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.