The God in the Car: A Novel

The note was his – his to its last line, its last word, its last silence. The man stood there, self-epitomised, callous and careless, unmerciful, unbending, unturning; vowed to his quest, recking of naught else. But – she clung to this, the last plank in her shipwreck – great – one of the few for whom the general must make stepping-stones. She thought she had been one of the few; that torn note told her error. Still, she had held out her hands to ruin for no common clay's sake. But it was too hard – too hard – too hard.

"Will you write?" Was he tender there? Her bitterness would not grant him even that. He did not want her to slip away. The smallest addition will make the greatest realm greater, and its loss sully the king's majesty. So she must write, as she must think and dream – and remember.

Perhaps he might choose to come again – some day – and she was to be ready!

She went downstairs. In the hall she met her children, and they said something to her; they talked and chattered to her, and, with the surface of her mind, she understood; and she listened and answered and smiled. And all that they had said and she had said went away; and she found them gone, and herself alone. Then she passed to the sitting-room, where was Marjory Valentine, breathless from mounting the path too quickly; and at sight of Marjory's face, she said,

"I've heard from Mr. Ruston. He has been called away," forestalling Marjory's trembling words.

Then she sat down, and there was a long silence. She was conscious of Marjory there, but the girl did not speak, and presently the impression of her, which was very faint, faded altogether away, and Maggie Dennison seemed to herself alone again – thinking, dreaming, and remembering, as she must now think, dream, and remember – remembering the day that was gone, thinking of what this day should have been.

She sat for an hour, still and idle, looking out across the sea, and Marjory sat motionless behind, gazing at her with despair in her eyes. At last the girl could bear it no longer. It was unnatural, unearthly, to sit there like that; it was as though, by an impossibility, a dead soul were clothed with a living breathing body. Marjory rose and came close, and called,

"Maggie, Maggie!"

Her voice was clear and louder than her ordinary tones; she spoke as if trying to force some one to hear.

Maggie Dennison started, looked round, and passed her hand rapidly across her brow.

"Maggie, I – I've not done anything about going."

"Going?" echoed Maggie Dennison. But her mind was clearing now; her brain had been stunned, not killed, and her will drove it to wakefulness and work again. "Going? Oh, I hope not."

"You know, last night – " began Marjory, timidly, flushing, keeping behind Mrs. Dennison's chair. "Last night we – we talked about it, but I thought perhaps now – "

"Oh," interrupted Mrs. Dennison, "never mind last night. For goodness' sake, forget last night. I think we were both mad last night."

Marjory made no answer; and Mrs. Dennison, her hand having swept her brow once again, turned to her with awakened and alert eyes.

"You upset me – and then I upset you. And we both behaved like hysterical creatures. If I told you to go, I was silly; and if you said you wanted to go, you were silly too, Marjory. Of course, you must stop; and do forget that – nonsense – last night."

Her tone was eager and petulant, the colour was returning to her cheeks; she looked alive again.

Marjory leant an arm on the back of the chair, looking down into Maggie Dennison's face.

"I will stay," she said softly, ignoring everything else, and then she swiftly stooped and kissed Maggie's cheek.

Mrs. Dennison shivered and smiled, and, detaining the girl's head, most graciously returned her caress. Mrs. Dennison was forgiving everything; by forgiveness it might be that she could buy of Marjory forgetfulness.

There was a ring at the door. Marjory looked through the window.

"It's Mr. Loring," she said in a whisper.

Maggie Dennison smiled – graciously again.

"It's very kind of him to come so soon," said she.

"Shall I go?"

"Go? No, child – unless you want to. You know him too. And we've no secrets, Tom Loring and I."

Tom Loring had mounted the hill very slowly. The giving of that "piece of his mind" seemed not altogether easy. He might paint poor Harry's forlorn state; Mrs. Dennison would be politely concerned and politely sceptical about it. He might tell her again – as he had told her before – that Willie Ruston was a knave and a villain, and she might laugh or be angry, as her mood was; but she would not believe. Or he might upbraid her for folly or for worse; and this was what he wished to do. Would she listen? Probably – with a smile on her lips and mocking little compliments on his friendly zeal and fatherly anxiety. Or she might flash out on him, and call his charge an insult, and drive him away; and a word from her would turn poor old Harry into his enemy. Decidedly his task was no easy one.

It was a coward's joy that he felt when he found a third person there; but he felt it from the bottom of his heart. Divine delay! Gracious impossibility! How often men adore them! Tom Loring gave thanks, praying silently that Marjory would not withdraw, shook hands as though his were the most ordinary morning call, and began to discuss the scenery of Dieppe, and – as became a newcomer – the incidents of his voyage.

