of my own?"

"Yes, " he said, "I think it would. " And as he spoke he felt that theburden of giving Rachel companionship and trying to help her to bear hergrief would be removed from him. "Besides, " he went on, with an attemptat a smile, "it is not as if you would go far away from me altogether;you will only be a few streets off, after all. I could come to youwhenever I wanted, and even--who knows?--I might sometimes ask you foryour hospitality. "

"If I thought _that_----" Rachel said, and caught herself up. 

"You know, " her father said more seriously, "we have been discussingthis from one point of view only, from mine; but you are the person mostconcerned, and I am taking for granted that, from your point of view, itwould be the best thing to do--that you would be happy. "

"If I only thought, " Rachel said, her face answering his last question, if her words did not, "that you would come to me--that you would bewith me altogether----"

"I have no doubt that you would find that I came to you very often, "said Sir William, with again a desolate sense of having no definitereason for being anywhere. 

There was a pause before he said, "Then I'll tell him to come and seeme, and perhaps he can see you afterwards. "

"Oh, " said Rachel, shrinking, "it is not possible yet. "

"Well, " said Sir William, "I will tell him so. We will explain to himthat, since he is willing to wait, for the moment he must wait. "

CHAPTER VIII

And Rendel waited--through the autumn, through the winter--but notwithout seeing Rachel again. On the contrary, every week that passedduring that time was bringing him nearer to his goal. After the firstvisit was over, that first meeting under the now maimed and alteredconditions of life, the insensible relief afforded to both father anddaughter by his companionship, his unselfish devotion and helpfulness, his unfailing readiness to be a companion to Sir William, to come andplay chess with him, or to sit up and do intricate patiences through thesmall hours of the morning, all this gradually made him insensibly slideinto the position of a son of the house. And Rachel, convinced that shewas doing the best thing for her father and admitting in her secretheart that for herself she was doing the thing that of all others wouldmake her happy, yielded at last. They were married in April, and wentaway for a fortnight to a shooting-box lent them by Lord Stamfordham inthe West of Scotland, leaving Sir William for the first time alone inthe big, empty house. It was with many, many misgivings that Rachel hadagreed to go; but her father had insisted on her doing so. He hadvaguely thought that perhaps it would be a relief to him to be alone, but he found the solitude unbearable. Those acquaintances of Gore's whosaw him at the club expressed in suitably tempered tones their pleasureat seeing him again, and, thinking he would rather be left alone, discreetly refrained from thrusting their society upon him when inreality he most needed it, remarking to one another that poor old Gorehad gone to pieces dreadfully since his wife died. A great many peopleknew him, and liked him well enough, but he had no intimate friends. Pateley occasionally dropped in; but Pateley was too full of business tohave leisure to help to fill up anybody else's time, and Sir Williamfound the blank in his own house, the unchanging loneliness, almostunbearable. 

In the meantime Rendel and his wife were beginning that page of the bookof life which Sir William had closed for ever. At last, that vision ofthe future to which Rendel had clung with such steadfast hope, with suchunswerving purpose, had been fulfilled: Rachel was his wife. It was anunending joy to him to remember that she was there; to watch for hercoming and going; to see the dainty grace of movement and demeanour, thesweet, soft smile--her mother's smile--with which she listened as hetalked. And during those days he poured himself out in speech as he hadnever been able to do before. It was a relief that was almost ecstasy tothe man who had been made reserved by loneliness to have such alistener, and the sense of exquisite joy and repose which he felt in hersociety deepened as the days went on. To Rachel, too, when once she hadmade up her mind to leave her father, these days were filled with anundreamt-of happiness. She was beginning to recover from the actualshock of her mother's death, although, even as her life opened to allthe new impressions that surrounded her, she felt daily afresh the wantof the tender sympathy and guidance that had been her stay; but anothergreat love had happily come into her life at the moment she needed itmost, and a love that was far from wishing to supplant the other. Thememory of Lady Gore was almost as hallowed to Rendel as it was to hiswife: it was another bond between them. They talked of her constantly, their reverent recollection kept alive the sense of her abiding, gracious influence. 

It was a new and wonderful experience to Rachel to have the burden ofdaily life lifted from her. She had been loved in her home, it is true, as much as the most exacting heart might demand, but since she wasseventeen it was she who had had to take thought for others, to surroundthem with loving care and protection; she had always been conscious, even though not feeling its weight, of bearing the burden of some oneelse's responsibilities. And now it was all different. In the firstrebound of her youth she seemed to be discovering for the first timeduring those days how young she was, in the companionship of one whosetender care and loving protection smoothed every difficulty, everyobstacle out of her path. And all too fast the perfumed days of springglided away, a spring which, on that side of Scotland, was balmy andcaressing. Day after day the sun shone, the mist remained in thedistance, making that distance more beautiful still; and everythingwithin and without was irradiated, and like motes in the sunshine Rendelsaw the golden possibilities of his life dancing in the light of hishopes and illuminating the path that lay before him. 

Rachel wrote to her father constantly, tenderly, solicitously; and SirWilliam, reading of her happiness, did not write back to tell her whatthose same days meant to him. For in London the sky was grey and heavy, and it was through a haze the colour of lead that he saw the years tocome. The dark and cheerless winter had given place to a cold andcheerless spring. 

It was a rainy afternoon that the young couple returned to London; butthe gloomy look of the streets outside did but enhance the brightness ofthe little house in Cosmo Place, Knightsbridge, with its open, squarehall, in which a bright fire was blazing. Light and warmth shoneeverywhere. Rachel drew a long breath of satisfaction, then her eyesfilled with tears. The very sight of London brought back the past. Couldit be possible that her mother was not there to welcome her? She hadthought her father might be awaiting her at Cosmo Place; but as he wasnot, she went off instantly to Prince's Gate. How big and lonely thehouse looked with its gaunt, ugly portico, its tall, narrow hall andendless stairs! The drawing-rooms were closed: Sir William was sittingin his study, a chess-board in front of him, on which he was working outa problem. 

Rachel was terribly perturbed at the change in his appearance--asomething, she did not quite know in what it lay, that betokened someabsolute change of outlook, of attitude. He had the listless, indifferent air of one who lets himself be drifted here and there ratherthan of one who moves securely along, strong enough to hold his own wayin spite of any opposing elements. This fortnight of solitude, in whichhe had been face to face with his own life and his prospects, hadsuddenly, roughly, pitilessly graven on his face the lines that withother men successive experiences accumulate there gently and almostinsensibly. He had taken a sudden leap into old age, as sometimeshappens to men of his standing, who, as long as their life is smooth, uneventful, and prosperous, succeed in keeping an aspect of youth. Rachel's heart smote her at having left him; it reproached her withhaving known something like happiness in these days, and her old senseof troubled, anxious responsibility came back. She begged him to comeand dine with them that evening. He demurred at first at making a thirdon their first night in their own house. Rachel protested, and overruledall his objections. She arrived at home just in time to dress fordinner, finding her husband surprised and somewhat discomfited at herprolonged absence. He had wanted to go proudly all over the house withher, and see their new domain. But as he saw her come up the stairs, herealised that black care had sprung up behind her again, that this wasnot the confiding, naïvely happy Rachel who had walked with him on themoors. 

"There you are!" he said. "I was just wondering what had become of you. "

"I was with my father, " Rachel said, in a tone in which there was atinge of unconscious surprise at what his tone had conveyed. "And, Francis, he looks so dreadfully ill!"

"Does he?" said Rendel, concerned. "I am sorry. "

"He looks really broken down, " she said, "and oh, so much older. I amsure it has been bad for him being alone all this time. I ought not tohave stayed away so long. "

"Well, it has not been very long, " said Rendel with a natural feelingthat two weeks had not been an unreasonable extension of their weddingtour. 

"He looks as if he had felt it so, " she answered. "But at any rate, Ihave persuaded him to come to dinner with us to-night; I am sure it willbe good for him. "

"To-night?" said Rendel, again with a lurking surprise that for thisfirst night their privacy should not have been respected. 

"Yes, " said Rachel. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Oh, of course not, " he replied, again stifling a misgiving. 

"You see, " said Rachel, "I thought it might amuse him, and be a changefor him, and then you might play a game of chess with him after dinner, perhaps. "

"Of course, of course, " Rendel answered. But the misgiving remained. 

When, however, Sir William appeared, Rendel's heart almost smote him asRachel's had done, he seemed so curiously broken down and dispirited. They talked of their Scotch experiences, they spoke a little of theaffairs of the day, but, as Rendel knew of old, this was a dangeroustopic, which, hitherto, he had succeeded either in avoiding altogetheror in treating with a studied moderation which might so far as possibleprevent Sir William's susceptibilities from being offended. Rachel satwith them after dinner while they smoked, then they all went upstairs. 

"Now then, father dear, where would you like to be?" she said, lookinground the room for the most comfortable chair. "Here, this looks a veryspecial corner, " and she drew forward an armchair that certainly was ina most delightful place, looking as if it were destined for the masterof the house, or, at any rate, the most privileged person in it, acomfortable armchair, with the slanting back that a man loves, and byit a table with a lamp at exactly the right height. "There, " she said, pushing her father gently into it, "isn't that a comfortable corner?"

"Very, " Sir William said, looking up at her with a smile. It truly was adelight to be tended and fussed over again. 

"And now you must have a table in front of you, " she said, lookinground. "Let me see--Frank, which shall the chess-table be? Is there afolding table? Yes, of course there is--that little one that we boughtat Guildford. That one!"--and she clapped her hands with childishdelight as she pointed to it. 

Rendel brought forward the little table and opened it. 

"Oh, that is exactly the thing, " she cried. "See, father, it will justhold the chess-board. Now then, this is where it shall alwaysstand--your own table, and your own chair by it. "

CHAPTER IX

It is difficult to judge of any course of conduct entirely on its ownmerits, when it has a reflex action on ourselves. When Rendel before hismarriage used to go to Prince's Gate and to see Rachel, absolutelyoblivious of herself, hovering tenderly round her mother, watching tosee that her father's wishes were fulfilled, that unselfish devotion andabsorption in filial duty seemed to him the most entirely beautifulthing on this earth. But when, instead of being the spectator of thesituation, he became an active participator in it, when the stream ofRachel's filial devotion was diverted from that of her conjugal duties, it unconsciously assumed another aspect in his eyes. But not for worldswould he have put into words the annoyance he could not help feeling, and Rachel was entirely unconscious of his attitude. The devoted, uncritical affection for her father which had grown up with her life wasin her mind so absolutely taken for granted as one of the foundations ofexistence, that it did not even occur to her that Rendel might possiblynot look at it in the same light. She took for granted that he wouldshare her attitude towards her father as he had shared her adoration forher mother. It was all part of her entire trust in Rendel, and thesimple directness with which she approached the problems of life. Shehad, before her marriage, expressed an earnest wish, which Rendelunderstood as a condition, that even if her father did not wish to livewith them, she might share in his life and watch over him, and Rendelhad accepted the condition and promised that it should be as she wished. But it is obviously not the actual making of a promise that is thedifficulty. If it were possible when we pledge ourselves to a givencourse for our imagination to show us in a vision of the future theinnumerable occasions on which we should be called upon to redeem, eachtime by a conscious separate effort, that lightly given pledge of aninstant, the stoutest-hearted of us would quail at the prospect. Rendellooked back with a sigh to those days, that seemed already to havereceded into a luminous distance, when Rachel, alone with him inScotland, with no divided allegiance, had given herself up, heart andmind, to the new happiness, the new existence, that was opening beforeher. 

The danger of pouring life while it is still fluid into the wrong mould, of letting it drift and harden into the wrong shape, is an insidiousperil which is not sufficiently guarded against. It is easy enough tosay, Begin as you mean to go on; but the difficulty is to know exactlythe moment when you begin, and when the point of going on has beenarrived at; and of drifting gradually into some irremediable course ofaction from which it is almost impossible to turn back withoutdifficulty and struggle. There had been a feeling that everything wassomehow temporary during those first days at Cosmo Place, which extendedinto the weeks. Sir William held as a principle, and was quite genuinein his intention when he said it, that young people ought to be left tothemselves. He would not, therefore, take up his abode under their roof, but still that he should do so eventually was felt by all concerned as avague possibility which prevented in the young household a sense ofhaving finally and comfortably settled down. Indeed, as it was, it wasperhaps more unsettling to Rachel, and therefore to her husband, to haveSir William coming and going than it would have been to have himactually under the same roof. If he had been living with them hispresence would have been a matter of course, and less constantcompanionship and diversion would probably have been considerednecessary for him than they were when he dropped in at odd times. Theadvancing season and the grey dark mornings made the early ridesimpossible. Rachel in her secret soul did not regret them. Sir Williamhad taken the habit of looking in at Cosmo Place on his way to Pall Malland further eastward, and it always gave Rachel a pang of remorse if shefound that by an unlucky chance she had been out of the way when hecame. He would also sometimes come in on his way back, as has beensaid, in the obvious expectation of having a game of chess, of whichRendel, if he were at home, had not the heart to disappoint him. Inthese days there was not much occupation for him in the City. Theexcitement of starting and floating the "Equator" Company and theallotting of the shares to the eager band of subscribers had beenaccomplished some time since. The "Equator's" hour, however, had notcome yet. The outlook in the City was not encouraging for those who knewhow to read the weather chart of the coming days. The heart of thecountry was still beating fast and tumultuously after the emotions ofthe past two years; it needed a period of assured quiet to regain itsnormal condition. In the meantime the storm seemed to be subsiding. Thegreat railway laying its iron grip on the heart of Africa was advancingsteadily from the north as well as from the south: it was nearing theEquator. The country, its imagination profoundly stirred by theenterprise, watched it in suspense. But until the meeting of the twogiant highways was effected, everything depended upon an equable balanceof forces, of which a touch might destroy the equilibrium. Germanpossessions and German forces lay perilously near the meeting of the twolines. At any moment a spark from some other part of the world might bewafted to Africa and set the fierce flame of war ablaze in the centre ofthe continent. 

The General Election was coming within measurable distance; the LiberalPeace Crusade was strenuously canvassing the country in favour ofcoming to a definite understanding with certain foreign powers. 

At the house in Cosmo Place it was no longer always possible, as on thatfirst evening, to avoid the subject of politics. 

"I must say, " said Rendel one night with enthusiasm--Stamfordham hadmade a big speech the day before of which the papers werefull--"Stamfordham is a great speaker, and a great man to boot. "

"A great speaker, perhaps, " Sir William said. "I don't know that that isentirely what you want from the man at the helm. "

"Well, proverbially it isn't, " said Rendel, with a smile, determined tobe good-humoured. 

"As to being a great man, " continued Sir William, "anybody who knocksdown everything that comes in his way and stands upon it looks ratherbig. "

"Even admitting that, " said Rendel, "it seems to me that thedetermination and courage necessary to knock down what is in your way, when it can't be got out by any other method, is part of what makes agreat statesman. "

"You speak, " said Sir William, "as if he were a savage potentate. "

"In some respects, " said Rendel, "the savage potentate and civilisedruler are inevitably alike. The ultimate ground, the ultimate arbiter oftheir empire, is force. "

"Empire!" said Sir William. "That is the cry! In your greed for empireyou lose sight of everything but the aggrandisement of a dominionalready so immense as to be unwieldy. "

"Still, " said Rendel, "as we have this big thing in our hands, it isbetter to keep it there than let it drop and break to pieces. "

"I don't wish to let it drop, " said Gore. "I wish to be content toincrease it by friendly intercourse with the world, by the arts of peaceand civilisation, and not by destruction and bloodshed. "

"I am afraid, " said Rendel, "that the savage, which, as you say tootruly, still lurks in the majority of civilised beings, will not becontent to see the world governed on those amiable lines. "

"There I must beg leave to differ from you, " said Sir William, "Ibelieve that the majority of civilised human beings will, when it hasbeen put before them, be on the side of peace. "

"We shall see, " Rendel said, with a smile which was perhaps not asconciliatory as he intended it to be. 

"Yes, you will see when the General Election comes, " said Gore. "And ifit goes for us, and we have a Cabinet composed of men who are not themere puppets in the hands of an autocrat, the destinies of the worldwill be altered. "

"Father, " said Rachel, "do you really think that is how the GeneralElection will go?"

"Quite possibly, " Gore said, with decision. Rendel said nothing. 

"Oh, father!" said Rachel. "I wish that you were in Parliament! Supposeyou were in the Government!"

"Ah, well, my life as you know, was otherwise filled up, " said SirWilliam, with a sigh; "but in that case the Imperialists perhaps mightnot have found everything such plain sailing. " And so much had hepenetrated himself with the conviction of what he was saying, that hefelt himself, as he sat there opposite Rendel, whose wisdom and sagacityin reality so far exceeded his own, to be in the position of the older, wiser man of great influence and many opportunities condescending toexplain his own career to an obscure novice. 

Rendel looked across at Rachel sitting opposite to him, listening towhat her father said with her customary air of sweet and gentledeference, and then smiling at himself; and again he inwardly vowedthat, for her sake, he would endure the daily pinpricks that are almostas difficult to bear in the end as one good sword-thrust. 

"I must say it will be interesting to see who goes out as Governor ofBritish Zambesiland, " he said presently, looking up from the paper. "That will be a big job if you like. "

"Let's hope they will find a big man to do it, " said Sir William. 

"I heard to-day, " said Rendel, "that it would probably be Belmont. "

"Well, he'll be a firebrand Governor after Stamfordham's own heart, "said Gore. "It's absurd sending all these young men out to theseimportant posts. "

"That is rather Stamfordham's theory, " said Rendel--"to have youngishmen, I mean. "

"If he would confine himself to theories, " said Sir William, "it wouldbe better for England at this moment. "

"It might, however, interfere with his practical use as a ForeignSecretary, " Rendel was about to say, but he checked the words on histongue. 

After dinner that evening he remained downstairs under pretext ofwriting some letters, while Rachel proposed to her father to give her alesson in chess. 

Rendel turned on the electric light in his study, shut the door, stoodin front of the fire and looked round him with a delightful sense ofpossession, of privacy, of well-being. His new house--indeed, one mightalmost have said his new life--was still so recent a possession as tohave lost none of its preciousness. He still felt a childish joy in allits details. The house was one of those built within the last decadewhich seem to have made a struggle to escape the uniformity of the olderstreets. The front door opened into a square hall, from the left side ofwhich opened the dining-room, from the right the study, both of theserooms having bow windows, built with that broad sweep of curve whichmakes for beauty instead of vulgarity. The house, Rendel had told hiswife with a smile when they came to it, he had furnished for her, withthe exception of one room in it; the study he had arranged for himself. And it certainly was a room in which, to judge by appearances, a workerneed never be stopped in his work by the paltry need of any necessarytool. Rendel was a man of almost exaggerated precision and order. Everything lay ready to his hand in the place where he expected to findit. A glance at his well-appointed writing-table gave evidence of it. The back wall of the study, opposite the window, was lined with books. On the wall over the fireplace hung a large map of Africa. Rendel lookedintently at it as he thought of the stirring pages of history that werein the making on that huge, misshapen continent, of the field that itwas going to be for the statesmen and administrators of the future: hethought of Lord Belmont, only two years older than himself, with whom hehad been at Eton and at Oxford, and wondered what it felt like to be inhis place and have the ball at one's feet. For Rendel in his heart wasburning with ambition of no ignoble kind. He was burning to do, to act, and not to watch only; to take his part in shaping the destinies of hisfellow-men, to help the world into what he believed to be the rightpath; and he would do it yet. In his mind that evening, as he stoodupright, intent, looking on into the future, there was not the shadow ofa doubt that he would carry out his purpose. He had come downstairssmarting under the impression of Sir William's last words when they werediscussing the new Governor. Then he recovered, and reminded himself ofthe obvious truism that the man occupied with politics must schoolhimself to have his opinions contradicted by his opponents, and mustmake up his mind that there are as many people opposed to his way ofthinking in the world as agreeing with it. But it is one thing to engagein a free fight in the open field, and another to keep parrying thepetty blows dealt by a persecuting antagonist. Day by day, hour by hour, as the time went on, Rendel had to make a conscious effort to keep tothe line he had traced out for himself; he had to tighten hisresolution, to readjust his burden. The yoke of even a belovedcompanionship may be willingly borne, but it is a yoke and a restraintfor all that. But Rendel would not have forgotten it. He accepted thelot he had chosen, unspeakably grateful to Rachel for having bestowedsuch happiness on him, ready and determined to fulfil his part of thecompact, to carry out, even at the cost of a daily and hourly sacrifice, the bargain he had made. And, after all, as long as he made up his mindthat it did not signify, he could well afford, in the great happinessthat had fallen to his lot, to disregard the minor annoyances. His life, his standards, should be arranged on a scale that would enable him todisregard them. If one is only moving along swiftly enough, one hasimpetus to glide over minor impediments without being stopped or turnedaside by them. For Rachel's sake all would be possible, it would bealmost easy. At any rate, it should be done. Rendel's will felt bracedand strengthened by his resolve, and he knew that he would be master ofhis fate. There are certain moments in our lives when we stop at aturning, it may be, to take stock of our situation, when we look backalong the road we have come--how interminable it seemed as we beganit!--and look along the one we are going to travel, prepared to startonward again with a fresh impulse of purpose and energy. That night, asRendel looked on into the future, he felt like the knight who, lance inrest but ready to his hand, rides out into the world ready to embracethe opportunity that shall come to him. 

CHAPTER X

The opportunity that came that night was ushered in somewhatprosaically, not by the sound of a foeman's horn being wound in thedistance, but by the postman's knock. There was only one letter, butthat was an important looking one addressed to Rendel, in a big, squareenvelope with an official signature in the corner. It was, however, marked "private and confidential, " and was not written in an officialcapacity. Rendel as he looked at it, saw that the signature was"Belmont. " In an instant as he unfolded the page his hopes leapt to meetthe words he would find there. Yes, Lord Belmont was going to beGovernor of Zambesiland; that was the beginning. And what was this thatfollowed? He asked Rendel whether, if offered the post of Governor'sSecretary, practically the second in command, he would accept it and goout to Africa with him. The offer, which meant a five years'appointment, was flatteringly worded, with a mention of LordStamfordham's strong recommendation which had prompted it, and wound upwith an earnestly expressed hope that Rendel would not at any raterefuse without having deeply considered it. Belmont, however, asked fora reply as soon as was consistent with the serious reflection necessarybefore taking the step. Rendel looked at the clock. It was half-pastnine. He need not write by post that night, he would send round thefirst thing in the morning. That would do as well. At this particularmoment he need do nothing but look the thing in the face. Seriousconsideration it should have, undoubtedly, though that was not needed inorder to come to a decision. He was not afraid of gazing at this newpossibility that had just swum into his ken. The moment that comes tothose who are going to achieve, when the door in the wall, showing thatglorious vista beyond, suddenly opens to them, is fraught with anexcited joy which partakes at once of anticipation and of fulfilment, and is probably never surpassed when in the fulness of time theopportunities come even too fast on each other's heels, and it hasbecome a foregone conclusion to take advantage of them. There is nomoment of outlook that has the charm of that first gaze from afar, whenthe deep blue distances cloak what is lovely and unlovely alike andmerge them all into one harmonious and inviting mystery. Rendel was inno hurry for that curtain of mysterious distance to lift: possibilityand success lay behind it. He relished with an exquisite pleasure thesense of having a dream fulfilled. The crucial moment that comes tonearly all of us of having to compare the place that others assign tous in life with that which we imagined we were entitled to occupy, is tosome fraught with the bitterest disappointment. The sense of havingcleared successfully that great gulf which lies between one's ownappreciation of oneself and that of other people is one of rapture. Rendel had been so short a time married, and had had so fewopportunities during that time of being called upon for any decision, that it was an entirely new sensation to him to remember suddenly thatthis was a thing which concerned somebody else as well as it didhimself. But the thought was nothing but sweet; it meant that there wassomebody now by his side, there always would be, to care for the thingsthat happened to him; and Rachel, too, would be borne up on the wave ofexcitement and rejoicing that was shaking Rendel, to his own surprise, so strangely out of his usual reserved composure. He sat downmechanically at his writing-table and drew a sheet of writing-paper idlytowards him, wondering how he should formulate his reply. To his greatsurprise and somewhat shamefaced amusement, he found that his hand wasshaking so that he could not control the pen. He would go up beforewriting and tell Rachel. Then, as he went upstairs, he was conscious ofa secret annoyance that a third person should just at this moment bebetween them. 

A profound silence reigned as he opened the drawing-room door. Racheland her father were poring intently over the chess-board. Rachel lookedup eagerly as her husband came in. 

"Oh, Francis, " she said, "I am so glad. Do come and tell me what to do. "

"Yes, I wish you would, " Sir William said, with some impatience. "Lookwhat she is doing with her queen. "

"Is that a letter you want to show me?" said Rachel, looking at theenvelope in Rendel's hand. 

"All right. It will keep, " he said quietly, putting it back in hisbreast pocket. 

Sir William kept his eyes intently fixed upon the board. He would notcountenance any diversion of fixed and rigid attention from the game inhand. 

"That is what I should do, " said Rendel, moving one of Rachel's pawns onto the back line. 

"Oh! how splendid!" said Rachel. "I believe I have a chance after all. "

Sir William gave a grunt of satisfaction. "That's more like it, " hesaid. "If you had come up a little sooner we might have had a decentgame. "

Rendel made no comment. The game ended in the most auspicious waypossible. Rachel, backed by Rendel's advice, showed fight a littlelonger and left the victory to Sir William in the end after a desperatestruggle. The hour of departure came. Rachel and her husband both wentdownstairs with Sir William. They opened the door. It was a bright, starlight night. Sir William announced his intention of walking to acab, and with his coat buttoned up against the east wind, started offalong the pavement. Rachel turned back into the house with a sigh as shesaw him go. 

"He is getting to look much older, isn't he?" she said. "Poor dear, itis hard on him to have to turn out at this time of night. "

Rendel vaguely heard and barely took in the meaning of what she wassaying. His one idea was that now he would be able to tell her his news. 

"Come in here, " he said, drawing her into the study. "I want to tell yousomething. " And he made her sit down in his own comfortable chair. "Ihave had a letter this evening, " he said. 

"Have you?" said Rachel, looking up at him in surprise at the unusualnote of joyousness, almost of exultation, in his tone. "What is itabout?"

"You shall read it, " he said, giving it to her. Her colour rose as sheread on. 

"Oh, what an opportunity!" she said, and a tinge of regret creptstrangely into her voice. "What a pity!"

"A pity?" said Rendel, looking at her. 

"Yes, " she said. "It would have been so delightful. "

"Would have been?" said Rendel, still amazed. "Why don't you say 'willbe'? Do you mean to say you don't want to go?"

"I don't think _I_ could go, " Rachel said, with a slight surprise in hervoice. "How could I?"

Rendel said nothing, but still looked at her as though finding itdifficult to realise her point of view. 

"How could I leave my father?" she said, putting into words the thingthat seemed to her so absolutely obvious that she had hardly thought itnecessary to speak it. 

"Do you think you couldn't?" Rendel said slowly. 

"Oh, Frank, how would it be possible?" she said. "We could not leave himalone here, and it would be much, much too far for him to go. "

"Of course. I had not thought of his attempting it, " said Rendel, truthfully enough, with a sinking dread at his heart that perhaps afterall the fair prospect he had been gazing upon was going to prove nothingbut a mirage. 

"You do agree, don't you?" she said, looking at him anxiously. "You dosee?"

"I am trying to see, " Rendel said quietly. For a moment neither spoke. 

"Oh, I couldn't, " Rachel said. "I simply couldn't!" in a heartfelt tonethat told of the unalterable conviction that lay behind it. There wasanother silence. Rendel stood looking straight before him, Rachelwatching him timidly. Rendel made as though to speak, then he checkedhimself. 

"Oh, isn't it a pity it was suggested!" Rachel cried involuntarily. Rendel gave a little laugh. It was deplorable, truly, that such anopportunity should have come to a man who was not going to use it. 

"But could not _you_----" she began, then stopped. "How long would it befor?"

"Oh, about five years, I suppose, " said Rendel, with a sort of aloofnessof tone with which people on such occasions consent to diverge for themoment from the main issue. 

"Five years, " she repeated. "That would be too long. "

"Yes, five years seems a long time, I daresay, " said Rendel, "as onelooks on to it. "

"I was wondering, " she said hesitatingly, "if it wouldn't have beenbetter that you should have gone. "

"I? Without you, do you mean?" Rendel said. "No, certainly not. That Iam quite clear about. "

"Oh, Frank, I should not like it if you did, " she said, looking up athim. 

"I need not say that I should not. " There was another silence. 

"Should you like it very, very much?" she said. 

"Like what?" said Rendel, coming back with an effort. 

"Going to Africa. "

There had been a moment when Rendel had told Lady Gore how glad he wasthat Rachel had no ambitions, as producing the ideal character. No doubtthat lack has its advantages--but the world we live in is not, alas, exclusively a world of ideals. 

"Yes, I should like it, " he replied quietly. "If you went too, thatis--I should not like it without you. "

"Oh, Frank, it _is_ a pity, " she said, looking up at him wistfully. Butthere was evidently not in her mind the shadow of a possibility that thequestion could be decided other than in one way. 

"Come, it is getting late, " Rendel said. And they left the room with theoutward air of having postponed the decision till the morning. But thedecision was not postponed; that Rachel took for granted, and Rendel hadmade up his mind. This was, after all, not a new sacrifice he was calledupon to make: it was part of the same, of that sacrifice which he hadrecognised that he was willing to make in order to marry Rachel, andwhich was so much less than that other great and impossible sacrifice ofgiving her up. 

He came down early the next morning and wrote to Lord Belmont, meaningwhen Rachel came down to breakfast to show her the letter, in which hehad most gratefully but quite decisively declined the honour that hadbeen done him. He read the letter over feeling as if he were in a dream, and almost smiled to himself at the incredible thought that here was thefirst big opportunity of his life and that he was calmly putting it awayfrom him. Perhaps when he came to talk it over with Rachel again shemight see it differently. Might she? No. He knew in his heart that shewould not. It was probable that Rendel's ambition, his determinedpurpose, would always be hampered by his old-fashioned, almost quixoticideas of loyalty, his conception of the seemliness, the dignity of therelations between husband and wife. In a matter that he felt was aquestion of right or wrong he would probably without hesitation haveused his authority and decided inflexibly that such and such a coursewas the one to pursue; but here he felt it was impossible. It would notbe consistent with his dignity to use his authority to insist upon acourse which, though it might be to his own advantage, was undeniably aninfringement of the tacit compact that he had accepted when he married. With the letter in his hand he went slowly out of the study. Rachel wascoming swiftly down the stairs into the hall, dressed for walking, looking perturbed and anxious. 

