Miss Adela Ferrars lived in Queen's Gate, in company with her aunt, Mrs. Topham. Mrs. Topham's husband had been the younger son of a peer of ancient descent; and a practised observer might almost have detected the fact in her manner, for she took her station in this life as seriously as her position in the next, and, in virtue of it, assumed a responsibility for the morals of her inferiors which betrayed a considerable confidence in her own. But she was a good woman, and a widow of the pattern most opposite to that of Mrs. Cormack. She dwelt more truly in the grave of her husband than in Queen's Gate, and permitted herself no recreations except such as may privily creep into religious exercises and the ministrations of favourite clergymen; and it is pleasant to think that she was very happy. As may be supposed, however, Adela (who was a good woman in quite another way, and therefore less congenial with her aunt than any mere sinner could have been)and Mrs. Topham saw very little of one another, and would not have thought of living together unless each had been able to supply what the other wanted. Adela found money for the house, and Mrs. Topham lent the shelter of her name to her niece's unprotected condition. There were separate sitting-rooms for the two ladies, and, if rumour were true (which, after all, it usually is not), a separate staircase for the clergy.
Adela was in her drawing-room one afternoon when Lord Semingham was announced. He appeared to be very warm, and he carried a bundle of papers in his hand. Among the papers there was one of those little smooth white volumes which epitomise so much of the joy and sorrow of this transitory life. He gave himself a shake, as he sat down, and held up the book.
"The car has begun to move," he observed.
"Juggernaut's?"
"Yes; and I have been to see my bankers. I take a trip to the seaside instead of a moor this year, and have let my own pheasant shooting."
He paused and added,
"Dennison has not taken my shooting. They go to the seaside too—with the children."
He paused again and concluded,
"The Omofaga prospectus will be out to-morrow."
Adela laughed.
"Bessie is really quite annoyed," remarked Lord Semingham. "I have seldom seen her so perturbed—but I've sent Ruston to talk to her."
"And why did you do it?" asked Adela.
"I should like to tell you a little history," said he.
And he told her how Mrs. Dennison had sent a telegram to Frankfort. This history was long, for Lord Semingham told it dramatically, as though he enjoyed its quality. Yet Adela made no comment beyond asking,
"And wasn't she right?"
"Oh, for the Empire perhaps—for us, it means trips to the seaside."
He drew his chair a little nearer hers, and dropped his affectation of comic plaintiveness.
"A most disgusting thing has happened in Curzon Street," he said. "Have you heard?"
"No; I've seen nothing of Maggie lately. You've all been buried in Omofaga."
"Hush! No words of ill-omen, please! Well, it's annoyed me immensely I can't think what the foolish fellow means. Tom Loring's going."
"Tom—Loring—going?" she exclaimed with a punctuated pause between every word. "What in the world for?"
"What is the ultimate cause of everything that happens to us now?" he asked, sticking his glass in his eye.
Adela felt as though she were playing at some absurd game of questions and answers, and must make her reply according to the rules.
"Oh, Mr. Ruston!" she said, with a grimace.
Her visitor nodded—as though he had been answered according to the rules.
"Tom broke out in the most extraordinary manner. He said he couldn't stay with Dennison, if Dennison let Ruston lead him by the nose (ipsissima verba, my dear Adela), and told Ruston to his face that he came for no good."
"Were you there?"
"Yes. The man seemed to choose the most public opportunity. Did you ever hear such a thing?"
"He's mad about Mr. Ruston. He talked just the same way to me. What did Harry Dennison say?"
"Harry went up to him and took his hand, and shook it, and, you know old Harry's way, tried to smooth it all down, and get them to shake hands. Then Ruston got up and said he'd go and leave them to settle it between Tom and him. Oh, Ruston behaved very well. It was uncommonly awkward for him, you know."
"Yes; and when he'd gone?"
"Harry told Tom that he must keep his engagements; but that, sooner than lose him, he'd go no deeper. That was pretty handsome, I thought, but itdidn't suit Tom. 'I can't stay in the house while that fellow comes,' he said."
"While he comes to the house?" cried Adela.
