The God in the Car: A Novel

The sun had scattered the last remnants of fog, and, on Semingham's proposal, the party passed from the table to a seat in the hotel garden, whence they could look at the sea. Here they became rather more silent; for Adela began to feel that the hour of explanation was approaching, and grew surer and surer that to her would be left the task. She believed that Tom was tactful enough to spare her most of it, but something she must say – and to say anything was terribly difficult. Lord Semingham was treating the visit as though there were nothing behind; and his wife had no inkling that there was anything behind. The wife's genius for not observing was matched by the husband's wonderful power of ignoring; and if Adela had allowed herself to translate into words the exasperated promptings of her quick temper, she would have declared a desire to box the ears of both of them. It would have been vulgar, but entirely satisfactory.

At last Tom, with carefully-prepared nonchalance, asked,

"Oh, and how is Mrs. Dennison?"

Bessie Semingham assumed the question to herself.

"She's very well, thank you, Mr. Loring. Dieppe has done her a world of good."

Adela pursed her lips together. Semingham, catching her eye, smothered a nascent smile. Tom frowned slightly, and, leaning forward, clasped his hands between his knees. He was guilty of wishing that Bessie Semingham had more pressing avocations that morning.

"You see," she chirruped, "Marjory's with her, and the children dote on Marjory, and she's got Mr. Ruston and Walter to wait on her – you know Maggie always likes somebody in her train. Well, Alfred, why shouldn't I say that? I like to have someone myself."

"I didn't speak," protested Semingham.

"No, but you looked funny. I always say about Maggie, Mr. Loring, that – "

All three were listening in some embarrassment; out of the mouths of babes come sometimes alarming things.

"That without any apparent trouble she can make her clothes look better than anybody I know."

Lord Semingham laughed; even Adela and Tom smiled.

"What a blessed irrelevance you have, my dear," said Semingham, stroking his wife's small hand.

Lady Semingham smiled delightedly and blushed prettily. She enjoyed Alfred's praise. He was so difficile as a rule. The exact point of the word "irrelevance" she did not stay to consider; she had evidently said something that pleased him. A moment later she rose with a smile, crying,

"Why, Mr. Ruston, how good of you to come round so early!"

Willie Ruston shook hands with her in hasty politeness. A nod to Semingham, a lift of the hat to Adela, left him face to face with Tom Loring, who got up slowly.

"Ah, Loring, how are you?" said Willie holding out his hand. "Young Val told me you were to arrive to-day. How did you get across? Uncommon foggy, wasn't it?"

By this time he had taken Tom's hand and shaken it, Tom being purely passive.

"By the way, you're all wrong about the water, you know," he continued, in sudden remembrance. "There's enough water to supply Manchester within ten miles of Fort Imperial. What? Why, man, I'll show you the report when we get back to town; good water, too. I had it analysed, and – well, it's all right; but I haven't time to talk about it now. The fact is, Semingham, I came round to tell you that I'm off."

"Off?" exclaimed Semingham, desperately fumbling for his eyeglass.

Adela clasped her hands, and her eyes sparkled. Tom scrutinised Willie Ruston with attentive eyes.

"Yes; to-day – in an hour; boat goes at 11:30. I've had a letter from old Carlin. Things aren't going well. That ass Detch – By Jove, though, I forgot you, Loring! I don't want to give you materials for another of those articles."

His rapidity, his bustle, his good humour were all amazing.

Tom glanced in bewilderment at Adela. Adela coloured deeply. She felt that she had no adequate reason to give for having summoned Tom Loring to Dieppe, unless (she brightened as the thought struck her) Tom had frightened Ruston away.

Willie seized Semingham's arm, and began to walk him (the activity seemed all on Willie's part) quickly up and down the garden. He held Carlin's letter in his hand, and he talked eagerly and fast, beating the letter with his fist now and again. Bessie Semingham sat down with an amiable smile. Adela and Tom were close together. Adela lifted her eyes to Tom's in question.

"What?" he asked.

"Do you think it's true?" she whispered.

"He's the finest actor alive if it isn't," said Tom, watching the beats of Ruston's fist.

"Then thank heaven! But I feel so foolish."

"Hush! here they come," said Tom.

There was no time for more.

"Tom, there's riches in it for you if we told you," laughed Semingham; "but Ruston's going to put it all right."

Tom gave a not very easy laugh.

"Fancy old Carlin not wiring!" exclaimed Willie Ruston.

"Shall I sell?" asked Adela, trying to be frivolous.

"Hold for your life, Miss Ferrars," said Willie; and going up to Bessie Semingham he held out his hand.

"What, are you really off? It's too bad of you, Mr. Ruston! Not that I've seen much of you. Maggie has quite monopolised you."

Adela and Tom looked at the ground. Semingham turned his back; his smile would not be smothered.

"Of course you're going to say good-bye to her?" pursued Lady Semingham.