"Frank, " she said hurriedly, "I have just had a message from Prince'sGate, my father is ill. "

"I am very sorry, " Rendel said with concern. 

"I must go there directly, " she said. 

"Have you breakfasted?" asked Rendel. 

"Yes, " she said. "At least I have had a cup of tea--quite enough. "

"No, " said Rendel, "that isn't enough. Come, it's absurd that you shouldgo out without breakfasting. "

"I couldn't really, " Rachel said entreatingly. "I must go. "

"Nonsense!" Rendel said decidedly. "You are not to go till you have hadsome breakfast. " And he took her into the dining-room and made her eat. But this, as he felt, was not the moment for further discussion of hisown plans. He saw how absolutely they had faded away from her view. 

"I shall follow you shortly, " he said, "to know how Sir William is. "

"Oh, do, " she said. "You can't come now, I suppose?"

"I have a letter to write first. I must write to Lord Belmont. "

"Oh yes, of course, " she said, with a sympathetic inflection in hervoice. "Oh, Frank, how terrible it would have been if you had been goingaway now!" And she drew close to him as though seeking shelter againstthe anxieties and troubles of the world. 

"But I am not, " said Rendel quietly. And she looked back at him as shedrove off with a smile flickering over her troubled face. 

Rendel turned back into the house. There was nothing more to do, thatwas quite evident. He fastened up the letter to Belmont and sent itround to his house, also writing to Stamfordham a brief letter of thanksfor his good offices and regrets at not being able to avail himself ofthem. 

Later he went to Prince's Gate. Sir William was a little better. It wasa sharp, feverish attack brought on by a chill the night before. Itlasted several days, during which time Rachel was constantly backwardsand forwards at Prince's Gate, and at the end of which she proposed toRendel that her father should, for the moment, as she put it, come tothem to Cosmo Place. 

In the meantime Stamfordham, surprised at Rendel's refusal of theopportunity he had put in his way, had sent for him to urge him tore-consider his decision while there was yet time. Rendel found it veryhard to explain his reasons in such a way that they should seem in theleast valid to his interlocutor. Stamfordham, although he was well awarethat Rendel had married during the spring, had but dimly realised thepractical difference that this change of condition might bring into theyoung man's life and into the code by which his actions were governed. He himself had not married. He had had, report said, one passing fancyand then another, but they had never amounted to more than an impulsewhich had set him further on his way; there had never been an attractionstrong enough to deflect him from his orbit. With such, he was quiteclear, the statesman should have nothing to do. 

"Of course, " he said, after listening to what Rendel had to say, "Ishould be the last person to wish to persuade you to take a coursecontrary to Mrs. Rendel's wishes, but still such an opportunity as thisdoes not come to every man. "

"I know, " said Rendel. 

"I never was married, " Stamfordham went on, "but I have not understoodthat matrimony need necessarily be a bar to a successful career. "

"Nor have I, " Rendel said, with a smile. 

"Let's see. How long have you been married?"

"Four months, " Rendel replied. 

"As I told you, I am inexperienced in these matters, " Stamfordham said, "but perhaps while one still counts by months it is more difficult toassert one's authority. "

"My wife, " said Rendel, "does not wish to leave her father, who is indelicate health. Sir William Gore, you know. "

"Oh, Sir William Gore, yes, " said Stamfordham, with an inflection whichimplied that Sir William Gore was not worth sacrificing any possibleadvantages for. 

"I am very, very sorry, " Rendel said gravely. "I would have given agreat deal to have been going to Africa just now. "

"Yes, indeed. There will be infinite possibilities over there as soon asthings have settled down, " said Stamfordham. And he looked at a tablethat was covered with papers of different kinds, among them some notesin his own handwriting, and said, "Pity my unfortunate secretaries! Idon't think I have ever had any one who knew how to read thoseimpossible hieroglyphics as you did. "

"I don't know whether I ought to say I am glad or sorry to hear that, "said Rendel, as he went towards the door. 

"What are you going to do if you don't go to Africa?" Stamfordham said. 

"Something else, I hope, " said Rendel, with a look and an accent thatcarried conviction. 

"Shan't you go into the House?" said Stamfordham. 

"I mean to try, " Rendel said. Then as he went out he turned round andsaid, "I daresay, sir, there are still possibilities in Europe, afterall. "

"Very likely, " said Stamfordham; and they parted. 

One of the most difficult tasks of the philosopher is not to regret hisdecisions. The mind that has been disciplined to determine quickly andto abide by its determination is one of the most valuable instruments ofhuman equipment. But it certainly needed some philosophy on Rendel'spart, during the period that elapsed between his refusal of LordBelmont's offer and the departure of the newly appointed governor, notto regret that he himself was remaining behind. Day by day the paperswere full of the administrators who were going out, of theirqualifications, of their responsibilities. Day by day Rendel looked atthe map hanging in his study and wondered what transformations theshifting of circumstances would bring to it. 

Sir William Gore, in the meantime, had got better. He had slowly thrownoff the fever that had prostrated him, although he was not able toresume his ordinary life. He had demurred a little at first to theproposal that he should take up his abode at Cosmo Place, then, notunwillingly, had yielded. In his ordinary state of health he would havebeen alive to the proverbial drawbacks of a joint household, but in hispresent state of weakness and depression he felt he could not be alone, and in his secret heart it was almost a relief to be away from Prince'sGate, its memories and associations. It had been in one of these momentsof insight, of revelation almost, that suddenly, like a blinding flashof light shows us in pitiless details the conditions that surround us, that with intense self-pity he had said to himself that there wasactually no one in this whole world with whom he was entitled to comefirst. Rachel's solicitude certainly went far to persuade him of thecontrary; but in his secret soul he bitterly resented the fact thatthere should now be someone to share Rachel's allegiance, althoughRendel might well have contended that he was divided in Sir William'sfavour. 

CHAPTER XI

The Miss Pateleys, sisters of Robert Pateley, lived together. The deathof their parents, as we have said, had taken place when their brotherwas already launched on his successful career as a journalist. They hadat first gone on living in the little country town in which their fatherhad been a solicitor. It had not occurred to them to do anything else. They were surrounded there by people who knew them, who considered them, towards whom their social position needed no explaining and by whom itwas taken for granted. When they went shopping, the tradespeople wouldreply in a friendly way, "Yes, Miss Pateley, --No, Miss Jane. This is thestocking you generally prefer"; or, "These were the pens you had lasttime, " with an intimate understanding of the needs of their customers, forming a most pleasing contrast to the detached attitude of the staffof big shops. The sisters had a very small income between them, eked outby skilful management, and also, it must be said, by constant help fromtheir brother, who represented to them the moving principle of theuniverse embodied in a visible form. He it was who knew things thefemale mind cannot grasp, how to read the gas meter, what to do when thecistern was blocked, or when the landlord said it was not his businessto mend the roof. These things which appeared so preoccupying to Annaand Jane seemed to sit very lightly on their brother Robert, and whenthey saw him shoulder each detail and deal with it with instant andconsummate ease they admired him as much as they did when they saw himcarrying upstairs his own big portmanteau which the united femalestrength of the house was powerless to deal with. After a time Robert, devoted brother though he was, found that it complicated existence tohave to settle these matters by correspondence, still more to havesuddenly to take a journey of several hours from London in order to dealwith them on the spot. He proposed to his sisters that they should comeand live in London. With many misgivings, and yet not without somesecret excitement, they assented, and for a few months before our storybegins they had been established in the same house as their brother, onthe floor above the lodgings he inhabited in Vernon Street, Bloomsbury. Vernon Street, Bloomsbury, was perhaps a fortunate place for them tobegin their London life in, if London life, except as a geographicalterm, it can be called, for two poor little ladies living moreabsolutely outside what is commonly described by that name it would behard to find. Indeed, if it had not been for the courage andadventurous spirit of Jane, the younger of the two, their hearts mightwell have failed them during those first months in which the autumn daysshortened over the district of Bloomsbury. Since they knew no one, theyhad nobody to visit, and nobody came to see them. They were still not alittle bewildered by London. There were, it was true, a great manysights of an inanimate kind; but how to get at them? They did notconsider themselves justified in taking cabs, and omnibuses were atfirst, to two people who had lived all their lives in a tramless town, adisconcerting and complicated means of locomotion. However, as the timewent on they shook down, they found their little niche in existence;they made acquaintance with the clergyman's wife and some of thedistrict visitors, and when the first summer of their London life cameround, the summer following Rachel's marriage, everything seemed to themmore possible. London was bright, sunshiny, and welcoming, instead ofbeing austere and repellent. Pateley had succeeded in obtaining a key ofthe square close to which they lived, and they sat there and revelled inthe summer weather. The mere fact of having him so near them, of knowingthat at any moment in the day he might come in with the loud voice andheartiness of manner which always cheered and uplifted them, albeit someof his acquaintances ventured to find it too audible, gave them a freshsense of being in touch with all the great things happening in theworld. Then came a moment in which, indeed, the larger issues of lifeseemed to present themselves to be dealt with. Pateley, under whoseauspices the _Arbiter_ had prospered exceedingly, and who had aninterest in it from the point of view of a commercial enterprise as wellas of a political organ, found himself one day the possessor of a largersum of ready money than he had expected. He made up his mind that someof it should be given to his sisters, and that the rest should jointheir own savings invested in the "Equator, " which seemed to presentevery prospect of succeeding when once the moment should come to workit. Pateley was altogether in a high state of jubilation in those days. The Cape to Cairo railway was actually on the verge of being completed. In a week more the gigantic scheme would be an accomplished fact. Theexcitement in London respecting it was immense. A small piece of Germanterritory still remained to be crossed, but if no unforeseen incidentarose to jeopardise the situation at the last moment all would yet bewell. The rejoicings of Englishmen commonly take a sturdy and obviousform, and two days after the great junction was expected to take place, the _Arbiter_ was to give a dinner at the Colossus Hotel in the Strandto the representatives of the Cape to Cairo Railway in London, afterwhich the Hotel would be illuminated on all sides, and fireworks overthe river were to proclaim to the whole town that Africa had beenspanned. Pateley was to take the chair at the dinner. He had some sharesin the railway himself, although the rush upon it had been too greatfor him to secure any large amount of them. He had golden hopes, however, in the future of the "Equator, " when once the railway was atits doors. Anderson had gone back again to Africa, this time with aneager staff of companions, and was only waiting for his time to come. 

"Now then, " Pateley said jovially, one evening, as he went into thelodgings in Vernon Street and found his sisters sitting over theirsomewhat inadequate evening meal, "Times are looking up, I must tellyou. I shouldn't wonder if you were better off before long. When therailway's finished, and if the "Equator" mine is all we believe it tobe, you ought to get something handsome out of it--and I have gotsomething for you to go on with which will keep you going in themeantime. So now I hope you will think yourselves justified in sittingdown to a decent dinner every evening, instead of that kind of thing, "and he pointed, with his loud, jovial laugh, to the cocoa and eggs onthe rather dingily appointed table. 

Jane's eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed with an incredulous joy. Anna's breath came quickly. What a fairy prince of a brother this was!

"But, Robert, we had better not make much difference in our way ofliving at first, had we?" Anna said, timidly, calling to mind theinstances in fiction of imprudent persons who had launched out wildly onan accession of fortune and then been overtaken by ruin. 

"Well, I don't suppose you are either of you likely to want to cut a bigdash, " he said with another loud laugh. "At least, I don't see you doingit. "

"It is a great responsibility, " Anna said timidly. "I hope we shall useit the right way. "

"Right way!" said Pateley. "Of course you will. Go to the play with it, get yourself a fur cloak, have a fire in your bedroom----"

"Oh!" said Jane. 

"But, Robert, " Anna said, "I don't feel it is sent to us for that. "

"Sent!" said Pateley. "Well, that is one way of putting it. "

But he did not enlarge upon the point. He accepted his sisters just asthey were, with their limitations, their principles, and everything. Hewas not particularly susceptible to beauty and distinction, in the senseof these qualities being necessary to his belongings, and perhaps it wasas well. Anna and Jane, though they looked undeniably like gentlewomen, had nothing else about them that was particularly agreeable to lookupon. Nor were they either of them very strikingly ugly, or, indeed, strikingly anything. Jane was the better looking of the two. It was, perhaps, a rather heartless freak of destiny that life should haveordained her to live with somebody who was like a parody of herself, older, rounder, thicker, plainer. Living apart they might each havepassed muster; living together they somehow made their ugliness, liketheir income, go further. But in the composite photograph it was Annawho predominated. It was a pity, for she was the stumpier of the two. 

Long and earnest were the discussions the little sisters had that nightafter their splendid brother had departed, until by the time they wentto bed they were prepared, or so it seemed to them, to launch theirexistence on a dizzy career of extravagance. They were going, as theyexpressed it, to put their establishment on another footing, which meantthat instead of being attended by an inexperienced young person ofeighteen they were to have an arrogant one of twenty-five. Their ownelderly servant had declined to face the temptations of London, and hadremained behind, living close to their old home. And, greatest event ofall, they had at length--it was now summer, but that didn't matter, furswere cheaper--yielded to the thought which they had been alternatelycaressing and dismissing for months, and they were each going to buy aFur Cloak. The days in which this all important purchase was beingconsidered were to the Miss Pateleys days of pure enjoyment. Days ofwalks along Oxford Street, no longer so bewildered by the noise ofLondon traffic, the discovery of some shop in an out of the way placewhose wares were about half the price of the more fashionable quarters. The days were full of glorious possibilities. 

It was two days after that evening visit of Pateley's to his sisters, which had so gilded and transformed their existence, that sinisterrumours began to float over London, bringing deadly anxiety in theirwake. Telegrams kept pouring in, and were posted all over the town, becoming more and more serious as the day went on: "Disturbances inSouth Africa. Hostile encounter between English and Germans. Cape toCairo Railway stopped. Collapse of the 'Equator, Ltd. , '" until bynightfall the whole of England knew the pitifully unimportant incidentsfrom which such tragic consequences were springing--that a group oftravelling missionaries, halting unawares on German territory andchanting their evening hymns, had been disturbed by a rough fellow whocame jeering into their midst, that one of the devout group had finallyejected him, with such force that he had rolled over with his head on astone and died then and there; and that the Germans were insisting uponhaving vengeance. As for the "Equator, Ltd. , " nobody knew exactly inwhat the collapse consisted. The wildest reports were circulatedrespecting it; one saying that it was in the hands of the Germans, another that they had destroyed the plant that was ready to work it, another again, and it was the one that gained the most credence, thatthere was no gold in the mine at all, and that the whole thing was aswindle. The offices of the "Equator" were closed for the night. Theywould probably be besieged the next morning by an angry crowd eager tosell out, but the shares would now be hardly worth the paper they werewritten upon. Pateley, in a frenzy of anxiety, in whichever directionhe looked--for his sisters, for himself, for his party, for the Cape toCairo Railway--spent the night at his office to see which way eventswere going to turn. In his unreasoning anger, as the day of misfortunedawned next morning, against destiny, against the far-away unknownmissionaries, against all the adverse forces that were standing in theway of his wishes, there was one concrete figure in the foreground uponwhom he could justifiably pour out his wrath: Sir William Gore, theChairman of the "Equator, " who, in the public opinion, was responsiblefor the undertaking. He would go to see Sir William that very day assoon as it was possible. In the meantime he would go round to hissisters to try to prepare them for the unfavourable turn that theircircumstances after all might possibly take. As, sorely troubled at whathe had to say, he came up into their little sitting-room, he found itbright with flowers; the fragrance of sweet peas filled the air. Anna, who had longed for flowers all her life and had welcomed with tremulousgratitude the rare opportunities that had come in her way of receivingany, had suddenly realised that it might not be sinful to buy them. Thejoy that she had in the handful bought from a street vendor was cheap, after all, at the price that might have seemed exorbitant if it had beenspent on the flowers alone. 

"Robert, " said Jane, almost before he was inside the room, "guess whatwe are going to do?"

"Something very naughty, I'm afraid, " Anna said, excited and shy at thesame time. She was generally less able than Jane to overcome the awethat they both felt of a relation so great and so beneficent, soaltogether perfect, as their brother Robert, but at this moment she wasintoxicated by the possession of wealth, by the sense of luxury, ofwell-being, by that fragrance of the spirit her imagination added to thefragrance of the flowers that stood near her. "We're each going to buy afur cloak like that, look!" And she held out to him proudly the picturein the inside cover of the _Realm of Fashion_, representing a tall, slender, undulating lady, about as unlike herself as could well havebeen imagined, wrapped in a beautiful clinging garment of which thelining, turned back, displayed an exquisite fur. Pateley, as we havesaid, was not as a rule given to an excess of sensibility. He did notridicule sentiment in others, but neither did he share it; that point ofview was simply not visible to him. Suddenly, however, on this eveninghe had a moment of what felt to himself a most inconvenient access ofemotion. There was a plain and obvious pathos in this particularsituation that it needed no very fine sensibilities to grasp, in thesight of his sister, her small, thickset little figure encased in herugly little gown, looking up appealingly to him over her spectacles withthe joy of a child in the toy she was going to buy. It was probably thefirst, the very first time in her life, that she had had that particularexperience. Added to the joy of getting the thing she coveted was thesense of having looked a conscientious scruple in the face, and seen itfly before her like an evil spirit before a spell. She had routed theenemy, pushed aside the obstacle in front of her, and, excited, andflushed with victory, was looking round on a bigger world and a fairerview. Pateley, to his own surprise, found himself absolutely incapableof putting into words what he had come to say, not a thing that oftenhappened to him. In wonder at his not answering at once, Anna, misinterpreting his very slight pause, caught herself up quickly andsaid anxiously--

"That is what you suggested, isn't it, Robert? You are quite sure youapprove of it?"

"Yes, yes, I approve, " he said heartily, recovering himself. "Of course. Go ahead. "

"You must not think, " she went on, reassured, "that we mean to spend allour money in things like this, but of course a fur cloak is useful; itis a possession, isn't it? and it is, after all, one's duty to keepone's health. "

"Of course it is, " Pateley said. "No need of any further argument. "

"I am so glad, " she said, "so glad you approve!" and she smiled againwith delight. 

Again Pateley felt an unreasoning fury rising in his mind that peoplewho were so easily satisfied should not be allowed to have their heart'sdesire. Perhaps after all, it was not true about the "Equator"; perhapsthings might be better than they seemed. At any rate, he would not sayanything to his sisters until he had seen Gore. And with some hurriedexplanation of the number of engagements that obliged him to leave them, he strode out. 

CHAPTER XII

In the meantime Lord Stamfordham, watching the situation, felt there wasnot a single instant to lose. There is one moment in the life of aconflagration when it can be stamped out: that moment passed, no powercan stop it. Stamfordham, his head clear, his determination strong andready, resolved to act without hesitating on his own responsibility. Hesent a letter round to Prince Bergowitz, the German Ambassador, begginghim to come and see him. Prince Bergowitz was laid up with an attack ofgout which unfortunately prevented his coming, but he would be glad toreceive Lord Stamfordham if he would come to see him. 

It was a little later in the same day that Rendel, alone in his study, was standing, newspaper in hand, in front of the map of Africa lookingto see the exact localities where the events were happening which mighthave such dire consequences. At that moment Wentworth, passing throughCosmo Place, looked through the window and saw him thus engaged. Heknocked at the hall door, and, after being admitted, walked into thestudy without waiting to be announced. 

"Looking at the map of Africa, and I don't wonder, " he said. "Isn't itawful?"

"It's terrible, " said Rendel, "about as bad as it can be. "

"Look here, why aren't you over there to help to settle it?" saidWentworth. 

"Well, I should not have been there, in any case, " said Rendel. "That iswhere I should have been--look, " with something like a sigh. 

"You would have been nearer than you are now, " said Wentworth. "Upon myword, I haven't patience with you. The idea of throwing up such a chanceas you have had!"

"How do you know about it?" Rendel said. 

"How do I know?" said Wentworth. "Everybody knows that you were offeredit and refused. "

"After all, " said Rendel, "there are some things one leaves undone inthis world. It does not follow that because people are offered a thingthey must necessarily accept it. "

"I don't say I am not in favour of leaving things undone, " Wentworthsaid, "on occasion. "

"So I have observed, " said Rendel. 

"But really, you know, " Wentworth went on, "this is too much. What doyou intend to do?"

"What do I intend to do?" Rendel said, with a half smile, thenunconsciously imparting a greater steadfastness into his expression, "broadly speaking, I intend to do--everything. "

"Oh! well, there's hope for you still, " Wentworth said, "if that is yourintention. It's rather a large order, though. "

"Well, as I have told you before, " Rendel said, "I don't see why thereshould be any limit to one's intentions. The man who intends little isnot likely to achieve much. "

"That's all very well, and plausible enough, I dare say, " saidWentworth, "but the way to achieve is not to begin by refusing all yourchances. "

"This is too delightful from you, " said Rendel, "who never do anythingat all. "

"Not at all, " said Wentworth. "It is on principle that I do nothing, inorder to protest against other people doing too much. I wish to have aneight hours' day of elegant leisure, and to go about the world as anexample of it. It would be just as inconsistent of me to accept aregular occupation as it is of you to refuse it. "

"I have a very simple reason for refusing this, " said Rendel moreseriously, and he paused. "I am a married man. "

"To be sure, my dear fellow, " said Wentworth, "I have noticed it. "

"My wife didn't want to go to Africa, " said Rendel, "and there was anend of it. "

"Oh, that was the end of it?" said Wentworth. 

"Absolutely, " said Rendel. "She did not want to leave her father. "

"Ah, is that it?" said Wentworth, feeling that he could not decentlyadvance an urgent plea against Sir William. "Poor old man! I know he'sgone to pieces frightfully since his wife died--still, couldn't some onehave been found to take care of him?"

"Hardly any one like Rachel, " Rendel said. 

"Naturally, " said Wentworth. 

"You know he is living with us?" Rendel said. 

"Is he?" said Wentworth surprised. "Upon my word, Frank, you are a goodson-in-law. "

Rendel ignored the tone of Wentworth's last remark and said quitesimply--

"Oh! well, there was nothing else to be done. He's been ill, you know, really rather bad; first he had a chill, and then influenza on the topof it. He's frightfully low altogether. "

"But I rather wonder, " said Wentworth, "as Mrs. Rendel had her fatherwith her, that you didn't go to Africa without her. Wouldn't that havebeen possible?"

"No, " said Rendel decidedly. "Quite impossible. "

"I should have thought, " said Wentworth, "that in these enlightened daysa husband who could not do without his wife was rather a mistake. "

"That may be, " said Rendel. "But I think on the whole that the husbandwho can do without her is a greater mistake still. "

"It is a great pity you were not born five hundred years ago, " saidWentworth. 

"I should have disliked it particularly, " said Rendel. "I should havebeen fighting at Flodden, or Crécy, or somewhere, and I should havebeen too old to marry Rachel, even in these days of well-preservedcentenarians. It is no good, Jack; I am afraid you must leave me to myfolly. "

"Well, well, " said Wentworth, agreeing with the word, and thinking tohimself that even the wisest of men looks foolish at times when he hasthe yoke of matrimony across his shoulders; "after all there is to besaid--if we are going to have another war on our hands in Africa, whichHeaven forfend, the time of the statesmen over there is hardly comeyet. "

At this moment the door opened and the two men turned round quickly asRachel came in. 

"Frank, " said Rachel. "Should you mind----" Then she stopped as she sawWentworth. "Oh, how do you do, Mr. Wentworth? I didn't know you werehere. Don't let me interrupt you. "

"On the contrary, " said Wentworth, "it is I who am interrupting yourhusband. "

"I only came to see, Frank, if you were very busy, " she said. 

"I am not at this moment. Do you want me to do anything?"

"Well, presently, would you play one game of chess with my father? I amnot really good enough to be of much use; it doesn't amuse him to playwith me. "

"Yes, " said Rendel. "I have just got one or two letters to write andthen I'll come. "

"I think it would really be better, " said Rachel, "if he came in here. It is rather a change for him, you know, to come into a different roomafter having been in the house all day. "

"Just as you like, " said Rendel, without much enthusiasm, but alsowithout any noticeable want of it. 

"Well, " said Wentworth, "I'm not going to keep you any longer, Frank. Ijust came in to--give you my views about things in general. "

"Thank you, " said Rendel, with a smile. "I am much beholden to you forthem. "

"Perhaps you would come up and see my father, Mr. Wentworth, " saidRachel, "before you go away?"

"I shall be delighted, " Wentworth said. His feeling towards Sir WilliamGore was kindly on the whole, and the kindliness was intensified at thismoment by compassion, although he could not help resenting a little thatGore should have been an indirect cause of Rendel's refusing whatWentworth considered was the chance of his friend's life. He shook handswith Rendel and prepared to follow Rachel. At this moment a loud, doubleknock resounded upon the hall door with a peremptoriness which must haveinduced an unusual and startling rapidity in the movements of Thacker, Rendel's butler, for almost instantly afterwards he threw open the studydoor with a visible perturbation and excitement in his demeanour, saying--

"It's Lord Stamfordham, sir, who wants particularly to see you. " And toRendel's amazement Lord Stamfordham appeared in the doorway. He bowedto Wentworth, whom he knew slightly, and shook hands with Rachel. Shethen went straight out, followed by Wentworth. As the door closed behindthem, Stamfordham, answering Rendel's look of inquiry and withoutwaiting for any interchange of greetings, said hurriedly--

"Rendel, I want you to do me a service. "

"Please command me, " Rendel said quickly, looking straight at him. Hefelt his heart beat as Stamfordham paused, put his hat down on thetable, took his pocket-book out of his breast pocket and a folded paperout of it. 

"I want you, " he said, "to transcribe some pencil notes of mine. "

"You want _me_ to transcribe them?" said Rendel, with an involuntaryinflection of surprise in his tone. 

"Yes, if you will, " said Stamfordham. "The fact is, Marchmont, the onlyman I have had since you left me who can read my writing when I takerough pencil notes in a hurry, has collapsed just to-day, out of sheerexcitement I believe, and because he sat up for one night writing. "

"Poor fellow!" said Rendel, half to himself. 

"Yes, " said Stamfordham drily; and then he went on, as one who knowsthat he must leave the sick and wounded behind without waiting to pitythem. "These, " unfolding the paper, "are notes of a conversation that Ihave just had at the German Embassy with Bergowitz. " Rendel's quickmovement as he heard the name showed that he realised what thatjuxtaposition meant at such a moment. "Every moment is precious, "Stamfordham went on, "and it suddenly dawned on me as I left the Embassythat you were close at hand and might be willing to do it. "

The German Embassy was at the moment, during some building operations, occupying temporary premises near Belgrave Square. 

"I should think so indeed, " Rendel said eagerly. 

"The notes are very short, as you see, " said Stamfordham. "You know, ofcourse, what has been happening. I needn't go into that. " And as hespoke a boy passed under the windows crying the evening papers, and theydistinctly heard "Panic on the Stock Exchange. " The two men's eyes met. 

"Yes, there is a panic on the Stock Exchange, " Stamfordham said, "because every one thinks there will be war--but there probably won't. "

"Not?" said Rendel. "Can it be stopped?"

Stamfordham answered him by unfolding the piece of paper and laying itdown before him on the table. It was a map of Africa, roughly outlined, but still clearly enough to show unmistakably what it was intended toconvey, for all down the map from north to south there was a thick linedrawn to the west of the Cape to Cairo Railway--the latter beingindicated, but more faintly, in pencil--starting at Alexandria andrunning down through the whole of the continent, bending slightly to thesouthward between Bechuanaland and Namaqualand, and ending at theOrange River. East of that line was written ENGLAND, west of it GERMANY, and below it some lines of almost illegible writing in pencil. 

Rendel almost gasped. 

"What?" he said; "a partition of Africa?"

"Yes, " said Stamfordham. Then he said with a sort of half smile, "Thepartition, that is to say, so far as it is in our own hands. But, "speaking rapidly, "I will just put you in possession of the facts of thecase and give you the clue. We abandon to Germany everything that wehave a claim to west of this line. It does not come to very much, " inanswer to an involuntary movement on Rendel's part; and he swept hishand across the coast of the Gulf of Guinea as though wiping out ofexistence the Gold Coast, Ashanti, Sierra Leone, and all that hadmattered before. "Germany abandons to us everything that she lays claimto on the east of it, including therefore the whole course of the Capeto Cairo Railway. "

"But has Germany agreed?" said Rendel, stupefied with surprise. 

"Germany has agreed, " said Stamfordham. "We have just heard fromBerlin. "

Rendel felt as if his breath were taken away by the rapid motion of theevents. 

"That means peace, then?" he said. 

"Yes, " Stamfordham said; "peace. "

"Then when is this going to be given to the world?" said Rendel. 

"Some of it possibly to-morrow, " said Stamfordham. "The Cabinet Councilwill meet this evening, and the King's formal sanction obtained. Ofcourse, " he went on, "the broad outlines only will be published--thefact of the understanding at any rate, not necessarily the terms of thepartition. But it is important for financial reasons that the countryshould know as soon as possible that war is averted. "

"Of course, of course, " said Rendel. "Immeasurably important. "

Stamfordham took up his hat and held out his hand with his air ofcourtly politeness as he turned towards the door. 

"I may count upon you to do this for me immediately?"

"This instant, " said Rendel, taking up the papers. "Shall I take them toyour house as soon as they are done?"

"Please, " said Stamfordham. "No, stay--I am going back to the GermanEmbassy now, then probably to the Foreign Office. You had better simplysend a messenger you can rely upon, and tell him to wait at my house togive them into my own hand, as I am not sure where I shall be for thenext hour. Rendel, I must ask you by all you hold sacred to take care ofthose papers. If that map were to be caught sight of before thetime----"

Rendel involuntarily held it tighter at the thought of such acatastrophe. 

"Good Heavens!--yes, " he said. "But that shan't happen. Look, " and hedropped the paper through the slit in the closed revolving corner ofhis large writing-table, a cover that was solidly locked with his ownkey so that, though papers could be put in through the slit, it wasimpossible to take them out again without unlocking the cover andlifting it up. "This is the only key, " he said, showing his bunch. "Nowthen, they are perfectly safe while I go across the hall with you. "

Stamfordham nodded. 