Lord Semingham nodded. "You've hit the point," he seemed to say, and he went on,
"And then they both turned and looked at Maggie Dennison. She'd been sitting there without speaking a single word the whole time. I couldn't go—Harry wouldn't let me—so I got into a corner and looked at the photograph book. I felt rather an ass, between ourselves, you know."
"And what did Maggie say?"
"Harry was looking as puzzled as an owl, and Tom as obstinate as a toad, and both stared at her. She looked first at Harry, and then at Tom, and smiled in that quiet way of hers. By the way, I never feel that I quite understand——"
"Oh, never mind! Of course you don't. Go on."
"And then she said, 'What a fuss! I hope that after all this Omofaga business is over Mr. Loring will come back to us.' Pretty straight for Tom, eh? He turned crimson, and walked right out of the room, and she sat down at the piano and began to play some infernal tune, and that soft-hearted old baby, Harry, blew his nose, and damned the draught."
"And he's going?"
"Yes."
"But," she broke out, "how can he? He's got no money. What'll he live on?"
"Harry offered him as much as he wanted; but he said he had some savings, and wouldn't take a farthing. He said he'd write for papers, or some such stuff."
"He's been with the Dennisons ever since—oh, years and years! Can't you take him? He'd be awfully useful to you."
"My dear girl, I can't offer charity to Tom Loring," said Semingham, and he added quickly, "No more can you, you know."
"I quarrelled with him desperately a week ago," said she mournfully.
"About Ruston?"
"Oh, yes. About Mr. Ruston, of course."
Lord Semingham whistled gently, and, after a pause, Adela leant forward and asked,
"Do you feel quite comfortable about it?"
"Hang it, no! But I'm too deep in. I hope to heaven the public will swallow it!"
"I didn't mean your wretched Company."
"Oh, you didn't?"
"No; I meant Curzon Street."
"It hardly lies in my mouth to blame Dennison, or his wife either. If they've been foolish, so have I." Adela looked at him as if she thought him profoundly unsatisfactory. He was vaguely conscious of herdepreciation, and added, "Ruston's not a rogue, you know."
"No. If I thought he was, I shouldn't be going to take shares in Omofaga."
"You're not?"
"Oh, but I am!"
"Another spinster lady on my conscience! I shall certainly end in the dock!" Lord Semingham took his hat and shook hands. Just as he got to the door, he turned round, and, with an expression of deprecating helplessness, fired a last shot. "Ruston came to see Bessie the other day," he said. "The new mantle she's just invented is to be called—the Omofaga: That is unless she changes it because of the moor. I suggested thePis-aller, but she didn't see it. She never does, you know. Good-bye."
The moment he was gone, Adela put on her hat and drove to Curzon Street. She found Mrs. Dennison alone, and opened fire at once.
"What have you done, Maggie?" she cried, flinging her gloves on the table and facing her friend with accusing countenance.
Mrs. Dennison was smelling a rose; she smelt it a little longer, and then replied with another question.
"Why can't men hate quietly? They must make a fuss. I can go on hating a woman for years and never show it."
"We have the vices of servility," said Adela.
"Harry is a melancholy sight," resumed Mrs. Dennison. "He spends his time looking for the blotting-paper; Tom Loring used to keep it, you know."
Her tone deepened the expression of disapproval on Adela's face.
"I've never been so distressed about anything in my life," said she.
"Oh, my dear, he'll come back." As she spoke, a sudden mischievous smile spread over her face. "You should hear Berthe Cormack on it!" she said.
"I don't want to hear Mrs. Cormack at all. I hate the woman—and I think that I—at any rate—show it."
It surprised Adela to find her friend in such excellent spirits. The air of listlessness, which was apt to mar her manner, and even to some degree her appearance (for to look bored is not becoming), had entirely vanished.
"You don't seem very sorry about poor Mr. Loring," Adela observed.
"Oh, I am; but Mr. Loring can't stop the wheels of the world. And it's his own fault."
Adela sighed. It did not seem of consequence whose fault it was.
"I don't think I care much about the wheels of the world," she said. "How are the children, Maggie?"