Tom looked up, and Adela followed his example. They were rewarded – if it were a reward – by seeing a slight frown – the first shadow since he had been with them – on Ruston's brow. But he answered briskly, with a glance at his watch,

"I can't manage it. I should miss the boat. I must write her a line."

"Oh, she'll never forgive you," cried Lady Semingham.

"Oh, yes, she will," he laughed. "It's for Omofaga, you know. Good-bye. Good-bye. I'm awfully sorry to go. Good-bye."

He was gone. It was difficult to realise at first. His presence, the fact of him, had filled so large a space; it had been the feature of the place from the day he had joined them. It had been their interest and their incubus.

For a moment the three stood staring at one another; then Semingham, with a curious laugh, turned on his heel and went into the house. His wife unfolded yesterday's Morning Post and began to read.

"Come for a stroll," said Tom Loring to Adela.

She accompanied him in silence, and they walked a hundred yards or more before she spoke.

"What a blessing!" she said then. "I wonder if your coming sent him away?"

"No, it was genuine," declared Tom, with conviction.

"Then I was very wrong, or he's a most extraordinary man. I can't talk to you about it, Mr. Loring, but you told me I might send. And I did think it – desirable – when I wrote. I did, indeed. I hope you're not very much annoyed?"

"Annoyed! No; I was delighted to come. And I am still more delighted that it looks as if I wasn't wanted."

"Oh, you're wanted, anyhow," said Adela.

She was very happy in his coming, and could not help showing it a little. Fortunately, it was tolerably certain (as she felt sometimes, intolerably certain) that Tom Loring would not notice anything. He never seemed to consider it possible that people might be particularly glad to see him.

"And you can stay, can't you?" she added.

"Oh, yes; I can stay a bit. I should like to. What made you send?"

"You know. I can't possibly describe it."

"Did Semingham notice it too?"

"Yes, he did, Mr. Loring. I distrust that man – Mr. Ruston I mean – utterly. And Maggie – "

"She's wrapped up in him?"

"Terribly. I tried to think it was his wretched Omofaga; but it's not; it's him."

"Well, he's disposed of."

"Yes, indeed," she sighed, in complacent ignorance.

"I must go and see her, you know," said Tom, wrinkling his brow.

Adela laughed.

"What'll she say to me?" asked Tom anxiously.

"Oh, she'll be very pleasant."

"I shan't," said Tom with sudden decision.

Adela looked at him curiously.

"You mean to – to give her 'a bit of your mind?'"

"Well, yes," he answered, smiling. "I think so; don't you?"

"I should like to, if I dared."

"Why, you dare anything!" exclaimed Tom.

"Oh, no, I don't. I splash about a good deal, but I am a coward, really."

They relapsed into silence. Presently Tom began,

"It's been awfully dull in town; nobody to speak to, except Mrs. Cormack."

"Mrs. Cormack!" cried Adela. "I thought you hated her?"

"Well, I've thought a little better of her lately."

"To think of your making friends with Mrs. Cormack!"

"I haven't made friends with her. She's not such a bad woman as you'd think, though."

"I think she's horrible," said Adela.

Tom gave it up.

"There was no one else," he pleaded.

"Well," retorted Adela, "when there is anyone else, you never come near them."

The grammar was confused, but Adela could not improve it, without being landed in unbearable plainness of speech.

"Don't I?" he asked. "Why, I come and see you."

"Oh, for twenty minutes once a month; just to keep the acquaintance open, I suppose. It's like shutting all the gates on Ascension Day (isn't it Ascension Day?), only the other way round, you know."

"You so often quarrel with me," said Tom.

"What nonsense!" said Adela. "Anyhow, I won't quarrel here."

Tom glanced at her. She was looking bright and happy and young. He liked her even better here in Dieppe than in a London drawing-room. Her conversation was not so elaborate, but it was more spontaneous and, to his mind, pleasanter. Moreover, the sea air had put colour in her cheeks and painted her complexion afresh. The thought strayed through Tom's mind that she was looking quite handsome. It was the one good thing that he did not always think about her. He went on studying her till she suddenly turned and caught him.

"Well," she asked, with a laugh and a blush, "do I wear well?"

"You always talk as if you were seventy," said Tom reprovingly.

Adela laughed merrily. The going of Ruston and the coming of Tom were almost too much good-fortune for one day. And Tom had come in a pleasant mood.

"You don't really like Mrs. Cormack, do you?" she asked. "She hates me, you know."

"Oh, if I have to choose between you – " said Tom, and stopped.

"You stop at the critical moment."

"Well, Mrs. Cormack isn't here," said Tom.

"So I shall do to pass the time?"

"Yes," he laughed; and then they both laughed.

But suddenly Adela's laugh ceased, and she jumped up.

"There's Marjory Valentine!" she exclaimed.

