Sir William, who had not been able to come downstairs for a month, may
be forgiven for unconsciously feeling that the occasion was one which
demanded from his son-in-law a semblance of cordial welcome at any rate,
if not of glad surprise. It is an extraordinarily difficult thing to
learn that we are not looking each of us at the same aspect of life as
our neighbour, especially our neighbour of a different time of life from
ourselves. We appeal to him as a matter of course, and say, "Look! see
how life appears to me to-day! see what existence is like in relation to
myself!" But unfortunately the neighbour, who is standing on the outside
of that particular circle, and not in its centre, does not see what we
mean. Sir William had been shut up for a month in the room that he
inhabited on the drawing-room floor of the house in Cosmo Place. He had
simply not had mental energy to care about what was happening beyond the
four walls of that room. If he had been asked at that moment what the
universe was, he would have said that it was a succession of days and
nights in which the important things of life were the hours and
compositions of his meals, the probable hour of the doctor's visit, and
the steps to be made each day towards recovery and the resumption of
ordinary habits.
Rachel had of course devoted herself to him. It was she who went up with
his breakfast, who read to him during the morning, who tried to remember
everything that happened out of doors to tell him on her return; it was
she who had done many hundreds of patiences in the days when he was not
well enough to play at chess. He was hardly well enough now, but he had
set his heart upon the first day when he should come down and play chess
with Rendel as a sort of pivot in his miserable existence. And now the
moment had come. How should he know that for all practical purposes his
son-in-law was a different being from the young man who had come
upstairs to see him the day before? For yesterday Rendel had come up and
talked to him about indifferent things, not telling him, lest he should
be excited, of the evil rumours that were filling the air, and had gone
downstairs again himself with a miserably unoccupied day in front of
him--a day in which to remember and overcome the fact that, instead of
being in the arena of which the echoes reached him, he was doomed to be
a spectator from afar, who could take no part in the fray. But so much
Sir William had not known. How should we any of us know what the inward
counterpart is to the outward manifestation? know that the person who
comes into the room may be, although appearing the same, different from
the one who went out? He knew only that the Rendel of this morning had
said with a smile, "I am looking forward to the moment when you will
checkmate me again." And Sir William had a right to expect that, that
moment having come, Rendel should feel the importance and pleasure of it
as 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 of
another; it was a resolute combatant who had been suddenly called into a
front post, and for whom the whole aspect of the world had changed. It
was an absolute physical effort to Rendel, as the door opened and he saw
Sir William, to bring his mind back to the conditions of a few hours
before. The fact of any one coming in at that moment called him back to
earth again, turned him violently about to face the commonplace
importunities of existence. Sir William had probably not formulated to
himself what he had vaguely expected, but it certainly was not the
puzzled, half-questioning look, the indescribable air of being taken
aback, altered at once by a quick impulse into something that tried not
to look forbidding, and more strange and tell-tale than all the quick
movement by which Rendel drew a large sheet of blotting-paper over what
he was writing. Sir William's whole being was jarred, his rejoicing in
the small occasion of being on another stage towards recovery was gone;
nobody cared, not one. Rachel was not in the house, and who else was
there to care? Nobody: there never would be again. Could it be possible
that for the rest of his life he was doomed to be in a world so arranged
that his comings and goings were not the most important of all? He stood
still 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 chair
as he spoke--
"Oh no, Sir William, please come in. I have some writing to finish, if
you don't mind."
"Pray go on," said Sir William; "I won't disturb you. I'll sit down here
and read the paper till you are ready"; and he sat down with his back to
the writing-table and the window, in the big chair which Rendel drew
forward.
"Thank you," Sir William said. "I took the liberty of bringing in your
afternoon paper which was outside."
"Certainly," Rendel replied, too absorbed for the moment in the thing
his own attention was concentrated upon to realise the bearing of what
Gore 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 was
this? What incredible things were these that he saw? The letters were
swimming before him; he could only vaguely distinguish the black
capitals and the headlines; the rest was a blur. All that stood out
clearly 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 began
to understand. But, that he should have to look up for one moment, for
the 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? War
would mean the collapse of everything--private schemes as well as all
others.