"Oh, splendid, and in great glee about the seaside"—and Mrs. Dennison laughed.
"And about losing Tom Loring?"
"They cried at first."
"Does anyone ever do anything more than 'cry at first'?" exclaimed Adela.
"Oh, my dear, don't be tragical, or cynical, or whatever you are being," said Maggie pettishly. "Mr. Loring has chosen to be very silly, and there's an end of it. Have you seen the prospectus? Do you know Mr. Ruston brought it to show me before it was submitted to Mr. Belford and the others—the Board, I mean?"
"I think you see quite enough of Mr. Ruston," said Adela, putting up her glass and examining Mrs. Dennison closely. She spoke coolly, but with a nervous knowledge of her presumption.
Mrs. Dennison may have had a taste for diplomacy and the other arts of government, but she was no diplomatist. She thought herself gravely wronged by Adela's suggestion, and burst out angrily,
"Oh, you've been listening to Tom Loring!" and her heightened colour seemed not to agree with the idea that, if Adela had listened, Tom had talked of nothing but Omofaga. "I don't mind it from Berthe," Mrs. Dennison continued, "but from you it'stoo bad. I suppose he told you the whole thing? I declare I wasn't dreaming of anything of the kind; I was just excited, and——"
"I haven't seen Mr. Loring," put in Adela as soon as she could.
"Then how do you know——?"
"Lord Semingham told me you quarrelled with Mr. Loring about Omofaga."
"Is that all?"
"Yes. Maggie, was there any more?"
"Do you want to quarrel with me too?"
"I believe Mr. Loring had good reasons."
"You must believe what you like," said Mrs. Dennison, tearing her rose to pieces. "Yes, there was some more."
"What?" asked Adela, expecting to be told to mind her own business.
Mrs. Dennison flung away the rose and began to laugh.
"He found me holding Willie Ruston's hand and telling him I—liked Omofaga! That's all."
"Holding his hand!" exclaimed Adela, justifiably scandalised and hopelessly puzzled. "What did you do that for?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Dennison. "It happened somehow as we were talking. We got interested, you know."
Adela's next question was also one at which it waspossible to take offence; but she was careless now whether offence were taken or not.
"Are you and the children going to the seaside soon?"
"Oh, yes," rejoined her friend, still smiling. "We shall soon be deep in pails and spades and bathing, and buckets and paddling, and a final charming walk with Harry in the moonlight."
As the sentence went on, the smile became more fixed and less pleasant.
"You ought to be ashamed to talk like that," said Adela.
Mrs. Dennison walked up the room and down again.
"So I am," she said, pausing to look down on Adela, and then resuming her walk.
"I wish to goodness this Omofaga affair—yes, and Mr. Ruston too—had never been invented. It seems to set us all wrong."
"Wrong!" cried Mrs. Dennison. "Oh, yes, if it's wrong to have something one can take a little interest in!"
"You're hopeless to-day, Maggie. I shall go away. What did you take his hand for?"
"Nothing. I tell you I was excited."
"Well, I think he's a man one ought to keep cool with."
"Oh, he's cool enough. He'll keep you cool."
"But he didn't——"
"Oh, don't—pray don't!" cried Mrs. Dennison.
Adela took her leave; and, as luck would have it, opened the door just as Tom Loring was walking downstairs with an enormous load of dusty papers in his hands. She pulled the door close behind her hastily, exclaiming,
"Why, I thought you'd gone!"
"So you've heard? I'm just putting things shipshape. I go this evening."
"Well, I'm sorry—still, for your sake, I'm glad."
"Why?"
"You may do something on your own account now."
"I don't want to do anything," said Tom obstinately.
"Come and see me some day. I've forgiven you, you know."
"So I will."
"Mr. Loring, are you going to say good-bye to Maggie?"
"I don't know. I suppose so." Then he added, detecting Adela's unexpressed hope, "Oh, it's not a bit of use, you know."
Adela passed on, and, later, Loring, having finished his work and being about to go, sought out Mrs. Dennison.
