The night passed slowly and restlessly for Sir William Gore, although he
slept from sheer exhaustion, and even when he was not sleeping was in a
state 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 day
before, over and over and over again, always with the same result,
always with the same sense of some unexpected, horrible, shameful
catastrophe, that was to lead to his utter humiliation. That was the
impression that still remained when at last the morning came, and he
finally awoke to the life of another day. Over and over again he went
over the situation as he lay there, Pateley's words ringing in his ears,
his looks present before him. Again he felt the sensation of absolute
sickness at his heart that had gripped him at the moment he had realised
that the map had been photographed, passing as much out of his own power
as though he had given it to a man in the street. Does any one really
acknowledge in his inmost soul that he has on a given occasion done
"wrong," without an immeasurable qualifying of that word, without a
covert resentment at the way other people may label his action? There is
but one person in the world who even approximates to knowing the history
of any given deed. The very fact of snatching it from its context puts
it into the wrong proportion, the fact of contemplating it as though it
were something deliberate, separate, complete in itself, apart from all
that has led up to it, apart from the complication and pressure of
circumstance. Sir William went over and over again in his mind all that
had happened the day before, trying to realise under what aspect his
actions would appear to others--over and over again, until everything
became blurred and he hardly knew under what aspect they appeared to
himself. He felt helplessly indignant with Fate, with Chance, that had
with such dire results made him the plaything of a passing impulse. Then
with the necessity of finding an object for his anger, his thoughts
turned first to Rendel, who had primarily put him in the position of
gaining the knowledge he had used to such disastrous effect, and then to
Pateley, who had taken it from him.
It is unpleasant enough for a child, at a time of life generally
familiar with humiliation and chastisement, to see the moment nearing
when his guilt will be discovered: but it is horrible for a man who is
approaching old age, who is dignified and respected, suddenly to find
himself in the position of having something to conceal, of being
actually afraid of facing the judgment and incurring the censure of a
younger man. And at that moment Gore felt as if he almost hated the man
whose hand could hurl such a thunderbolt. Then his thoughts turned to
Pateley, to the probable result of his operations in the City. In the
other greater anxiety which he himself had suddenly imported into his
life, 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 mine
after all? What would Pateley be able to do? Would he be able to make
enough to cover his liabilities? and his head swam as he tried to
remember what these might amount to.
In the meantime Rendel, in a very different frame of mind from that of
his father-in-law, or, indeed, from that of his own of the night before,
filled with a buoyant thrill of expectation, with the sense that
something 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 on
fortune and circumstances, waiting confident and well-equipped without a
misgiving. The day was big with fate: a day on which new developments
might continue for himself, the thrill of excitement of the night
before, the sense of being in the foreground, of being actually hurried
along in the front between the two giants who were leading the way. The
dining-room was ablaze with sunshine as he came into it, and in the
morning light sat Rachel, looking up at him with a smile when he came
into the room.
"What an excellent world it is, truly!" said Rendel, as he came across
the room.
"I am glad it is to your liking," she answered.
"You look very well this morning," said Rendel, looking at her, "which
means very pretty."
"I don't feel so especially pretty," said Rachel, with something between
a smile and a sigh.
"Don't you? Don't have any illusions about your appearance," said
Rendel. "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 with
the world, and your appearance?"
"I am perturbed about my father," she said, her voice telling of the
very real anxiety that lay behind the words. "I don't think he is as
well as he was yesterday."
"Don't you?" said Rendel, more gravely. "I am very sorry. What is the
matter?"
"I can't think," Rachel answered. "He may have done too much yesterday
afternoon."
"He certainly looked terribly tired," said Rendel.
"Terribly," said Rachel, "but I can't imagine why. He had been so
absolutely quiet all the afternoon."
"Well, you take care of him to-day," said Rendel, unable to eliminate
the cheerful confidence from his voice.
"I shall indeed," said Rachel.
"Oh, he'll come all right again, never fear," said Rendel. "You mustn't
take too gloomy a view."
"You certainly seem inclined to take a cheerful one this morning," said
Rachel, half convinced in spite of herself that all was well.
"Well, I do," said Rendel. "I must say that in spite of the prevalent
opinion to the contrary, I feel inclined this morning to say that the
scheme of the universe is entirely right; it is just to my liking. The
sunshine, 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 real
happiness is to want everything you can possibly get. That is the best
thing 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 easy
thing to have an ardent hold on life. Some people keep letting it down
with a flop. But I feel as if I could hold it tight this morning at any
rate. I do not believe there is a creature in the wide world that I
would change places with at this moment," he went on, the force of his
ardent 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, continuing
his breakfast with a satisfied air, "but with it one can move the
world."
"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 the
papers are this morning? Why are they so late?"
"They will come directly," Rachel said. "It is a very good thing they're
late, you can eat your breakfast in peace for once without knowing what
has happened."
"That is not the proper spirit," said Rendel smiling, "for the wife of a
future great man."
"The only thing is," said Rachel, "that if you did become a great man, I
don't think I should be the sort of wife for you. I am very stupid about
politics, don't you think so? I don't understand things properly."