"War! Do you think it can possibly mean war?" he said. "Can't Germany be
squared?"
"War!" said Rendel without looking up. "Who can tell?" And again he felt
the supreme excitement of standing unseen at the right hand of the man
who was driving the ship through the storm. Sir William laid down the
paper on his knee and tried to think, but all he could do was to close
his eyes and keep perfectly still. Everything was vague ... and the
worst of it--or was it the best of it?--was that nothing seemed to
matter.
At the same moment a brief colloquy was being exchanged outside the hall
door. Stamfordham's brougham had drawn up again, and Thacker, who was
standing hanging about the hall with a secret intention of being on the
spot if tremendous things were going to happen, had instantly rushed
out.
"Is Mr. Rendel in?" said Lord Stamfordham hurriedly as Thacker stood at
the 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 the
study quickly and went in. Sir William started violently. Any sudden
noise in the present state of his nerves threw him completely off his
balance.
"Can you come and speak to Lord Stamfordham, sir?"
Rendel sprang up; then with a sudden thought turned back and pulled down
the top of his writing-table, which shut with a spring, and rushed out
without seeing that Sir William had begun raising himself laboriously
from 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 instant
as 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 the
pavement dressed in the ordinary garb of the English citizen, with
nothing about him to show that his glowing right hand held the
thunderbolts which he was going to hurl at the head of Gore. It is
unnecessary to say that Robert Pateley knew Stamfordham's carriage well
by sight; and it was with pleasure and satisfaction that he found that
Providence had brought him on to the pavement at Cosmo Place in time to
see one of the moves in the great game which the world was playing that
day. It was better on the whole that he should not accost Rendel. There
was 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. But
seeing Rendel standing speaking to Stamfordham at the door of the
brougham he conceived that he was probably coming in again directly, and
made up his mind to go in and see Gore at any rate if possible. He went
up the steps, therefore, and into the house, the front door being open.
It happened neither Rendel nor Stamfordham saw him enter, the former
having his back turned and blocking the view of the latter. Thacker,
with intense interest, was watching the development of affairs from the
dining-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 back
with me, will you? I have so little time."
Rendel jumped in, and the brougham moved past the window just as Sir
William Gore, who had painfully pulled himself out of his chair, looked
out, petrified with surprise at the unexplained crisis that seemed to
have come upon the household. "Stamfordham!" he said to himself, "and
Frank! What are the Imperialists hatching now, I wonder?" and he
mechanically looked round him at Rendel's writing-table. It was,
however, closed and forbidding, save for a little corner of white paper
that was sticking out under the revolving flap. By one of those strange,
almost unconscious impulses which may suddenly overtake the best of us
at times, Gore put out his hand and pulled out the paper. It was quite
loose 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, with
a 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 those
words written underneath? _What?_ Was that how Germany was going to be
'squared?' And sheer excitement gave him strength to grasp more or less
the meaning of what he saw. If Africa were going to be divided, if
Germany and England were agreeing to that division, it meant Peace.
There was no doubt of it. But had the Imperialists suddenly gone on to
the side of peace? Had they snatched that trump card from their
adversaries and were they going to play it? Sir William stood gazing at
the paper. Then as he heard some one at the door of the room he
suddenly realised what he had done. He instinctively clutched the paper
in the hand which held the _Mayfair Gazette_, the newspaper concealing
it. As he turned and looked towards the door an unexpected sight greeted
his eyes--no other than Pateley, who, finding himself in the hall
unheralded, had made up his mind to come into Rendel's study and there
ring the bell for some one who should bring word to Sir William Gore of
his presence. But he was surprised to find Sir William downstairs
instead 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's
heart smote him for a moment. Would it be possible to call this feeble,
suffering creature to account? Then his heart hardened again as he
thought 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 of
his 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 some
one unexpectedly a sudden shock to him, he had besides at that moment an
additional and very definite reason for uneasiness in the thing which he
held in his hand. He endeavoured, however, to pull himself together as
he shook hands with Pateley.
"I have not seen you for a long time," he said, pointing to a chair and
sinking 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 is
that one feels just as bad when one is supposed to be getting better as
when one is supposed to be getting worse. It is a most annoying form of
complaint."