"By the way, " he said, pausing, "you are married now, Rendel. .. . "

"I am, yes, I am glad to say, " Rendel replied. 

"To be sure, " said Stamfordham, with a little bow conveying discreetcongratulation. "But--remember that a married man sometimes tellssecrets to his wife. "

"Does he, sir?" said Rendel, with an air of assumed innocence. 

"I believe I have heard so, " said Stamfordham. 

"On the other hand, " said Rendel, "I also have heard that a married mansometimes keeps secrets from his wife. "

"Oh well, that is better, " said Stamfordham. 

"From some points of view, perhaps, " said Rendel. Then he added moreseriously, "You may be quite sure, sir, that no one--_no one_--in thishouse shall know about those papers. I would give you my word of honour, but I don't suppose it would make my assertion any stronger. "

"If you said nothing, " said Stamfordham, "it would be enough;" andRendel's heart glowed within him as their eyes met and the compact wasratified. "By the way, Rendel, there was one thing more I wanted to sayto you. There will probably be a vacancy at Stoke Newton before long;aren't you going into the House?"

"Some time, " said Rendel. "When I get a chance. "

"Well, there is going to be a chance now, " said Stamfordham. "OldCrawley is going to resign. I hear it from private sources; the worlddoesn't know it yet. It is a safe Imperialist seat, and in our part ofthe world. "

"I should like very much to try, " said Rendel, forcing himself to speakquietly. 

"Suppose you write to our committee down there?" said Stamfordham. "Thatis, when you have done your more pressing business--I mean mine. "

"That shall come before everything else, " Rendel said. "I will do it atthis moment. "

He turned quickly back into his study after Stamfordham had left him, and unlocked and threw up the revolving cover of the writing-tablehastily, for fear that something should have happened to the paper onwhich the destinies of the civilised world were hanging. There it was, safe in his keeping, his and nobody else's. He took it in his hand andfor a moment walked up and down the room, unable to control himself, trying to realise the tremendous change in the aspect of his fortunesthat had taken place in the last half-hour. Then he had seemed tohimself in the backwater, out of the throng of existence. He had beentrying to reconcile himself to the idea that he was "out of it, " as hehad put it to himself--left behind. And now he shared with the two greatpotentates of the world the knowledge of what was going to take place;it was his hand that should transcribe the words that had decided it; hewas a witness, and so far the only one. Then with an effort he forcedhimself to be calm. Every minute was of importance. He sat down at thewriting-table, took up the paper, and pored over it to try todisentangle the strange dots, scratches, and lines which, flowing fromStamfordham's pen, took the place of handwriting. Some ill-naturedpeople said that Stamfordham was quite conscious of the advantage ofhaving writing which could not be read without a close scrutiny. It wasno doubt possible. However, having the clue to what the contents of thepaper were, Rendel, to his immense relief, found that he could decipherit. As he was writing the first word of the fair copy the door of thestudy opened slowly, and Sir William Gore appeared on the threshold, anewspaper in his hand. 

CHAPTER XIII

Sir William, who had not been able to come downstairs for a month, maybe forgiven for unconsciously feeling that the occasion was one whichdemanded from his son-in-law a semblance of cordial welcome at any rate, if not of glad surprise. It is an extraordinarily difficult thing tolearn that we are not looking each of us at the same aspect of life asour neighbour, especially our neighbour of a different time of life fromourselves. We appeal to him as a matter of course, and say, "Look! seehow life appears to me to-day! see what existence is like in relation tomyself!" But unfortunately the neighbour, who is standing on the outsideof that particular circle, and not in its centre, does not see what wemean. Sir William had been shut up for a month in the room that heinhabited on the drawing-room floor of the house in Cosmo Place. He hadsimply not had mental energy to care about what was happening beyond thefour walls of that room. If he had been asked at that moment what theuniverse was, he would have said that it was a succession of days andnights in which the important things of life were the hours andcompositions of his meals, the probable hour of the doctor's visit, andthe steps to be made each day towards recovery and the resumption ofordinary habits. 

Rachel had of course devoted herself to him. It was she who went up withhis breakfast, who read to him during the morning, who tried to remembereverything that happened out of doors to tell him on her return; it wasshe who had done many hundreds of patiences in the days when he was notwell enough to play at chess. He was hardly well enough now, but he hadset his heart upon the first day when he should come down and play chesswith Rendel as a sort of pivot in his miserable existence. And now themoment had come. How should he know that for all practical purposes hisson-in-law was a different being from the young man who had comeupstairs to see him the day before? For yesterday Rendel had come up andtalked to him about indifferent things, not telling him, lest he shouldbe excited, of the evil rumours that were filling the air, and had gonedownstairs again himself with a miserably unoccupied day in front ofhim--a day in which to remember and overcome the fact that, instead ofbeing in the arena of which the echoes reached him, he was doomed to bea spectator from afar, who could take no part in the fray. But so muchSir William had not known. How should we any of us know what the inwardcounterpart is to the outward manifestation? know that the person whocomes into the room may be, although appearing the same, different fromthe one who went out? He knew only that the Rendel of this morning hadsaid with a smile, "I am looking forward to the moment when you willcheckmate me again. " And Sir William had a right to expect that, thatmoment having come, Rendel should feel the importance and pleasure of itas much as he did himself. But it was not the same Rendel who sat there, it was not the unoccupied spectator ready to join his leisure to that ofanother; it was a resolute combatant who had been suddenly called into afront post, and for whom the whole aspect of the world had changed. Itwas an absolute physical effort to Rendel, as the door opened and he sawSir William, to bring his mind back to the conditions of a few hoursbefore. The fact of any one coming in at that moment called him back toearth again, turned him violently about to face the commonplaceimportunities of existence. Sir William had probably not formulated tohimself what he had vaguely expected, but it certainly was not thepuzzled, half-questioning look, the indescribable air of being takenaback, altered at once by a quick impulse into something that tried notto look forbidding, and more strange and tell-tale than all the quickmovement by which Rendel drew a large sheet of blotting-paper over whathe was writing. Sir William's whole being was jarred, his rejoicing inthe small occasion of being on another stage towards recovery was gone;nobody cared, not one. Rachel was not in the house, and who else wasthere to care? Nobody: there never would be again. Could it be possiblethat for the rest of his life he was doomed to be in a world so arrangedthat his comings and goings were not the most important of all? He stoodstill a moment, then tried to speak in his usual voice. 

"I am not in your way, am I, Rendel?"

Rendel also made a conscious effort as he replied, rising from his chairas he spoke--

"Oh no, Sir William, please come in. I have some writing to finish, ifyou don't mind. "

"Pray go on, " said Sir William; "I won't disturb you. I'll sit down hereand read the paper till you are ready"; and he sat down with his back tothe writing-table and the window, in the big chair which Rendel drewforward. 

"Thank you, " Sir William said. "I took the liberty of bringing in yourafternoon paper which was outside. "

"Certainly, " Rendel replied, too absorbed for the moment in the thinghis own attention was concentrated upon to realise the bearing of whatGore was saying. "Of course, " and went back to his writing. 

Gore leant back, idly turning over the pages of the _Mayfair Gazette_;then he started as his eye fell on the alarmist announcements. What wasthis? What incredible things were these that he saw? The letters wereswimming before him; he could only vaguely distinguish the blackcapitals and the headlines; the rest was a blur. All that stood outclearly was: "Cape to Cairo Railway in Danger, " and then beneath it:"Sinister Rumours about the 'Equator, Ltd. '"

"Rendel!" he said, half starting up. Rendel turned round with a start, dragging his mind from the thing it was bent upon. "How awful this is!"said Sir William, holding up the paper with a shaking hand. Rendel beganto understand. But, that he should have to look up for one moment, forthe fraction of a second, from those words that he was transcribing!

"Yes, yes, it is terrible, " he said, and bent over his writing again. Sir William tried to go on reading. What was this about Germany? Warwould mean the collapse of everything--private schemes as well as allothers. 

"War! Do you think it can possibly mean war?" he said. "Can't Germany besquared?"

"War!" said Rendel without looking up. "Who can tell?" And again he feltthe supreme excitement of standing unseen at the right hand of the manwho was driving the ship through the storm. Sir William laid down thepaper on his knee and tried to think, but all he could do was to closehis eyes and keep perfectly still. Everything was vague . .. And theworst of it--or was it the best of it?--was that nothing seemed tomatter. 

At the same moment a brief colloquy was being exchanged outside the halldoor. Stamfordham's brougham had drawn up again, and Thacker, who wasstanding hanging about the hall with a secret intention of being on thespot if tremendous things were going to happen, had instantly rushedout. 

"Is Mr. Rendel in?" said Lord Stamfordham hurriedly as Thacker stood atthe door of the brougham. 

"Yes, my lord. "

"Ask him to come and speak to me. "

Thacker was shaken into unwonted excitement; he opened the door of thestudy quickly and went in. Sir William started violently. Any suddennoise in the present state of his nerves threw him completely off hisbalance. 

"Can you come and speak to Lord Stamfordham, sir?"

Rendel sprang up; then with a sudden thought turned back and pulled downthe top of his writing-table, which shut with a spring, and rushed outwithout seeing that Sir William had begun raising himself laboriouslyfrom his chair as he said--

"Don't let me be in your way, Rendel. "

"His lordship is not coming in, Sir William, " said Thacker. 

Sir William sank back into his chair. Thacker, after waiting an instantas though to see whether Gore had any orders for him, went quietly out, closing the door after him. 

Rendel had madly caught up a hat as he passed, and flown down the steps, not seeing in his haste a burly personage who was coming along thepavement dressed in the ordinary garb of the English citizen, withnothing about him to show that his glowing right hand held thethunderbolts which he was going to hurl at the head of Gore. It isunnecessary to say that Robert Pateley knew Stamfordham's carriage wellby sight; and it was with pleasure and satisfaction that he found thatProvidence had brought him on to the pavement at Cosmo Place in time tosee one of the moves in the great game which the world was playing thatday. It was better on the whole that he should not accost Rendel. Therewas no need at that moment for Stamfordham to be aware of his presence, although, after all, there was no reason why he should not be. Butseeing Rendel standing speaking to Stamfordham at the door of thebrougham he conceived that he was probably coming in again directly, andmade up his mind to go in and see Gore at any rate if possible. He wentup the steps, therefore, and into the house, the front door being open. It happened neither Rendel nor Stamfordham saw him enter, the formerhaving his back turned and blocking the view of the latter. Thacker, with intense interest, was watching the development of affairs from thedining-room window, and did not see Pateley go in either. 

"Have you done the thing?" said Stamfordham quickly. 

"All but, " Rendel said. 

"Well, I want you to add this, " said Stamfordham. "Get in and drive backwith me, will you? I have so little time. "

Rendel jumped in, and the brougham moved past the window just as SirWilliam Gore, who had painfully pulled himself out of his chair, lookedout, petrified with surprise at the unexplained crisis that seemed tohave come upon the household. "Stamfordham!" he said to himself, "andFrank! What are the Imperialists hatching now, I wonder?" and hemechanically looked round him at Rendel's writing-table. It was, however, closed and forbidding, save for a little corner of white paperthat was sticking out under the revolving flap. By one of those strange, almost unconscious impulses which may suddenly overtake the best of usat times, Gore put out his hand and pulled out the paper. It was quiteloose and came away in his hand. What was it? He looked at it vaguely. Then gradually it became clear. A map?. .. Yes, it was a rough map, witha thick line drawn from the top to the bottom down the middle of it;names to the right and the left. England? Germany? And what were thosewords written underneath? _What?_ Was that how Germany was going to be'squared?' And sheer excitement gave him strength to grasp more or lessthe meaning of what he saw. If Africa were going to be divided, ifGermany and England were agreeing to that division, it meant Peace. There was no doubt of it. But had the Imperialists suddenly gone on tothe side of peace? Had they snatched that trump card from theiradversaries and were they going to play it? Sir William stood gazing atthe paper. Then as he heard some one at the door of the room hesuddenly realised what he had done. He instinctively clutched the paperin the hand which held the _Mayfair Gazette_, the newspaper concealingit. As he turned and looked towards the door an unexpected sight greetedhis eyes--no other than Pateley, who, finding himself in the hallunheralded, had made up his mind to come into Rendel's study and therering the bell for some one who should bring word to Sir William Gore ofhis presence. But he was surprised to find Sir William downstairsinstead of in his room as he had expected. He paused for a moment, shocked at the change in Gore's appearance. He looked thin, listless, bent: his upright figure, his spring, his energy were gone. Pateley'sheart smote him for a moment. Would it be possible to call this feeble, suffering creature to account? Then his heart hardened again as hethought of his sisters. 

"Pateley!" said Gore, advancing with the remains of his usual manner, but curiously shaken for the moment, as Pateley said to himself, out ofhis usual self-confidence. 

The state of nervousness of the older man was painfully perceptible. Added to his general weakness, which made the mere fact of seeing someone unexpectedly a sudden shock to him, he had besides at that moment anadditional and very definite reason for uneasiness in the thing which heheld in his hand. He endeavoured, however, to pull himself together ashe shook hands with Pateley. 

"I have not seen you for a long time, " he said, pointing to a chair andsinking back into his own. 

"No, " Pateley replied. "I was very sorry to hear that you had been ill. You are looking rather bad still. "

"And feeling so, " Sir William said wearily. "The worst of influenza isthat one feels just as bad when one is supposed to be getting better aswhen one is supposed to be getting worse. It is a most annoying form ofcomplaint. "

"So I have understood, " said Pateley, "though I have not learnt it bypersonal experience. "

"No, you don't look as though you suffered from weakness, " said SirWilliam, with a faint smile and a consciousness that this was not aperson from whom it would be very easy to extract sympathy for his owncondition. 

Pateley paused. He felt curiously uncomfortable and hesitating, asensation somewhat novel to him. Sir William leant back in his chair, trying to control the trembling of his hands, of which one held the_Mayfair Gazette_, the smaller paper still concealed underneath it. 

"I see, " Pateley said, "you are reading the evening paper. Not very goodreading, is it? Things look pretty bad. "

"They do indeed, " said Sir William. 

"It looks uncommonly like war with Germany, " Pateley said; "prices aretumbling down headlong on the Stock Exchange. I believe there is goingto be something very like a panic. "

"Is there?" said Gore uneasily; "that's bad. "

"Yes, it is very bad, " Pateley went on. "I suppose you have heard thatthere are ugly rumours about the 'Equator. '"

"I saw something, " Sir William said, forcing himself to speak. "What isit exactly that they say?"

"Well, the last thing they say, " Pateley replied with a harder ring inhis voice, "is that it is not a gold mine at all. "

"What?" said Sir William, grasping the arms of his chair. 

"And that the whole thing, therefore, is going to pieces with everypenny invested in it. "

"Is it--is it as bad as that?" said the other, tremulously. "No, no, itcan't be. Surely it can't be. "

"Do you mean to say you don't know?" said Pateley. 

"I know nothing, " said Sir William. "I have heard nothing about it, upto this moment. "

"One can't help wondering, " said Pateley, "that a man in yourresponsible position towards it, " the words struck Sir William like ablow, "should not have known, should not have inquired----"

"I have been ill, you know, " Sir William said nervously, "I have notbeen able to look into or understand anything. I have not been out ofthe house yet. I could not go to the City or do any business. "

"Yes, I see that, " said Pateley, "and I am sorry to be obliged tothrust a business discussion upon you now----"

Sir William looked up at him quickly, anxiously. 

"But the fact is, at this moment the business won't wait. If youremember, when the 'Equator' Company was first started, I, like manyothers, invested in it, having asked your opinion of it first, andhaving heard from you that you were going to be the Chairman of theBoard of Directors. "

"I believed in it, you know, " Sir William said, with eagerness; "I put alot of money into it myself. "

"I know you did, yes, " said Pateley, "but _you_ fortunately had a lot todo it with, and also a lot of money to keep out of it. Every one is notso happily situated. I blame myself, I need not say, acutely, as well asothers. " And as Sir William looked at him sitting there in hisrelentless strength, he felt that there was small mercy to be expectedat his hands. 

"I don't know, " Sir William said, trying to speak with dignity, "that Iwas to blame. I believed in it, as others did. "

"No doubt, " Pateley said. "But I am afraid that will hardly be asatisfactory explanation for the shareholders. The shares at this momentare absolutely worthless. "

"But what can I do?" said Sir William. "What would you have me do?"

"It seems to me there is a rather obvious thing to be done, " saidPateley. "It is to help to make good the losses of the people who, through you, will be"--and he paused--"ruined. "

"Ruined!" Sir William repeated, "No, no--it cannot be as bad as that. Itis terrible, " he muttered to himself. "It is terrible. "

"Yes, it is terrible, " said Pateley, "and even something uglier. "

"But, " Sir William said miserably, "I don't know that I can be blamedfor it. Anderson, who is absolutely honest, reported on the thing, andbelieved in it to the extent of spending all he had in getting therights to work it. "

"That is possible, " Pateley said, "but Anderson was not the chairman ofthe company. You are. "

"Worse luck, " Sir William said bitterly. 

"Yes, worse luck, " Pateley said. "Your name up to now has been anhonourable one. " Sir William started and looked at him again. "I amafraid, " Pateley went on, "after this it may have, " and he spoke as ifweighing his words, "a different reputation. "

Sir William cleared his throat and spoke with an effort. 

"Pateley, " he said, "you won't let _that_ happen? You will make itclear. .. ? You have influence in the Press----"

"I am afraid, " Pateley said, "that my influence, such as it is, must onthis occasion be exerted the other way. Of course there is a good dealat stake for me here, " he went on, in a matter of fact tone whichcarried more conviction than an outburst of emotion would have done. "Icare for my sisters, and I am afraid I can't sit down and seethem--swindled, or something very like it. "

"Not, swindled!" said Gore angrily. 

"Well, " Pateley said, "that is really what it looks like to theoutsider, and that is what, as a matter of fact, it comes to. "

"Heaven knows I would make it right if I could, " said Sir William, "buthow can I?"

"Well, of course, on occasions of this kind, " Pateley said, still in thesame everyday manner, as though judicially dealing with a fact which didnot specially concern him, "it is sometimes done by the simple processof the person responsible for the losses making them good--makingrestitution, in fact. "

"I have told you, " said Sir William, "that I'm afraid that isimpossible. "

"Ah then, I am sorry, " Pateley said, in the tone of one determining, asSir William dimly felt, on some course of action. "I thought somepossible course might have suggested itself to you. "

"No, I can suggest nothing, " Sir William said, leaning back in hischair, and feeling that neither mind nor body could respond at thatmoment to anything that called for fresh initiative. 

"I thought that you might have other possibilities on the Stock Exchangeeven, " said Pateley, "though I must say I don't see in what direction. There is bound to be a panic the moment war is declared. "

There was a pause. Sir William lay back in his chair looking vaguely infront of him. Pateley sat waiting. Then Gore felt a strange flutter athis heart as the full bearing of Pateley's last sentence dawned uponhim. 

"Supposing, " he said, trying to speak steadily, "there were no war?"

"That is hardly worth discussing, " said Pateley briefly, as he got up. "War, I am afraid, is practically certain. Then do I understand, SirWilliam, " he continued, "that you can do nothing to help me in thismatter? If so, I am sorry. I had hoped I might have spared you somediscomfort, but since you can do nothing----" He broke off and lookedquickly out of the window, then said in explanation, "It is only ahansom stopping next door; I thought it might be Rendel coming back. ButI was mistaken. "

Sir William realised that every instant was precious. 

"Pateley, " he said, "look here. If you could wait a day or twolonger. .. . "

"Do you mean, " said Pateley, "that if I were to wait there would be achance of your being able to do something?"

"I don't know, " said Sir William, "I am not sure, but there might be aturn in public affairs; the panic might be over, there might be a chanceof peace. "

"If that is all, " Pateley said quite definitely, "I am afraid thatprospect is not enough to build upon. I can't afford to wait on thatsecurity. "

Sir William got up and spoke quickly with a visible effort. 

"Look here, listen. .. I have a reason for thinking that is the waythings may be turning. "

"A reason?" said Pateley, turning round upon him. 

"Yes, " said Sir William. 

"What is it?" said Pateley. 

Sir William felt his courage failing him in the desperate game he hadbegun to play. It was no good pausing now. He stood facing Pateley, holding a folded paper in his hand, no longer hidden by the newspaperwhich had slid from his grasp on to the ground. He looked at the paperin his hand mechanically. Mechanically Pateley's eye followed his. Theconviction suddenly came to him that Gore was not speaking at random. 

"Sir William, " he said, "time presses, " and unconsciously they bothlooked towards the window into the street. At any moment Rendel mightdraw up again. "If you have any reason for what you are saying, tellme--if not, I must leave you to see what can be done. "

"I have a reason, " said Sir William, "the strongest, for believing thatthere will be peace. "

Pateley looked at him. "Give me a proof?" he said, with the accent of aman who is wasting no words, no intentions. 

Sir William's hand tightened over the paper. "If I gave you a proof, " hesaid, "would you swear not to take any proceedings against the 'Equator'Company?"

"If you gave me a proof, yes--I would swear, " said Pateley. 

"And you will keep the things out of the papers, " Sir William went onhurriedly, "till I have had time to see my way?"

"Yes, " said Pateley again. 

"And my name shall not appear in the matter?"

"No--no, " Pateley said, in spite of himself breathlessly and hurriedly, more excited than he wished to show. Sir William paused and lookedtowards the window. "All right, " said Pateley, "you have time. Quick!What is it?"

"There is going, " Sir William said, "I am almost certain, to be anunderstanding, an agreement between England and Germany about thisbusiness in Africa. "

"Impossible!" said Pateley. 

"Yes, " said Sir William, hardly audibly. 

"Give me the proof, " Pateley said, coming close to him and in hisexcitement making a movement as though to take the paper out of Gore'shand. 

"Wait, wait!" Sir William said. "No, you mustn't do that!" and hestaggered and leant back against the chimneypiece. Pateley had no timeto waste in sympathy. 

"Look here, if you don't give it to me, show me what it is. "

"Yes, yes, I will show it you, " Sir William said, "only you are not totake it, you are not to touch it. "

Pateley signed assent, and Sir William unfolded the map of Africa andheld it up with a trembling hand. 

"What!" said Pateley, at first hardly grasping what he saw. Then itsfull significance began to dawn upon him. "Africa--a partition of Africabetween Germany and England! Do you mean to say that is it?"

"Yes, " Sir William said. "But for Heaven's sake don't touch it, don'ttake it out of my hand, " he said again, nervously conscious that his ownstrength was ebbing at every moment, and that if the resolute, dominantfigure before him had chosen to seize on the paper, nothing could haveprevented his doing so. 

"Well, at any rate, let me have a good look at it, " Pateley said, "thecoast is still clear, " and as he went to the window to give another lookout, he took something out of his breast pocket. "Now then, " he said, turning back to Sir William, "hold it up in the light so that I can havea good look at it;" and as Sir William held it in the light of thewindow, Pateley, as quick as lightning, drew his tiny camera out of hispocket. There was a click, and the map of Africa had been photographed. Pateley unconsciously drew a quick breath of relief as he put themachine back. Sir William, as white as a sheet, dropped his hands indismay. 

"Good Heavens! What have you done? Have you photographed it?"

"Yes, " said Pateley, trying to control his own excitement, andrecovering his usual tone with an effort. "That's all, thank you. It ismuch the simplest form of illustration. "

"Illustration! What are you going to do with it?" Sir William said, aghast. 

"That depends, " said Pateley. "I must see how and when I can use it tothe best advantage. "

"You have sworn, " Sir William said tremulously, "that you won't saywhere you got it from. "

"Of course I won't, " Pateley said, gradually returning to his usualburly heartiness. "Now, may I ask where _you_ got it from?"

"I got it out of there, " Sir William said, pointing to the table. "Acorner of it was sticking out. "

"Might I suggest that you should put it back again?" said Pateley. 

"Good Heavens, yes!" said Gore. "I had forgotten. " And he nervouslyfolded it up and dropped it through the slit of the table. 

"Ha, that's safer, " said Pateley, with a short laugh. "You should notlose your head over these things, " and he gave a swift look down thestreet again. "Now I must go. I am going straight to the City, and I'lltell you what I shall do, " and his manner became more emphatic as hewent on, as though answering some objection. "I'm going to buy up thewhole of the 'Equator' shares on the chance of a rise, and perhaps someCape to Cairo too, and then we'll see. Now, can't I do something for youtoo? Won't you buy something on the chance of a rise?"

Sir William had sunk into a chair. He shook his head. 

"I am too tired to think, " he said. "I don't know. "

"Well, you leave it to me, " Pateley said, "and I'll do something foryou--and if things go as we think, by next week you will be in aposition to make good the losses of all London two or three times over. I'll let you know what happens, and what I've been able to do. "

"Thank you, " Sir William said again feebly. 

"The news will soon pick you up, " said Pateley heartily, as he shook himby the hand. "No, don't get up; I can find my way out. Goodbye. " And amoment later he passed the window, striding away towards Knightsbridge. 

CHAPTER XIV

Sir William remained lying back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling, too much exhausted by the excitement of the last few minutes to realiseentirely what had happened, but with a vague, agonised consciousnessthat he had done something irrevocable, something that matteredsupremely. But to try even to conceive what might be the consequence ofit so made his heart throb and his head whirl that all he could do wasto put it away from him with as much effort as he had strength to make. It was so that Rachel found him, when she came gaily in a few minuteslater from a shopping expedition in Sloane Street, eager to tell him ofall her little doings, and of some acquaintances she had met in thestreet. He looked at her and tried to smile. 

"Father--father--dear father!" she said in consternation. "What is it?Are you not so well?"

"Yes, yes, " he said nervously, trying to speak in something like hisordinary voice. "I am--tired, that's all. "

"You have been up too long, " she said anxiously. 

"I don't think it's that, " he said. 

"But where is Frank?" asked Rachel. "I thought, of course, that he waswith you. That was why I went out. I had no idea you would be alone. "

"Lord Stamfordham came, " said Sir William, feeling like one who isforced to approach something that horrifies him, and who dares not lookit in the face. "Frank went out with him. "

"Lord Stamfordham! Again!" said Rachel amazed. 

"Yes, " said Sir William, leaning back with his eyes closed, as thoughunable to expend any of his feeble strength on surprise or wonder, muchless on attempts at explanation. And as Rachel looked at him hersolicitude overcame every other thought. 

"Darling, " she said, "do come back to your own room. Let's go upstairsnow. "

"No, no, " said Sir William quickly, feeling, even though he thought ofRendel's return with absolute terror, that it would be better to knowthe worst at once without waiting in suspense for the blow to fall. "I'll wait till Rendel comes in. "

"But he shall go up to you at once, " Rachel urged. "Do come up now, dearfather. "

At that moment, however, the question of whether they should wait or notfor Rendel's return was settled for them, for his latchkey was heardturning in the front door. He came into the room with such an air as awinged messenger of victory might wear, unconscious of his surroundingsand of the road he traverses as he speeds along. Rachel looked at him, and forbore to utter either the inquiry that sprang to her lips or anyappeal for sympathy about her father's condition. 

"I've got to finish some writing, " Rendel said, bringing back histhoughts with visible effort. And he went quickly to the writing-table, opening it with the key of his watch-chain. Sir William dared not look. He tried to remember what had happened when he so hurriedly put thepaper back; he wondered whether it had stuck in the slit, or if it hadgone properly through and fallen straight among the others. There was apause during which he sat up and gripped the arms of his chair, listening as if for life. Nothing had happened apparently. Rendel haddrawn up his chair and was writing again busily. Sir William fell backagain and closed his eyes as a flood of relief swept over him, Rachelsitting by him quietly, her hand laid gently on his. Rendel went onwriting, transcribing from some more rough pencil notes he had broughtin in his hand, then, having quickly rung the bell, he proceeded to dothe whole thing up in a packet and seal it securely. 

"I want this taken to Lord Stamfordham at once, " he said, as the servantcame into the room. "And, Thacker, I should like you to go with ityourself, please. It's very important, and I want it to be given intohis own hand. If he isn't in, please wait. "

"Yes, sir, " said Thacker, taking the precious packet and departing, witha secret thrill of wondering excitement. 

Rendel pulled down the lid of the table, drawing a sort of long breathas he did so, like one who has cleared the big fence immediately infront of him, and is ready for the next. Sir William's breath was comingand going quickly. 

"I'm afraid you don't look very fit for chess, Sir William, " he saidkindly, struck with his father-in-law's look of haggard anxiety andillness. 

"No, " Sir William said feebly, "not to-day, I'm afraid. "

"I'm sorry to see you like this, " Rendel said. "Let me help youupstairs. What have you been doing with yourself since I left you? Youdon't look nearly so well as when you came down. "

"I feel a little faint, " Sir William said. "It would be better for me togo and rest now, perhaps. " And leaning on Rendel's arm, and followedsolicitously by Rachel, he went upstairs. 

CHAPTER XV

The night passed slowly and restlessly for Sir William Gore, although heslept from sheer exhaustion, and even when he was not sleeping was in astate of semi-coma, without any clear perception of what had happened. But in his dreams he lived through one quarter of an hour of the daybefore, over and over and over again, always with the same result, always with the same sense of some unexpected, horrible, shamefulcatastrophe, that was to lead to his utter humiliation. That was theimpression that still remained when at last the morning came, and hefinally awoke to the life of another day. Over and over again he wentover the situation as he lay there, Pateley's words ringing in his ears, his looks present before him. Again he felt the sensation of absolutesickness at his heart that had gripped him at the moment he had realisedthat the map had been photographed, passing as much out of his own poweras though he had given it to a man in the street. Does any one reallyacknowledge in his inmost soul that he has on a given occasion done"wrong, " without an immeasurable qualifying of that word, without acovert resentment at the way other people may label his action? There isbut one person in the world who even approximates to knowing the historyof any given deed. The very fact of snatching it from its context putsit into the wrong proportion, the fact of contemplating it as though itwere something deliberate, separate, complete in itself, apart from allthat has led up to it, apart from the complication and pressure ofcircumstance. Sir William went over and over again in his mind all thathad happened the day before, trying to realise under what aspect hisactions would appear to others--over and over again, until everythingbecame blurred and he hardly knew under what aspect they appeared tohimself. He felt helplessly indignant with Fate, with Chance, that hadwith such dire results made him the plaything of a passing impulse. Thenwith the necessity of finding an object for his anger, his thoughtsturned first to Rendel, who had primarily put him in the position ofgaining the knowledge he had used to such disastrous effect, and then toPateley, who had taken it from him. 