"You're determined to go, are you?" she asked,with the air of one who surrenders before an inexplicable whim.
"Yes," said Tom. "You know I must go."
"Why?"
"I'm not a saint—nor a rogue; if I were either, I might stay."
"Or even if you were a sensible man," suggested Maggie Dennison.
"Being merely an honest man, I think I'll go. I've tried to put all Harry's things right for him, and to make it as easy for him to get along as I can."
"Can he find his papers and blue-books and things?"
"Oh, yes; and I got abstracts ready on all the things he cares about."
"He'll miss you horribly. Ah, well!"
"I suppose a little; but, really, I think he'll learn to get along——"
Mrs. Dennison interrupted with a laugh.
"Do you know," she asked, "what we remind me of? Why, of a husband and wife separating, and wondering whether the children will miss poor papa—though poor papa insists in going, and mamma is sure he must."
"I never mentioned the children," said Tom angrily.
"I know you didn't."
Tom looked at her for an instant.
"For God's sake," said he, "don't let him see that!"
"Oh, how you twist things!" she cried in impatient protest.
Tom only shook his head. The charge was not sincere.
"Good-bye, Tom," she went on after a pause. "I believe, some day or other, you'll come back—or, at any rate, come and live next door—instead of Berthe Cormack, you know. But I don't know in what state you'll find us."
"I'd just like to tell you one thing, if I may," said Tom, resolutely refusing to meet the softened look in her eyes with any answering friendliness.
"Yes?"
"You've got one of the best fellows in the world for a husband."
"Well, I know that, I suppose, at least, as well as you do."
"That's all. Good-bye."
Without more he left her. She drew the window-curtain aside and watched him get into his cab and be driven away. The house was very still. Her husband was in his place at Westminster, and the children had gone to a party. She went upstairs to the nursery, hoping to find something to criticise; then to Harry's dressing-room, where she filled his pin-cushion with pins and put fresh water to theflowers in the vase. She could find no other offices of wife or mother to do, and she presently found herself looking into Tom's room, which was very bare and desolate, stripped of the homelike growth of a five years' tenancy. Her excitement was over; she felt terribly like a child after a tantrum; she flung open the window of the room and stood listening to the noise of the town. It was the noise of happy people, who had plenty to do; or of happier still, who did not want to do anything, and thus found content. She turned away and walked downstairs with a step as heavy as physical weariness brings with it. It came as a curious aggravation—light itself, but gaining weight from its surroundings—that, for once in a way, she had no engagements that evening. All the tide seemed to be flowing by, leaving her behind high and dry on the shore. Even the children had their party, even Harry his toy at Westminster; and Willie Ruston was working might and main to give a good start to Omofaga. Only of her had the world no need—and no heed.
Had Lord Semingham and Harry Dennison taken an opportunity which many persons would have thought that they had a right to take, they might have shifted the burden of the Baron'sdouceurand of sundry other not trifling expenses on to the shoulders of the public, and enjoyed their moors that year after all; for at the beginning Omofaga obtained such a moderate and reasonable "boom" as would have enabled them to perform the operation known as "unloading" (and literary men must often admire the terse and condensed expressiveness of "City" metaphors) with much profit to themselves. But either they conceived this course of conduct to be beneath them, or they were so firm of faith in Mr. Ruston that they stood to their guns and their shares, and took their seats at the Board, over which Mr. Foster Belford magniloquently presided, still possessed of the strongest personal interest in the success of Omofaga. Lady Semingham, having been made awarethat Omofaga shares were selling at forty shillings a piece, was quite unable to understand why Alfred and Mr. Dennison did not sell all they had, and thereby procure moors or whatever else they wanted. Willie Ruston had to be sent for again, and when he told her that the same shares would shortly be worth five pounds (which he did with the most perfect confidence), she was equally at a loss to see why they were on sale to anybody who chose to pay forty shillings. Ruston, who liked to make everybody a convert to his own point of view, spent the best part of an afternoon conversing with the little lady, but, when he came away, he left her placidly admiring the Omofaga mantle which had just arrived from the milliner's, and promised to create an immense sensation.