"What! Where?" asked Tom, rising.

"No, stay where you are, I want to speak to her. I'll come back," and, leaving Tom, she sped after Marjory, calling her name.

Marjory looked round and hastened to meet her. She was pale and her eyes heavy for trouble and want of sleep.

"Oh, Adela, I'm so glad to find you! I was going to look for you at the hotel. I must talk to you."

"You shall," said Adela, taking her arm and smiling again.

She did not notice Marjory's looks; she was full of her own tidings.

"I want to ask you whether you think Lady Semingham – " began Marjory, growing red, and in great embarrassment.

"Oh, but hear my news first," cried Adela; "Marjory, he's gone!"

"Who?"

"Why, that man Mr. Ruston."

"Gone?" echoed Marjory in amazement.

To her it seemed incredible that he should be gone – strange perhaps to Adela, but to her incredible.

"Yes, this morning. He got a letter – something about his Company – and he was off on the spot. And Tom – Mr. Loring (he's come, you know), thinks – that that really was his reason, you know."

Marjory listened with wide-open eyes.

"Oh, Adela!" she said at last with a sort of shudder.

She could have believed it of no other man; she could hardly believe it of one who now seemed to her hardly a man.

"Isn't it splendid? And he went off without seeing – without going up to the cliff at all. I never was so delighted in my life."

Marjory was silent. No delight showed on her face; the time for that was gone. She did not understand, and she was thinking of the night's experience and wondering if Maggie Dennison had known that he was going. No, she could not have known.

"But what did you want with me, or with Bessie?" asked Adela.

Marjory hesitated. The departure of Willie Ruston made a difference. She prayed that it meant an utter difference. There was a chance; and while there was a chance her place was in the villa on the cliff. His going rekindled the spark of hope that almost had died in the last terrible night.

"I think," she said slowly, "that I'll go straight back."

"And tell Maggie?" asked Adela with excited eyes.

"If she doesn't know."

Adela said nothing; the subject was too perilous. She even regretted having said so much; but she pressed her friend's arm approvingly.

"It doesn't matter about Lady Semingham just now," said Marjory in an absent sort of tone. "It will do later."

"You're not looking well," remarked Adela, who had at last looked at her.

"I had a bad night."

"And how's Maggie?"

The girl paused a moment.

"I haven't seen her this morning. She sent word that she would breakfast in bed. I'll just run up now, Adela."

She walked off rapidly. Adela watched her, feeling uneasy about her. There was a strange constraint about her manner – a hint of something suppressed – and it was easy to see that she was nervous and unhappy. But Adela, making lighter of her old fears in her new-won comfort, saw only in Marjory a grief that is very sad to bear, a sorrow that comes where love – or what is nearly love – meets with indifference.

"She's still thinking about that creature!" said Adela to herself in scorn and in pity. She had quite made up her mind about Willie Ruston now. "I'm awfully sorry for her." Adela, in fact, felt very sympathetic. For the same thing might well happen with love that rested on a worthier object than "that creature, Willie Ruston!"

Meanwhile the creature – could he himself at the moment have quarrelled with the word? – was carried over the waves, till the cliff and the house on it dipped and died away. The excitement of the message and the start was over; the duty that had been strong enough to take him away could not yet be done. A space lay bare – exposed to the thoughts that fastened on it. Who could have escaped their assault? Not even Willie Ruston was proof; and his fellow-voyagers wondered at the man with the frowning brows and fretful restless eyes. It had not been easy to do, or pleasant to see done, this last sacrifice to the god of his life. Yet it had been done, with hardly a hesitation. He paced the deck, saying to himself, "She'll understand." Would any woman? If any, then, without doubt, she was the woman. "Oh, she'll understand," he muttered petulantly, angry with himself because he would not be convinced. Once, in despair, he tried to tell himself that this end to it was what people would call ordered for the best – that it was an escape for him – still more for her. But his strong, self-penetrating sense pushed the plea aside – in him it was hypocrisy, the merest conventionality. He had not even the half-stifled thanksgiving for respite from a doom still longed for, which had struggled for utterance in Maggie's sobs. Yet he had something that might pass for it – a feeling that made even him start in the knowledge of its degradation. By fate, or accident, or mischance – call it what he might – there was nothing irrevocable yet. He could draw back still. Not thanksgiving for sin averted, but a shamefaced sense of an enforced safety made its way into his mind – till it was thrust aside by anger at the check that had baffled him, and by the longing that was still upon him.

Well, anyhow – for good or evil – willing or unwilling – he was away. And she was alone in the little house on the cliff. His face softened; he ceased to think of himself for a moment; he thought of her, as she would look when he did not come – when he was false to a tryst never made in words, but surely the strongest that had ever bound a man. He clenched his fists as he stood looking from the stern of the boat, muttering again his old plea, "She'll understand!"

Was there not the railway?