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 miserab
ly 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 theatre_ 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.