CHAPTER VII
The days had passed. The great scheme of "The Equator, Ltd.," was beforethe world, which had received it in a manner exceeding Fred Anderson'smost sanguine expectations. The possibilities and chances of the mine,as set forth by the experts, appeared to be such as to rouse the hopesof even the wary and experienced, and Anderson had no difficulty offorming a Board of Directors most eminently calculated to inspireconfidence in the public--none the less that they were presided over bya man who, if not possessed of special business qualifications, was ofgood social position and bore an honourable name. Sir William Gore, theChairman of the company, was well pleased. He invested largely in theundertaking. The savings of the Miss Pateleys, under the direction oftheir brother, had gone the same way. The _Arbiter_ had indeed reason tocheer on the Cape to Cairo railway, which day by day seemed more likelyof accomplishment.
Sir William, on the afternoon of the day when the success of the companywas absolutely an assured fact, came back to his house from the city,satisfied with the prospects of the "Equator," with himself, and withthe world at large. He put his latchkey into the door and looked roundhim a moment before he went in with a sense of well-being, of rejoicingin the summer day. Then as he stepped into the house he became consciousthat Rachel was standing in the hall waiting for him, with an expressionof dread anxiety on her face. The transition of feeling was so suddenthat for a moment he hardly realised what he saw--then quick aslightning his thoughts flew to meet that one misfortune that of allothers would assail them both most cruelly.
"Rachel!" he said. "Is your mother ill?"
"Yes," the girl answered. "Oh, father, wait," she said, as Sir Williamwas rushing past her, and she tried to steady her quivering lips. "Dr.Morgan is there."
"Morgan--you sent for him...." said Gore, pausing, hardly knowing whathe was saying. "Rachel... tell me...?"
"She fainted," the girl said, "an hour ago. And we couldn't get herround again. I sent--ah! there he is coming down." And a steady, slowstep, sounding to the two listeners like the footfall of Fate, was heardcoming down from above. Sir William went to meet the doctor, knowingalready what he was going to hear.
Lady Gore died that night, without regaining consciousness. Hers hadbeen the unspeakable privilege of leaving life swiftly and painlesslywithout knowing that the moment had come. She had passed unconsciouslyinto that awful gulf, without having had to stand for a momentshuddering on the brink. She had never dreaded death itself, but she haddreaded intensely the thought of old age, of a lingering illness and itsattendant horrors. But none of these she had been called upon to endure:even while those around her were looking at the beautiful aspect of lifethat she presented to them the darkness fell, leaving them the memoryonly of that bright image. Her daughter's last recollection of her hadbeen the caressing endearment with which Lady Gore had deprecatedRachel's remaining with her till Sir William's return--how thankful thegirl was to have remained!--her husband's last vision of her, thesmiling farewell with which she had sped him on his way in the morning,with a caution as to prudence in his undertakings. As he came back hehad found himself telling her already in his mind, before he wasactually in her presence, of what he had done. That was the thing whichgave an edge to every action, to each fresh development of existence.Life was lived through again for her, and acquired a fresh aspect fromher interest and sympathy, from her keen, humorous insight andfar-seeing wisdom. But now, what would his life be without that lightthat had always shone on his path? He did not, he could not, begin tothink about the future. He knew only that the present had crumbled intoruins around him. That, he realised the next morning when, after somesnatches of uneasy sleep, he suddenly wakened with a sense of absolutehorror upon him, before he remembered shuddering what that horror was.He had wanted to tell her about yesterday, about the "Equator," he saidto himself with a dull aching pain almost like resentment--he wanted tohave her approval, to have the sense that for her what he did was right,was wise. But he knew now in his heart, as he really had known all thetime, that it was she who had been the wise one. And part of the horror,as the time went on, would be to realise that when she had gone out ofthe world something had gone out of himself too, which she had told himwas there. And he had dreamt that it was true. But that would come whenthe details of misery were realised by him one by one, as after somehideous explosion it is not possible to see at once in the wreck made bythe catastrophe all the ghastly confirmations of disaster that come tolight with the days. The first days were not the worst, either for himor for Rachel, as each one of them afterwards secretly found. For thoughlife had come to a standstill, had stopped dead, with a sudden shockthat had thrown everything in it out of gear, there were at first newand strange duties to be accomplished that filled up the hours and keptthe standards of ordinary existence at bay. There were letters ofcondolence to be answered, tributes of flowers to be acknowledged, sentby well-meaning friends moved by some impotent impulse of consolation,until the air became heavy with the scent of camellias and lilies.Rachel moved about in the darkened rooms, feeling as if the faint,sweet, overpowering perfume were a kind of anodyne, that was mercifully,during those early days, lulling her senses into lethargy. To the end ofher days the scent of the white lily would bring back to her the feelingof actually living again through that first time of numbing grief. Howmany hours, how many days and nights she and her father had lived withinthat quiet sanctuary they could not have told--lived in the darkstillness, with one room, the stillest of all, containing the belovedsomething strangely aloof all that was left of the thing that had beentheir very life. Then out of that quiet hallowed darkness they came onedreadful day into the brilliant sunlight, a day that was lived throughwith the acutest pain of all, of which every detail