It is unpleasant enough for a child, at a time of life generallyfamiliar with humiliation and chastisement, to see the moment nearingwhen his guilt will be discovered: but it is horrible for a man who isapproaching old age, who is dignified and respected, suddenly to findhimself in the position of having something to conceal, of beingactually afraid of facing the judgment and incurring the censure of ayounger man. And at that moment Gore felt as if he almost hated the manwhose hand could hurl such a thunderbolt. Then his thoughts turned toPateley, to the probable result of his operations in the City. In theother greater anxiety which he himself had suddenly imported into hislife, that first care, which yet was important enough, of the "Equator, "had almost sunk out of sight. Would the mine turn out to be a gold mineafter all? What would Pateley be able to do? Would he be able to makeenough to cover his liabilities? and his head swam as he tried toremember what these might amount to. 

In the meantime Rendel, in a very different frame of mind from that ofhis father-in-law, or, indeed, from that of his own of the night before, filled with a buoyant thrill of expectation, with the sense thatsomething was going to happen, that everything might be going to happen, was looking out into life as one who looks from a watch tower waiting onfortune and circumstances, waiting confident and well-equipped without amisgiving. The day was big with fate: a day on which new developmentsmight continue for himself, the thrill of excitement of the nightbefore, the sense of being in the foreground, of being actually hurriedalong in the front between the two giants who were leading the way. Thedining-room was ablaze with sunshine as he came into it, and in themorning light sat Rachel, looking up at him with a smile when he cameinto the room. 

"What an excellent world it is, truly!" said Rendel, as he came acrossthe room. 

"I am glad it is to your liking, " she answered. 

"You look very well this morning, " said Rendel, looking at her, "whichmeans very pretty. "

"I don't feel so especially pretty, " said Rachel, with something betweena smile and a sigh. 

"Don't you? Don't have any illusions about your appearance, " saidRendel. "Don't suppose yourself to be plain, please. "

"I am not so sure, " said Rachel, as she began pouring out the tea. 

"What is the matter with you?" said Rendel. "What fault do you find withthe world, and your appearance?"

"I am perturbed about my father, " she said, her voice telling of thevery real anxiety that lay behind the words. "I don't think he is aswell as he was yesterday. "

"Don't you?" said Rendel, more gravely. "I am very sorry. What is thematter?"

"I can't think, " Rachel answered. "He may have done too much yesterdayafternoon. "

"He certainly looked terribly tired, " said Rendel. 

"Terribly, " said Rachel, "but I can't imagine why. He had been soabsolutely quiet all the afternoon. "

"Well, you take care of him to-day, " said Rendel, unable to eliminatethe cheerful confidence from his voice. 

"I shall indeed, " said Rachel. 

"Oh, he'll come all right again, never fear, " said Rendel. "You mustn'ttake too gloomy a view. "

"You certainly seem inclined to take a cheerful one this morning, " saidRachel, half convinced in spite of herself that all was well. 

"Well, I do, " said Rendel. "I must say that in spite of the prevalentopinion to the contrary, I feel inclined this morning to say that thescheme of the universe is entirely right; it is just to my liking. Thesunshine, and my breakfast, and my wife----"

"I am glad I am included, " she said. 

"And the day to live through. What can a man wish for more?"

"It sounds as though you had everything you could possibly want, certainly, " said Rachel, smiling at him. 

"I don't know, " said Rendel, reflecting, "if it is that quite. The realhappiness is to want everything you can possibly get. That is the bestthing of all. "

"And not so difficult, I should think, " said Rachel. 

"I am not sure, " said Rendel. "I am not sure that it is quite an easything to have an ardent hold on life. Some people keep letting it downwith a flop. But I feel as if I could hold it tight this morning at anyrate. I do not believe there is a creature in the wide world that Iwould change places with at this moment, " he went on, the force of hisardent hope and purpose breaking down his usual reserve. 

"You are very enthusiastic to-day, Frank, " she said. 

"Well, one can't do much without enthusiasm, " said Rendel, continuinghis breakfast with a satisfied air, "but with it one can move theworld. "

"Is that what you are going to do?" said Rachel. 

"Yes, " said Rendel nodding. 

"Frank, I wonder if you will be a great man?"

"Can you doubt it?" said Rendel. 

"Supposing, " she said, "some day you were a sort of Lord Stamfordham. "

"That is rather a far cry, " he replied. "By the way, I wonder where thepapers are this morning? Why are they so late?"

"They will come directly, " Rachel said. "It is a very good thing they'relate, you can eat your breakfast in peace for once without knowing whathas happened. "

"That is not the proper spirit, " said Rendel smiling, "for the wife of afuture great man. "

"The only thing is, " said Rachel, "that if you did become a great man, Idon't think I should be the sort of wife for you. I am very stupid aboutpolitics, don't you think so? I don't understand things properly. "

"I think you are exactly the sort of wife I want, " said Rendel, "andthat is enough for me. That is the only thing necessary for you tounderstand. I don't believe you do understand it really. "

"Then are you quite sure, " she said, half laughing and half in earnest, "that you don't like politics better than you do me?"

"Absolutely certain, " said Rendel, with a slight change of tone thattold his passionate conviction. "I wish you could grasp that incomparison with you, nothing matters to me. "

"Nothing?" she repeated. 

"There is nothing, " said Rendel, looking at her, "that I would notsacrifice to you--my career, my ambitions, anything you asked for. "

"I am glad, " she said, "that you like me so much, but I don't want youto make sacrifices, " and she spoke in all unconsciousness of the numberof small sacrifices, of an unheroic aspect perhaps, that Rendel wasdaily called upon to make for her sake. 

At this moment Thacker came in with the morning papers, which he laid onthe table at Rendel's elbow. 

"Now then you are happy, " said Rachel lightly. "Now you can buryyourself in the papers and not listen to anything I say. "

"I wonder if there is anything about Stoke Newton and old Crawley'sresignation, " said Rendel, quite prepared to follow her advice. "I don'tsuppose he takes a very jovial view of life just now, poor old boy. Oh, how I should hate to be on the shelf!"

"I don't think you are likely to be, for the present, " said Rachel. 

And then Rendel, pushing his chair a little away from the table, openedthe papers wide, and began scanning them one after another, with themild and pleasurable excitement of the man who feels confidently abreastof circumstances. Then, as he took up the _Arbiter_, his eye suddenlyfell upon a heading that took his breath away. What was this? He droppedthe paper with a cry. 

"What is it, Frank?" said Rachel startled. 

"Good Heavens! what have they done that for?" he said, springing to hisfeet in uncontrollable excitement. 

"Done what?" said Rachel. 

"Why, they have announced--they have put in something that LordStamfordham----" He snatched up the paper again and looked at iteagerly. "It is incredible! and the map too, the very map, at thisstage! Well, upon my word, he has made a mistake this time, I dobelieve. " And he still gazed at the paper as though trying to fathom thewhole hearing of what he saw. 

At this moment the door opened, and Thacker came in. 

"Sir William wished me to ask you for some foolscap paper, ma'am, please, " he said, "with lines on it. "

"Foolscap paper? What is he doing?" said Rachel anxiously. 

"He is writing, ma'am, " said Thacker. "He seems to be doing accounts. "

"Oh, I wish he wouldn't!" Rachel said. "I must go and see. I'll bringthe foolscap paper myself, Thacker. Frank, there is some in your study, isn't there?"

"What?" said Rendel, who, still absorbed in what he had just seen, hadonly dimly heard their colloquy. 

"Some foolscap paper, " she repeated. "There is some in your study?"

"Yes, yes, in my writing-table, " he said absently. 

Rachel went quickly out of the room. At that moment the hall door bellrang violently. Rendel started and went to the window. In the phase ofacute tension in which he found himself, every unexpected sound carriedan untold significance, but he was not prepared for what this onebetokened: Lord Stamfordham in the street, dismounting from his horse. Stamfordham was accustomed to ride every morning from eight till nine, alone and unattended. Thacker hurried out to hold the horse. Rendelfollowed him and met Stamfordham on the doorstep. He led the way quicklyacross the hall into his study and shut the door. They both feltinstinctively that greetings were superfluous. 

"Have you seen the _Arbiter_?" Stamfordham said. 

"Yes, " said Rendel, looking him straight in the face with eagerexpectation. 

"So have I, " said Stamfordham, "at the German Embassy. I had not seen itbefore leaving home, but I saw a poster at the corner, and I wentstraight to Bergowitz to ask him what it meant; he is as much in thedark as I am. "

"In the dark!" said Rendel, looking at him amazed. "What! but--was itnot you who published it?"

"_I_ publish it?" said Stamfordham. "Do you mean to say you thought Ihad?"

"Of course I did! who else?" said Rendel. 

"Who else?" Stamfordham repeated. "I have come here to ask you that. "

"To ask _me_?" said Rendel, bewildered. "How should I know? I have notseen those papers since I gave the packet sealed to Thacker to take itto you. "

"And I received it, " said Stamfordham, "sealed and untampered with, andopened it myself, and it has not been out of my keeping since. "

"But at the German Embassy, " said Rendel, "since it was telegraphed. .. ?"

"The substance of the interview was telegraphed, " said Stamfordham, "butnot the map--_not the map_, " he said emphatically. "That map no one hasseen besides Bergowitz, you, and myself. Bergowitz it would be quiteabsurd to suspect, he is as genuinely taken back as I am--I know that itdidn't get out through me, and therefore----" he paused and lookedRendel in the face. 

"What!" said Rendel, with a sort of cry. A horrible light, an incredibleinterpretation was beginning to dawn upon him. "You can't think it wasthrough _me_?"

"What else can I think?" said Stamfordham--Rendel still looked at himaghast--"since the papers after I gave them into your keeping wereapparently not out of it until they passed into mine again? I broughtthem to you here myself. Of course I see now I ought not to have doneso, but how could I have imagined----"

Rendel hurriedly interrupted him. 

"Lord Stamfordham, not a soul but myself can have had access to thosepapers. I went out of the room, it is true, " and he went rapidly over inhis mind the sequence of events the day before, "for a short half-hourperhaps, when you came back here and I went out with you, but beforeleaving the room I remember distinctly that I shut the cover of mywriting-table down with the spring, and tried it to see that it wasshut, and then unlocked it myself when I came back. "

"Was any one else in the room?" said Stamfordham. 

"Yes, " said Rendel, and a sudden idea occurred to him, to be dismissedas soon as entertained, "Sir William Gore. "

"Gore?" said Stamfordham, looking at Rendel, but forbearing any commenton his father-in-law. 

"It was quite impossible, " Rendel said decidedly, answeringStamfordham's unspoken words, "that he could have got at the papers;for, as I told you, when I came back again they were exactly where I hadleft them, and the thing locked with this very complicated key, and heshowed it hanging on his chain. "

"It is evident, " Stamfordham repeated inflexibly, "that some one musthave got hold of it with or without your knowledge. I warned youyesterday, you remember, about taking your--any one in your householdinto your confidence. "

"And I did not, " Rendel said, grasping his meaning. "My wife did noteven know that I had the papers to transcribe. She does not know itnow. "

Stamfordham paused a moment. He could not in words accuse Rendel's wife, whatever his silence might imply. Then he spoke with emphatic sternness. 

"Rendel, " he said, "by whatever means the thing happened, we must knowhow. I must have an explanation. "

Rendel was powerless to speak. 

"For you must see, " Stamfordham went on, "what a terrible catastrophethis might have been--the danger is not over yet, in fact, although Imay be strong enough for my colleagues to condone the fact that thepublic has been told of this before themselves, and the country may bestrong enough for foreign Powers to do the same. But, as a personalmatter, I must know how it got out, and I repeat, I must have anexplanation. For your own sake you must explain. "

Rendel felt as if the ground were reeling under his feet. 

"I will try, " he said, still feeling as if he were in some wild dream. 

"When you have made inquiries, " Stamfordham said, still speaking in abrief tone of command, "you had better come and tell me the result. Ishall be at the Foreign Office till twelve. "

"Till twelve. Very well, " said Rendel, feeling as if there was a darkchasm between himself and that moment. Mechanically he let LordStamfordham out, and stood as the latter mounted and rode away. Then heturned back into the house. 

CHAPTER XVI

He went into the dining-room first--Rachel was still upstairs--andpicked up the _Arbiter_ again, looking at it with this new, terribleinterpretation of what he saw in it. There it was, as damning evidenceas ever a man was convicted upon, the map that no one but himself andthe two principals had seen, reproduced, roughly it is true, but stillunmistakably, from the paper that he alone in the house had had in hispossession. He turned hurriedly to the brief but guarded commentaryevolved at a venture by Pateley, but nevertheless very near the truth. Pateley had played a bold game indeed, but he was playing it asskilfully and watchfully as was his wont. Rendel threw down the paperwith a gesture of despair, then clenched his hands. If he had been awoman he would have wept from sheer misery and agitation. But it was ofno good to clench his hands in despair; every moment that passed oughtto be used to find out the truth of what had happened, to clear himselffrom that nightmare of suspicion. 

He went hurriedly across the hall to his study with the instinct of onewho feels that on the spot itself there may be some suggestion to helpdiscovery. His writing-table was locked. He tried it, shook it. The key, one of a peculiar make, hung always on his watch-chain. It was quiteimpossible that, save by one who had the key, the table should have beenopened. What had he done yesterday? What had happened? And he sat downand buried his face in his hands, concentrating his thoughts, trying torecall every incident. The first time that Stamfordham had come in andgiven him the rough notes and the map, he, Rendel, had been alone. Therewas no doubt of that. After that who came in? Rachel? No, Rachel had notbeen in the room with the papers except just at the end when Rendel wassealing up the packet. Besides, if Rachel had had a hundred secrets inher possession, they would have been as safe as in his own. Then hecaught himself up--in his own! after all, he was suspected--so theimpossible idea, apparently, could be entertained. Then the thought ofSir William Gore came into his mind, but only to be instantly dismissed, for since the papers were locked up in Rendel's writing-table they musthave been as inaccessible to Sir William as though they had beenseparated from him by the walls of several apartments. And there was onething pretty certain: Gore, supposing him to be capable of using it, hadnot got a duplicate key. "Even he, " Rendel found himself thinking, "would not do that. " He heard Rachel's step swiftly descend the stairsand go into the dining-room, then she came quickly across the hall tothe study. 

"Oh, there you are, Frank, " she said. "My father is----" then she brokeoff as she saw that he was apparently buried in painful thought fromwhich he roused himself with a start as she spoke. "Is anything thematter?"

"I will tell you, " said Rendel, speaking with an effort. 

"May I just ask you something first?" said Rachel hurriedly. "I wantsome foolscap paper for my father. He is so restless this morning, soimpatient. "

"It is in there--I told you, didn't I?" said Rendel, turning round andpointing to one of the drawers at the side of his table. 

"In that drawer!" said Rachel. "How very stupid of me! I didn't think ofthat. I thought it was in the top part, and I could only get one sheetout of there. "

"The top? Wasn't the top locked?" said Rendel quickly, his whole thoughtconcentrated on the problem before him, and the part of the table musthave played in the drama that affected him so nearly. 

"Yes, it was, " said Rachel smiling, "and I couldn't open it, but therewas a little tiny corner of ruled paper sticking out, so I pulled it, and out it came. "

Rendel started and looked at her. 

"It is sweetly simple, " she added. 

"Yes, " said Rendel, with an energy that surprised her. "It would comeout quite easily, of course. "

"Frank, " she said, surprised, "what is it? You didn't mind my pulling itout, did you?"

"Of course not; I don't mind your doing anything--only--I didn't realisethat things could be got out of my writing-table in that way. "

"Well, you must be sure to poke them in further next time, " Rachel saidlightly, shutting again the side drawer to which she had been directed, and out of which she had got some sheets of foolscap. "I will be backdirectly. "

"Wait one moment, " said Rendel. "Lord Stamfordham has been here. "

"Lord Stamfordham! Since I went upstairs?" said Rachel, standing stillin sheer surprise. 

"Yes, " said Rendel. "Some secret information that--I knew about, has gotinto the paper and is published this morning. "

"Oh, Frank, how terrible!" said Rachel. "How did it happen? Do theymind?"

"Yes, they mind, " Rendel said. 

"Was that what you saw in the paper, " Rachel said, "that excited you somuch?"

"Yes, " said Rendel. 

"I don't wonder, " Rachel said, standing with her hand on the handle ofthe door, an attitude of all others least inviting of confidence. "Wholet it out?"

"That is what we want to know, " said Rendel. "That is what LordStamfordham came here to ask. "

"Well, he doesn't think it was you, I suppose, " said Rachel, smiling atthe absurd suggestion. 

"It is quite possible, " Rendel said, with a dim idea that he would leadup to the statement, "that he might--that he does. "

"What!" said Rachel, opening her eyes wide. "Frank! how absurd!"

"So it seems to me, " said Rendel sombrely. 

"Too ridiculous!--I'll come down in one moment, " Rachel saidapologetically. "I don't want to keep my father waiting. "

"Don't say anything to him, " said Rendel, "of what I have just beensaying to you. "

"Oh, no, I won't indeed, " Rachel said. "He ought not to have anything toexcite him to-day, " and she went rapidly upstairs. 

Rendel, as the door closed behind her, felt for the moment like a manwho, shipwrecked alone, has seen a vessel draw near to him and then passgaily on its way without bringing him help. What was to be done? Againhe took hold of the situation and looked it in the face. But now a newlight had been thrown upon it by Rachel. If a paper could be taken outin the way that she had shown him, it was possible that Gore might haveobtained the map in the same way, though it still seemed to Rendelexceedingly unlikely that, granted he had done so, he would have beenable, given the condition he was in, to act upon it soon enough for itto appear this morning. He hesitated a moment, then he made up his mindto wait no longer. He took up the _Arbiter_ and went upstairs to SirWilliam's room. He met Rachel coming out. 

"Oh, thank you, " she said, as she saw the paper. "I was just coming downto fetch that. Father would like to see it. "

"I thought I would bring it up, " Rendel said. "I want to speak to him amoment. "

Rachel looked alarmed. 

"Frank, you will be careful, won't you?" she said. "He really is not ina fit state to discuss anything this morning. "

"I am afraid what I have to say won't wait, " Rendel said. "I think I hadbetter speak to him alone. " And he quite unmistakably waited for Rachelto go her way before he went into Sir William's room and shut the door. Sir William, wrapped in his dressing-gown, was sitting up in an easychair. On the table near him were sheets of foolscap paper covered withfigures, and lying beside them a letter with a bold, splotchy writing, which he quickly moved out of sight as Rendel came in, a letter that hadtold him of certain successful financial operations undertaken in theCity on his behalf. His face was pale and haggard. He looked up, as hesaw Rendel come into the room, with an expression almost of terror, dashed however with resentment. In his mind at that moment, hisson-in-law was the embodiment of the fate that, in some incredible way, had, as it were, turned him, Sir William Gore, who had hitherto spenthis life in the sunshine of position, of dignity, of the deservedrespect of his fellow-creatures, out into a chill storm ofcircumstances, absolutely alone, into some terrible world where, insteadof walking upright among his fellow-men, he was, by no fault of his own, he kept repeating to himself, hurrying along with a burden on his back, crouching, fearing observation, fearing detection. That burden wasalmost intolerable. He had been trying to distract his thoughts and seeksome cold comfort by making calculations based upon the letter he hadreceived from Pateley, but all the time, behind it lay ice-cold andimmovable the thought of the price at which Pateley's co-operation hadbeen bought, of the moment of reckoning with Rendel that must come whenthe sands should have run out their appointed time. So much had hesuffered, so much had he been dominated by this thought, that when thedoor opened and Rendel finally came in, the moment brought a sort ofrelief. Rendel, on the other hand, when he saw Sir William looking soold, so white and feeble, suddenly felt his purpose arrested. It wasimpossible, surely, that this old man, with the worn, handsome face andpathetically anxious expression, could have had a hand in a diabolicalmachination, and the thought that it was unlikely came to him with agleam of comfort. Then as quick as lightning came a reaction ofwonderment as to what hypothesis was to take the place of this one. Atany rate, there was only one thing to be done: to tell Gore the storywithout a moment's further delay. 

"Good morning, Sir William, " he said. "I am sorry to hear you are notwell this morning. "

"Not very, " Gore said, trying to speak calmly, and involuntarily lookingat the newspaper in Rendel's hand. 

"I hear you were asking for the _Arbiter_, " Rendel said. 

"Yes, I should like to see it, " Gore replied, "when you have done withit. "

"I want you to see it, " Rendel said. "There is something in it whichmatters a great deal. " Gore felt a sudden grip at his heart. He saidnothing. "Here it is, " said Rendel, and he handed him the paper, foldedso as to show the startling headings in big letters and the roughfacsimile of the map. Gore looked at it. The whole thing swam before hiseyes; he held it for a moment, trying desperately to think what he hadbetter say, but he could find no anchorage anywhere. 

"That is very surprising, " he said finally. "As far as I can see, it's--it's a partition of Africa between England and Germany? Is thatit? I can't see very well this morning. "

"That is it, " said Rendel. 

"Yes, that is very important, " Gore said, leaning back and letting thepaper slide from his grasp. "Most important, " and he was silent again, waiting in an agony of suspense for what Rendel's next words would be. Rendel, scarcely less agitated, was trying to choose them carefully. 

"I am very sorry, " he began, "to have to tire and worry you about thiswhen you are not well, but I have a particular reason for talking to youabout it. "

"Pray go on, " Gore managed to say under his breath. 

"I have a special reason, " said Rendel, "for wanting to remember whathappened in my study yesterday afternoon. "

"Yesterday afternoon?" said Gore. "Did anything particular happen?"

"That is what I want to know, " said Rendel, trying to speak calmly andquietly. "You will oblige me very much if you will try to rememberexactly what happened all the time, from the moment you came into theroom until you left it. "

Gore made an effort to pull himself together. There was no difficulty, alas! for him in remembering every single thing that had takenplace--the difficulty was not to show that he remembered too well. 

"When I came in, " he said, endeavouring to speak in an ordinary tone, "you were at your writing-table. "

"I was, " said Rendel, watching him. 

"And then I sat down in an armchair and read the _Mayfair Gazette_----"and he stopped. 

"Yes. All that, " Rendel said, "I remember, of course. Thacker came intelling me Lord Stamfordham was there, and I rushed out, shutting theroller top of my writing-table, which closes with a spring. I wasespecially careful to shut it, as it had valuable papers in it. "

"Indeed?" said Sir William, almost inaudibly. 

"Yes, and among them, " Rendel said, watching the effect of his words, "amap--that map of Africa which is reproduced this morning in the_Arbiter_. "

"In your writing-table?" Gore said, with quivering lips. 

"Yes, in my writing-table, out of which it must have been taken. "

"That is very serious, " Gore forced himself to say. 

"It is very serious, " said Rendel, "as you will see. When I came backand had finished my work on the papers I did them up myself in a packetand sent them to Lord Stamfordham. "

"Your messenger was not trustworthy, apparently, " said Gore, recoveringhimself. 

"My messenger was Thacker, " Rendel said, "who is absolutely trustworthy. Lord Stamfordham himself told me that he had received the packet with myseal intact. "

"Still, " said Gore, "servants have been known to sell State secretsbefore now. "

"But not Thacker, " said Rendel. "However, of course I shall ask him; Imust ask every one in the house, for it must have been by some one herethat the thing was done, that the map was got out. "

"I thought you said the table was locked?"

"It was locked, yes, " said Rendel, "but I have learnt this morning thatpapers can be pulled out from under the lid. Rachel got a piece offoolscap paper for you in that way. "

"Did she?" said Gore, feeling that he had unwittingly supplied one linkin the chain of evidence. 

"There was only one person, so far as I know, " said Rendel, "in the roomwhile that paper was in my desk, who could have pulled it out and lookedat it, and apparently made an unwarrantable use of it. " The questionthat he expected to hear from Gore did not follow. Rendel waited, thenhe went on, "That person was--you. "

"What do you mean?" said Gore, sitting up, his colour going and comingquickly. 

"My words, I think, are quite plain, " Rendel said. "I mean that all theevidence, circumstantial, I grant, points--you must forgive me if I amwronging you--to your having taken out the map. "

"Will you please give me your reasons for this extraordinaryaccusation?" said Gore. 

"Yes, " said Rendel, "I will. " And he spoke more and more rapidly as, hisself-control at length utterly broken down, and his emotion havinggained entire possession of him, he felt the fierce joy of those who, habitually watchful of their words, yield once or twice in their livesto the impulse of letting them flow out unchecked in an overwhelmingflood. "You alone were in the room with the papers; your prepossessionsare all against us; you spoke yourself just now of the value of a Statesecret sold in the proper quarter; things are looking ugly about the'Equator. '"

"Do you mean to hint----" said Gore. 

Rendel interrupted him quickly. "No, not to hint, " he said; "hinting isnot in my line. I dare to say it out. I dare to say that in one of thosemoments of aberration, of deviation, whatever you choose to call it, that sometimes descend upon the most unlikely people, you pulled thatpaper out, from idle curiosity, I daresay, and finding out what it wasyou sent it to the _Arbiter_. "

"You did well, " said Gore bitterly, "to keep your wife out of the roomwhile you were accusing me. I am old and defenceless, " he said, withlips trembling, and again an immense self-pity rushing over him. "Ican't answer; I can't reply to a young man's violence. "

"I have no intention, " Rendel said, still speaking with a passion whichintoxicated him, "of being violent, but I must go on with this, for LordStamfordham won't rest until it is sifted to the bottom, and he is not aman to be trifled with. And as to your being defenceless, good God! yourbest defence is Rachel's trust in you and devotion to you. It is becauseof it that I wanted to spare her the knowledge of what we have beensaying. Her faith in your infallibility has always seemed to me sotouching that for her sake I have respected it. I have tried--Heavenknows I have tried!--all this time to be to you what she wished me tobe. " Gore stirred; he was quite incapable of speaking. "This is not themoment, " Rendel went on, almost unconscious of his words, which pouredout in a flood, "to keep up a hollow mockery of trust and friendship, and it is more honest to tell you fairly that I have not entirelyshared her faith in you. I have always thought that, like the rest of usafter all, you were neither better nor worse than most other falliblepeople in this world, and that you may be, as I daresay we all are, fashioned by circumstances, or even by temptation. And I tell youfrankly that I believe that you did this thing that I accuse you of. How, I demand to know. That, at any rate, is not more than one man mayask of another. "

Sir William winced and writhed helplessly under Rendel's words. Theintolerable discomfort and misery that he felt as the moment ofdiscovery drew near had given place gradually to a furious resentment atwhat he was being made to endure at the hands of one who ought not tohave presumed to criticise him. As Rendel stood there, his clearly cutface hard and stern, pouring out accusations and reproach, Gore felt asif the younger man embodied all the adverse influences of his own life. It was through Rendel that the fatal opportunity had come of his gettinghimself into this terrible strait, Rendel: who, most unjustly in thescheme of things, was daring to tax Gore with it. It was too horrible tobear longer. He too felt that the time had come when that with which hisheart and soul were overflowing must find vent in speech. As he heardRendel's words of stern impeachment ringing in his ears, "I tell youfrankly that I believe that you did this thing, " he rose desperately tohis feet. 

"Well, " he said, casting with a kind of horrible relief all restraintsand prudence to the winds, "what if I had?"

Rendel turned pale. 

"If you had?" he said. "You did it, then?"

"If I had, " Gore went on quickly, "it wouldn't have been a crime. Youcan't know how easy it was for the thing to happen. I am not going totell you--I am not going to justify myself----" And he went on with apassionate need of self-vindication, drawing from his own words theconviction that he had hardly been at fault. 

"Sir William, " Rendel said hurriedly, "tell me----"

"It is easy enough, " said Gore, "for you to talk of faith and trust. Youneed not grudge my child's faith in me. I have nothing else left now. "And as the two men looked at each other each in his soul had a vision ofthe gracious presence that had always been by Sir William's side: of onewho would have believed in him, justified him, if the whole world hadaccused him. Rendel suddenly paused as he was going to speak. 

"Life is very easy for you, " Gore went on in a rapid, trembling voice. Oh, the relief of saying it all!

"It is all quite plain sailing for you, you with whom everythingsucceeds, you who are young and have your life before you. You have timefor the things that happen to you to be made right. "

"Don't let us discuss all that now, " said Rendel, with an effort. "Weare talking of something else that matters more than I can say. Youonly can tell me----"

"I will tell you nothing, " said Gore loudly, excited and breathless, speaking in gasps. "One day when you are old and alone--and both ofthese things may come to you as well as to other people--you willunderstand what all this means to me. "

"Father, dear father!" cried Rachel, coming in hurriedly. Anxious andwretched at Rendel's interview with her father being so undulyprolonged, she had wandered upstairs again, and when she heard theexcited and angry voices she could bear the suspense no longer. "What isit?"

Gore sank back trembling into his chair as she came in, making signs toher that for the moment he was unable to speak. A glance at him wasenough to show that it actually was so. 

"Oh, Frank!" she cried, "what have you done? I asked you not to excitehim. "

"Wait, Rachel, wait!" said Rendel, trying to speak calmly, feeling thateverything was at stake. "Sir William, can you not tell me----?"

Gore feebly shook his head. 

"Frank!" cried Rachel, amazed at his persistence. "Oh, don't! Let meimplore you not to ask him anything more. Frank! do you mind leaving himnow? Oh, you must, you must, really. Look at him!"

Sir William, white and exhausted, was leaning back in his chair with hiseyes closed. Rendel looked at her face of quivering anxiety as it bentover her father, then turned slowly and left the room. 

CHAPTER XVII

Rendel came downstairs, hardly conscious of what he was doing, a wildconflict of emotion raging in his mind. He shut himself into his study, and tried to distinguish clearly the threads of motive and conduct thathad become so hideously entangled. It sounds a simple thing, doubtless, as well as a praiseworthy one, to discover the doer of an evil deed, toconvict him, to bring home to him what he has done, and to prove theinnocence of any other who may be suspected. Such a course, when spokenof in general terms, gives a praiseworthy and sustaining sense of a dutyaccomplished towards society. But it is in reality a much morecomplicated operation than we are apt to think. The evildoer, unfortunately for our sense of righteousness in prosecuting him, is notalways one who has unmixed evil instincts, and nearly every contingencyof human conduct becomes, as we contemplate it, many-sided enough to bevery confusing. And it was beginning to dawn upon Rendel that, althoughit may fulfil the ends of abstract justice that the guilty should beexposed and the innocent acquitted, such an act takes an ugly aspectwhen the eager pursuer is himself the innocent man who is to bevindicated, and the guilty one a weaker and defenceless person who is tobe put in his place. "And yet, " he said to himself bitterly, as he triedto think of it impartially, "if it were a question of any one else'sreputation and not of my own I should be bound to say who the guilty manwas. " What was he to do? What could he do? He did not know how long hehad been sitting there when Rachel came quickly in. 

