The opportunity that came that night was ushered in somewhat
prosaically, not by the sound of a foeman's horn being wound in the
distance, but by the postman's knock. There was only one letter, but
that was an important looking one addressed to Rendel, in a big, square
envelope with an official signature in the corner. It was, however,
marked "private and confidential," and was not written in an official
capacity. Rendel as he looked at it, saw that the signature was
"Belmont." In an instant as he unfolded the page his hopes leapt to meet
the words he would find there. Yes, Lord Belmont was going to be
Governor of Zambesiland; that was the beginning. And what was this that
followed? He asked Rendel whether, if offered the post of Governor's
Secretary, practically the second in command, he would accept it and go
out to Africa with him. The offer, which meant a five years'
appointment, was flatteringly worded, with a mention of Lord
Stamfordham's strong recommendation which had prompted it, and wound up
with an earnestly expressed hope that Rendel would not at any rate
refuse without having deeply considered it. Belmont, however, asked for
a reply as soon as was consistent with the serious reflection necessary
before taking the step. Rendel looked at the clock. It was half-past
nine. He need not write by post that night, he would send round the
first thing in the morning. That would do as well. At this particular
moment he need do nothing but look the thing in the face. Serious
consideration it should have, undoubtedly, though that was not needed in
order to come to a decision. He was not afraid of gazing at this new
possibility that had just swum into his ken. The moment that comes to
those who are going to achieve, when the door in the wall, showing that
glorious vista beyond, suddenly opens to them, is fraught with an
excited joy which partakes at once of anticipation and of fulfilment,
and is probably never surpassed when in the fulness of time the
opportunities come even too fast on each other's heels, and it has
become a foregone conclusion to take advantage of them. There is no
moment of outlook that has the charm of that first gaze from afar, when
the deep blue distances cloak what is lovely and unlovely alike and
merge them all into one harmonious and inviting mystery. Rendel was in
no hurry for that curtain of mysterious distance to lift: possibility
and success lay behind it. He relished with an exquisite pleasure the
sense of having a dream fulfilled. The crucial moment that comes to
nearly all of us of having to compare the place that others assign to
us in life with that which we imagined we were entitled to occupy, is to
some fraught with the bitterest disappointment. The sense of having
cleared successfully that great gulf which lies between one's own
appreciation of oneself and that of other people is one of rapture.
Rendel had been so short a time married, and had had so few
opportunities during that time of being called upon for any decision,
that it was an entirely new sensation to him to remember suddenly that
this was a thing which concerned somebody else as well as it did
himself. But the thought was nothing but sweet; it meant that there was
somebody now by his side, there always would be, to care for the things
that happened to him; and Rachel, too, would be borne up on the wave of
excitement and rejoicing that was shaking Rendel, to his own surprise,
so strangely out of his usual reserved composure. He sat down
mechanically at his writing-table and drew a sheet of writing-paper idly
towards him, wondering how he should formulate his reply. To his great
surprise and somewhat shamefaced amusement, he found that his hand was
shaking so that he could not control the pen. He would go up before
writing and tell Rachel. Then, as he went upstairs, he was conscious of
a secret annoyance that a third person should just at this moment be
between them.
A profound silence reigned as he opened the drawing-room door. Rachel
and her father were poring intently over the chess-board. Rachel looked
up 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. "Look
what she is doing with her queen."
"Is that a letter you want to show me?" said Rachel, looking at the
envelope in Rendel's hand.
"All right. It will keep," he said quietly, putting it back in his
breast pocket.
Sir William kept his eyes intently fixed upon the board. He would not
countenance any diversion of fixed and rigid attention from the game in
hand.
"That is what I should do," said Rendel, moving one of Rachel's pawns on
to 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," he
said. "If you had come up a little sooner we might have had a decent
game."
