Part 9 (1/2)
”And the awful thing, do you know,” said Pateley laughing, ”is that I believe those people do make a difference.”
”It is horrible to reflect upon,” said Sir William.
”By the way,” said Pateley, with a laugh, ”your side is going in for the s.e.x too, I see. Is it true that you are going to have a Women's Peace Crusade?”
”Yes,” said Sir William with an expression of disgust, ”I believe that it is so. _My_ womenkind are not going to have anything to do with it, I am thankful to say.”
”Oh, yes, I saw about that Crusade,” said Wentworth, joining them, ”in the _Torch_.”
”Don't believe too firmly what the _Torch_ says--or indeed any newspaper--ha, ha!” said Pateley.
”I should be glad not to believe all that I see in the _Arbiter_, this morning,” Sir William said. ”Upon my word, Pateley, that paper of yours is becoming incendiary.”
”I don't know that we are being particularly incendiary,” said Pateley, with the comfortable air of one disposing of the subject. ”It is only that the world is rather inflammable at this moment.”
”Well, we have had conflagrations enough at the present,” said Sir William. ”We want the country to quiet down a bit.”
”Oh! it will do that all in good time,” said Pateley. ”I am bound to say things are rather jumpy just now. By the way, Sir William, I wonder if you know of any investment you could recommend?”
Wentworth discreetly turned away and strolled back to Lady Gore's sofa.
”I rather want to know of a good thing for my two sisters who are living together at Lowbridge. I have got a modest sum to invest that my father left them, and I should like to put it into something that is pretty certain, but, if possible, that will give them more than 2-1/2 per cent.”
”Why,” said Sir William, ”I believe I may know of the very thing. Only it is a dead secret as yet.”
”Hullo!” said Pateley, p.r.i.c.king up his ears. ”That sounds promising. For how long?”
”Just for the moment,” said Sir William. ”But of necessity the whole world must know of it before very long.”
”Well, if it really is a good thing let us have a day or two's start,”
said Pateley laughing.
”All right, you shall,” said Sir William. ”You shall hear from me in a day or two.”
CHAPTER VII
The days had pa.s.sed. The great scheme of ”The Equator, Ltd.,” was before the world, which had received it in a manner exceeding Fred Anderson's most sanguine expectations. The possibilities and chances of the mine, as set forth by the experts, appeared to be such as to rouse the hopes of even the wary and experienced, and Anderson had no difficulty of forming a Board of Directors most eminently calculated to inspire confidence in the public--none the less that they were presided over by a man who, if not possessed of special business qualifications, was of good social position and bore an honourable name. Sir William Gore, the Chairman of the company, was well pleased. He invested largely in the undertaking. The savings of the Miss Pateleys, under the direction of their brother, had gone the same way. The _Arbiter_ had indeed reason to cheer on the Cape to Cairo railway, which day by day seemed more likely of accomplishment.
Sir William, on the afternoon of the day when the success of the company was absolutely an a.s.sured fact, came back to his house from the city, satisfied with the prospects of the ”Equator,” with himself, and with the world at large. He put his latchkey into the door and looked round him a moment before he went in with a sense of well-being, of rejoicing in the summer day. Then as he stepped into the house he became conscious that Rachel was standing in the hall waiting for him, with an expression of dread anxiety on her face. The transition of feeling was so sudden that for a moment he hardly realised what he saw--then quick as lightning his thoughts flew to meet that one misfortune that of all others would a.s.sail them both most cruelly.
”Rachel!” he said. ”Is your mother ill?”
”Yes,” the girl answered. ”Oh, father, wait,” she said, as Sir William was rus.h.i.+ng past her, and she tried to steady her quivering lips. ”Dr.
Morgan is there.”
”Morgan--you sent for him....” said Gore, pausing, hardly knowing what he was saying. ”Rachel... tell me...?”
”She fainted,” the girl said, ”an hour ago. And we couldn't get her round again. I sent--ah! there he is coming down.” And a steady, slow step, sounding to the two listeners like the footfall of Fate, was heard coming down from above. Sir William went to meet the doctor, knowing already what he was going to hear.
Lady Gore died that night, without regaining consciousness. Hers had been the unspeakable privilege of leaving life swiftly and painlessly without knowing that the moment had come. She had pa.s.sed unconsciously into that awful gulf, without having had to stand for a moment shuddering on the brink. She had never dreaded death itself, but she had dreaded intensely the thought of old age, of a lingering illness and its attendant horrors. But none of these she had been called upon to endure: even while those around her were looking at the beautiful aspect of life that she presented to them the darkness fell, leaving them the memory only of that bright image. Her daughter's last recollection of her had been the caressing endearment with which Lady Gore had deprecated Rachel's remaining with her till Sir William's return--how thankful the girl was to have remained!--her husband's last vision of her, the smiling 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 he had found himself telling her already in his mind, before he was actually in her presence, of what he had done. That was the thing which gave an edge to every action, to each fresh development of existence.
Life was lived through again for her, and acquired a fresh aspect from her interest and sympathy, from her keen, humorous insight and far-seeing wisdom. But now, what would his life be without that light that had always shone on his path? He did not, he could not, begin to think about the future. He knew only that the present had crumbled into ruins around him. That, he realised the next morning when, after some s.n.a.t.c.hes of uneasy sleep, he suddenly wakened with a sense of absolute horror upon him, before he remembered shuddering what that horror was.