seemed to have beenarranged by a horrible cruel convention of custom in order to intensifythe pangs of it. They drove at a foot's pace through the crowded, sunlitstreets, with a shrinking agony of self-consciousness as one and anotherpasser-by looked up for a moment at what was passing. "Look, Jim, 'ere'sa funeral!" one small boy called to another--and Rachel, shuddering,buried her face in her hands and could have cried out aloud. Some men,not all, lifted their hats; two gaily-dressed women who were just goingto cross stopped as a matter of course on the pavement and waitedindifferently, hardly seeing what it was, until the obstruction had goneby, as they would have done had it been anything else. Rachel, leaningback by her father, trying to hide herself, yet felt as if she couldnot help seeing everything they met. Every step of the way was a slowtorture. And oh, the return home! that drive, at a brisk trot this time,through the same crowded, unfeeling streets, which still retained theassociation of the former progress through them, the sense that now, asthe coachman whipped up his horses, for every one save for the twodesolate people who sat silently together inside the carriage, lifemight--indeed, would--throw off that aspect of gloom and go on asbefore! And then the worst moment of all, the finding on their returnthat the house had taken on a ghastly semblance of its usual aspect,that the blinds were up, the windows open, the sun streaming ineverywhere--the hard, cruel light, as it seemed to Rachel, shining intothe rooms that were for evermore to be different.
Then followed the time which is incomparably the worst after a greatloss, the time when, ordinary life being taken up again, the suffererhas the additional trial of too large an amount of leisure on hishands--the horror of all those new spare hours that used to be passed ina companionship that is gone, that must be filled up with somethingfresh unless they are to stand in wide, horrible emptiness, to assailrecollection with unendurable grief. And especially in that house werethey empty, where the existence of both father and daughter had revolvedround that of another to a greater extent than that of most people. Theproblem of how to readjust the daily conditions was a hard, hard one tosolve, harder obviously for Sir William than it was for Rachel. Thegirl was uplifted in those days by the sense that, however difficult shemight find it to carry out in detail, the general scheme of her life layclear before her. She was g
oing to devote it to her father, she wasgoing to carry out that unmade promise, which she now considered morebinding on her than ever, although her mother had warned her againstmaking it, the promise that her father should come first. But thewarning at the moment it was made had not been accepted by Rachel, andin the exaltation of her self-sacrifice it was forgotten now. She sawher way, as she conceived, plainly in front of her. Rendel, with hisusual understanding and wisdom, did not obtrude himself on her duringthose days. He had quite made up his mind not to ask for her decisionuntil there might be some hope of its being made in his favour. He hadfelt Lady Gore's death as acutely as though he had the right of kinshipto grieve for her. He was miserably conscious that something inestimablyprecious had gone out of his life, almost before he had had time torealise his happiness in possessing it. But neither he nor Rachelunderstood what Lady Gore's death had meant to Sir William. And the poorlittle Rachel, rudderless, bewildered, tried to do the best she couldfor her father's life by planning her own with absolute reference to it,by putting at his disposal all the bare, empty hours available forcompanionship which up to now had been so straitly, so tenderly, sohappily filled. And he on his side, conscious of some of her purpose,but unaware of the extent to which she carried her deliberate intentionof consecrating herself to him, of bearing the burden of his destiny,believed that he had to bear the overwhelming burthen of guiding hers.Instead of going in the late afternoon hours of those summer days to hisclub, where he would have found some companionship that was notassociated with his grief, and passing an hour agreeably, he wistfullywent home, feeling that Rachel would be expecting him. And Rachel on herside felt it a duty to put away any regular occupation that might haveproved engrossing, and so to ordain her life that she should be alwaysready and at her father's orders if he should appear. And, thusdeliberately cutting themselves loose from such minor anchorages as theymight have had, they tried to delude themselves into the belief that notonly was such makeshift companionship a solace, but that it actually wasable to replace that other all-satisfying companionship they had lost.But they knew in their hearts, each of them, that it was not so. And SirWilliam realised, more perhaps than Rachel did, that it never could be.The relation between a father and daughter, when most successful, isformed of delightful discrepancies and differences, supplementing oneanother in the things that are not of each age. It means a protectingcare on the side of the father, an amused tender pride in seeing theyounger creature developing an individuality which, however, is hardlyin the secret soul of the elder one quite realised or believed in. Theexperience of the man in such a relation has mainly been derived fromwomen of his own standing; his judgment of his daughter is apt to be agood deal guesswork. The daughter, on the other hand, brings to therelation elements necessarily and absolutely absent on the other side.If she cares for her father as he does for her, she looks up to him, sheadmires him, she accepts from him numberless prejudices and rules aboutthe government of life, and acts upon them, taking for granted all thetime that he cannot understand her own point of view. And yet, even soconstituted, it can be one of the most beautiful and even satisfyingcombinations of affection the world has to show, provided the father hasnot known what it is to have the fulness of joy in his companionshipwith his wife, in that equal experience, mutual reliance, understandingof hopes and fears, which is impossible when the understanding