The God in the Car: A Novel

"If you'd held your tongue, it would all have blown over!" he exclaimed in exasperation.

"It will blow over still; but it will blow first," she said. "If that contents you, hold your tongue."

Then she turned to Tom, and laid a small fore-finger on his arm.

"Mark this," said she, "he does not care for her. He cares for himself; she is – what would you say? an incident – an accident – I do not know how to say it – to him."

"Well, if you're right there – " began Tom in some relief.

"If I'm right there, it will make no difference – at first. But, as you say, it will blow over – and sooner."

Tom looked at her, and thought, and looked again.

"By Jove, you're not a fool, Mrs. Cormack," said he, almost under his breath.

Then he added, louder,

"It's the wisdom of the devil."

"Oh, you surpass yourself," she smiled. "Your compliments are magnificent."

"You must have learnt it from him."

"Oh, no. From my husband," said Mrs. Cormack.

The carriage, which during their talk had moved slowly round the circle, stopped again.

Mrs. Cormack turned to Tom. He was already looking at her.

"I don't understand you," said he.

"No? Well, you'll hardly believe it, but that does not surprise me."

"I'm not sure you don't mean well, if you weren't ashamed to confess it," said Tom.

For the first time since he had known her, she blushed and looked embarrassed. Then she began, in a quick tone,

"Well, I talked. I wanted to see how he took it; and it amused me. And – well, our dear Maggie – she is so very magnificent at times. She looks down so calmly – oh! from such a height – on one. She had told me that day – well, never mind that; it was true, I daresay. I don't love truth. I don't see what right people have to say things to me, just because one may know they are true."

"So you made a little mischief?"

"Well, I hear that poor man walking up and down. I want to comfort him. I asked him to come in, and he refused. Then I offered to go in – he was very frightened. Oh, mon Dieu!" and she laughed almost hysterically.

This very indirect confession proved in the end to be all that Mrs. Cormack's penitence could drive her to, and Tom left her, feeling a little softened towards her, but hardly better equipped for action. What, indeed, could be done? Tom's sense of futility expressed itself in a long letter to Adela Ferrars. As he had no suggestions for present action, he took refuge in future promises.

"It will be very awkward for me to come, but if, as time goes on, you think I should be any good, I will come."

And Adela, when she read it, was tempted to send for him on the spot; he would have been of no use, but he would have comforted her. But then his presence would unquestionably exasperate Maggie Dennison. Adela decided to wait.

Now, by the time Tom Loring's letter reached Dieppe, young Sir Walter and Willie Ruston were on the boat, and they arrived hard on its heels. They took up their abode at a hotel a few doors from where the Seminghams were staying, and Walter at once went round to pay his respects.

Ruston stayed in to write letters. So he said; but when he was alone he stood smoking at the window and looking at the people down below. Presently, to his surprise, he saw the same old gentleman whom Adela had noticed in the Casino.

"The Baron, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "Now, what brings him here?"

The Baron was sauntering slowly by, wrapped in a cloak, and leaning heavily on a malacca cane. In a moment Willie Ruston was down the stairs and after him.

Hearing his name cried, the Baron stopped and turned round.

"What chance brings you here?" asked Willie, holding out his hand.

"Oh, hardly chance," said the Baron. "I always go to some seaside place, and I thought I might meet friends here," and he smiled significantly.

"Yes," said Ruston, after a pause; "I believe I did mention it in Threadneedle Street. I went in there the other day."

By the general term Threadneedle Street he meant to indicate the offices of the Baron's London correspondents, which were situate there.

"They keep you informed, it seems?"

"I live by being kept informed," said the Baron.

Ruston was walking by him, accommodating his pace to the old man's feeble walk.

"You mean you came to see me?" he asked.

"Well, if you'll forgive the liberty – in part."

"And why did you want me?"

"Oh, I've not lost all interest in Omofaga."

"No, you haven't," said Ruston. "On the contrary, you've been increasing your interest."

The Baron stopped and looked at him.

"Oh, you know that?"

"Certainly."

The Baron laughed.

"Then you can tell me whether I shall lose my money," he said.

"Do you ever lose your money, Baron?"

"But am I to hear about Omofaga?" asked the Baron, countering question by question.

"As much as you like," answered Ruston, with the indifference of perfect candour.