"So I have understood," said Pateley, "though I have not learnt it by
personal experience."
"No, you don't look as though you suffered from weakness," said Sir
William, with a faint smile and a consciousness that this was not a
person from whom it would be very easy to extract sympathy for his own
condition.
Pateley paused. He felt curiously uncomfortable and hesitating, a
sensation 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 good
reading, is it? Things look pretty bad."
"They do indeed," said Sir William.
"It looks uncommonly like war with Germany," Pateley said; "prices are
tumbling down headlong on the Stock Exchange. I believe there is going
to 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 that
there are ugly rumours about the 'Equator.'"
"I saw something," Sir William said, forcing himself to speak. "What is
it exactly that they say?"
"Well, the last thing they say," Pateley replied with a harder ring in
his 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 every
penny invested in it."
"Is it--is it as bad as that?" said the other, tremulously. "No, no, it
can'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, up
to this moment."
"One can't help wondering," said Pateley, "that a man in your
responsible position towards it," the words struck Sir William like a
blow, "should not have known, should not have inquired----"
"I have been ill, you know," Sir William said nervously, "I have not
been able to look into or understand anything. I have not been out of
the 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 to
thrust 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 you
remember, when the 'Equator' Company was first started, I, like many
others, invested in it, having asked your opinion of it first, and
having heard from you that you were going to be the Chairman of the
Board of Directors."
"I believed in it, you know," Sir William said, with eagerness; "I put a
lot of money into it myself."
"I know you did, yes," said Pateley, "but _you_ fortunately had a lot to
do it with, and also a lot of money to keep out of it. Every one is not
so happily situated. I blame myself, I need not say, acutely, as well as
others." And as Sir William looked at him sitting there in his
relentless strength, he felt that there was small mercy to be expected
at his hands.
"I don't know," Sir William said, trying to speak with dignity, "that I
was to blame. I believed in it, as others did."
"No doubt," Pateley said. "But I am afraid that will hardly be a
satisfactory explanation for the shareholders. The shares at this moment
are 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," said
Pateley. "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. It
is 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 blamed
for it. Anderson, who is absolutely honest, reported on the thing, and
believed in it to the extent of spending all he had in getting the
rights to work it."
"That is possible," Pateley said, "but Anderson was not the chairman of
the company. You are."
"Worse luck," Sir William said bitterly.
"Yes, worse luck," Pateley said. "Your name up to now has been an
honourable one." Sir William started and looked at him again. "I am
afraid," Pateley went on, "after this it may have," and he spoke as if
weighing 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 it
clear...? You have influence in the Press----"
"I am afraid," Pateley said, "that my influence, such as it is, must on
this occasion be exerted the other way. Of course there is a good deal
at stake for me here," he went on, in a matter of fact tone which
carried more conviction than an outburst of emotion would have done. "I
care for my sisters, and I am afraid I can't sit down and see
them--swindled, or something very like it."
"Not, swindled!" said Gore angrily.
"Well," Pateley said, "that is really what it looks like to the
outsider, 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, "but
how can I?"
"Well, of course, on occasions of this kind," Pateley said, still in the
same everyday manner, as though judicially dealing with a fact which did
not specially concern him, "it is sometimes done by the simple process
of the person responsible for the losses making them good--making
restitution, in fact."
"I have told you," said Sir William, "that I'm afraid that is
impossible."
"Ah then, I am sorry," Pateley said, in the tone of one determining, as
Sir William dimly felt, on some course of action. "I thought some
possible course might have suggested itself to you."
"No, I can suggest nothing," Sir William said, leaning back in his
chair, and feeling that neither mind nor body could respond at that
moment to anything that called for fresh initiative.
"I thought that you might have other possibilities on the Stock Exchange
even," 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 in
front of him. Pateley sat waiting. Then Gore felt a strange flutter at
his heart as the full bearing of Pateley's last sentence dawned upon
him.