"Oh! Frank, " she said, with a face of alarm, "he's very ill. I'm sure heis. I've sent for Dr. Morgan to come at once. He fainted after you left, and he's only just come round again. Oh! I am terribly anxious, " and shelooked at him, her lips quivering, then put her hands before her eyesand burst into tears. 

Rendel's heart smote him. Everything else, as he looked at her, fadedinto the background. The thing that mattered was Rachel was the woman heloved. It was he who had brought this grief upon her. 

"Darling, " he said, "I'm so sorry. "

She shook her head and tried to smile. 

"Oh, " she said, trying to suppress her tears, "I ought not to have lefthim. I daresay you didn't know, but it has done him the most terribleharm. Did you tell him, then, about--about--the thing you told me of, that you had been suspected--of telling something--what was it?" and shepassed her hand over her forehead as if unable to think. 

"No, " said Rendel, "I didn't tell him that _I_ had been accused of it. Idaresay he guessed I had. I told him it had happened. "

"But, Frank, why did you?" she said. "I implored you not. "

"Rachel, " he said, "do you realise what it means to me that I should beaccused of a thing like this?"

"Of course, yes, of course, " she said, evidently still listening for anysound from upstairs. "But still a thing like that, that can be put rightin a few minutes, cannot matter so much as life and death. .. . "

And again her voice became almost inaudible. 

"There are some things, " said Rendel in a low voice, "that matter moreto a man than life and death. "

"Do you mean to say, " said Rachel, "that it matters more that you shouldbe supposed to have done something that you have not done, than that myfather should not get well?"

"Supposing your father had been wrongfully accused of somethingunderhand and dishonourable, " said Rendel, "would not that matter moreto him than--than--anything else?"

Rachel put up her hands with a cry as if to ward off a blow. 

"My father!" she said, drawing away from Rendel. "You must not say sucha thing. How could it be said?"

"You endure, " said Rendel, "that it should be said about me. "

"About you! That is different, " she said, unable in the tension of heroverwrought nerves to choose her words. "You are young, you can defendyourself; but it is cruel, cruel of you to say that it might happen tomy father. You don't realise what my father is to me or you couldn't saysuch things even without meaning them. No, you can't know, you can'tunderstand, or you couldn't, just for your own sake, have gone to himto-day when he is so ill and told him things that excited him. "

"I think I do understand, " Rendel said, forcing himself to speak calmly. "Of course I know, I have always known, perhaps not quite so clearly asto-day, that--that--he must come first with you. "

"Oh! in some ways he must, he must, " Rachel said, half entreatingly, yetwith a ring of determination in her voice. "I promised my mother that Iwould, as far as I could, take her place, and while he lives I must. Frank, I would give up my life to save him suffering, as she would havedone. Ah! there is Doctor Morgan, " and she left the room hastily as adoctor's brougham stopped at the door. 

Rendel stood perfectly still, looking straight before him, seeingnothing, but gazing with his mind's eye on a universe absolutelytransformed--the bright, dancing lights had gone, it was overspread by adark, settled gloom. There were sounds outside. He was mechanicallyconscious of Rachel's hurried colloquy with the doctor in the hall, oftheir footsteps going upstairs. Then he roused himself. What would thedoctor's verdict be? But he could not remain now, he must hear it on hisreturn from the Foreign Office, he must now go as agreed to LordStamfordham. But first, for form's sake, he rang for Thacker andquestioned him, and through him the rest of the household, withoutresult, except renewed and somewhat offended assurances from Thackerthat the packet had been given by himself into Stamfordham's own handsand that, to his knowledge, no one but Sir William Gore had been in thestudy during Rendel's absence. But Rendel knew in his heart that therewas no need to question any one further, and no advantage in doing so, since he knew also that he could not use his knowledge. 

He drove rapidly along in a hansom, unconscious of the streets he passedthrough. Wherever he went he saw only Rachel's face of misery, heard thewords, "just for your own sake, " that had cut into him as deeply as hisown into Gore. Was that it? he asked himself, was it just for his ownsake, to clear himself, that he had accused Gore? Well, why else? OnceStamfordham knew that the thing had been done, the secret revealed, thename of the actual culprit would make no real difference. It would makethings neither easier nor more difficult for Stamfordham to know that ithad been done, not by himself, but by Sir William Gore. But there wasone person besides himself and Gore for whom everything hung in thebalance, and it was still with Rachel's face before him and her words inhis ears, that he went into Lord Stamfordham's private room. 

Lord Stamfordham had been writing with a secretary, who got up and wentout as Rendel came in. How familiar the room was to Rendel! howincredible it was that day after day he should have come there--was itin some former state of existence?--valued, welcome. 

"Well, what have you to tell me?" Stamfordham said quickly. 

Rendel's lips felt dry and parched; he spoke with an effort. 

"I am afraid, " he said in a voice that sounded to him strangely unlikehis own, "that I have . .. Nothing. "

"What?" said Stamfordham. "Have you not made any inquiries? Haven't youasked every one in your house?"

"I have made inquiries, yes, " said Rendel. 

"And do you mean to say that there is nothing that can throw any lightupon it, no possible solution?"

"I can throw no light, " said Rendel. 

"But. .. . " said Stamfordham. "Is this all you are going to say? Have youthought of no possibility? Have you no suggestion to offer?"

"I am afraid, " said Rendel again, "that I can offer none. "

Lord Stamfordham sat silent for a moment, absolutely bewildered. Part ofhis exceptional administrative ability was the almost unerring judgmenthe displayed in choosing those he employed about him, and it was anentirely new experience to him to have to suspect one of them, or toimpugn the ordinary code of honourable conduct. He found it extremelydifficult, autocrat as he was, to put it into words. He was sore andangry at the grave indiscretion, if not something worse, that had beencommitted, most of all that it should have been himself, the greatofficer of state, in whom it was unpardonable to choose the wrong tool, who had put that immeasurably important secret into the hands of a manwho had somehow or other let it escape from them; so much could not bedenied. It certainly seemed difficult to conceive that it should beRendel himself who had betrayed it, or that if he had betrayed it hewould not admit the fact. And yet--could it be?--there was something inRendel's demeanour now that made it more possible than it had been anhour ago to credit him with the shameful possibility. The pause duringwhich all this had rushed through Stamfordham's mind seemed to Rendel tohave lasted through untold ages of time, when Stamfordham at last spokeagain. 

"Rendel, " he said, "I have a right to demand that you should give memore satisfaction than this. You say you have learnt nothing, and cantell me nothing, but this I find impossible to believe. " Rendel made amovement. "I am sorry, but I say this advisedly, since this disclosure_must_ have taken place in your house, " and he underlined the wordsemphatically. "I can't think it possible that a man of your intelligenceshould not have found some clue, some possible suggestion. "

"I am very sorry, " said Rendel. "I'm afraid I have not. "

"Then, of course, it is obvious what conclusion I must come to, " saidLord Stamfordham. "That it is not that you cannot give any explanation, but that you decline to give it. "

Rendel, to his intense mortification, felt that he was changing colour. Stamfordham, looking at him earnestly, felt absolutely certain that heknew. 

"Rendel, " he said, gravely, "take my advice before it is too late. Don'tlet a wish to screen some one else prevent you from speaking. If youhave had the misfortune to--let the secret escape you, don't, to shelterthe person who published it, withhold the truth now. But I must remindyou also, " and his words fell like strokes from a hammer, "that I amasking it for my own sake as well as yours. When I brought you thosepapers, I trusted you fully and unreservedly, and now that thiscatastrophe has happened in consequence of my confidence in you I amentitled to know what has happened. "

"Yes, " Rendel said. "I quite see your position, and I know that you havea right to resent mine, but all I can say is that--" he stopped, thenwent on again with firmer accents, "I don't suppose I can expect you tobelieve me, but as a matter of fact I can't begin to conceive thepossibility of knowingly handing on to some one else such a secret asthat. "

"Knowingly, " said Stamfordham, "perhaps not, " and he waited, to giveRendel one more chance of speaking. But Rendel was silent. ThenStamfordham went on in a different tone and with a perceptibly harshernote in his voice. "My time is so precious that I am afraid if you havenothing further to tell me there is no good in prolonging theinterview. "

"Perhaps not, " said Rendel, who was deadly white, and he made a motionas though to go. 

"Do you realise, " said Stamfordham, "what this will mean to you?"

"Yes, " said Rendel, "I do. "

"Of course, " said Stamfordham, "what I ought to do is to insist on theinquiry being continued until the matter is cleared up and brought tolight. "

A strange expression passed over Rendel's face as there rose in his minda feeling that he instantly thrust out of sight again, thatsupposing--supposing--Stamfordham himself investigated to the bottom allthat had happened, and that without any doing of his, Rendel's, thetruth were discovered? Then with horror he put the idea away. Rachel! itwould give Rachel just as great a pang, of course, whoever found it out. The flash of impulse and recoil had passed swiftly through his mindbefore he woke up, as it were, to find Stamfordham continuing--

"But I am willing for your sake to stop here. "

Rendel tried to make some acknowledgment, but no words that he couldspeak came to his lips. 

"It might, as I told you before, " Stamfordham went on, standing up asthough to show that the interview was over, "have been a nationaldisaster. That, however, has, I hope, been averted, and we shall simplyhave done now something we meant to do a few days hence. But that doesnot affect the point we have been discussing, " and he looked at Rendelas though with a forlorn hope that at the last moment he might speak. But Rendel was silent still. "You understand, then, " Stamfordham said, looking him straight in the face, an embodiment of inexorable justice, "what this means to a man in your position?"

"Yes, " said Rendel again. 

"I owe my colleagues an explanation, " said Stamfordham. "Since one isnot to be had, I must repeat to them what has passed between us. "

"Of course, " said Rendel. And he went towards the door. 

"There is another thing I must ask you, " Stamfordham said, speaking withcold courtesy. "I have a letter here about Stoke Newton. It will have tobe settled. " And he waited for Rendel to answer the question which hadnot been explicitly asked. 

"I shall not stand, " said Rendel. 

"That is best, " said Stamfordham quietly. "Will you telegraph to theCommittee, then?"

"I will, " said Rendel, and with an inclination of the head, to whichLord Stamfordham responded, he went out. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Rendel up to this moment had been accustomed, unconsciously to himselfperhaps, to live, as most men of keen intelligence and aspirations dolive, in the future. The possibilities of to-day had always had an addedzest from the sense of there being a long, magnificent expansestretching away indefinitely in front of him, in which to achieve whathe would. In his moments of despondency he had been able to conceivedisaster possible, but it was always, after all, such disaster as a manmight encounter, and then, surmounting, turn afresh to life. But of allpossible forms of disaster that would have occurred to him as beinglikely to come near himself, there was one that he would have knowncould not approach him: there was one form of misery from which, so faras human probabilities could be gauged, he was safe. He had neverimagined that he could in his own experience learn what it meant, according to the customary phrase, to "go under" because he could nothold his head up: to disappear from among the honourable and thestrenuous, to be dragged down by the weight of some shameful deed whichwould make him unfit to consort with people of his own kind. As hewalked home he was not conscious, perhaps, of trying to look hissituation in the face, of trying to adjust himself to it. And yetinsensibly things began falling into shape, as particles of sandgradually subside after a whirlwind and settle into a definite form. Then Stamfordham's words rang in his ears: "I must tell my colleagues. "It was a small fraction of the world in number, perhaps, that would thusknow how it happened, but they were, to Rendel, the only people whomattered--the people, practically, in whose hands his own future lay. Herealised now as he had never done before in what calm confidence he hadin his inmost heart looked on that future, and most of all how much, howentirely he had always counted on Lord Stamfordham's good opinion of hisintegrity and worth. It was all gone. What should he do? How should hetake hold of life now?

As he waited at a corner to cross the road, he saw big newspaper boardsstuck up. The second edition of the other morning papers was coming outwith the news eagerly caught up from the _Arbiter_. There it was in bigletters, people stopping to read it as they passed: "StartlingDisclosure. Unexpected Action of the Government. " No power on earthcould stop that knowledge from spreading now. How it would turn thecountry upside down--what a fever of conjecture, what storms ofdisapproval from some, of jubilation from others. What franticexcitement was in store for the few who, with vigilance strained to theutmost, were steering warily through such a storm! Rendel involuntarilystopped and read with the others. 

Some people he knew drove by in a victoria, two exquisitely dressedwomen who smiled and bowed to him as they passed--chance acquaintanceswhom he met in society, and to whom under ordinary circumstances hewould have been profoundly indifferent. 

Rendel could almost have stood still in sheer terror at realising somenumbing sense that was stealing over him, some horrible change in hisview of things that was already beginning. For as they bowed to him withunimpaired friendliness, he felt conscious of a distinct sensation ofrelief, almost of gratitude, that in spite of what had happened theyshould still be willing to greet him. Good God! was _that_ what his viewof life, and of his relations with his kind was going to be? No! no!anything but that. He would go away somewhere, he would disappear. .. Yes, of course, that was what "they" all did. He remembered with ashudder a man he had known, Bob Galloway, who, beginning life under themost prosperous auspices, had been convicted of cheating at cards. Herecalled the look of the man who knew his company would be toleratedonly by those beneath him. He realised now part of what Galloway musthave gone through before he went out of England and took to frequentingsecond-rate people abroad. 

He looked up and found that he had mechanically walked back to CosmoPlace. He was recalled from his absorption to a more pressing calamity, as he recognised, with an acute pang of self-reproach, the doctor'sbrougham still standing before the door. He entered the house quickly. There was a sense of that strange emptiness, of the ordinary livingrooms of the house being deserted, that gives one an almost physicalsense that life is being lived through with stress and terribleearnestness somewhere else. He heard some words being exchanged in a lowtone on the upper landing, and then a door shutting as Rachel turnedback into her father's room. Rendel met Doctor Morgan as he came downthe stairs. Morgan's face assumed an air of grave concern as he saw SirWilliam's son-in-law coming towards him, and Rendel read in his facewhat he had to tell. There are moments in which the intensity of nervousstrain seems to make every sense trebly acute, in which, without knowingit, we are aware of every detail of sight and sound that forms thematerial setting for a moment of great emotion. As he looked at DoctorMorgan coming towards him, Rendel, without knowing it, was conscious ofevery detail that formed the background to that figure of foreboding: ofthe sunlight glancing on the glass of a picture, of its reflection inthe brass of a loose stair rod that had escaped from its fastenings, andof which, even in that moment, Rendel's methodical mind automaticallymade a note. 

"I am afraid I can't give you a very good account, " he said in answerto Rendel's hurried inquiries. "He has had another and more prolongedfainting fit, and I think it possible that his heart may be affected. "

"Do you mean, then, " said Rendel, "that--that--you are really anxiousabout the ultimate issue?" and he tried to veil the thing he wasdesignating, as men instinctively do when it is near at hand. 

"Yes, I am, " Doctor Morgan answered. "Unless there is a great change inthe next few hours, there certainly will be cause for the gravestanxiety. "

Rendel was silent, his thoughts chasing each other tumultuously throughhis brain. 

"Does my wife know?" he said. 

"I think she does, " Morgan said. "I have not told her quite as clearlyas I have said it to you, but she knows how much care he needs and howabsolutely essential it is that he should be quiet. It is his onechance. No talk, no news, no excitement. "

"What has brought on this attack, do you think?" said Rendel, feeling asif he were driven to ask the question. 

"I can't tell, " said Morgan. "He looked to me like a man who had beenexcited about something. Do you know whether that is so?"

"Yes, " said Rendel; "he got excited this morning about something thatwas in the paper. "

"Ah! by the way, yes, I don't wonder, " said Morgan, who was an ardentpolitician. "It was a most astonishing piece of news, certainly. "

"It was, indeed, " said Rendel, brought back for a moment to theunendurable burthen he had been carrying about with him. 

"The Imperialists are safe now to get in, " said Morgan. "We look to youto do great things some day, " and without waiting for the politedisclaimer which he took for granted would be Rendel's reply to hisremark, without seeing the swift look of keen suffering that swept overRendel's face, he hurried away. 

Rendel was bowed down by an intolerable self-reproach. He could havesmiled at the thought that he had actually been seeking solace in theidea that he had, at any rate, done a fine, a noble thing, that he haddone it for Rachel, that, if she ever knew it, she would know he hadsacrificed everything for her. And now, instead, how did his conductappear? How would it appear to her, since she knew but the outwardaspect of it? To her? Why, to himself, even, it almost appeared thatwishing to insist on screening himself at the expense of some one else, he had, in defiance of her entreaties, appealed to her father, andbrought on an attack that might probably cause his death. 

He stood for a moment as the door closed behind Morgan, and waitedirresolutely, with a half hope that Rachel would come downstairs to him. But all was silent, desolate, forlorn; it was behind the shut doorupstairs that the strenuous issues were being fought out which were todecide, in all probability, other fates than that of the chief suffererwho lay there waiting for death. The chief sufferer? No. Rendel, as heturned back sick at heart, after a moment, into his own study, thoughtbitterly within himself that death to the man who has so little toexpect from life is surely a less trial than dying to all that is worthhaving while one is still alive. That was how he saw his own life as helooked on into the future, or rather, as he contemplated it in thepresent--for the future was gone, it was blotted out. That was thethought that ever and anon would come to the surface, would come inspite of his efforts to the contrary, before every other. Then thethought of Rachel's face of misery rose before him, haunted him with anadditional anguish. With an effort he pulled himself together, sat downto the table, and wrote a letter to the committee of Stoke Newton, stating briefly that he had relinquished his intention of standing, directed it, and closed the envelope with a heavy sigh. One by one hewas throwing overboard his most precious possessions to appease theFates that were pursuing him. Where would it end? What would be left tohim? The one precious possession, the turning-point of his existencestill remained: Rachel, his love for her, their life together. But, after all, those great goods he had meant to have in any case, and therest besides. The door opened. It was the servant come to tell him thatluncheon was ready; the ordinary bell was not rung for fear ofdisturbing Sir William. Luncheon? Could the routine of life be going onjust in the same way? Was it possible that a morning had been enough todo all this? He went listlessly into the dining-room. Rachel was notthere. He went upstairs, and as he went up met her coming out of herfather's room. Her startled and almost alarmed look, as at the firstmoment she thought that he was going back into her father's room, smotehim to the heart. 

"You had better not go in, Frank, " she said hurriedly. "The doctor saidhe was to be quite quiet. Please don't go in again, " and the intonationof the words told him how much lay at his door already. 

"I was not going in, " he said quietly. "I was coming to fetch you tohave some luncheon. "

"I don't think I could eat anything, " she said. 

"You must try, darling, " he said gently. "It is no good your beingknocked up at this stage. You look pretty well worn out already. "

And indeed she did. The last twenty-four hours had made her look asthough she herself had been through an illness, and the nervous strainadded to her own condition made her appear, Rendel felt as he looked ather, quite alarmingly ill. She suffered herself to be persuaded to eatsomething, then wandered wretchedly back to her father's room to remainthere for the rest of the day. 

Rendel did not leave the house again. He sat downstairs alone, trying torealise what this world was that he was contemplating, this landscapepainted in shades of black and grey. Was this the prospect flooded withsunshine that he had looked upon that very morning? The afternoon wenton: the streets of London were full of a gay and hurrying crowd. Was itRendel's imagination, the tense state of his nerves, that made him feelin the very air as it streamed in at his window the electric disturbancethat was agitating the destinies of the country? Everyone looked as theypassed as though something had happened; men were talking eagerly andintently. The afternoon papers were being hawked in the streets. One ofthem actually had the map, all had the news, given with the samecomments of amazement, and, on the part of the Imperialists, ofadmiration at the feat that had been so cleverly performed. So the daywore on, the long summer's day, till all London had grasped what hadhappened--while the man through whom London knew was sitting alone, anoutcast, with Grief and Anxiety hovering by him. 

These two same dread companions, seen under another aspect, were withRachel as she sat through the afternoon hours in her father's darkenedroom, listening to his breathing, with all her senses on the alert forany sound, for any movement. 

Sir William moved and opened his eyes; then, looking at Rachel, who wasanxiously bending over him, he rapidly poured out a succession of wordsand phrases of which only a word here and there was intelligible. "Frank, " he said once or twice, then "Pateley, " but Rachel had not theclue that would have told her what the words meant. She tried in vain toquiet him: he was not conscious of her presence. Then suddenly hisvoice subsided to a whisper, and a strange look came over his face. Anuncontrollable terror seized upon Rachel. She ran out on to the stairs;and as, unsteady, quivering, she rushed down, meaning to call herhusband, she caught her foot on the loose stair-rod and fell forward, striking her head with violence as she reached the bottom. It was therethat Rendel, aghast, found her lying unconscious as he hurried out ofhis study to see what had happened. The sickening horror of that firstmoment, when he believed she was dead, swallowed up every other thought. It made the time that followed, when Doctor Morgan, instantly sent for, had pronounced that she had concussion of the brain, from which shewould recover if kept absolutely quiet, a period almost of relief. 

And so Rachel was spared the actual moment of the parting she had beentrying to face. For though Sir William rallied again from the crisiswhich had so alarmed her, he sank gradually into a state of coma fromwhich he was destined never to wake, and from which, almostimperceptibly, he passed during the evening of the next day. 

Rendel, tossed on a wild storm of clashing emotions, the great anxietycaused by Rachel's accident and possible peril added to all he had gonethrough, had in truth little actual sorrow to spare for the loss of SirWilliam Gore. But Gore's death meant in one direction the death of allhis own remaining hopes. When he knew the end had come, and that hewould have to tell Rachel, when she was able to bear it, that her fatherwas dead, he then began to realise how, unconsciously to himself almost, he had built upon some possibility of Sir William doing something to putthings right. What, he had not formulated to himself; but he had hadvague visions of a possible admission of some sort, of an attemptedreconciliation, atonement, confession, such as he had read of infiction, by which means the truth would have come out, and he would havebeen absolved without any effort on his own part. But thosehalf-formulated dreams had vanished almost before he had realised them. Sir William Gore had gone to his eternal rest, and, as far as Rendelknew, no one but himself knew exactly what had happened. And now therewas nothing in front of him but that miserable blank. 

Rachel was not told of what had happened until two days after herfather's funeral. She received the news as though stunned, bewildered;as if it were too terrible for her to grasp. Gradually she came back tolife again, but she was not the same as before. Her recovery would be, the doctor explained, a question of time. The accident that had befallenher, following the great strain and anxiety she had gone through, hadcompletely upset her nervous system, and appeared--a not uncommon resultafter such an accident--to have completely obliterated the timeimmediately preceding her fall. The moment when Rendel, seeing hergradually recovering, first ventured on some allusion to Stamfordhamand to what had taken place the day her father was taken ill, he saw apuzzled, bewildered look in her face, as though she had no idea of whathe was saying, and he was seized by a fear almost too ghastly to beendurable. 

"Lord Stamfordham?" she said, puzzled. "When? I don't know about it. "

But the doctor reassured him, and told him that all would come right:she would be herself again, even if she never regained the memory ofwhat had happened before her fall. 

"It is a common result of an accident of this kind, " he said, "and needgive you no special cause for anxiety. I have known two or three casesin which men who have completely recovered in other respects have neverregained the memory of what immediately preceded the accident. That girlwho was thrown in the Park a month ago, you remember--her horse ran awayand threw her over the railings--although she got absolutely right, doesnot remember what she did that morning, or even the night before. Andafter all, " he added, "it does not seem to me so very desirable thatMrs. Rendel should remember those two particular days she may havelost. "

Rendel gave an inward shudder. If he could but have forgotten them too!

"They were full, as I understand, of anxiety and grief about herfather's condition. "

"They were, " said Rendel. "It would be much better if she did notremember them. "

"That's right, keep your heart up, then, " said Morgan, allunconsciously; "and above all, no excitement for her, no anxiety, noirritation. Change of scene would be good for her, perhaps, and seeingone or two people. If I were you, I should take her to some Germanbaths. On every ground I should think that would be the best thing forher. "

See people? Rendel felt, with the sense of having received a blow, whatsort of aspect social intercourse presented to him now. But as the dayswent on Doctor Morgan insisted more strongly on the necessity thatRachel should go for a definite 'cure' somewhere, and recommended aspecial place, Bad-Schleppenheim. 

"Bad-Schleppenheim, " he said, "is on the whole as good a place as youcould go to. "

"But isn't it thronged with English people?" said Rendel. 

"Not unduly, " said Morgan. "At any rate, I think it is worth trying. "

"I wonder if my wife would like it, " said Rendel doubtfully. 

"I wouldn't tell her, " said the doctor, "till it's all settled. That'sthe way to deal with wives, I assure you. "

And with a cheery laugh, Dr. Morgan, who had no wife, went out. 

CHAPTER XIX

Rachel, however, even after the move abroad so strongly recommended byher doctor had been made, did not all at once regain her normalcondition. She appeared to be better in health; she was calmer, hernerves seemed quieter; but a strange dull veil still hung between hermind and the days immediately preceding the great catastrophe. To whathad happened the day before her father's death she never referred; shehad not asked Rendel anything more about the accusation brought againsthim. Once or twice she had spoken of her father as if he were stillthere, then caught herself up, realising that he was gone. Was this howit was always going to be? Rendel asked himself. Would he not again beable to share with her, as far as one human being can share withanother, his hopes and his fears, or rather his renunciations? Would shenever be able to take part in his life with the sweet, smiling sympathywhich had always been so ineffably precious to him? Those days that shehad lost were just those that had branded themselves indelibly into hisconsciousness: the afternoon that Stamfordham had come with the map, the morning following when it had appeared in the newspaper, the sceneswith Gore, with Stamfordham, --all those days he lived over and overagain, and lived them alone. There was some solace in the thought thatif that time were to be to Rachel for ever blurred, she would never beable to recall what had passed between herself and her husband afterRendel had brought on Gore's illness by taxing him with what he haddone. And while he struggled with his memories--would he always have tolive in the past now instead of in the future?--Rachel, who had beentold to be a great deal in the fresh air, passed her time quietly, peacefully, languidly, lying out of doors. They had deemed themselvesfortunate in securing in the overcrowded town a somewhat primitivelittle pavilion belonging to one of the big hotels, of which the charmto Rachel was that it had a shady garden. Rendel, whose time even duringthe period in which he had had no regular occupation had always beenfully occupied, reading several hours a day, making notes on certainsubjects about which he meant to write later, became conscious for thefirst time in his life that the hours hung heavy on his hands. It waswith a blank surprise that he realised that such a misfortune, which hehad always thought vaguely could befall only the idlers and desultory ofthis world, should attack himself. Life is always laying these snaresfor us, putting in our way suddenly and unexpectedly some form ofunpleasantness by which we may have seen others attacked, but fromwhich unconsciously we have felt that we ourselves should be preservedby our own merits, --just as when we are in good health we hear ofsciatica, lumbago, or gout, and accept them without concern as part ofthe composition of the universe, until one day one of thesedisagreeables attacks ourselves, and stands out quite disproportionatelyas something that after all is of more consequence than we thought. Itunfortunately nearly always happens that we have to face the mentalcrises of life inadequately prepared. We think we have pictured thembeforehand, and according to that picture we are ready, in imagination, with a sufficient equipment of fortitude and decision to enable us toencounter them. In reality we mostly do no better than a traveller whogoing to an unknown land and climate, guesses for himself beforehandwhat his outfit had better be, and then finds it deplorably inadequatewhen he gets there. Rendel, during those days of lonely agony in Londonthat followed the revelations sprung on the public by the _Arbiter_, hadendeavoured to school himself to face what the future might have instore for him; but he had thought that while he was abroad, at any rate, the horror that pursued him now would be in abeyance. He had never beento German baths, he had never been to a fashionable resort of the kind;he had no idea what it meant. All that he had vaguely pictured was thatit would be some sort of respite from the thing that dogged him now, thefear--for there was no doubt that as the days went on it grew into afear--of coming suddenly upon some one he knew, who would look him inthe face and then turn away. And now that they were at the term of theirjourney, installed in their little foreign pavilion, he had become awarethat at a stone's throw from him was a numerous cosmopolitan society, among whom was probably a large contingent from London. He did not tryto learn their names; he would jealously keep aloof from them. Rachelhad been advised to stay here for four weeks at least. Four weeks, nodoubt, is not very long under ordinary circumstances: he had notimagined that it might seem almost unendurably long to a man who hadbeen married less than a year to a wife that he loved. And yet, beforehe had been there three days, he was conscious that each separate hourhad to be encountered, wrestled with, conquered, before going on to thenext. He had meant to write: there was a point of administration uponwhich he had intended to say his say in one of the Reviews. But somehowin that sitting-room, with the windows opening down to the garden, thesteady work, which in his own study would have been a matter of course, seemed almost impossible. Then he thought he would read. He read aloudto Rachel for part of the day; but he did not dare to choose anythingthat was much good to himself, as he had been told that the moreinactive her mind was the better. Something he would have to do; hewould have to organise his daily life in some way that would make theburden of it endurable. He made up his mind to take long walks--thehotel and pavilion lay on the outskirts of the town--to go into theoutlying country and explore it on foot. But in the evenings when Rachelwas gone to bed, and when, alone at last, he would try to concentratehis mind on the study or the writing to which he had been used soeagerly to turn, another thought that he had been keeping at bay by aconscious effort would rush at him again and overwhelm him. 

In the meantime, at the other side of Bad-Schleppenheim, the hours wereflying fast and gaily. From the moment when the visitors met together atan early hour in the morning to drink their glasses of Schleppenheimwater, and onwards through the luncheon parties, excursions, walking upand down, listening to the band, seeing theatricals, or playing Bridgein the evening, there was never a moment in which they were notindustriously engaged in the pursuit of something. It was mostlypleasure, though many of them imagined it was health. Many of the peoplewho in London constituted Society were here, in an inner and hallowedcircle, in the centre of which were many minor and a few major royaltiesout of every country in Europe; and revolving round them in widercircles outside, many other people who, at home just on the verge ofbeing in Society, revelled in the thought that here, under alteredconditions, and in the enforced juxtapositions of life in awatering-place, a special talent for tennis, a gift for Bridge, betterclothes than other people, or a talent for private theatricals, wouldhelp them to be on the right side of the line they were so anxious tocross. Add to these, numbers of pretty girls anxious only to enjoythemselves, and swarms of young men who had come for the same reason, and it will be imagined that the atmosphere reigning in the brilliantlylighted Casino, in and around which the joyous spent their eveningssinging, dancing, wandering in the grounds, was singularly differentfrom that of the little isolated pavilion where Rendel sat trying tofashion the picture of his life into something that he could look uponwithout a shudder. 