"I believe she's all gown," said he despairingly, at the Valentines in the evening. "If you undressed her there'd be no one there."
"Well, there oughtn't to be many people," said young Sir Walter, with a hearty laugh at his boyish joke.
"Walter, how can you!" cried Marjory.
This little conversation, trivial though it be, has its importance, as indicating the very remarkable change which had occurred in young Sir Walter. There at least Ruston had made a notable convert, and he had effected this result by the simple but audacious device of offering to take Sir Walter withhim to Omofaga. Sir Walter was dazzled. Between spending another year or two at Oxfordin statu pupillari, vexed by schools and disciplined by proctors—between being required to be in by twelve at night and unable to visit London without permission—between this unfledged state and the position of a man among the men who were in the vanguard of the empire there rolled a flood; and the flood was mighty enough to sweep away all young Sir Walter's doubts about Mr. Ruston being a gentleman, to obliterate Evan Haselden's sneers, to uproot his influence—in a word, to transform that youthful legislator from a paragon of wisdom and accomplishments into "a good chap, but rather a lot of side on, you know."
Marjory, having learnt from literature that hers was supposed to be the fickle sex, might well open her eyes and begin to feel very sorry indeed for poor Evan Haselden. But she also was under the spell and hailed the sun of glory rising for her brother out of the mists of Omofaga; and if poor Lady Valentine shed some tears before Willie Ruston convinced her of the rare chance it was for her only boy—and a few more after he had so convinced her—why, it would be lucky if these were the only tears lost in the process of developing Omofaga; for it seems that great enterprises must always be watered by the tears of mothers and nourished on the blood of sons.Sic fortis Etruria crevit.
One or two other facts may here be chronicled about Omofaga. There were three great meetings: one at the Cannon Street Hotel, purely commercial; another at the Westminster Town Hall, commercial-political; a third at Exeter Hall, commercial-religious. They were all very successful, and, taken together, were considered to cover the ground pretty completely. The most unlike persons and the most disparate views found a point of union in Omofaga. Adela Ferrars put three thousand pounds into it, Lady Valentine a thousand. Mr. Carlin finally disposed of the coal business, and his wife dreamt of the workhouse all night and scolded herself for her lack of faith all the morning. Willie Ruston spoke of being off in five months, and Sir Walter immediately bought a complete up-country outfit.
Suddenly there was a cloud. Omofaga began to be "written down," in the most determined and able manner. The anonymous detractor—in such terms did Mr. Foster Belford refer to the writer—used the columns of a business paper of high standing, and his letters, while preserving a judicial and temperate tone, were uncompromisingly hostile and exceedingly damaging. A large part of Omofaga (he said) had not been explored, indeed, nobody knew exactly what was and what was not Omofaga; let the shareholders get what comfort they could out of that; but, so far as Omofaga had been explored, it had been proved tobe barren of all sources of wealth. The writer grudgingly admitted that it might feed a certain head of cattle, though he hastened to add that the flies were fatal all the hot months; but as for gold, or diamonds, or any such things as companies most love, there were none, and if there were, they could not be won, and if they could be won no European could live to win them. It was a timid time on the markets then, and people took fright easily. In a few days any temptation that might have assailed Lord Semingham and Harry Dennison lost its power. Omofagas were far below par, and Lady Semingham was entreating her husband to buy all he could against the hour when they should be worth five pounds a piece, because, as she said, Mr. Ruston was quite sure that they were going to be, and who knew more about it than Mr. Ruston?
It was just about this time that Tom Loring, who had vanished completely for a week or two, after his departure from Curzon Street, came up out of the depths and called on Adela Ferrars in Queen's Gate; and her first remark showed that she was a person of some perspicacity.
"Isn't this rather small of you?" she asked, putting on her eyeglasses and finding an article which she indicated. "You may not like him, but still——"
"How like a woman!" said Tom Loring in thetone of a man who expects and, on the whole, welcomes ill-usage. "How did you know it was mine?"
"It's so like that article of Harry Dennison's. I think you might put your name, anyhow."
"Yes, and rob what I say of all weight. Who knows my name?"
