ll probability, other fates than that of the chief sufferer
who lay there waiting for death. The chief sufferer? No. Rendel, as he
turned back sick at heart, after a moment, into his own study, thought
bitterly within himself that death to the man who has so little to
expect from life is surely a less trial than dying to all that is worth
having while one is still alive. That was how he saw his own life as he
looked on into the future, or rather, as he contemplated it in the
present--for the future was gone, it was blotted out. That was the
thought that ever and anon would come to the surface, would come in
spite of his efforts to the contrary, before every other. Then the
thought of Rachel's face of misery rose before him, haunted him with an
additional anguish. With an effort he pulled himself together, sat down
to the table, and wrote a letter to the committee of Stoke Newton,
stating briefly that he had relinquished his intention of standing,
directed it, and closed the envelope with a heavy sigh. One by one he
was throwing overboard his most precious possessions to appease the
Fates that were pursuing him. Where would it end? What would be left to
him? The one precious possession, the turning-point of his existence
still remained: Rachel, his love for her, their life together. But,
after all, those great goods he had meant to have in any case, and the
rest besides. The door opened. It was the servant come to tell him that
luncheon was ready; the ordinary bell was not rung for fear of
disturbing Sir William. Luncheon? Could the routine of life be going on
just in the same way? Was it possible that a morning had been enough to
do all this? He went listlessly into the dining-room. Rachel was not
there. He went upstairs, and as he went up met her coming out of her
father's room. Her startled and almost alarmed look, as at the first
moment she thought that he was going back into her father's room, smote
him to the heart.

"You had better not go in, Frank," she said hurriedly. "The doctor said
he was to be quite quiet. Please don't go in again," and the intonation
of the words told him how much lay at his door already.

"I was not going in," he said quietly. "I was coming to fetch you to
have some luncheon."

"I don't think I could eat anything," she said.

"You must try, darling," he said gently. "It is no good your being
knocked up at this stage. You look pretty well worn out already."

And indeed she did. The las