is beinginterpreted through the imagination only, by one standing on a differentplane of life. Neither Rachel nor her father had realised all this; butthe mother with her acuter sensibilities had known, and had sodeliberately set herself to fulfil her task that they had all theseyears been interpreted to one another, as it were, by that otherinfluence that had surrounded them, that atmosphere through whicheverything was seen aright and in its most beautiful aspect. And thetime came when Sir William suddenly grasped with a burning, startlingvividness the fact that his life could not be the same again, that hemust henceforth take it on a lower plane. The day was fine andbright--too warm, too bright; the hopeful light of spring had givenplace to the steady glare of summer. He had been used before to go outriding with Rachel in the early morning, in order to be back by the timeLady Gore was ready to begin her day. They had tacitly abandoned thishabit now. Then one day it occurred to Sir William that it might be agood thing for Rachel to resume it. He proposed to her that they shouldgo out as they used. She, in her inmost heart shrinking from it, butthinking it would be a satisfaction to him, agreed. He, shrinking fromit as much as she did, thought to please her. And so they went out androde silently side by side, overpowered by mute comparison of this daywith days that had been. And when they got home they went each their ownway, and made no attempt at exchanging words. Sir William went miserablyto his study, his heart aching with a rush of almost unbearable sorrowas he thought of the bright little room upstairs to which he had beenwont to hurry for the welcome that always awaited him. What should he dowith his life? How should he fill it? he asked himself in a burst ofgrief, as he shut himself in. And so much had the theory, firmlybelieved in by himself and his wife, that he had by his own free will,and in order to devote his life to her, abandoned any quest of a publiccareer become an absolute conviction in his mind, that he felt a dullresentment at having been so noble. He recognised now that it had beenquixotic. He had let the time pass. Fifty-five! To be sure, in thesedays it is not old age; it may, indeed, under certain circumstances bethe prime of life, for a man who has begun his career early, politicalor otherwise. Had this been Sir William's lot he could have sought someconsolation, or at any rate alleviation, in his misfortune, by turningat once to his work and plunging into it more strenuously than before.But even that mitigation, for so much as it might be worth, was deniedto him. And he sat there, trying to face the fact that seemed almostincredible to a man of what seemed to him his aptitudes and capacity,the awful fact that he had not enough to do to fill up his life. He didnot state this pitiless truth to himself explicitly, but it wasbeginning to loom from behind a veil, and he would some day be forced tolook at it. He could not start anything fresh. He had not the requisiteimpulse. He could have continued, he could not begin; the theatre of hisactions, as Lady Gore had foreseen, had indeed fallen when she fell, andwithout it he could initiate no fresh achievements. Oh, to have hadsomething definite to turn to in those days, something that called forinstant completion! To have had some inexorable daily task, some dutyfor which he was paid, in a government office, or in some privateundertaking of his own, for which he would have been obliged, like somany other men, to leave his house at a fixed hour, and to be absorbedin other preoccupations till his return. What a physical, materialrelief he would have found in such a claim! Round most men of his agelife has woven many interests, many ties, many calls, on their time andenergies from outside as well as from those near to them, but all thosespare, available energies of his had been absorbed and appropriated,filled up, nearer home, and so completely that he had never neededanything else. And now, whither should he turn? What should he do? Thenhe remembered his Book, the Book his wife and he had been accustomed totalk of with such confidence, such certainty--he now realised howvery little there was of it done, or how much of what might be fruitfulin the conception was owing to the way that she, in their talking overit, had held it up to him, so that now one light played round it, nowanother. Well he remembered how, only two days before she was taken ill,they had talked of it for a long time until she, with an enthusiasm thatmade it seem already a completed masterpiece, had said with a smile,"Now then, all that remains is to write it!" And he had almost believed,as he left her, that it would spring into life some day, that it wouldnot only hold the place in his life of the Great Possibility that isnecessary to us all, but that he would actually put his fate to theproof by carrying it into execution. He took out the portfolio in whichwere the notes he had made about it now and again. They bore the searedoutward aspect of an entirely different mental condition from that withwhich they came in contact now. What is that subtle, mocking change thatcomes over even the
inanimate things that we have not seen since wewere happy, and now meet again in grief? It is like a horrible inversionof the golden touch given to Midas. To Gore, during those days, thedarkness fell upon every fresh thing to which he went back. Theimpression was so strong on him as he turned over the manuscript, thathe shuddered. What was the use of all this? What was it worth? He knewin his heart that the person of all others to whom it had been of mostworth was gone--he would not be doing good to himself or to any one elseby going on with it. He would be defrauding no one by letting thedarkness cover it for ever. And another reason yet lay like cold lead atthe bottom of his heart--the real, cruel, crushing reason--he could notwrite the book, he was not capable of writing it. That was the truth.And he desperately thrust the stray leaves into the cover, and the wholething away from him, hopelessly, finally; there was nothing that wouldhelp him. That curtain would never lift again. And he covered his facewith his hands as though trying to shut out the deadly knowledge.