Rendel made no comment. The game ended in the most auspicious way
possible. Rachel, backed by Rendel's advice, showed fight a little
longer and left the victory to Sir William in the end after a desperate
struggle. The hour of departure came. Rachel and her husband both went
downstairs with Sir William. They opened the door. It was a bright,
starlight night. Sir William announced his intention of walking to a
cab, and with his coat buttoned up against the east wind, started off
along the pavement. Rachel turned back into the house with a sigh as she
saw him go.
"He is getting to look much older, isn't he?" she said. "Poor dear, it
is 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 was
saying. 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 you
something." And he made her sit down in his own comfortable chair. "I
have had a letter this evening," he said.
"Have you?" said Rachel, looking up at him in surprise at the unusual
note of joyousness, almost of exultation, in his tone. "What is it
about?"
"You shall read it," he said, giving it to her. Her colour rose as she
read on.
"Oh, what an opportunity!" she said, and a tinge of regret crept
strangely 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 'will
be'? 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 her
voice. "How could I?"
Rendel said nothing, but still looked at her as though finding it
difficult to realise her point of view.
"How could I leave my father?" she said, putting into words the thing
that seemed to her so absolutely obvious that she had hardly thought it
necessary 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 him
alone 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 after
all the fair prospect he had been gazing upon was going to prove nothing
but a mirage.
"You do agree, don't you?" she said, looking at him anxiously. "You do
see?"
"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 tone
that told of the unalterable conviction that lay behind it. There was
another silence. Rendel stood looking straight before him, Rachel
watching him timidly. Rendel made as though to speak, then he checked
himself.
"Oh, isn't it a pity it was suggested!" Rachel cried involuntarily.
Rendel gave a little laugh. It was deplorable, truly, that such an
opportunity 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 be
for?"
"Oh, about five years, I suppose," said Rendel, with a sort of aloofness
of tone with which people on such occasions consent to diverge for the
moment 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 one
looks on to it."
"I was wondering," she said hesitatingly, "if it wouldn't have been
better that you should have gone."
"I? Without you, do you mean?" Rendel said. "No, certainly not. That I
am quite clear about."
"Oh, Frank, I should not like it if you did," she said, looking up at
him.
"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 was
that Rachel had no ambitions, as producing the ideal character. No doubt
that 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, that
is--I should not like it without you."
"Oh, Frank, it _is_ a pity," she said, looking up at him wistfully. But
there was evidently not in her mind the shadow of a possibility that the
question could be decided other than in one way.
"Come, it is getting late," Rendel said. And they left the room with the
outward air of having postponed the decision till the morning. But the
decision was not postponed; that Rachel took for granted, and Rendel had
made up his mind. This was, after all, not a new sacrifice he was called
upon to make: it was part of the same, of that sacrifice which he had
recognised that he was willing to make in order to marry Rachel, and
which was so much less than that other great and impossible sacrifice of
giving her up.
He came down early the next morning and wrote to Lord Belmont, meaning
when Rachel came down to breakfast to show her the letter, in which he
had most gratefully but quite decisively declined the honour that had
been 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 the
first big opportunity of his life and that he was calmly putting it away
from him. Perhaps when he came to talk it over with Rachel again she
might see it differently. Might she? No. He knew in his heart that she
would not. It was probable that Rendel's ambition, his determined
purpose, would always be hampered by his old-fashioned, almost quixotic
ideas of loyalty, his conception of the seemliness, the dignity of the
relations between husband and wife. In a matter that he felt was a
question of right or wrong he would probably without hesitation have
used his authority and decided inflexibly that such and such a course
was the one to pursue; but here he felt it was impossible. It would not
be consistent with his dignity to use his authority to insist upon a
course which, though it might be to his own advantage, was undeniably an
infringement 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 was
coming 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's
Gate, 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 should
go 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 had
some 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 his
own 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 her
voice. "Oh, Frank, how terrible it would have been if you had been going
away now!" And she drew close to him as though seeking shelter against
the anxieties and troubles of the world.