CHAPTER XX

The walls of the little town were placarded with the announcement of agreat bazaar to be held for the benefit of the English Church inBad-Schleppenheim. The economics of a fashionable bazaar are evidentlygoverned by certain obscure laws, of which the knowledge is yet ininfancy; for the ordinary laws of commerce are on these occasionscompletely suspended. That of supply and demand becomes inverted, sincethe vendors are seemingly eager to sell all that the buyers least want:the cost of production, of which statistics are not obtainable, theexpenditure of money, time, and energy required to furnish the stalls isnot taken into account at all. Loss and profit appear to be inextricablymingled; however much unsold merchandise remains on the stall at the endof the bazaar the seller is expected to hand over a substantial sum tothe good object for which she is supposed to have been working. And yetthere must be some advantage in this method of raising money, or eventhe female mind would presumably not at once turn to it as the simplestand most obvious way of obtaining funds for a given purpose. 

These problems, however, did not exist for Lady Chaloner, one of theleaders of English Society in Schleppenheim. She took bazaars forgranted, as she did everything else. She was one of the very pillars ofthe social fabric of her country. She was of noble blood, she wasportly, she was decidedly middle-aged. She had been recommended to dietherself and to drink the waters of Schleppenheim, and as she did so incompany with half the distinguished people in Europe, she was quitecontent to follow the course prescribed. In these days when everythingis called into question, when social codes alter, and an undesirablefusion of human beings takes place in so many directions, it waspositively refreshing to turn to Lady Chaloner, who not only did notknow, but could not conceive that it mattered, what other people did inany layer of existence beneath her own. She had not at any time a keeneye to discrimination of character. Her judgment of thosefellow-creatures whom she naturally frequented was based in the firstinstance on their degree of blood relationship with herself, then ontheir social standing: but she was but vaguely aware of the differencebetween the men and women, especially the women, who did not belong tothat inner circle, and knew as little about them as a looker-on leaningfrom a window in a foreign town knows about the people who pass beneathhim in the street. But there were times when she entirely recognisedthe usefulness in the scheme of creation of those motley crowds ofwell-dressed persons, even though they bore names she had never heardbefore. During her preparation for the bazaar, for instance, which shewas getting up in the single-minded conviction that nothing better couldbe done for the institution she was trying to befriend, she had beenmore than willing to co-operate with Mrs. Birkett, the wife of thechaplain, and even to ask some of Mrs. Birkett's friends for their help. Mrs. Birkett, who approached the bazaar from the point of view fromwhich she had artlessly imagined it was being undertaken, that ofensuring some sort of provision for the expenses of the chaplain whoundertook the summer duty of Schleppenheim, received a series of shocksas she came face to face with the different points of view of thevarious stall-holders with whom she was successively brought intocontact. Lady Chaloner--she looked on this as a great achievement--hadsucceeded in enrolling among the bazaar-workers the young PrincessHohenschreien, on the ground of her being a staunch Protestant. ThePrincess was half-English, half-German. Her mother had been a distantconnection of Lady Chaloner. This relationship in some strange wayentirely condoned in Lady Chaloner's eyes the fact that the PrincessHohenschreien had a good deal of paint on her face, and a good deal ofpaint in her manner, and that the loudness of her laugh and the boldnessof her bearing were more pronounced than would have been permitted ofthe well-behaved ladies brought up within the walls of Castle Chaloner. However, Lady Chaloner's daughters were married to husbands of anexcellent and irreproachable kind, and were out in the world; and LadyChaloner felt no kind of responsibility about Madeline Hohenschreien, "Maddy, " as she was called by her intimates. She expressed distinctapproval of her, in fact, in the words, "Maddy has such a lot of goabout her, hasn't she? It does one good to hear her laughin'. " So when"Maddy" instantly and light-heartedly undertook to help the bazaar byperforming at the Café Chantant, that was to go on at stated times allthrough the evening, Lady Chaloner felt that she was doing a distinctlygood work. It was no small undertaking, however, marshalling her forcesand trying to arrange that every one of the stallholders should not beselling exactly the same thing--namely, the small carved wooden objects, the staple commodity of Schleppenheim, made by the surroundingpeasantry. 

The bazaar was drawing near, and Lady Chaloner was very busy indeed. Indefatigably did she send for Mrs. Birkett several times every day, begging her to bring a pencil and paper that they might make lists. Mrs. Birkett's experience, however, was limited to sales of work undersomewhat different conditions in England, and she was not of very muchuse, except as a moral support and outward material embodiment of thecause for which the bazaar was being undertaken. She sought comfort inher inmost soul in the thought of all the money that must surely flowinto the coffers of the Church after this magnificent undertaking; butshe was secretly out of her element and ill at ease, when Lady Chalonerpounced upon her to talk of the bazaar, at an hour when the mostfashionable people in Europe, with their best clothes on, were walkingup and down while the band was playing, or established at little tablesexchanging intimate pleasantries with one another and greetings with thepeople that passed. 

She was sitting by Lady Chaloner, in compulsory attendance upon thatbenefactress of the Church, a few days before the bazaar was to comeoff. 

"Now, let me see, " said Lady Chaloner, "what are you goin' to have onyour stall?"

"On mine?" said Mrs. Birkett, rather taken aback. 

"Yes, " said Lady Chaloner, "aren't you goin' to have a stall?"

"You see, " said Mrs. Birkett, "I have not any of the things herethat--er--I generally use for the purpose, " and she thought regretfullyof a big box at home which contained a sort of rolling stock of hideousarticles that travelled, so to speak, between herself and her friendsfrom one bazaar to another, and reappeared, a sort of symbolicalmerchandise, a currency in a nightmare, at all the fancy sales held inthe neighbourhood of Leighton Ham. 

"The only thing is, " said Lady Chaloner, "it is rather a pity, because, bein' for the Church, people will expect you to sell, you know. Perhapsyou could sell at somebody else's stall. Mine's full, I think, " sheadded prudently. "Let me see, " and her ladyship ran quickly over thenames of the half a dozen young women who, in the most beguiling ofcostumes, were going to trip about and sell buttonholes to theirpartners of the evening before. Lady Chaloner's solid good sense andlong habit of the world kept things that should be separate perfectlydistinct; she did not for a moment contemplate Mrs. Birkett trippingabout and selling buttonholes. "Perhaps Mrs. Samuels hasn't got hernumber complete, " she said, not realising this time, the thing being alittle more out of her field of vision, that Mrs. Samuels, who had beenspending her time, energy, and even money, in trying to be friends withLady Chaloner, might quite possibly be in the same attitude towards Mrs. Birkett, if thrust upon her, as Lady Chaloner was to herself. 

"I daresay, yes, " said Mrs. Birkett, with some misgiving, as she sawMrs. Samuels further down the alley, standing with a London manager inthe centre of a group who were laughing and talking round them. 

"Let me see, Mrs. Samuels is goin' to have the tea, isn't she?"

"Yes, the refreshment stall, " said Mrs. Birkett, referring to her list. 

"And Lady Adela Prestige the fortune tellin'--and PrincessHohenschreien, what did she say she would do? Oh! I remember, the CaféChantant. What has she done about it, I wonder? Do you know anythingabout that?"

"I am afraid I don't, " said Mrs. Birkett. This, indeed, was quite beyondher competence. 

"I wonder if she has got people enough. Ah! here she is. Madeline!Maddy!" she called out, as Princess Hohenschreien appeared at the end ofthe walk, a parasol lined with pink behind her, and her head thrown backas she laughed loud and heartily at something her companion had said. 

"Yes, dear Lady Chaloner? Were you calling me?"

"I wanted to speak to you about the bazaar, " said Lady Chaloner. "How doyou do, M. De Moricourt, " to the Princess's companion. 

"The bazaar, " said the young man in French, as he bowed, "what is that?"

"What is that?" said the Princess, with another burst of laughter. "But, _mon cher_, you are impossible! We have been talking of nothing else allthe way down the alley. "

"How?" said the young man. "I really beg your pardon, Princess, but Ithought we were talking of the comedy we were going to act at theCasino. "

"And what do you suppose that comedy is for, " said the Princess, "if notfor the bazaar?"

"How can I tell?" said Moricourt. "It might have been to please thepublic, or even to please the Princess Hohenschreien, " with a littlebow. 

"Of course we shall please both, " said the Princess. "And a bazaargives us a reason. A charity bazaar, isn't it?"

"Ah! a charity bazaar, " said Moricourt, "that is another thing. Itdoesn't matter how badly I shall act, then. "

"Perhaps that is as well, " said the Princess. 

"Is it permitted to know the object of the charity we are going toassist so well?" said Moricourt. 

Lady Chaloner, dimly aware that Mrs. Birkett was becoming veryuncomfortable, although she did not clearly distinguish whether thepeculiar expression to be observed on the latter's face came fromirritation or embarrassment, hastily said--

"It is not a charity exactly. It is for the English Church atSchleppenheim. This is Mrs. Birkett, the wife of the clergyman, "indicating Mrs. Birkett. 

"Ah!" said Moricourt, "the English Church, " and he bowed to Mrs. Birkettas though making the acquaintance of that honoured institution. PrincessHohenschreien also included herself in the introduction, and bowed witha good-natured smile of absolute indifference to Mrs. Birkett and to allthat she represented. 

"Well, now then, seriously, " said Lady Chaloner, "do you undertake theCafé Chantant, Madeline?"

"Not the whole of it, my dear lady, " said the Princess. "That really istoo much to ask. M. Moricourt and I will act a play. "

"How long does the play last?" said Lady Chaloner. 

"How long did we say it took?" said the Princess to her companion. "Itdepends upon how often Moricourt forgets his part. When we rehearsed itlast night he waited quite ten minutes in the middle of it. "

"I must remind you, " said Moricourt, "that I was pausing to admire . .. The beautiful feathers in your hat. "

"Oh! well, that is different, " said the Princess. "I think thatexplanation is satisfactory--but otherwise----" And she filled up thesentence with a telling glance, to which Moricourt replied with a lookof fervent admiration. 

"Well, how long does it take, then?" said Lady Chaloner, with a smile ofstrange indulgence, Mrs. Birkett thought, for a lady so highly placed, and of such solid dignity. 

"Oh! about half an hour, " said Moricourt; "perhaps three-quarters. "

"Is that all?" said Lady Chaloner, in some consternation. "The CaféChantant goes on for how long did you say, Mrs. Birkett?"

This piece of statistics Mrs. Birkett was able to furnish. 

"From six till ten, I think you said, Lady Chaloner, " she said, readingfrom her list. 

"Heavens!" said the Princess, "you don't expect us, I hope, to go onfrom six till ten. We had better do the Nibelungen Ring at once. I willbe Brünnhilde--and I tell you what, " turning to Moricourt, "you shall bethe big lizard who comes in and says 'bow-wow, ' or whatever it is. Mr. Wentworth!" and she called to Wentworth who was strolling along with anair of being at peace with himself and the universe. "What is it thatlizards do?"

"If they are small, " said Wentworth, "they run up a wall in the sun, orthey run over your feet, and if they are big----"

"You fall over their feet, I suppose, " said the Princess. 

"But a lizard at a Café Chantant, " said Moricourt, "what does he do?"

"At a Café Chantant? He sings, of course, " said Wentworth. 

"No no, " said the Princess, with again her resonant laugh. "I don't knowmuch about botany, but I am sure lizards don't sing. "

"Then in that case, " said Moricourt, "Wentworth must. He can sing; Ihave heard him. "

"Can you, Mr. Wentworth? How well can you sing?" said the Princess withartless candour. 

"Well, " said Wentworth, "that is rather difficult to say. I don't singquite as well as Mario perhaps, but a little better than . .. A lizard. "

"Oh, that will do perfectly, " said the Princess. "For a charity, peopleare not particular. "

"By the way, what is all this for?" said Wentworth. 

"For the English Church here, you remember, " said Lady Chaloner. 

"Oh! to be sure, yes, " said Wentworth. "I saw the placard. "

"This is Mrs. Birkett, " said Lady Chaloner. 

Wentworth bowed and said politely, "I hope the bazaar will be a greatsuccess. "

"I hope so, thank you, " Mrs. Birkett said, feeling that if the bazaarwere not a great success, she would have gone through a good deal for avery little. She longed to be allowed to go away, but she was not quitesure whether she would not be jeopardising the success of the bazaar byleaving at this juncture. Visions of having promised to meet herreverend husband to go for a walk at a given moment were haunting her. Finally, with a desperate effort, she said--

"I am afraid I have an appointment, Lady Chaloner, and must go now, unless there is anything more I can do. "

"Oh, must you go?" said Lady Chaloner, "we had better meet in themorning, I think, and make a final list of the stalls. "

"Certainly, " said Mrs. Birkett, with a sigh of relief, and with adetermined effort she tried to include the circle she was leaving in onesalutation, and made away as fast as she could. 

"I hope, " said the Princess, "the poor lady is not shocked at having aCafé Chantant in her Church bazaar. "

"At any rate, " said Wentworth, "she will be consoled when you hand overthe results to her afterwards. "

"What is the name of the piece you are going to do?" said Lady Chaloner, pencil in hand. 

"_Une porte qui s'ouvre_, " said Moricourt, with a glance at thePrincess. 

"Oh! if you think we'll have that one!" said the Princess. "Would youbelieve, Lady Chaloner, that he wants me to be the maid in it instead ofthe leading lady, because he kisses the maid behind the door!"

"My dear Maddy!" said Lady Chaloner, reprovingly. 

"Don't look so shocked at me, dear Lady Chaloner, " she said. "I am sureI am as shocked myself at the suggestion, as----"

"Mrs. Birkett, " suggested Wentworth. 

"Precisely, " said the Princess. 

"At any rate we'll put that piece on the list for the present, " saidLady Chaloner. "Then there will be a song from Lady Adela----"

"And a song from Mr. Wentworth, " said Moricourt. 

"That's splendid, " said Lady Chaloner. "The Café Chantant will do. Theonly thing I rather regret is about the stalls, that every one is goin'to sell the same thing. "

"And who is going to buy?" said the Princess. 

"That's another difficulty, " said Lady Chaloner, "they'll all have tobuy from one another. "

"We had better have some autographs, " said the Princess, "they alwayssell. "

"Very good, " said Lady Chaloner, putting it down on the list. "You hadbetter get some. "

"All right, " said the Princess. "We'll have some of all kinds, I think. I will get some from those people too, " nodding her head in thedirection of the London manager. 

"Everybody considers himself an autograph in these days, " saidWentworth; "it is terrible what a levelling age we live in. "

"We might sell photographs, of course, " said the Princess, "instead ofautographs. "

"Or both, " said Lady Chaloner, earnestly and anxiously, as thoughcontemplating all sources of revenue. "Signed photographs. "

"Excellent, " said Wentworth. 

"There ought to be people enough to buy, if they would only come, " saidLady Chaloner, taking up a Visitors' List that lay beside her. "Peoplelike the Francis Rendels, for instance, " putting her finger on the name, "or----"

"The Rendels? Are they here?" said Wentworth, with much interest. 

"So it says here. What is she like?" said Lady Chaloner. "Would shehelp?"

"I am not sure, " said Wentworth. "She's in mourning, and very quiet--butvery charming. "

"Thank you, " said the Princess with a gay laugh. "I am sure that is acompliment _à mon adresse_. I know what you mean when you say that veryquiet women are charming. Let us go away, Moricourt; we are too noisyfor Mr. Wentworth. "

"You are too bad, Maddy, really, " said Lady Chaloner, smiling at thisbrilliant sally. 

"_Ich bitte sehr_, " said Wentworth to the Princess, with a little bow, as he took up the paper and looked for the address of the Rendels. "Pavillon du Jardin, Hôtel de Londres--I must go and look them up, " hesaid. 

"You might beat them up to come and buy, at any rate, " said LadyChaloner, "if they can't do anything else. "

"I will do what I can, " said Wentworth with a smile, reflecting as hewalked off what a strange blurring of the focus of life there is when, everything being concentrated on to one particular purpose, whether itbe a bazaar, an election, or the giving of a ball, all the human beingsone encounters are considered from the point of view of their fitness toone particular end--in the aspect of a buyer or seller, as a voter, as apartner, as the case may be. There was no doubt that at this moment thewhole of mankind were expected to fit somehow into Lady Chaloner'spattern: to be useful for the bazaar, or to be thrown away as useless. 

As Wentworth turned away he exchanged greetings with a jovialimportant-looking personage coming in the other direction, no other thanMr. Pateley, exhaling prosperity as he came. The completion of the Capeto Cairo railway, and the reinstatement in public opinion of the'Equator' Mine, proved to be of gold after all--let alone certainfortunate pecuniary transactions connected with that reinstatement--hadgiven Pateley both political and material satisfaction. The _Arbiter_was advancing more triumphantly than ever, and its editor was a personof increasing consideration and influence. 

"You seem very busy, Lady Chaloner, " he said, as he looked at the sheetsof paper on the table by her. 

"We are gettin' up a bazaar, " Lady Chaloner said. "Will you help us?"

"I shall be delighted, " said Pateley obviously. "What do you want me todo?"

"Give us your autograph, " said the Princess promptly, "and we will sellit for large sums of gold. "

She had certainly chosen a skilful way of enlisting Pateley'sco-operation. He revelled in the joy of being a political potentate, andevery fresh proof that he received of the fact was another delight tohim. 

"I shall be greatly honoured, " he said. 

"We are going to have autographs of all the distinguished people we canfind, " said the Princess, continuing her system of ingratiation. 

"I can tell you of an autograph who has just arrived, " said Pateley. "Ihave just seen him driving up from the station; a very expensiveautograph indeed--Lord Stamfordham. "

"Lord Stamfordham?" said Lady Chaloner, the Foreign Secretary, like therest of the world, falling instantly into his place in her kaleidescope. "Certainly, if he would give us a dozen autographs we should do anexcellent business with them. "

"You had better make Adela Prestige ask him, then, " said the Princesswith a laugh. 

"I wonder where Adela is?" said Lady Chaloner, considering the questionentirely on its merits. 

"That depends upon where Lord Stamfordham is, " murmured the Princess toher companion. "By the way, Lady Chaloner, before we part, it isTuesday, isn't it, that we make our expedition to Waldlust to lunch inthe wood?"

"Tuesday?--let me see, this is Thursday. Yes, I think so, " said LadyChaloner. Then she gave a cry of dismay. "Oh! no, Maddy, Tuesday is thebazaar; that will never do. "

"Oh, yes, " said the Princess, "all the better. The bazaar doesn't opentill half-past five after all, and we can lunch at half-past twelve. Itwill do us good to be in the fresh air before our labours begin; weshall look all the better for it. "

"Very well, " said Lady Chaloner dubiously. "But then what about thearrangements?"

"Can't those be made on Monday?" said the Princess; "and if there areany finishing touches required, Mrs. Birkett and her friends can do themon Tuesday. They won't want to look their best, I daresay, " and shelaughed again. 

"Very well, " said Lady Chaloner. "Tuesday, then, for Waldlust. I willask Lord Stamfordham to come. "

"And I will ask Adela, " said the Princess. 

"Come then, Moricourt, " said the Princess, "if you want to rehearse thatplay before we act it. "

"Pray do, " said Lady Chaloner anxiously. "I am sure people who actalways rehearse first. "

"I am more than willing, " said M. De Moricourt, throwing an infinity ofexpression into his voice and glance as he looked at the Princess. 

"Some parts especially will require a great deal of rehearsing. " Andthey departed together. 

"She is so amusin', " said Lady Chaloner to Pateley. "I really don't knowanybody that can be more amusin' when she likes. "

Pateley gave a round, sonorous laugh of agreement, tantamount to a smileof assent in any one else. He wisely did not commit himself to anyexpression of opinion as to the accomplished wit of the Princess, whichat all events as far as he had had opportunity of observing it, did notstrike him as being of a very subtle character. 

CHAPTER XXI

The echoes of the band which was enlivening the promenade we have justleft penetrated to the pavilion where Rachel and her husband weresitting alone. A little path ran from the back of the pavilion straightup into the woods. At certain hours, when the fashionable world met todrink the waters, to listen to the band, or to talk at the Casino, thewoodland path was almost deserted. At no time was it very crowded, as itwas a short and rather steep short cut to a walk through the wood whichcould be reached by a more convenient access from the principal streetin the town. 

Rendel, although it had not occurred to him to look at a Visitors' List, and although he did not realise yet how many people he knew were atSchleppenheim, still had a strange, unpleasant feeling, horribly new tohim, of shrinking from meeting any one he had ever seen before. He hadseen the woodland path, and was wondering if he should go and explore itat this hour when presumably every one was listening to the band, ofwhich the incessant strains heard in the distance were beginning to bemaddening. As he looked up vaguely, the little door into the gardenopened, and he saw the familiar figure of Wentworth appear. His heartstood still. Did Wentworth know? Was he coming out of compassion? And atthe same moment that he thought it, further back somewhere in his mindhe was conscious of the absurdity of Wentworth having become suddenly soimportant--Wentworth's opinion, his personality mattering, hisrepresenting one of the instruments of Fate. He stood, therefore, toWentworth's surprise, absolutely still, waiting to see what his friend'sattitude would be. But there was no mistake about that, about theunaffected heartiness and rejoicing with which Wentworth met him, inabsolute unconsciousness of any possible cloud between them, anypossible reason why Rendel should not be as glad to see him as he hadbeen at any time since they had been at Oxford together. 

"Frank!" he said, as he came forward, "what's all this about? Why areyou hiding yourself here?" And he stopped in surprise at seeing as hespoke the words something in Rendel's whole bearing that made him feelas if he were speaking the truth in jest, as if the man before himreally were hiding, really had something to conceal. 

Then, after that first moment, Rendel realised that Wentworth knewnothing. That, at any rate, for the moment was to the good, and with anabounding sense of relief he held out his hand. 

"Don't you like these quarters?" he said. "We think they are perfectlydelightful. "

"So do I, " Wentworth said, "so do I. They are so quiet. "

"My wife wants to be quiet, " said Rendel, half indicating Rachel, whowas lying back in a garden chair, some knitting in her hands. 

"How are you, Mrs. Rendel?" said Wentworth, and he hastened forward togreet her. 

She put out her hand with a smile and shook hands with him, apparentlynot surprised at seeing him, or particularly interested. 

"You are certainly most delightfully cool here in the shade, " he said. "It is awfully hot in that promenade. "

"It must be, " said Rachel. 

"How long have you been here?" Wentworth went on, sitting down. 

"How long is it?" said Rachel, with a slightly puzzled look, looking atRendel. "Only a few days, isn't it?"

"Yes, not quite a week. My wife has not been well. We were recommendedhere that she might do the cure. "

"I see, " Wentworth said, somewhat relieved at finding himself on the wayto an explanation. "Well, this is a splendid place, I believe, for thepeople that it cures, " he added sapiently. 

"No doubt, " Rendel said. 

There was another pause. 

"Then that is why we have not seen you at the Casino, " Wentworth said. "One can't avoid running up against people one knows at every turnhere. "

"Is that so?" said Rendel, a note of anxiety in his voice. "We have notrun up against any one yet. "

"Oh! dear me, yes, " said Wentworth, unconscious that each of the nameshe might enumerate would represent to Rendel a possible inexorablejudge. "Half London is here: Lady Chaloner, Pateley--all sorts ofpeople. "

"Pateley?" said Rendel, the blood rushing to his face at the associationof ideas called up in his mind by that name. 

"Of course, " said Wentworth. "Pateley, flourishing like the bay-tree. They say he is making thousands, and he looks as if he were. "

"Out of the _Arbiter_?" asked Rendel. 

"The _Arbiter_, I suppose, or something else. But I have no doubt hewould tell you if you asked him. He does not impress me as being one ofthe very reserved kind. "

"I don't know, " said Rendel. "I don't suppose Pateley ever says morethan he means to say, with all his air of hearty communicativeness. "

"Well, I daresay not, " said Wentworth. "The man's very good companyafter all; and as long as none of our secrets are in his keeping, itdoesn't matter particularly. "

Rendel said nothing. He felt he could not meet Pateley face to face atthis moment. 

"What do you do, then, all day here, " said Wentworth, "if you don'tdrink the waters, and don't go to the Casino, and don't play Bridge?"

"I don't know. I don't do very much, " said Rendel, with an involuntaryaccent in the words that made Wentworth ponder over the undesirabilityof marrying a wife who is in mourning and depressed. 

"You should go into the wood, " said Wentworth, "as the Germans do. Wefound a lot of them the other day singing part-songs out of littlebooks. There is a band of them here called the Society of the UnitedThrushes, composed of the most respectable and most middle-aged ladiesof the district. "

"That sounds charming, " said Rendel. 

"Look here, " said Wentworth, "if you don't care to walk alone, do let'swalk together. One can go up here and along the wood for miles. We'llhave good long stretches as we used to at Oxford. What do you think, Mrs. Rendel? Don't you think it would be a good thing for him?"

"Very, " said Rachel with a smile. "I think he ought to go and walk. "

"That's capital, " said Wentworth. "Let's do that to-morrow, shall we?"

"I should like it very much, " said Rendel. 

But the next day the weather broke, and was unsettled for three days. Onthe Tuesday morning, happily for the bazaar and the big tent in thegrounds of the Casino, the sun shone out again, and everything wasradiant as before. Wentworth turned up at the pavilion in the forenoonand persuaded Rendel to make a day of it. The two started off togetherthrough the wood, the scented air floating round them, and bringing toRendel, as he strode along with a congenial companion, a sense of mentaland physical relief as though the atmosphere of both kinds that he wasbreathing were as different from that which had weighed him down afortnight ago as the scent of the aromatic pines was from the air of theLondon streets. Wentworth was full of talk, of a kind it must beconfessed which left his hearer at the end without any very distinctimpression of what it had been about, although it passed the timeagreeably and genially. He had his usual detached air, which Rendel hadalways been accustomed to find a relief as opposed to his own strenuousattitude, of standing aloof as an amused spectator of humancontingencies. 

"I haven't seen you for ever so long, " Wentworth was saying. "Whatbecame of you at the end of the season? You vanished somehow, didn'tyou?"

"We were in mourning, you know, " Rendel replied. 

"Ah, to be sure, yes, Sir William Gore died, " said Wentworth, attuninghis voice to what he considered a suitable key, on the assumption thatRendel would feel still more bound to be loyal to his father-in-law nowthan when, as he put it to himself, the "old humbug" was alive. "PoorMrs. Rendel, she looks as if it had been a great blow to her. "

"Yes, " said Rendel, "it was; and she has been ill besides. " And he toldWentworth briefly of what had happened to Rachel, and the condition shewas in, and the reassuring hopes held out by the doctors that she wouldalmost certainly recover her normal state. 

"I am very glad to hear that, " said Wentworth cheerily. "Then you mustcome to London and start life again, Rendel, now you are free. SirWilliam Gore was rather a responsibility, I daresay. "

"Yes, " said Rendel, "he was. "

"Let me see, " said Wentworth, "it was just about when he died, Isuppose, that Stamfordham published that sensational agreement withGermany?"

"Yes, " said Rendel, "it was the day before he died. "

"Ah, " said Wentworth, "the day before? Then of course you didn't realisethe excitement it was. By Jove! of course you know I'm not 'in' all thatsort of thing myself, but I must say I never saw such a fuss and fizz asit was. The way it was sprung on people too! It was an awfully boldthing to do, you know; but it turned up trumps after all, that's thepoint. Stamfordham isn't like any body else, and that's the fact. "

"What's that place we are coming to through the trees?" said Rendel. 

"Why, that's it, " said Wentworth. "That's where we shall get luncheon. They always have something ready for people who drop in. "

"It isn't crowded, is it?" said Rendel. 

"My dear fellow, " replied Wentworth, "there is never anybody. I havebeen there twice since I came; once there was a German doctor, and oncethere was nobody. "

"All right, " said Rendel. 

"You are sure to get veal, " Wentworth said. "In Germany, whatever elseis wanting, you can always get a veal cutlet to slake your thirst with, after the longest and hottest walk. "

"I shall be quite content, " said Rendel. 

They went on across the hollow, and up a slight ascent. They strolledidly round the woodland house, and saw, as they expected, in theagreeable little garden behind, a long table all ready for luncheon. 

"This is capital, " said Wentworth. "You see, as I told you, they alwaysexpect people, " and a waiting maid appearing at that moment, Wentworthproceeded to order luncheon for himself and Rendel in the best German hecould muster. Unfortunately, however, the proprietor of theestablishment was engaged in his cellar on important business, and thedialect spoken by the red-handed and red-cheeked maiden who receivedthem was not very intelligible. However, by dint of nodding of heads andpointing out items on the bill of fare, they came to an understanding, Wentworth taking for granted that something quite unintelligible thatshe had said about the table was an inquiry as to whether they wouldsit at it, which indeed it was. But it was further an inquiry as towhether they were of the party that was coming to sit at it, which healso quite cheerfully and unsuspectingly answered in the affirmative. Hethen pulled out his watch, and pointing to a given time at which hewould return, he and Rendel went further away into the wood. 

CHAPTER XXII

When they returned, half an hour later, the little garden was no longerempty. People were coming and going, the table was covered with food;Lady Chaloner was seated at it, and at a little distance from herPrincess Hohenschreien, with M. De Moricourt inevitably in her wake. Lady Chaloner's readiness in the German tongue was not equal at thismoment to her sense of injury. It was Princess Hohenschreien, therefore, who was charged with the negotiations, and who was discussing in volubleand amused German with the inn-keeper the heinousness of his crime inhaving promised two unknown pedestrians a seat at that very selecttable. The inn-keeper was full of apologies. Not having a nicediscrimination of the laws that govern the social relations of ourcountry, he had thought that if the strangers were English they wereentitled to sit down with the others. 

"What does he say, Maddy?" said Lady Chaloner. "Ask him if he can't putthem somewhere else. Good Heavens! here they are!" she said _sotto voce_as two people came through the trees at the bottom of the garden, andthen stopped in surprise at seeing how populous it had become. Then, asLady Chaloner looked at them, she suddenly realised with relief that sheknew them. 