Adela felt an impulse to ask him angrily why nobody knew his name, but she inquired instead what he thought he knew about Omofaga. She put this question in a rather offensive tone.
It appeared that Tom Loring knew a great deal about Omofaga, all, in fact, that there was to be learnt from blue-books, consular reports, gazetteers, travels, and other heavy works of a like kind.
"You've been moling in the British Museum," cried Adela accusingly.
Tom admitted it without the least shame.
"I knew this thing was a fraud and the man a fraud, and I determined to show him up if I could," said he.
"It's because you hate him."
"Then it's lucky for the British investor that I do hate him."
"It's not lucky for me," said Adela.
"You don't mean to say you've been——"
"Fool enough? Yes, I have. No, don't quarrel again. It won't ruin me, anyhow. Are the things you say really true?"
Tom replied by another question.
"Do you think I'd write 'em if I didn't believe they were?"
"No, but you might believe they were because you hate him."
Tom seemed put out at this idea. It is not one that generally suggests itself to a man when his own views are in question.
"I admit I began because I hate him," he said, with remarkable candour, after a moment's consideration; "but, by Jove, as I went on I found plenty of justification. Look here, you mustn't tell anyone I'm writing them."
Tom looked a little embarrassed as he made this request.
Adela hesitated for a moment. She did not like the request, either.
"No, I won't," she said at last; and she added, "I'm beginning to think I hate him, too. He's turning me into an hospital."
"What?"
"People he wounds come to me. Old Lady Valentine came and cried because Walter's going to Omofaga; and Evan came and—well, swore because Walter worships Mr. Ruston; and Harry Dennison came and looked bewildered, and—you know—because—oh, because of you, and so on."
"And now I come, don't I?"
"Yes, and now you."
"And has Mrs. Dennison come?" asked Tom, with a look of disconcerting directness.
"No," snapped Adela, and she looked at the floor, whereupon Tom diverted his eyes from her and stared at the ceiling.
Presently he searched in his waistcoat pocket and brought out a little note.
"Read that," he said, a world of disgust in his tone.
"'I told you so.—B.C.'" read Adela. "Oh, it's that Cormack woman!" she cried.
"You see what it means? She means I've been got rid of in order that——" Tom stopped, and brought his clenched fist down on his opened palm. "If I thought it, I'd shoot the fellow," he ended.
He looked at her for the answer to his unexpressed question.
Adela turned the pestilential note over and over in her fingers, handling it daintily as though it might stain.
"I don't think he means it," she said at last, without trying to blink the truth of Tom's interpretation.
Tom rose and began to walk about.
"Women beat me," he broke out. "I don't understand 'em. How should I? I'm not one of these fellows who catch women's fancy—thank God!"
"If you continue to dislike the idea, you'll probablymanage to escape the reality," observed Adela, and her tone, for some reason or other—perhaps merely through natural championship of her sex—was rather cold and her manner stiff.
"Oh, some women are all right;" and Adela acknowledged the concession with a satirical bow. "Look here, can't you help?" he burst out. "Tell her what a brute he is."
"Oh, you do not understand women!"
"Well, then, I shall tell Dennison. He won't stand nonsense of that kind."
"You'll deserve horsewhipping if you do," remarked Adela.
"Then what am I to do?"
"Nothing. In fact, Mr. Loring, you have no genius for delicate operations."
"Of course I'm a fool."
Adela played with herpince-nezfor a minute or two, put it on, looked at him, and then said, with just a touch of unwonted timidity in her voice,
"Anyhow, you happen to be a gentleman."
Poor Tom had been a good deal buffeted of late, and a friendly stroking was a pleasant change. He looked up with a smile, but as he looked up Adela looked away.
"I think I'll stop those articles," said he.
"Yes, do," she cried, a bright smile on her face.
"They've pretty well done their work, too."
"Don't! Don't spoil it! But—but don't you get money for them?"
Tom was in better humour now. He held out his hand with his old friendly smile.
"Oh, wait till I am in the workhouse, and then you shall take me out."
"I don't believe I did mean that," protested Adela.