"I think you are exactly the sort of wife I want," said Rendel, "and
that is enough for me. That is the only thing necessary for you to
understand. 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 that
told his passionate conviction. "I wish you could grasp that in
comparison with you, nothing matters to me."
"Nothing?" she repeated.
"There is nothing," said Rendel, looking at her, "that I would not
sacrifice 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 you
to make sacrifices," and she spoke in all unconsciousness of the number
of small sacrifices, of an unheroic aspect perhaps, that Rendel was
daily called upon to make for her sake.
At this moment Thacker came in with the morning papers, which he laid on
the table at Rendel's elbow.
"Now then you are happy," said Rachel lightly. "Now you can bury
yourself in the papers and not listen to anything I say."
"I wonder if there is anything about Stoke Newton and old Crawley's
resignation," said Rendel, quite prepared to follow her advice. "I don't
suppose 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, opened
the papers wide, and began scanning them one after another, with the
mild and pleasurable excitement of the man who feels confidently abreast
of circumstances. Then, as he took up the _Arbiter_, his eye suddenly
fell upon a heading that took his breath away. What was this? He dropped
the paper with a cry.
"What is it, Frank?" said Rachel startled.
"Good Heavens! what have they done that for?" he said, springing to his
feet in uncontrollable excitement.
"Done what?" said Rachel.
"Why, they have announced--they have put in something that Lord
Stamfordham----" He snatched up the paper again and looked at it
eagerly. "It is incredible! and the map too, the very map, at this
stage! Well, upon my word, he has made a mistake this time, I do
believe." And he still gazed at the paper as though trying to fathom the
whole 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 bring
the 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, had
only 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 bell
rang violently. Rendel started and went to the window. In the phase of
acute tension in which he found himself, every unexpected sound carried
an untold significance, but he was not prepared for what this one
betokened: 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. Rendel
followed him and met Stamfordham on the doorstep. He led the way quickly
across the hall into his study and shut the door. They both felt
instinctively that greetings were superfluous.
"Have you seen the _Arbiter_?" Stamfordham said.
"Yes," said Rendel, looking him straight in the face with eager
expectation.
"So have I," said Stamfordham, "at the German Embassy. I had not seen it
before leaving home, but I saw a poster at the corner, and I went
straight to Bergowitz to ask him what it meant; he is as much in the
dark as I am."
"In the dark!" said Rendel, looking at him amazed. "What! but--was it
not you who published it?"
"_I_ publish it?" said Stamfordham. "Do you mean to say you thought I
had?"
"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 not
seen those papers since I gave the packet sealed to Thacker to take it
to you."
"And I received it," said Stamfordham, "sealed and untampered with, and
opened 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, "but
not the map--_not the map_," he said emphatically. "That map no one has
seen besides Bergowitz, you, and myself. Bergowitz it would be quite
absurd to suspect, he is as genuinely taken back as I am--I know that it
didn't get out through me, and therefore----" he paused and looked
Rendel in the face.
"What!" said Rendel, with a sort of cry. A horrible light, an incredible
interpretation was beginning to dawn upon him. "You can't think it was
through _me_?"
"What else can I think?" said Stamfordham--Rendel still looked at him
aghast--"since the papers after I gave them into your keeping were
apparently not out of it until they passed into mine again? I brought
them to you here myself. Of course I see now I ought not to have done
so, but how could I have imagined----"
Rendel hurriedly interrupted him.
"Lord Stamfordham, not a soul but myself can have had access to those
papers. I went out of the room, it is true," and he went rapidly over in
his mind the sequence of events the day before, "for a short half-hour
perhaps, when you came back here and I went out with you, but before
leaving the room I remember distinctly that I shut the cover of my
writing-table down with the spring, and tried it to see that it was
shut, 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 dismissed
as soon as entertained, "Sir William Gore."
"Gore?" said Stamfordham, looking at Rendel, but forbearing any comment
on his father-in-law.
"It was quite impossible," Rendel said decidedly, answering
Stamfordham'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 had
left them, and the thing locked with this very complicated key, and he
showed it hanging on his chain."
"It is evident," Stamfordham repeated inflexibly, "that some one must
have got hold of it with or without your knowledge. I warned you
yesterday, you remember, about taking your--any one in your household
into your confidence."
"And I did not," Rendel said, grasping his meaning. "My wife did not
even know that I had the papers to transcribe. She does not know it
now."
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 know
how. I must have an explanation."
Rendel was powerless to speak.
"For you must see," Stamfordham went on, "what a terrible catastrophe
this might have been--the danger is not over yet, in fact, although I
may be strong enough for my colleagues to condone the fact that the
public has been told of this before themselves, and the country may be
strong enough for foreign Powers to do the same. But, as a personal
matter, I must know how it got out, and I repeat, I must have an
explanation. 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 a
brief tone of command, "you had better come and tell me the result. I
shall be at the Foreign Office till twelve."
"Till twelve. Very well," said Rendel, feeling as if there was a dark
chasm between himself and that moment. Mechanically he let Lord
Stamfordham out, and stood as the latter mounted and rode away. Then he
turned back into the house.