"What!" she cried, "is it you? Are you the two people who came in hereand ordered luncheon in the middle of our party?"

"I am afraid we are, do you know, " said Wentworth, as he came forward. "We didn't know how indiscreet we were being. We'll go somewhere else. "

"Not at all, not at all, " said Lady Chaloner. "How do you do, Mr. Rendel? I have not seen you for a long time. Of course you must lunchwith us, so it all ends happily. Maddy, this is Mr. FrancisRendel--Princess Hohenschreien. "

Rendel bowed. He had had one moment, as they came up into the garden andsaw there were other people there, before Lady Chaloner had recognisedthem, to make up his mind as to what he would do. Then he had said tohimself desperately that he would risk it. After all, he might beexaggerating the whole thing; Wentworth did not know, and so the othersmight not. Rendel had felt during the last hour one of those strangesudden lightenings of the burden of existence that for some unexplainedreason come to our help without our knowing why. He was almost beginningto think life would be possible again. At any rate, here, at the presentmoment, he would not try to remember or realise what it was going to be, what it must be. He would sit here on this peerless day with thesepleasant friendly people, and this one hour at any rate the sun shouldshine within and without. 

"That's right, " said Lady Chaloner, pointing to two places some way downthe table at her left; "sit anywhere. "

As Wentworth and Rendel stood opposite to the Princess and her attendantcavalier, the door of the house, which faced them, opened, and LadyAdela Prestige appeared in the doorway, with some more people behindher. 

"How delightful this is!" Lady Adela cried, as she stepped out into thegarden. 

"Isn't it?" said Lady Chaloner. "Look how amusin', " she continued. "Mr. Wentworth and Mr. Rendel have come to luncheon too, quite by chance. "

Lady Adela nodded to Wentworth, whom she was seeing every day, and bowedto Rendel, whom she knew slightly. Then, as Rendel looked beyond her, hesaw who was coming out of the house in her wake--Lord Stamfordham, followed by Philip Marchmont. Stamfordham, coming out into the dazzlingsunlight, did not at first see who was there. In that hurried, almostimperceptible interval, Rendel had time to grasp that here was thehorrible reality upon him in the worst form in which it could have come. He had wild visions of saying something, doing something, he knew notwhat, instantly repressed by the Englishman's repugnance to a scene. Then he pulled himself together, and simply stood and waited. And as hewaited he saw Stamfordham come up to the table with a pleased smile, prepared to sit down on Lady Chaloner's right hand, next the seat intowhich Lady Adela had dropped. Then Stamfordham suddenly saw the two menstill standing on the other side of the table, and recognised in one ofthem Francis Rendel. A swift extraordinary change came over his face. The genial content of the man who, having deliberately put all his usualcares and preoccupations behind him was now, under the most favourableconditions, prepared to enjoy a holiday in genial society, suddenlydisappeared. He involuntarily drew himself up, his face became hard andstern; he again looked as Rendel had seen him look the last time theyhad met. The mental agony of the younger man during that moment wasalmost unendurable. What was going to happen next? As in a dream heheard the comfortable voice of Lady Chaloner, who had never in her life, probably, spoken with any misgivings, whose calm confidence in thebending of contingency to her desires nothing had ever occurred toshake. 

"Will you sit down there, Lord Stamfordham? We have two new recruits toour party, you see. I don't think I need introduce either of them. "

Stamfordham remained standing for a moment; then he said quietly, butvery distinctly--

"I am afraid, Lady Chaloner, that I can't sit down at this table. "

A sort of electric shock ran through the careless happy people who weresurrounding him. Rendel turned livid. Then he tried to speak. But nowords could come; mentally and physically alike he could not frame them. He pushed his chair away from the table, and moved out behind it; thenwith his hands grasping the back of it, he bowed to Lady Chalonerwithout speaking, turned and went away by the little opening in the woodfrom which he and Wentworth had come. Wentworth, ready and light-heartedas he generally was, was for one moment also absolutely paralysed withamazement and concern, then saying hurriedly, "Forgive me, LadyChaloner, I must go and see what has happened, " he quickly followed. Lord Stamfordham drew up his chair to the table and sat down. Hisurbane, genial manner had returned, and he spoke as though nothing hadhappened; the rest instantly took their cue from him. 

"What delightful quarters you have found for us, Lady Chaloner, " hesaid. "I don't think I made acquaintance with this place when I was atSchleppenheim last year. "

"Charmin', isn't it?" said Lady Chaloner. And quite imperturbably, atfirst with an effort, which became easier as the meal went on, the wholeparty went on talking and laughing as usual, with, perhaps, if the truthwere known, an added zest of excitement, certainly on the part of someof its members, at "something" having happened. The two extra placesthat had been put were taken away again, and the rank closed upindifferently and gaily round the table, as ranks do close up whencomrades disappear by the way. 

In the meantime Rendel was madly hurrying away through the wood, goingstraight in front of him, not knowing what he was doing, what heproposed to do--his one idea being to get away, away, away from thosesmiling, distinguished indifferent people, hitherto his own associates, who now all knew the horrible fate that had overtaken him, who wouldfrom henceforth turn their backs upon him too. The thought of thatmoment when he had been face to face with Stamfordham, of thosedistinct, inexorable tones, of the words which judged and for evercondemned him, burnt like a physical, horrible flame from which he couldnot escape. He flung himself down at last, and buried his face in hishands, trying to shut out everything, as a frightened child pulls theclothes over its head in the darkness. Then, to his terror, he heardfootsteps in the wood. Who was it? Was this some one else who knew?Would he have to go through it all over again? And he lifted his head inanguish as the steps drew nearer. The sight of the newcomer brought himno relief. It was Wentworth, who, anxious and bewildered, came stumblingalong, having by some strange chance come in the direction that broughthim to the person he was seeking. Rendel looked at him. 

"Well?" he said, in a strained voice, as though demanding an explanationof Wentworth's intrusion. 

The sight of his face completely bewildered Wentworth. 

"Good God, Rendel!" he said, "what is it? What has happened?"

There was a pause. Then Rendel said, trying with very indifferentsuccess to speak in a voice that sounded something like his own--

"Didn't you see what happened?"

"I saw that--that--Stamfordham----" Wentworth began, then he stopped. 

"Yes, " said Rendel curtly, "you saw it--you saw what Stamfordham did?Well, there's an end of it, " and he looked miserably around him asthough hemmed in by the powers of earth and heaven. 

"But, Frank, " Wentworth said, still feeling as if all this were somefrightful dream, one of those dreams so vivid that they live with thedreamer for weeks afterwards, and sometimes actually go to make hiswaking opinion of the persons who have appeared in them, "tellme--what----"

"Jack, " said Rendel, "it's no good talking about it. I'll tell youanother time, I daresay, if I can. Leave me alone now, there's a goodfellow--that's all I want. "

"Look here, Frank, " said Wentworth; "if it's anything--anything thatStamfordham thinks you've done--that--that you oughtn't to havedone--well, I don't believe it, that's all!"

"You are a good friend, old Jack, " said Rendel, looking at him. "I mighthave known you wouldn't believe it. "

"Of course I don't, " said Wentworth stoutly. "I don't know what it is, but I don't believe it all the same. "

"Well, " said Rendel slowly, "I'll tell you this for your comfort--youneedn't believe it. "

"Of course not, " said Wentworth heartily, "and I don't care what it is, of course you didn't do it. And what's more, I know you can't have doneanything to be ashamed of, and of course other people will know it too, "he said sanguinely, carried along by his zealous friendship. 

Rendel's face turned dark red again. "No, " he said, "other people won't. Of course other people will think I have done it. Don't let's talk aboutit now. The fact is, " mastering his voice with an effort, "I can't, Jack. Just go away, and leave me alone. I'll come back some time. "

"But what are you going to do? You're not going to sit here all day, Isuppose. "

"I'll come later, " Rendel said. "You must find your way back without me, there's a good fellow. By the way, " he added, "I'm sorry to have spoiltyour day; I'm afraid you've had no luncheon. But you'll be back inSchleppenheim in time to get some. Look here, would you mind saying tomy wife that--that I've walked a little further than you cared to go, orsomething of that sort, and that I'll be back at dinner time?"

"Very well, " said Wentworth, hesitatingly. "She is not likely to beanxious, is she?" he said dubiously. "I mean, at your being away solong. She won't be alarmed, will she?"

"Oh no, " said Rendel. "That is to say, if you don't alarm her. " And thenlooking up and seeing Wentworth's anxious expression, so very unlike theusual one, "And you needn't be alarmed yourself, Jack; I'm not going todo anything desperate, " he said, forcing a smile; "that's not in myline. "

"No, no, of course not, " Wentworth said, with a sort of air of beingentirely at his ease. And then reading in Rendel's face how the onething he longed for was to be alone, he said abruptly, "All right, then, we shall meet later, " and strode off the way he had come. 

What a solution it would have been, Rendel felt, if he had indeed beenable to make up his mind to the step that Wentworth evidently thought hemight be contemplating--what an answer to everything! and as again thatburning recollection came over him he felt that, in spite of the couragerequired for suicide, it would have required less courage to put himselfout of the world, beyond the possibility of its ever happening again, than to remain in it and face what other agony of humiliation Fate mighthave in store for him. But he was not alone, unfortunately; his owndestiny was not the only one in question. And if his words, hisintention, his faith in the future had meant anything at all when hetold Rachel that there was no sacrifice he would not be ready to makefor her, he was bound to go on doggedly and meet the worst. He walkedaimlessly through the wood, higher and higher, until he reached a sortof clearing from which he could see, far below him, the white roadwinding back again to Schleppenheim, and presently as he looked he sawdriving rapidly back in the direction of the town the open carriagescontaining the people he had just left. Stamfordham must be in one ofthem. What were they saying about him, those people? Or, if not saying, what were they thinking? Could he ever look one of them in the faceagain? Not one. And again he had a wild moment of thinking that it wouldbe possible to put the thing right, to establish his innocence, toinsist upon knowing how it was that Sir William Gore had given theinformation to the _Arbiter_, on knowing what the arrangement was withPateley on which that _coup de théâtre_ had depended, and he sprang tohis feet with the determination that he would go straight back intoSchleppenheim, seek out Pateley and insist upon knowing what hadhappened. Then, just as before, the revulsion came. The principal thing, he had no need to ask Pateley. He knew, and that was the thing otherpeople might not know. In a little while, he was told, Rachel would beherself again, and perhaps able to remember: she must not come back tothe knowledge of something that must be such a cruel blow to her faithin her father, her adoring love for him. And yet as he turned downwardsand strode hurriedly back along the woodland paths, across the shafts ofsunlight which were growing longer as the day wore on, he felt howabsurdly, horribly unequal the two things were that were at stake. Onthe one hand his own future, his success, his whole life, all thepossibilities he had dreamt of; on the other, reprobation falling on onewho was beyond the reach of it, one who had no longer any possibilities, who had nothing to lose, whose hopes and fears of worldly success, whoseagitations had been for ever stilled by the hand of death. And Rachel?Would the suffering of knowing that her father's memory was attacked, ofbeing rudely awakened from her illusions to find that in the eyes of theworld he was not, and did not deserve to be, what he had been in hers, would that suffering be equal to that which he himself was encounteringnow? But even as he argued with himself, as he tried to prove that hisown salvation was possible, he knew that when it came to the point hecould do nothing. If it had been a question of another man, whom hehimself could have saved by bringing the accusation home to the rightquarter, he would have done it, he would have felt bound to do it: butas it was, he knew perfectly well that the thing was impossible. Thefact is that, whether guided by supernatural standards or by those ofinstinct and tradition, there are very few of the contingencies in lifein which the man accustomed to act honestly up to his own code is reallyin doubt as to what, by that code, he ought to do: and by the time thatRendel reached the little garden again which he had left in the companyof Wentworth a few hours before, he knew quite well that he was going todo nothing, that he might do nothing, that he must simply again wait. Wait for what? There was nothing to come. 

CHAPTER XXIII

Two of the occupants of the carriages that Rendel had seen going rapidlyalong the road knew the meaning of the scene that had taken place undertheir eyes; the others were in a state of simmering curiosity. 

"I should be glad, " said Stamfordham, as they approached Schleppenheim, "if nothing could be said about what happened. "

He was sitting opposite to Lady Chaloner and Lady Adela in a landau. There was no need, of course, to explain to what he was referring. 

"Of course, of course, " said Lady Chaloner, not quite knowing what tosay. 

In the meantime Wentworth had got back, had been to see Rachel, and hadtold her that Rendel was going to extend his walk a little further andthat he would be back without fail in time for dinner. He himself, headded, had been obliged to come back for an engagement. Rachel acceptedquite placidly the fact that her husband would return later than sheexpected; she thanked Wentworth with the same sweet smile of old, askedwhere they had been, said the woods must have been delightful. Then, feeling that he could do nothing, Wentworth, with some misgiving, lefther. 

Rachel still felt the languor which succeeds illness, --not an unpleasantcondition when there is no call for activity, --a physical languor whichmade her quite content to sit or lie out of doors most of the day, sometimes walk a little way, and then come back to rest again. She hadaccepted Rendel's unceasing solicitude for her with love and gratitude, she clung to his presence more than ever now that both her parents beinggone she felt herself entirely alone: but for the rest she was strangelycontent to let the days go by in a sort of luxury of sorrow, while sherecalled the happy time passed with those other two beloved ones who hadmade up her life. But there was no bitterness in the recollection; therewas a sort of tender mystery over it still. At times she felt as ifthere were something more; she had some dim, confused recollection ofher husband being connected with it all, and with Gore's illness; how, she could not remember. And she did not try. Deep down in her mind wasthe feeling that with a great effort it might all come back to her; butshe shrank from making the effort. 

After Wentworth left her, it had occurred to her that, since Rendel wasnot coming back again, she would venture outside the limits of theirgarden and go to where the band was playing. She did not at all realisewhat the surroundings of that band would be. The kind of life that shehad led before, when they had come abroad with Lady Gore, had not beenthe sort of existence reigning at Schleppenheim. She strolled out, feeling that everything was very strange and new, in the direction ofthe music, following without knowing it a path which brought her intothe very middle of the promenade into the centre of a gaily dressedthrong of people, somewhat bewildering to one accustomed to pass all herdays in solitude. Shrinking back a little she turned out of the stream, and, finding an unoccupied chair under a tree, sat down, looking timidlyabout her. Then finding that no one was paying any attention to her, orappeared to be conscious of the fact that she was venturing out alone, she gradually became amused at watching all that was going on round her. Presently two well-dressed women she did not know, an older and ayounger one, Lady Chaloner and Lady Adela Prestige in fact, on their wayto their bazaar, came along deep in talk, the older one stopping tospeak with some emphasis whenever the interest of the conversationdemanded it. One of these halts was made close by Rachel. 

"I should like to know what it was, " Lady Adela was saying. 

"You may depend upon it, " said Lady Chaloner, "that it was somethingvery bad. He is not the man to do that sort of thing for nothing. "

"I am quite sure of it, " Lady Adela replied, with a little tremor ofexcitement. "One can't help feeling that it's something really bad; thatit was not only that he had run away with his neighbour's wife orsomething of that kind. He must have done something that can't becondoned. "

"I am sure of it, " Lady Chaloner said seriously. "There is no doubtabout that. "

"Poor creature!" said Lady Adela. "Didn't he look awful?"

"Perfectly fearful!" said Lady Chaloner. "He looked like the villain ina play, who is found out--the man who has cheated at cards, or somethingof that sort. "

"Perhaps that was it. "

"I daresay, " said Lady Chaloner. "I wonder if he has been playingBridge?"

"Dear me, I wish I knew!" said Lady Adela. 

This sounded very interesting, Rachel thought--exactly the kind of thingthat happened in books at smart watering-places. 

"Ah, there is Maddy, " said Lady Adela. "I do wonder what she thought. "

"By the way, " said Lady Chaloner, "we must tell her not to say anythingabout it. "

But the Princess had driven back in the company of M. De Moricourt andMr. Marchmont, and had, therefore, not heard the warning given byStamfordham to his companions in the other landau. 

"Well, " said the Princess eagerly, coming up to the others, "what didyou think of that? Wasn't it amazing?"

"Yes, " said Lady Adela. "What do you think it was, Maddy?"

"Something awful, you may depend upon it, " said the Princess; "and I amsure little Marchmont knows. We tried to make him tell us on the wayback, but he wouldn't. But I gathered somehow that Lord Stamfordhamcouldn't have done anything else. "

Lord Stamfordham! Did they say Stamfordham? Rachel thought to herselfwonderingly. Was he here? And she had some kind of queer, puzzledfeeling that he was connected in her mind with something that hadhappened lately. What was it?

"And Pateley doesn't know anything about it either, " said the Princess. "I met him just now and asked him. "

"Did you?" said Lady Chaloner. "I don't think you ought to have donethat. I was going to tell you that Stamfordham said it was not to bementioned. "

"Did he?" said the Princess, somewhat taken aback. "I asked Mr. Pateleybecause I thought he would be sure to know. But I made him promise notto tell anybody. "

"I believe he did know, though, " said Moricourt, who, though he spokehis own language, understood perfectly everything that was said inEnglish. "I wonder what the quiet and charming wife that Wentworthadmires so much thinks?"

"Poor thing!" said Lady Chaloner gravely. 

"By the way, " said Lady Adela with a sudden idea, "Wentworth was withhim. Wentworth must know all about it, of course. He is sure to come tothe bazaar. We'll ask him. "

"Wentworth was with him?" said Rachel to herself with an involuntarymovement, rising from her seat. Of whom were they speaking? What was itall about? She was unconscious that she was standing scrutinising thefaces of the group near her as though trying to gather from them whattheir words might mean. They, deep in their conversation, did not noticeher. Then, with a feeling of extraordinary relief--she hardly knewwhy--she saw a familiar, substantial person coming along the promenadewith a sort of friendly swagger. She went forward to meet him, stillfeeling as though she were walking in her sleep. 

"Mrs. Rendel!" said Pateley in his usual hearty tone, in which there wasnow an inflection of surprise and almost of anxiety. 

Pateley had not met either of the Rendels since the day of his lastinterview with Sir William Gore, and he had carefully not investigatedfurther the incident which had been of such great advantage to himself. But in the last half-hour, since, under the seal of profound secrecy, ithad been confided to him what had happened at the luncheon, and he hadbeen anxiously asked what was the cloud hanging over Rendel, he hadpieced things together in a way which brought him pretty near the truth. It was beginning to be clear to him that Stamfordham had somehow visitedupon Rendel the treachery into which he himself had practically ledGore. Stamfordham had asked Pateley at the time of the disclosure howthe _Arbiter_ had become possessed of the information. Pateley hadapologetically declined to give an explanation. But the ardent supportgiven by the _Arbiter_ to Stamfordham's action in the matter and to allhis subsequent policy had made it tolerably certain that Stamfordhamwould not bear him much malice. And, as a matter of fact, the wholeaffair had added to Stamfordham's reputation. The masterly way in whichhe had caught up the situation and dealt with it after the prematuredisclosure of the Agreement had added a fresh laurel to his crown. 

As Pateley uttered the words, "Mrs. Rendel, " the whole of the group whowere standing near turned with a common impulse as if a thunderbolt hadfallen into their midst, and he grasped at once that they had beentalking within earshot of her of something she ought not to have heard. Lady Adela was the first to recover her presence of mind. 

"Come, " she said; "we must go and take our places. I mean to have sometea if we can get it before the opening, " and she made a move in whichthe others joined. 

Pateley, remaining by Rachel, lifted his hat to them as they strolledaway. "How long have you been at Schleppenheim?" he asked. "I had noidea you were here. "

"We have been here, " said Rachel--"let me see--about a week. "

She looked anxious and disturbed. 

"And where are you staying?" said Pateley. 

"In the little pavilion behind the Hôtel de Londres, " and she pointed. 

"Charming place, " said Pateley. "And how is your husband?"

"He is very well, thank you, " said Rachel. "He has been out for a longwalk to-day; he went for an expedition to the woods with Mr. Wentworth. "

And she looked as if something else that she did not say were on the tipof her tongue. 

"It must have been delightful in the woods to-day, " said Pateley, hardlyknowing what he answered. He also was preoccupied by the story he hadheard and wondering how much she knew of it. "Are you going home now?"he said, as Rachel turned away from the promenade in the direction shehad pointed out. 

"I think so. I am a little tired, " said Rachel, holding out her hand. 

"May I come and see you?" Pateley said. 

"Please do, " said Rachel. 

"I certainly shall, " Pateley said. "It will be delightful to get awayfor a little while from this seething mass of humanity. "

And he again gave one of his loud laughs as he also went towards thetent, to plunge with the greatest zest into the seething mass whosecompany he had been contemning. 

CHAPTER XXIV

Rachel turned in the other direction and walked slowly back to thepavilion. What had happened? What had she been hearing? The slightestmental exertion still made her head ache, but she was conscious that ifshe once let herself go and made the effort it would be possible for herto understand. But that moment had not come yet. 

She had not been many minutes in her quiet shady garden when the littlegate at the bottom of it was thrown open, and her husband came quicklyin, looking round him with an anxious, hurried glance as though notknowing what he might find. What had he expected? He could hardly havetold. But as he drew nearer and nearer he had been gradually nervinghimself for the worst. He had been dreading to find he knew not what. Wentworth might be sitting with Rachel, the faces of both telling thatWentworth's would-be explanations had been of no avail; or Rachelherself might have been absent--she might have strolled out into thecrowd and there unawares heard rumours of what he felt convinced must bythis time be in every one's mind, on every one's lips. It was thereforefor the moment an unmeasured relief to find that all seemed as usual, that Rachel was sitting there quiet and cool before her littletea-table. 

"Ah!" he almost gasped, with a long sigh, as he sank into a chair andleant his head against the back of it with a weary, hunted look. 

"Frank!" said Rachel anxiously, "what is the matter? What has happened?"

"What do you mean?" he said, sitting up, with again the startled, haggard expression on his face. "What should have happened?"

"I don't know, " Rachel said, startled too at his look and manner. "Youlook so tired, so ill. "

"Oh, I'm all right, " he said, taking up and drinking eagerly the cup oftea that almost mechanically she had poured out and pushed towards him, and as he did so he realised that he had had no food since the morning. He ate and drank and then again lay back in his chair and was silent. AsRachel looked at him the absolute conviction swept over her--she knewnot why--that he had been concerned in the terrible catastrophe of whichshe had heard the broken accounts. It began to dawn upon her that insome inconceivable way the thing had happened to him; that it was of himthose women were speaking. She still heard Lady Adela saying: "Did youever see any one look so awful?" And yet what could it be? What horriblemisunderstanding was it? What horrible mistake could have been made?

She sat and waited. Not the least of her charms was that she knew, whatmany women do not know, how to sit absolutely quiet. She knew when torefrain from questioning, how to sit by her companion in so peaceful, sofinal a manner, as it were, that he did not feel that she was simplywaiting for what he would do next. 

The band blared out again with renewed vigour. Rendel leant his elbowson his knees, his face between his hands. 

"Oh! that miserable noise!" he said. "Will it never leave off? Thehideousness of it all!--those people, that band! Oh! to get away from itall!" he muttered half to himself. 

"Frank, " said Rachel entreatingly, touching his arm, "if you don't likeit why shouldn't we go away from it? I think it is horrible, too. I wentout of the garden to-day to where the people were walking. "

Rendel looked up quickly. 

"Did you? Did you see any one you knew?"

"Yes, " said Rachel; "I saw Mr. Pateley. "

"Pateley!" said her husband. "Did you have any talk with him? What didhe say?"

"Hardly anything, " said Rachel. "He was surprised to see me, and askedhow long we had been here, and if he might come and see us. That wasall. "

"That was all, " echoed Rendel, again with an inward shiver. "Coming tosee us, is he?"

That encounter for the moment he must at any cost avoid. 

"Frank, I wonder if we must go on staying here?" Rachel said. 

"Of course we must, " Rendel replied, trying to pull himself togetheragain. "Dr. Morgan said that this was the very best place for you tocome to, and that the waters would do you all the good in the world. "

"I wonder if we need, " said Rachel. "I am sure it is the kind of thingyou hate. "

"It is not for very long, after all, " said Rendel, trying to smile. 

He was gradually regaining possession of himself, but was still afraidto trust himself to utter any but the most commonplace and ordinarysentences. 

"The moment I have done the cure, " said Rachel, "we'll go back toLondon, won't we? And you can begin your work again, and do all thethings you like. And then, " she went on with an attempt at lightness oftone, "you can go back to your beloved politics, and think of nothingelse all day. " And she went on talking of their house, of their arrival, of what they would do, in a forlorn little attempt to show him that shemeant to try to shoulder life valiantly, although it had been soaltered. "You will stand for somewhere. You will go into the House. "

Rendel thought of what the life might have been that she was sketching, and what it was going to be now. What he had gone through that day wasan earnest probably of what awaited him many a time if he should try tolead his life as he used to lead it, among the people who were congenialto him. 

"No, " he said, "I'm not going to stand. I'm not going into the House. Ishan't have anything to do with politics. "

"What?" said Rachel, looking at him startled. 

"All that, is at an end, " he said firmly. Then with the relief ofspeaking, came the irresistible desire to go on, to tell her somethingat least of what his fate was, although he might not tell the thing thatmattered most. 

"Do you remember, " he said, "something that I told you had happened----"he broke off, then began again. "Tell me, " he said, impelled to ask, "how much you remember, if you remember anything, of those days whenyour father was so ill, at the end, just before he died, or is it stilla blank to you?"

Rachel shuddered. 

"No, I can't remember, " she said. "The last thing I remember clearly isone afternoon when he was beginning to be worse and had to go upstairsagain; and I remember nothing more after that till, " and her voicetrembled, "till--a day that I woke up in bed and wanted to go to him, and you told me that--that he was dead. The rest of that time is ablank. "

"How extraordinary it is!" muttered Rendel to himself. 

"I did not even know, " said Rachel, "that I had fallen on the stairs, until the doctor told me days afterwards that I had caught my foot as Iwas running downstairs. He told me then it was no use trying toremember the time just before, " she went on in a low, anxious voice, something stirring uneasily within her: "that it might not come back atall. It seems it doesn't sometimes to people who have that sort ofaccident. "

Rendel, his eyes fixed on the ground, had been listening; he took in themeaning of her words and tried to realise their bearing on himself, buthe was too far gone on the slope to stop. It was clear that she wouldnot know what had happened, unless she were told by himself. .. And yet, who could tell how the awakening would come? it might even be in a worseform when she was able once more to mix with her kind. 

"Rachel, " he said. "I want to tell you something that happened the daybefore your father became worse, the day before you had that accident, the last day, in fact, that you remember. " She looked at him withanxious eagerness. "Something tremendously important happened. LordStamfordham brought me some private notes of his own to decipher andcopy. "

"Of course, " said Rachel, "that I remember. In your study downstairs. "

"You remember?" said Rendel eagerly. Then instantly conscious, alas, that the evidence could do him no kind of good, "that I gave some papersto Thacker to take to Stamfordham?"

"Stop a minute, " said Rachel. "Yes, I remember that too. My fatherwanted to play chess afterwards, but he was too tired. "

"In those papers, " said Rendel, "there was a very important secret, though it didn't remain a secret, " he added, with a bitter little laugh, "for twenty-four hours. Those papers contained the notes of aconversation at the German Embassy at which that agreement was decidedupon by which Germany and England divided Africa between them. It was_I_ copied those papers from Stamfordham's notes. I copied the map ofAfrica with a line down the middle of it. The next morning, no one knewhow or why, that map appeared in the _Arbiter_. "

Rachel looked at him, still not understanding all that was implied. 

"Do you see what that means for me?" Rendel said. "It was notStamfordham published it, he did not mean to do so until the momentshould come, and since I was the person who had had the original notes, he thought that I had published it; that I had let it out, somehow. "

"You!" said Rachel, with wide-open eyes. 

"Yes, " said Rendel shortly. "That I had betrayed the great secretentrusted to me. "

"Frank!" she cried. "But of course you didn't!"

"Of course I didn't, " Rendel said quietly. 

"And--then----?" said Rachel breathlessly. 

"Then, " Rendel said, shrinking at the very recollection, "Stamfordhamtold me he believed I had done it. Then of course, "--and the words camewith an effort--"there was an end of everything, and I knew that therewas nothing left for me to do but to go under, to throw everything up. Iknew that people would turn their backs upon me, and I didn't seeStamfordham again until--until to-day. And to-day Wentworth and I wentup to that place in the woods to lunch, and by chance, by the mosthorrible, evil fortune, we came upon a luncheon party at whichStamfordham was, and--and, " he said trying to speak calmly, "when he sawme he refused to sit down at the same table with me. " And as he spokeRachel felt that things were becoming clear to her and that she wasbeginning to understand. The comments of the people who had stood by herand discussed the scene they had witnessed still rang in her ears, andshe realised what the horror of that scene must have been. 

"Frank!" she cried, with her tears falling. And she went to him and tookhis hand, then drew his head against her bosom as though to give himsanctuary. "Imagine believing that you, _you_ of all people. .. " and thebroken words of comfort and faith in him, of love and belief again gavehim a moment of feeling that rehabilitation might be possible. 

"Frank!" Rachel went on, "tell me this. Did my father know?"

"Know what?" Rendel said, starting up, the iron reality again facinghim. 

"That you were accused? That they could believe that you had done such ashameful thing?"

"Yes, " said Rendel slowly. "At least he knew what hadhappened--and--and--he guessed that the suspicion would fall upon me. "

"Oh!" cried Rachel, hiding her face in her hands and trying to steadyher voice. "I am sorry he knew just at the end. I wonder if herealised?"

Rendel said nothing. Even now was Sir William Gore to stand betweenthem?

"Perhaps he didn't, " Rachel said, almost entreatingly, "as he was soill. Because think what it would have been to him! Of course he wouldhave known it was not true, but he was so fastidious, so terriblysensitive, the mere thought that you could have been suspected of such athing even would have preyed upon him so terribly. "

"Well, " said Rendel, in a low voice--the last possibility of clearinghimself was put behind him, and the darkness fell again--"he is beyondreach of it. It is I who must suffer now. "

Rachel had walked to the other side of the garden, pressing herhandkerchief to her eyes and trying to control herself. Now she cameswiftly back, a sudden determination in her heart. 

"Frank, " she cried, "why must you suffer? We must find out who reallydid it. "

"I can't, " said Rendel. 

"But have you tried?"