"But I am not," said Rendel quietly. And she looked back at him as she
drove off with a smile flickering over her troubled face.
Rendel turned back into the house. There was nothing more to do, that
was quite evident. He fastened up the letter to Belmont and sent it
round to his house, also writing to Stamfordham a brief letter of thanks
for his good offices and regrets at not being able to avail himself of
them.
Later he went to Prince's Gate. Sir William was a little better. It was
a sharp, feverish attack brought on by a chill the night before. It
lasted several days, during which time Rachel was constantly backwards
and forwards at Prince's Gate, and at the end of which she proposed to
Rendel that her father should, for the moment, as she put it, come to
them to Cosmo Place.
In the meantime Stamfordham, surprised at Rendel's refusal of the
opportunity he had put in his way, had sent for him to urge him to
re-consider his decision while there was yet time. Rendel found it very
hard to explain his reasons in such a way that they should seem in the
least valid to his interlocutor. Stamfordham, although he was well aware
that Rendel had married during the spring, had but dimly realised the
practical difference that this change of condition might bring into the
young 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 fancy
and then another, but they had never amounted to more than an impulse
which had set him further on his way; there had never been an attraction
strong enough to deflect him from his orbit. With such, he was quite
clear, the statesman should have nothing to do.
"Of course," he said, after listening to what Rendel had to say, "I
should be the last person to wish to persuade you to take a course
contrary to Mrs. Rendel's wishes, but still such an opportunity as this
does not come to every man."
"I know," said Rendel.
"I never was married," Stamfordham went on, "but I have not understood
that 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 to
assert one's authority."
"My wife," said Rendel, "does not wish to leave her father, who is in
delicate health. Sir William Gore, you know."
"Oh, Sir William Gore, yes," said Stamfordham, with an inflection which
implied that Sir William Gore was not worth sacrificing any possible
advantages for.
"I am very, very sorry," Rendel said gravely. "I would have given a
great deal to have been going to Africa just now."
"Yes, indeed. There will be infinite possibilities over there as soon as
things have settled down," said Stamfordham. And he looked at a table
that was covered with papers of different kinds, among them some notes
in his own handwriting, and said, "Pity my unfortunate secretaries! I
don't think I have ever had any one who knew how to read those
impossible 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 that
carried conviction.
"Shan't you go into the House?" said Stamfordham.
"I mean to try," Rendel said. Then as he went out he turned round and
said, "I daresay, sir, there are still possibilities in Europe, after
all."
"Very likely," said Stamfordham; and they parted.
One of the most difficult tasks of the philosopher is not to regret his
decisions. The mind that has been disciplined to determine quickly and
to abide by its determination is one of the most valuable instruments of
human equipment. But it certainly needed some philosophy on Rendel's
part, during the period that elapsed between his refusal of Lord
Belmont's offer and the departure of the newly appointed governor, not
to regret that he himself was remaining behind. Day by day the papers
were full of the administrators who were going out, of their
qualifications, of their responsibilities. Day by day Rendel looked at
the map hanging in his study and wondered what transformations the
shifting of circumstances would bring to it.
Sir William Gore, in the meantime, had got better. He had slowly thrown
off the fever that had prostrated him, although he was not able to
resume his ordinary life. He had demurred a little at first to the
proposal that he should take up his abode at Cosmo Place, then, not
unwillingly, had yielded. In his ordinary state of health he would have
been alive to the proverbial drawbacks of a joint household, but in his
present 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's
Gate, its memories and associations. It had been in one of these moments
of insight, of revelation almost, that suddenly, like a blinding flash
of light shows us in pitiless details the conditions that surround us,
that with intense self-pity he had said to himself that there was
actually no one in this whole world with whom he was entitled to come
first. Rachel's solicitude certainly went far to persuade him of the
contrary; but in his secret soul he bitterly resented the fact that
there should now be someone to share Rachel's allegiance, although
Rendel might well have contended that he was divided in Sir William's
favour.