"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, Sir
William," he continued, "that you can do nothing to help me in this
matter? If so, I am sorry. I had hoped I might have spared you some
discomfort, but since you can do nothing----" He broke off and looked
quickly out of the window, then said in explanation, "It is only a
hansom stopping next door; I thought it might be Rendel coming back. But
I was mistaken."
Sir William realised that every instant was precious.
"Pateley," he said, "look here. If you could wait a day or two
longer...."
"Do you mean," said Pateley, "that if I were to wait there would be a
chance of your being able to do something?"
"I don't know," said Sir William, "I am not sure, but there might be a
turn in public affairs; the panic might be over, there might be a chance
of peace."
"If that is all," Pateley said quite definitely, "I am afraid that
prospect is not enough to build upon. I can't afford to wait on that
security."
Sir William got up and spoke quickly with a visible effort.
"Look here, listen... I have a reason for thinking that is the way
things 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 had
begun to play. It was no good pausing now. He stood facing Pateley,
holding a folded paper in his hand, no longer hidden by the newspaper
which had slid from his grasp on to the ground. He looked at the paper
in his hand mechanically. Mechanically Pateley's eye followed his. The
conviction suddenly came to him that Gore was not speaking at random.
"Sir William," he said, "time presses," and unconsciously they both
looked towards the window into the street. At any moment Rendel might
draw up again. "If you have any reason for what you are saying, tell
me--if not, I must leave you to see what can be done."
"I have a reason," said Sir William, "the strongest, for believing that
there will be peace."
Pateley looked at him. "Give me a proof?" he said, with the accent of a
man who is wasting no words, no intentions.
Sir William's hand tightened over the paper. "If I gave you a proof," he
said, "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 on
hurriedly, "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 looked
towards 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 an
understanding, an agreement between England and Germany about this
business in Africa."
"Impossible!" said Pateley.
"Yes," said Sir William, hardly audibly.
"Give me the proof," Pateley said, coming close to him and in his
excitement making a movement as though to take the paper out of Gore's
hand.
"Wait, wait!" Sir William said. "No, you mustn't do that!" and he
staggered and leant back against the chimneypiece. Pateley had no time
to 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 to
take it, you are not to touch it."
Pateley signed assent, and Sir William unfolded the map of Africa and
held it up with a trembling hand.
"What!" said Pateley, at first hardly grasping what he saw. Then its
full significance began to dawn upon him. "Africa--a partition of Africa
between 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't
take it out of my hand," he said again, nervously conscious that his own
strength was ebbing at every moment, and that if the resolute, dominant
figure before him had chosen to seize on the paper, nothing could have
prevented his doing so.
"Well, at any rate, let me have a good look at it," Pateley said, "the
coast is still clear," and as he went to the window to give another look
out, 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 have
a good look at it;" and as Sir William held it in the light of the
window, Pateley, as quick as lightning, drew his tiny camera out of his
pocket. There was a click, and the map of Africa had been photographed.
Pateley unconsciously drew a quick breath of relief as he put the
machine back. Sir William, as white as a sheet, dropped his hands in
dismay.
"Good Heavens! What have you done? Have you photographed it?"
"Yes," said Pateley, trying to control his own excitement, and
recovering his usual tone with an effort. "That's all, thank you. It is
much 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 to
the best advantage."
"You have sworn," Sir William said tremulously, "that you won't say
where you got it from."
"Of course I won't," Pateley said, gradually returning to his usual
burly heartiness. "Now, may I ask where _you_ got it from?"
"I got it out of there," Sir William said, pointing to the table. "A
corner 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 nervously
folded it up and dropped it through the slit of the table.
"Ha, that's safer," said Pateley, with a short laugh. "You should not
lose your head over these things," and he gave a swift look down the
street again. "Now I must go. I am going straight to the City, and I'll
tell you what I shall do," and his manner became more emphatic as he
went on, as though answering some objection. "I'm going to buy up the
whole of the 'Equator' shares on the chance of a rise, and perhaps some
Cape to Cairo too, and then we'll see. Now, can't I do something for you
too? 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 for
you--and if things go as we think, by next week you will be in a
position 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 him
by the hand. "No, don't get up; I can find my way out. Goodbye." And a
moment later he passed the window, striding away towards Knightsbridge.