"Yes, " he said. "As much as was possible. "

"But it must be possible, " she cried. And she came to him, her eyes andface glowing with resolve. "If the whole world came to me and said thatyou had done this I should not believe it. I remember so well my mothersaying, the day that I came back from Maidenhead, " and their eyes met inthe recollection of that happy, cloudless time, "'what a man needs issome one to believe in him, ' and I thought to myself that when--if--Imarried I would believe in my husband as she believed in my father. "

At this moment one of the Swiss waiters came quickly through thepavilion into the garden. 

"Monsieur Pateley, " he said, "wishes to know if Madame is at home. "Rachel and her husband looked at each other in consternation. 

"I can't see him at this moment, " Rendel said, going to the gate. 

"Can't we send him away?" said Rachel, anxiously. 

"Where is he?" addressing the waiter. But it was too late. The questionanswered itself, as Pateley's large form appeared behind that of thewaiter, distinctly seen on every side of it. Rachel, trying to controlher face into a smile of welcome, went forward to meet him as Rendeldisappeared amongst the trees, from whence he could get round into thehouse another way. 

CHAPTER XXV

We do not move unfortunately all in one piece. It would be much simplerif we did, and if our actions could be accounted for by saying, "He didthis, being a generous man, or a forgiving man, or a curious man, or aremorseful man. " Unhappily, and it makes our actions more difficult toaccount for, we are more complicated than this, and Pateley, when hefinally felt impelled to make his way into Rachel's presence so soonafter parting from her in the promenade, could not probably have saidexactly what motive prompted him to seek her. To Rachel he arrived asthe complement, the consolidation, of the resolve that she had made. Shehardly tried to conceal her agitation as she shook hands with him andlooked in his face. Her own wore an expression that had not been therean hour ago. Something new had come to life in it. So conscious werethey both of something abnormal, overmastering, between them that theredid not seem anything strange in the fact that for a moment, after thefirst greeting, they stood without thinking of any of the commonplacesof intercourse. Then Pateley, more accustomed to overlay the realitiesof life by the conventional outside, recovered himself and said in anordinary tone, looking round him--

"What a delightful oasis! What charming quarters you are in here!"

"Yes, we like them very much, " said Rachel, recovering herself; and theywent towards the little table and sat down. 

"No tea for me, thank you, " said Pateley. "I have just been made todrink a liquid distantly resembling it at the bazaar. "

"At the bazaar?" said Rachel. "It was German tea, I suppose?"

"I imagine so. It has been well said, " said Pateley, "that no nation hasyet been known great enough to produce two equally good forms ofnational beverage. We have good tea, but our coffee is abominable: theGermans have good coffee, but their tea is poison. The Spaniards, Ibelieve, have good chocolate, but that I have to take on hearsay. I havenever been to Spain. I mean to go some day, though. "

"Do you?" Rachel said, dimly hearing his flow of words while she made upher mind what her own were to be. She had had so little time to form herplan of action, to piece together all that she had been hearing duringthe afternoon, that it was not yet clear to her that from thecircumstances of the case Pateley must necessarily be concerned in it;and at the moment she began to speak she simply looked upon him as someone who knew Rendel in London, who had known her father and mother, whohad a general air of bluff and hearty serviceability, and had presentedhimself at a moment when she had no one else to turn to. 

"Mr. Pateley, " she said, and at the sudden ring of resolution in hertone Pateley's face changed and his smiling flow of chatter aboutnothing came to a pause. "There is something I want very much to ask youabout, " she went on, "something I want your help in. "

"I am at your orders, " said Pateley, with a smile and bow that concealedhis surprise. 

"It is something that matters very, very much, " Rachel went on. "Something you could find out for me. "

Pateley said nothing. 

"I don't know if you know, " she went on hurriedly--"if you heard, ofwhat happened to me in London just before my father died? I had anaccident. It seemed a slight one at the time. I fell down on the stairsone evening that he was worse when I ran down quickly to fetch myhusband, and I had concussion of the brain afterwards and wasunconscious for forty-eight hours. And since, I have not been able toremember anything of what happened during those days. "

Pateley made a sort of sympathetic sound and gesture. 

"But, " Rachel said, "I have heard to-day--not until to-day--of somethingthat happened during that time, something terrible. I am going to tellit to you, in the greatest confidence. You will see when I tell youthat it matters very, very much. First of all, --this I remember--on theday my father began to be worse, Lord Stamfordham brought my husbandsome papers to copy for him in which was the Agreement with Germany, andtold him no one was to know about them, and my husband told no one, andsent them back, when they were done, to Stamfordham, in a sealedpacket. "

Pateley, as he listened, sat absolutely impenetrable, with his eyesfixed on the ground. 

"But somebody got hold of them, " she went on--"somebody must have stolenthem, because they were published the next morning in the paper, in the_Arbiter_. " And as the words left her lips she suddenly realised thatthe man in front of her was the one of all others in the world who mustknow what had happened. The _Arbiter_ was embodied in Pateley, it wasPateley: that, everybody knew, everybody repeated. Pateley would, hemust, be able to tell her. 

"Oh, " she cried, "the _Arbiter_ is your paper!"

"Yes, " said Pateley, looking at her. 

"Then, " she said, "you know--you must know. "

"Know what?" he said calmly. 

"You must know, " she said, "who it was told the _Arbiter_ what was inthose papers. "

Pateley sat silent a moment. Then he said--

"It can and does happen occasionally that things are brought to the_Arbiter_ of which I don't know the origin, in fact of which the originis purposely kept a secret. "

She waited for him to add something to this sentence, to add a _but_ toit, but he remained silent. Being unversed in diplomatic evasions, sheaccepted his words as a disclaimer. 

"But still, " she said, "even if you don't know this you could find itout. It matters terribly. I don't want to say to any one else, it is nota thing to be told, how horribly it matters, but I must tell _you_, thatyou may see. Lord Stamfordham thought that my husband had betrayed thesecret--he told him so then. And to-day--it was too terrible!--he was ata luncheon to which Frank and Mr. Wentworth went, not knowing----" Asudden involuntary change in Pateley's face made her stop and say, "Butperhaps you were there? Were you at the luncheon?"

"No, " said Pateley. "I was not there. "

"But you heard about it?" she said. 

"Yes, " he said after a pause. "I heard about it. "

"It's too horrible!" said Rachel, covering her face with her hands. "Ofcourse you heard about it--everybody will hear about it: how LordStamfordham insulted him and refused to sit down with him, because ofthe unjust accusation that was brought against him. Now do you see, " shesaid excitedly, and Pateley, as he looked at her, was amazed at the firethat shone from her eyes, at the glow of excitement in her wholebeing--"now do you see how much it matters? how if we don't find out thetruth, if we don't get to know who did it, this is the kind of thingthat will happen to him? You see now, don't you? You will help me?"

Pateley had got up and restlessly paced to the end of the garden andback, his eyes fixed on the ground, Rachel breathlessly watching him. Hewas moved at her distress, he felt the stirrings of something likeremorse at the fate that had overtaken Rendel. But in Pateley'sJuggernaut-like progress through the world he did not, as a rule, stopto see who were the victims that were left gasping by the roadside. Aslong as the author of the mischief drives on rapidly enough, the evil hehas left behind him is not brought home to him so acutely as if he iscompelled to stop and bend over the sufferer. But a brief moment ofreflection made him pretty clear that neither himself nor the _Arbiter_had anything to fear from the disclosure. He had nothing particularlyheroic in his composition; he would not have felt called upon for thesake of Francis Rendel, or even for the sake of Rendel's wife, tosacrifice his own destiny and possibilities if it had been a question ofchoosing between his own and theirs; but fortunately this choice wouldnot be thrust upon him. He looked up and met Rachel's eyes fixed uponhim. 

"Yes, " he said. "I will help you. "

"Oh, thank you!" she cried, her heart swelling with relief. "Will you, can you find out about it?"

"Yes, " said Pateley again. He paused a moment, then came back and stoodin front of her. "I have no need to find out, " he said slowly. "I knowwho did it. "

Rachel sprang up. 

"What?" she cried, quivering with anxiety. "Do you mean that you knownow, that you can tell Frank, that you can tell Lord Stamfordham? Oh, why didn't you say so?"

Pateley paused. 

"I didn't know, " he said, "that Stamfordham had accused your husband ofit, and so I kept--I was rather bound to keep--the other man's secret. "

"The other man?" Rachel repeated, looking at him. 

"Yes, " said Pateley. "The man who did it. "

Rachel started. Of course, yes--if her husband had not done it some oneelse had, they were shifting the horrible burden on to another. But thatother deserved it, since he was the guilty man. 

"Yes, " she said lower, "of course I know there is some one else!--it isvery terrible--but--but--it's right, isn't it, that the man who has doneit should be accused and not one who is innocent?"

"Yes, " said Pateley, "it is right. "

"You must tell me, " she said, "you must!--you must tell me everythingnow, as I have told you. Is it some one to whom it will matter verymuch?"

Pateley waited. 

"No, " he said at length, "it won't matter to him. "

Rachel looked at him, not understanding. 

He went on, "Nothing will ever matter to him again. He is dead. "

"Dead, is he?" said Rachel, but even in the horror-struck tone thererang an accent of glad relief. "Then it can't matter to him. And it isright, after all, that people should know what he did. It is right, itis justice, isn't it?" she repeated, as though trying to reassureherself, "not only because of Frank?"

"Yes, " said Pateley, "I believe that it is right, that it is justice. "Then as he looked at her he suddenly became conscious of an unwonteddifficulty of speech, of an almost unknown wave of emotion rising withinhim, of shrinking from the words he was now clear had to be said. 

"Mrs. Rendel, " he said at last, "I am afraid it will be very painful toyou to hear what I am going to say. "

She looked at him bewildered. He waited one moment, almost hoping thatthe truth might dawn upon her before he spoke, but she was a thousandmiles from being anywhere near it. "Those papers which I published inthe _Arbiter_ the next morning were shown to me on the afternoon yourhusband had them to copy, by--" again the strange unfamiliarperturbation stopped him, and he felt he had to make a distinct effortto bring the name out--"your father, Sir William Gore. "

Rachel said absolutely nothing. She looked at him with dilated eyes, incredulous amazement and then horror in her face, as she saw in histhat he was telling her the truth. 

"My father?" she said at last, with trembling lips. 

"Yes, " Pateley said. The worst was over now, he felt, and he hadrecovered possession of himself. 

"No, no, it can't be!" she said miserably. "It's not possible. .. . "

"I fear it is, " said Pateley. "They were shown to myself, you see, so itis an absolute certainty. "

"But when was it?" said Rachel, bewildered. "When did he have them?"

"They were left, " Pateley said, "in the study where he was, when yourhusband went down to speak to Lord Stamfordham. During that time Ihappened to go in. "

And as Rachel listened to his brief account of what had taken place sheknew that there was no longer any doubt as to the culprit. For themoment, as the idol of her life fell before her in ruins the discoveryshe had made swallowed up everything else. Pateley made a move. 

"Wait, wait!" she said. "Don't go away. Only wait till I see what I mustdo. It is all so horrible! I see nothing clearly yet. "

He walked away to the other end of the little garden. 

She leant back in her chair, her eyes fixed, seeing nothing, trying tomake up her mind. Gradually what she must do became more and moredistinct to her, more and more inevitable. The sheer force of heragitation and emotion were carrying her own. If she acted at once, within the next half-hour, anything, everything might be possible. Shewould not wait to think, she would do it now, while it was stillpossible to pronounce the name, the dear name that she had hardly beenable to bring to her lips during these last weeks in which every day, every hour, she had been conscious of her loss. She would go to theperson who must be told, and who alone could remedy the great evil thathad been done. She got up, a despairing determination in her face. 

Pateley looked at her, his face asking the question which he did not putin words. 

"I am going to Lord Stamfordham, " she said. "I am going to tell him. "

"You?" said Pateley. "Are you going to tell him yourself?"

"Yes, " she said, "it is I who must tell him. I have quite made up mymind. " She turned to him appealingly as though taking for granted hewould help her. "I want to go now, while I feel I can, and before Frankknows anything about it. Can you help me--would you help me to find LordStamfordham?"

"Certainly, " said Pateley, with a new admiration for Rachel risingwithin him, but with some misgivings, however, as to the possibility orthe desirability of running Stamfordham to earth among his presentsurroundings. 

"Do you know where he is?" Rachel said. 

"I should think probably at the bazaar, " said Pateley, and as hereflected on the scene he had just left, Stamfordham surrounded by abevy of attractive ladies beseeching him to give them an autograph, tobuy a buttonhole, to drink their tea, to put into their raffles, and tohave his fortune told, he felt still more dubious as to the mission hewas engaged upon. Fortunately Rachel realised none of these things. 

"Come, then, let us go, " she said, with a vibrating anxiety andexcitement, at strange variance with the usual atmosphere thatsurrounded her, and he followed her out of the garden in the directionof the Casino. 

CHAPTER XXVI

Pateley, who had been caught up in some measure into the excitement ofRachel's emotion, was brought back to earth again with a run, as hepassed with her through the brightly coloured hangings which droopedover the portals of the bazaar and found themselves in the gay crowdwithin. His misgivings grew as he felt more and more the incongruity ofthe errand they were bent upon to the preoccupations of the people whosurrounded them. There was no doubt that, whatever the ultimate resultas far as Mrs. Birkett and the needs she represented were concerned, thebazaar, that subsidiary consideration apart, was being very successfulindeed. The sound of voices and laughter filled the air, and the gloomyprevisions Lady Chaloner had felt as to the lack of buyers wereapparently not realised, since the whole of the available spacesurrounded by the stalls was filled with people engaged in some sort ofvery active and voluble commercial transactions with one another which, financial result or not, were of a most enjoyable kind, to judge by thebursts of laughter they necessitated. Rachel, pale, strung up, with thelook of determination in her face called up in the usually timid by anunwonted resolve, was making her way, or rather trying to do so, inPateley's wake, bewildered by the sights and sounds around her. Pateleyat each step was beset by some laughing vendor from whom he had much adoto escape, and indeed in most cases did not succeed in doing so withouthaving paid toll. By the time he had gone half along the room he was thepossessor of three tickets for raffles, for each of which he had paid asum he would have grudged for the unneeded article that was beingraffled. He had bought several single flowers, each one on terms whichshould have commanded an armful of roses, and he had had three dips intoa bag from which fortunately he had emerged with nothing more permanentthan sawdust. Rachel also had been accosted by a vendor as soon as shecame in, a moment of poignant embarrassment for all partiesconcerned--herself, her escort, and the fascinating seller who hadoffered her wares, for Rachel, looking at her with startled eyes, feltin her pocket as though at last seeing what was wanted of her, and thenstammered, "I'm so sorry, I have no money with me. " Pateley knew thevendor; it was no other than Mrs. Samuels, who had emerged from behindher stall, and was making the round of the bazaar with a basket of mostattractive-looking cakes. His eye met hers in hurried and involuntarymisgiving, mutely telling her that Rachel was not a suitable customer, and that she had better carry her wares elsewhere. She at once respondedto the unconscious confidence and returned to himself. 

"Now, Mr. Pateley, " she said ingratiatingly, "you, I know, never refusea cake. Look, these are what you had when you came to tea with me theother day. Now, I'll choose you the very best. "

"Of course, if you will choose one for me, " said Pateley gallantly. 

"Oh, but one is not enough, " she said, "you must have two--you reallymust. Five marks. Thank you so much!" and she tripped off. 

Pateley, who had already, as we have seen, spent a good deal of time andof the money which is supposed to be its equivalent in the bazaar beforegoing to see Rachel, began to be conscious that before he got round itagain he would have spent a sum large enough to have kept him anotherweek in Schleppenheim. "However, " he said to himself with a sigh, "it isall part of the story, I suppose. " In his inmost soul he felt theconviction that he was altogether, in his strange progress through thejoyous crowd with that pale, anxious companion, going through asufficient penance to make amends for the misfortune of which he was theprimary cause. 

"Where is Lord Stamfordham?" whispered Rachel anxiously. "Do you seehim?"

"Not at this moment, " said Pateley, looking vainly in every direction. The difficulties of his quest, and the still worse difficulties thatwould certainly face him when the object of that quest should beattained, loomed with increased terror before him. 

The names of the stallholders, of the performers, waved above theirrespective quarters. In the corner of the great tent was amysterious-looking enclosure, of which the entrance was closed by acurtain, and above which hung the legend, "Oriental Fortune-telling. Lady Adela Prestige. " Lady Adela Prestige! That was probably the mostlikely place to try for. "I think he may be over there, " he said, andwithout a word, hardly conscious of the people who were passing through, Rachel followed him. 

"Hallo, Pateley, is that you?" said a cheery voice. He turned round andsaw Wentworth, a packet of tickets in his hand. "Would you like to havea ticket for the performing dog?" said Wentworth, not seeing whoPateley's companion was. 

"No, " said Pateley, almost savagely, thankful to be accosted by some onewhom he need not answer by a smile and a compliment. "I don't want anyfooling of that sort now. "

"My dear fellow, " said Wentworth, amazed, "what have you come here for, then?" and as he spoke he saw Rachel behind Pateley, and realised thatsomething was happening that had no connection with the business of thebazaar. 

"Look here, " Pateley said aside to him, "do you know where Stamfordhamis?"

"Over there, " said Wentworth, with some inward wonder, pointing towardsLady Adela's corner. "I saw him there just now. "

"Ah!" said Pateley, "all right, " hardly knowing if he was relieved ornot, but desperately threading his way in the direction indicated, stillfollowed by Rachel. 

Wentworth looked after them in surprise. 

"What is that you are saying, Mr. Wentworth?" said a voice in his ear, and he turned quickly and found himself face to face with Mrs. Samuels. "A performing dog? Where? I am quite sure it must be performing betterthan Princess Hohenschreien. "

Wentworth replied by eagerly offering a ticket. 

"Let me offer you a ticket, Mrs. Samuels, and then you shall see foryourself. "

"Well, I will take a ticket, " she said, "on condition that you will tellme honestly what the performance is. "

"Certainly, " said Wentworth, with a bow, offering the ticket andreceiving a gold piece in exchange. "It is Lady Chaloner's Aberdeenterrier. He sits up and begs with a piece of biscuit on his nose whilesomebody says 'Trust!' and 'Paid for!'"

"That is a most extraordinary and novel trick, " said Mrs. Samuelsgravely. 

"It is unique, " said Wentworth; "and sometimes he tosses the biscuit inthe air when they say 'Trust, ' sometimes when they say 'Paid for, ' butgenerally he drops on all fours and eats it before they have begun. "

"Thank you, " said Mrs. Samuels. "I am afraid Princess Hohenschreien'sperformance will be best after all. " Then Wentworth suddenly saw fromher face that some other attraction was approaching from behind him, andturned quickly round as Mrs. Samuels, with her most beguiling air, advanced and offered her basket of cakes to Lord Stamfordham. 

"Now, milord, " she said. "I am sure you must be hungry. "

"And what makes you think that?" said Stamfordham, whose air of willingresponse and admiration made it quite evident that Mrs. Samuels'sblandishments were not usually exercised in vain. "Do I look pale, orhaggard, or weary?"

"None of these, " said Mrs. Samuels; "but I am sure it is a long timesince I had the privilege of offering you a cup of tea at my stall. Quite half an hour, I should think. "

"Quite possible, " said Stamfordham. "All I can say is that it seems tome an eternity since I last had the pleasure of receiving anything atyour hands. Pray give me a bag of those cakes. You baked them yourself, of course?"

"Of course, " Mrs. Samuels said, with a little rippling laugh. And thenin answer to Stamfordham's smile of incredulity, "All is fair in . .. Bazaars and war, you know. "

In the meantime, Wentworth, enlisted, he himself did not understand howor why, in the anxious quest in which he saw Pateley and Rachel engaged, had hurried after Pateley, whose broad back he saw disappearing, to tellhim of Lord Stamfordham's whereabouts. Pateley turned quickly round. Lord Stamfordham was coming towards them, with Mrs. Samuels, wreathed insmiles, at his side. 

"I think, " she was saying, "when you have eaten those cakes you candrink some more tea, don't you think so?"

"It is not improbable, " Stamfordham replied. "But was our bargain that Iwas to eat them all myself?"

"Certainly, " Mrs. Samuels replied. 

"My dear lady, " Stamfordham said, "I will engage to eat every one ofthem that you have baked, I can't say more. And in the meantime I ambound on a very foolish errand. I have sworn to go and have my fortunetold, " and as Mrs. Samuels's eye, with a careless and ingenuous air, rested upon Lady Adela's name above the tent, she smiled inwardly at thethought that what that astute lady might possibly prophesy would alsoperhaps come true if, as well as prophesying, she eventually brought herintelligence to bear upon its accomplishment. 

"Wait one moment, " Pateley said, almost nervously, to Rachel. "There isStamfordham, he is coming this way, " and as Stamfordham drew near thedoor of the tent Pateley accosted him. 

Lady Adela, it may be presumed, had some occult means of discoveringfrom inside who was drawing near her fateful quarters, or else she hadthe simpler methods more usually employed by mortals, of looking tosee. At all events, as Stamfordham came towards her enclosure, sheappeared on the threshold and winningly lifted the mysterious curtain, burlesquing a low curtsey in reply to Stamfordham's bow. 

"Lord Stamfordham!" Pateley said hurriedly. Stamfordham, in somesurprise, looked round. He had been seeing Pateley on and off during theday. Why did he accost him in this way? But the urgent note in his voicearrested his attention. Then, as he looked up, he saw an anxiouspale-faced, girlish figure standing by Pateley, looking at him withlarge brown eyes filled with indescribable anxiety. It was a face thathe knew, that he had seen somewhere. Who was it? For one puzzled momenthe tried to remember. Pateley took the bull by the horns. 

"Lord Stamfordham, " he said, "Mrs. Rendel wants to speak to you. "

Mrs. Rendel! Of course it was Mrs. Rendel. He had last seen her that dayat Cosmo Place. Again a wave of indignation rushed over him. Racheladvanced desperately, looking as though she were going to speak. Stamfordham, involuntarily looking round him at the crowd of observersand listeners, said quickly in a low voice, "I am very sorry, it is nogood. It is impossible. " And then to Pateley, "It is no good, I can't doanything. You must tell her so, " and he passed through the curtain whichLady Adela let drop behind him. Rachel looked at Pateley, then to hisamazement and also to his involuntary admiration she lifted the curtainand passed in too. 

The two people inside stood aghast at her appearance. She had followedso quickly upon Stamfordham's steps that he was still standing lookinground him at his strange surroundings, Lady Adela facing him with asmile of welcome. The apparatus of the fortune-teller apparentlyconsisted in certain cabalistic properties--wands, dials with signs uponthem, and the like--arranged round a table. Stamfordham spoke first. Hewas absolutely convinced that Rachel had come to appeal to him formercy, and was as absolutely clear that it was an appeal to which hecould not listen. 

"Mrs. Rendel, " he said, "I am afraid I am obliged to tell you that Icannot listen to anything you may have to say. I can guess, of course, why you have come here, and I am sorry for _you_, " he said, leaning onthe pronoun. "But I can do nothing, " and he spoke slowly and inexorably, "I can do nothing for either you or your husband. " But Rachel had nowlost all fear, all misgiving. 

"I don't think, " she said, unconsciously drawing herself up and lookingstraight at him, "you know what I have come to say, and I must ask youto listen for a moment. "

"I think I do know, " Stamfordham said sternly, and she saw he meant togo out. 

"I have come to tell you, " she said, quickly standing between him andthe door, "that my husband was wrongfully accused of the thing that youbelieved he did. " Stamfordham shook his head: this was what he expectedto hear. "I know who did it, I have found out to-day, " and she grew moreand more assured as she went on. Stamfordham started, then lookedincredulous again. "I have come to tell you who did it, that you mayknow my husband is innocent. " Then she became aware of Lady Adela, who, having at first been much annoyed at her brusque intrusion, was nowsuddenly roused to interest, even to sympathy. Rachel turned to her. "Imust say this, " she said. "Don't you see, don't you understand, what itis to me?"

"Yes, yes, you must, " the other woman said, with a sudden impulse ofhelp and sympathy. "Go on, " and she went outside. Stamfordham felt aslight accession of annoyance as Lady Adela passed out; he felt it wasgoing to be very difficult for him to deal as cruelly as he was bound todo with the anxious, quivering wife before him. He stood silent andabsolutely impenetrable. Rachel went on quickly in broken sentences. 

"I didn't know about this at the time. I have been ill since. I couldnot remember. You brought some papers for my husband to copy, and helocked them up so that no one should see them, and while he went down tospeak to you they were pulled out of his writing-table from outside, bysomebody else who was there, and who showed them to Mr. Pateley. Mr. Pateley came in and went out again. Frank didn't know he had beenthere. " Stamfordham stopped her. 

"They were taken out by 'somebody, ' you say; do you mean--in fact I mustgather from your words--that it was--do you mean by yourself?"

"Oh no, no, " Rachel cried, as it dawned upon her what interpretationmight be put upon her words. "Oh no, not myself! I wish it had been, Iwish it had!"

"You wish it had?" Stamfordham said, surprised. "Who was it, then? Whowas it?" he said again, in the tone of one who must have an answer. "Whogot the paper out and showed it to Pateley?"

Rachel forced herself to speak. 

"It was--my father, " she said, "Sir William Gore. " And with an immenseeffort she prevented herself from bursting into tears. 

"Sir William Gore!" said Stamfordham, "did _he_ do it?"

"Yes, " said Rachel; "I only knew it to-day, and I am telling you toprove to you that it wasn't my husband. "

Stamfordham stood for a moment trying to recall Rendel's attitude at thetime, and then, as he did so, he made up his mind that Rendel must haveknown. 

"But, " he said, after a moment, still somewhat perplexed, "you say youdidn't know about this?"

"No, " said Rachel, "I didn't. My father, " and again her lips quiveredand told Stamfordham what that father and his good name probably were toher, "was taken very ill, and I had an accident at the time and did notknow anything that had happened. Frank told me nothing. Then my fatherdied, and I was ill, and we came here and I did not know it at all tillmy husband came in and told me"--and her eyes blazed at thethought--"told me what had happened to-day. .. " She stopped. Stamfordhamfelt a stab as he thought of it. 

"But, " he said, "did he know? Did he tell you then? Did he know that itwas Sir William Gore?"

"Oh no, no, " Rachel said; "it was Mr. Pateley, and he brought me here totell you that you might know. " Then Stamfordham began to understand. 

"Mrs. Rendel, " he said, with a change of voice and manner that made herheart leap within her. "Where is your husband?"

"He is at our house, the little pavilion behind the Casino garden. "

"Will you take me to him?" Stamfordham said. 

Rachel looked at him, unable to speak, her face illuminated withhope--then she covered her face in her hands, saying through the tearsshe could no longer restrain, "Oh, thank you, thank you!"

"Come, " said Stamfordham gently, but with decision. "You must dry yourtears, " he added with a smile, "or people will think I have beenill-treating you. " And to the speechless amazement of Lady Adela, whowas standing outside the curtain waiting until, as she expressed it toherself, she too should have her "innings, " Stamfordham passed outbefore her eyes with Rachel, saying to Lady Adela as he passed, "Willyou forgive me? I am going to take Mrs. Rendel back. " Then looking roundhim at the jostling crowd he said to Rachel, offering her his arm, "Willyou think me very old-fashioned if I ask you to take my arm to getthrough the crowd?" And, leaning on his arm, hardly daring to believewhat had happened or might be going to happen, Rachel passed back alongthe room through which she had just come with Pateley, the crowd thistime opening before them with some indescribable tacit understandingthat something had happened concerned with the incident which, as Rendelhad foreseen, nearly everybody at the bazaar had heard of. They did notspeak again until they reached the pavilion. 

Latchkeys were unknown at Schleppenheim, and the inhabitants of thelittle summer abodes walked in by the simple process of turning thehandle of the front door. Rachel and Stamfordham went straight in out ofthe sunlight into the cool little room into which, in long low rays, thesetting sun was sending its beams. Rendel had been trying to read: thebook that lay beside him on the floor showed that the attempt had beenin vain. He looked up, still with that strange, hunted expression thathad come into his face since the morning--the expression of the man towhom every door opening, every figure that comes in may mean some freshcause of apprehension. Rachel came into the room without speaking, something that he could not read in the least in her face, then hisheart stood still within him as he saw Stamfordham behind her. What, again? What new ordeal awaited him? He made no sign of recognition, butstood up and looked Stamfordham straight in the face. Stamfordham cameforward and spoke. 

"I have come, " he said, "to apologise to you for what took place to-day, to beg you to forgive me. " Rendel was so utterly astounded that hesimply looked from one to the other of the people standing before himwithout uttering a sound. 

"I have just learnt, " Stamfordham went on, "the name of the person whodid the thing of which I wrongfully accused you. " Rendel made a hurriedmovement forward as if to stop him. 

"Wait, wait one moment!" he cried, "don't say it before my wife--shedoesn't know. " In that moment Rachel realised what he had done for her. 

"Do you know?" asked Stamfordham. 

"Yes, " Rendel answered. 

With the old friendliness, and something deeper, in his face and voice, Stamfordham said--

"Mrs. Rendel knows also. It was she told me. "

"Rachel!" cried Rendel, turning to her. "Do you know?"

"Yes, " said Rachel, trying to command her voice. "I know--now--that itwas--my father, " and the eyes of the two met. 

Stamfordham advanced to Rendel. 

"Will you forgive me, " he said again, "and shake hands?" Rendel held outhis hand and pressed Stamfordham's in a close and tremulous grasp, whichthe other returned. "I must see you, " he said. "Will you come to myrooms some time? I shall be here for a week longer. " He held out hishand to Rachel. "Thank you, " he said, "for what you have done. " And hewent out. 

Rendel turned towards Rachel, his arms outstretched, his facetransformed by the knowledge of the great love she had shown him. Hisheart was too full for speech: in the closer union of silence that newprecious compact was made. The veil that had hung between them so longwas lifted for ever. 

THE END. 

 * * * * *

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

The author's name on the original title page was "Mrs. Hugh Bell". Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully aspossible, including obsolete and variant spellings and otherinconsistencies. Typographical errors in punctuation (misplaced quotesand the like) have been fixed. Text that has been changed to correct anobvious error by the publisher is noted below:

page 125: "Rendal" corrected to "Rendel"

 "Of course, " he said, after listening to what Rendal[Rendel] had to say

page 303: "toward's" corrected to "towards"

 Wentworth, with some inward wonder, pointing toward's[towards] Lady Adela's corner.