"You always mean everything that—that the best woman in the world could mean," and Tom wrung her hand and disappeared.
Adela's hand was rather crushed and hurt, and for a moment she stood regarding it ruefully.
"I thought he was going to kiss it," she said. "One of those fellows who take women's fancy, perhaps, would have! And—and it wouldn't have hurt so much. Ah, well, I'm very glad he's going to stop the articles."
And the articles did stop; and perhaps things might have fallen out worse than that an honest man, driven hard by bitterness, should do a useful thing from a doubtful motive, and having done just enough of it, should repent and sin no more; for unquestionably the articles prevented a great many persons from paying an unduly high price for Omofaga shares. This line of thought seems defensible, but it was not Adela's. She rejoiced purely that Tom should turn away from the doubtful thing; and if Tom hadbeen a man of greater acuteness, it would have struck him as worthy of note, perhaps even of gratification, that Miss Adela Ferrars should care so much whether he did or did not do doubtful things. But then Miss Ferrars—for it seems useless to keep her secret any longer, the above recorded interview having somewhat impaired its mystery—was an improbably romantic person—such are to be met even at an age beyond twenty-five—and was very naturally ashamed of her weakness. People often are ashamed of being better than their surroundings. Being better they feel better, and feeling better they feel priggish, and then they try not to be better, and happily fail. So Adela was very shamefaced over her ideal, and would as soon have thought of preaching on a platform—of which practice she harboured a most bigoted horror—as of proclaiming the part that love must play in her marriage. The romantic resolve lay snug in its hidden nest, sheltered from cold gusts of ridicule by a thick screen of worldly sayings, and, when she sent away a suitor, of worldly-wise excuses. Thus no one suspected it, not even Tom Loring, although he thought her "the best of women;" a form of praise, by the way, that gave the lady honoured by it less pleasure than less valuable commendation might have done. Why best? Why not most charming? Well, probably because he thought the one and didn't think the other. She was the best; but there was another whose doings andwhose peril had robbed Tom Loring of his peace, and made him do the doubtful thing. Why had he done it? Or (and Adela smiled mockingly at this resurrection of the Old Woman), if he did do it, why did he do it for Maggie Dennison? She didn't believe he would ever do a doubtful thing for her. For that she loved him; but perhaps she would have loved him—well, not less—if he did; for how she would forgive him!
After half-an-hour of this kind of thing—it was her own summary of her meditations—she dressed, went out to dinner, sat next Evan Haselden, and said cynical things all the evening; so that, at last Evan told her that she had no more feeling than a mummified Methodist. This was exactly what she wanted.
The Right Honourable Foster Belford, although not, like Mr. Pitt, famous for "ruining Great Britain gratis"—perhaps merely from want of the opportunity—had yet not made a fortune out of political life, and it had suggested a pleasant addition to his means, when Willie Ruston offered him the chairmanship of the Omofaga Company, with the promise of a very comfortable yearly honorarium. He accepted the post with alacrity, but without undue gratitude, for he considered himself well worth the price; and the surprising fact is that he was well worth it. He bulked large to the physical and mental view. His colleagues in the Cabinet had taken a year or two to find out his limits, and the public had not found them out yet. Therefore he was not exactly a fool. On the other hand, the limits were certainly there, and so there was no danger of his developing an inconvenient greatness. As has been previously hinted, he enjoyed Harry Dennison's entire confidence; and he could berelied upon not to understand Lord Semingham's irreverence. Thus his appointment did good to the Omofaga as well as to himself, and only the initiated winked when Willie Ruston hid himself behind this imposing figure and pulled the strings.
"The best of it is," Ruston remarked to Semingham, "that you and Carlin will have the whole thing in your own hands when I've gone out. Belford won't give you any trouble."
"But, my dear fellow, I don't want it all in my hands. I want to grow rich out of it without any trouble."
Ruston twisted his cigar in his mouth. The prospect of immediate wealth flowing in from Omofaga was, as Lord Semingham knew very well, not assured.
"Loring's stopped hammering us," said Ruston; "that's one thing."
"Oh, you found out he wrote them?"