But of all this Rachel, as she sat waiting for her father at breakfast,was utterly unconscious. She did not realise the unendurablecomplications that had piled one misery on another to him. To her thewound had been terrible, but clean. The greatest loss she could conceivehad stricken her life, but there were no secondary personal problems toadd to it, no preoccupations of self apart from the one greatdesolation.
Sir William turned over his letters listlessly as he sat down, openedthem, and looked through them.
"What am I to say to that?" he said, throwing one over to Rachel.
The colour came into her cheeks as she saw that it was from Rendel.
"I have one from him too," she said.
"Oh! well, I don't ask to see that," Sir William said, with an attemptat cheerfulness. "I know better."
"I would rather you saw it, really, father," and she handed him Rendel'sletter to herself--a straightforward, dignified, considerate letter, inwhich he assured her that he did not mean to intrude himself upon heruntil she allowed him to come, and that all he asked was that she shouldunderstand that he was waiting, and would be content to wait, as long asthere was a chance of hope.
"Well, when am I to tell him to come?" Sir William said.
"Father, what he wants cannot be," Rachel said.
"Cannot be?" said Sir William. "Why not?"
"Oh!" Rachel said, trying to command her voice, "I could not at thismoment think of anything of that kind."
"At this moment, perhaps," Sir William said. "But you see he is not in ahurry. He says so, at any rate, though I am not sure that it is veryconvincing."
"How would it be possible," said Rachel, "that I should go away? Whatwould you do if I left you alone?"
"Well, as to that," Sir William replied, speaking slowly in order thathe might appear to be speaking calmly, "I don't know, in any case, whatI shall do." And his face looked grey and worn, conveying to Rachel, asshe looked across at him, an impression of helpless old age in thefather who had hitherto been to her a type of everything that wascapable and well preserved. She sprang up and went to him.
"Father, dear father," she cried amidst her sobs, as she hid her face onhis shoulder. "You know that you are more to me than any one else in theworld. Let me help you--let me try, do let me try." And at the sound ofthe words Gore became again conscious of the immeasurable, dark gulfthere was between what one human being had been able to do for him andwhat any other in the world could try to do. And his own sorrow rosedarkly before him and swept away everything else--even the sorrow of hischild. It was almost bitterly that he said, as if the words were wrungfrom him involuntarily--
"Nobody can help me now."
"Oh, father!" Rachel cried again miserably. "Let me try."
"Darling, I know," he said, recollecting himself at the sight of herdistress, "and you know what my little girl is to me; but there are somethings that even a daughter cannot do. And," he went on, "it wouldreally be a comfort to me, I think, if"--he was going to say, "if youwere married," but he altered it as he saw a swift change pass overRachel's face--"if I knew you were happy; if you had a home of your ownand were provided for."
"Do you think that would be a comfort to you?" asked Rachel, trying tospeak in an almost indifferent tone. "That you would be glad if I wereto go away from you to a home of my own?"
"Yes," he said, "I think it would." And as he spoke he felt that theburden of giving Rachel companionship and trying to help her to bear hergrief would be removed from him. "Besides," he went on, with an attemptat a smile, "it is not as if you would go far away from me altogether;you will only be a few streets off, after all. I could come to youwhenever I wanted, and even--who knows?--I might sometimes ask you foryour hospitality."
"If I thought _that_----" Rachel said, and caught herself up.
"You know," her father said more seriously, "we have been discussingthis from one point of view only, from mine; but you are the person mostconcerned, and I am taking for granted that, from your point of view, itwould be the best thing to do--that you would be happy."
"If I only thought," Rachel said, her face answering his last question,if her words did not, "that you would come to me--that you would bewith me altogether----"
"I have no doubt that you would find that I came to you very often,"said Sir William, with again a desolate sense of having no definitereason for being anywhere.
There was a pause before he said, "Then I'll tell him to come and seeme, and perhaps he can see you afterwards."
"Oh," said Rachel, shrinking, "it is not possible yet."
"Well," said Sir William, "I will tell him so. We will explain to himthat, since he is willing to wait, for the moment he must wait."
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