"And while you were all peacefully in your beds, we were groping about outside in that abominable fog," said he.

"How you must have envied us!" smiled Mrs. Dennison, and Marjory found herself smiling in emulous hypocrisy. But her smile was very unsuccessful, and it was well that Tom Loring's eyes were on his hostess.

Then Mrs. Dennison began to talk about Willie Ruston and her own great interest in him, and in the Omofaga Company. She was very good-humoured to Tom Loring, but she did not fail to remind him how unreasonable he had been – was still, wasn't he? The perfection of her manner frightened Marjory and repelled her. Yet it would have seemed an effort of bravery, had it been done with visible struggling. But it betrayed no effort, and therefore made no show of bravery.

"So now," said Maggie Dennison, "since I haven't got Mr. Ruston to exchange sympathy with, I must exchange hostilities with you. It will still be about Omofaga – that's one thing."

Tom had definitely decided to put off his lecture. The old manner he had known and mocked and admired – the "these-are-the-orders" manner – was too strong for him. He believed he was still fond of her. He knew that he wondered at her still. Could it be true what they told him – that she was as a child in the hands of Willie Ruston? He hated to think that, because it must mean that Willie Ruston was – well, not quite an ordinary person – a conclusion Tom loathed to accept.

"And you're going to stay some time with the Seminghams? That'll be very pleasant. And Adela will like to have you so much. Oh, you can convert her! She's a shareholder. And you must have a talk to the old Baron. You've heard of him? But then he believes in Mr. Ruston, as I do, so you'll quarrel with him."

"Perhaps I shall convert him," suggested Tom.

"Oh, no, we thorough believers are past praying for; aren't we, Marjory?"

Marjory started.

"Past praying for?" she echoed.

Her thoughts had strayed from the conversation – back to what she had been bidden to forget; and she spoke not as one who speaks a trivial phrase.

For an instant a gleam of something – anger or fright – shot from Maggie Dennison's eyes. The next, she was playfully, distantly, delicately chaffing Tom about the meaning of his sudden arrival.

"Of course not– " she began.

And Tom, interrupting, stopped the "Adela."

"And you stay here too?" he asked, to turn the conversation.

"Why, of course," smiled Mrs. Dennison. "After being here all this time, it would look rather funny if I ran away just when Harry's coming. I think he really would have a right to be aggrieved then." She paused, and added more seriously, "Oh, yes, I shall wait here for Harry."

Then Tom Loring rose and took his leave. Mrs. Dennison entrusted him with an invitation to the whole of the Seminghams' party to luncheon next day ("if they don't mind squeezing into our little room," she gaily added), and walked with him to the top of the path, waving her hand to him in friendly farewell as he began to descend. And, after he was gone, she stood for a while looking out to sea. Then she turned. Marjory was in the window and saw her face as she turned. In a moment Maggie Dennison saw her looking, and smiled brightly. But the one short instant had been enough. The feelings first numbed, then smothered, had in that second sprung to life, and Marjory shrank back with a little inarticulate cry of pain and horror. Almost as she uttered it, Mrs. Dennison was by her side.

"We'll go out this afternoon," she said. "I think I shall lie down for an hour. We managed to rob ourselves of a good deal of sleep last night. You'd better do the same." She paused, and then she added, "You're a good child, Marjory. You're very kind to me."

There was a quiver in her voice, but it was only that, and it was Marjory, not she, who burst into sobs.

"Hush, hush," whispered Maggie Dennison. "Hush, dear. Don't do that. Why should you do that?" and she stroked the girl's hot cheek, wet with tears. "I'm very tired, Marjory," she went on. "Do you think you can dry your eyes – your silly eyes – and help me upstairs? I – I can hardly stand," and, as she spoke, she swayed and caught at the curtain by her, and held herself up by it. "No, I can go alone!" she exclaimed almost fiercely. "Leave me alone, Marjory, I can walk. I can walk perfectly;" and she walked steadily across the room, and Marjory heard her unwavering step mounting the stairs to her bedroom.

But Marjory did not see her enter her room, stop for a moment over the scraps of torn paper, still lying on the floor, stoop and gather them one by one, then put them in an envelope, and the envelope in her purse, and then throw herself on the bed in an agony of dumb pain, with the look on her face that had come for a moment in the garden and came now, fearless of being driven away, lined strong and deep, as though graven with some sharp tool.

CHAPTER XX