"Yes; and uncommonly well he did it, confound him. I wish we could get that fellow. There's a good deal in him."
"You see," observed Lord Semingham, "he doesn't like you. I don't know that you went the right way about to make him."
The remark sounded blunt, but Semingham had learnt not to waste delicate phrases on Willie Ruston.
"Well, I didn't know he was worth the trouble."
"One path to greatness is said to be to make no enemies."
"A very roundabout one, I should think. I'm going to make a good many enemies in Omofaga."
Lord Semingham suddenly rose, put on his hat, and left the offices of the Company. Mrs. Dennison had, a little while ago, complained to him that she ate, drank, breathed and wore Omofaga. He had detected the insincerity of her complaint, but he was becoming inclined to echo it in all genuineness on his own account. There were moments when he wondered how and why he had allowed this young man to lead him so far and so deep; moments when a convulsion of Nature, redistributing Africa and blotting out Omofaga, would have left him some thousands of pounds poorer in purse, but appreciably more cheerful in spirit. Perhaps matters would mend when the Local Administrator had departed to his local administration, and only the mild shadow of him which bore the name of Carlin trod the boards of Queen Street, Cheapside. Ruston began to be oppressive. The restless energy and domineering mind of the man wearied Semingham's indolent and dilettante spirit, and he hailed the end of the season as an excellent excuse for putting himself beyond the reach of his colleague for a few weeks. Yet, the more he quailed, the more he trusted; and when a very great man, holding a very great office, met him in the House ofLords, and expressed the opinion that when the Company and Mr. Ruston went to Omofaga they would find themselves in a pretty hornets' nest, Lord Semingham only said that he should be sorry for the hornets.
"Don't ask us to fetch your man out for you, that's all," said the very great man.
And for an instant Lord Semingham, still feeling that load upon his shoulders, fancied that it would be far from his heart to prefer such a request. There might be things less just and fitting than that Willie Ruston and those savage tribes of Omofaga should be left to fight out the quarrel by themselves, the civilised world standing aloof. And the dividends—well, of course, there were the dividends, but Lord Semingham had in his haste forgotten them.
"Ah, you don't know Ruston," said he, shaking a forefinger at the great man.
"Don't I? He came every day to my office for a fortnight."
"Wanted something?"
"Yes, he wanted something certainly, or he wouldn't have come, you know."
"Got it, I suppose?" asked Lord Semingham, in a tone curiously indicative of resignation rather than triumph.
"Well, yes; I did, at last, not without hesitation, accede to his request."
Then Lord Semingham, with no apparent excuse, laughed in the face of the great man, left the House (much in the same sudden way as he had left Queen Street, Cheapside), and passed rapidly through the lobbies till he reached Westminster Hall. Here he met a young man, clad to perfection, but looking sad. It was Evan Haselden. With a sigh of relief at meeting no one of heavier metal, Semingham stopped him and began to talk. Evan's melancholy air enveloped his answers in a mist of gloom. Moreover there was a large streak on his hat, where the nap had been rubbed the wrong way; evidently he was in trouble. Presently he seized his friend by the arm, and proposed a walk in the Park.
"But are you paired?" asked Semingham; for an important division was to occur that day in the Commons.
"No," said Evan fiercely. "Come along;" and Lord Semingham went, exclaiming inwardly, "A girl!"
"I'm the most miserable devil alive," said Evan, as they left the Horse Guards on the right hand.
Semingham put up his eyeglass.
"I've always regarded you as the favourite of fortune," he said. "What's the matter?"
The matter unfolded itself some half-hour after they had reached the Row and sat down. It came forth with difficulty; pride obstructed the passage,and something better than pride made the young man diffuse in the telling of his trouble. Lord Semingham grew very grave indeed. Let who would laugh at happy lovers, he had a groan for the unfortunate—a groan with reservations.
"She said she liked me very much, but didn't feel—didn't, you know, look up to me enough, and so on," said poor Evan in puzzled pain. "I—I can't think what's come over her. She used to be quite different. I don't know what she means by talking like that."
Lord Semingham played a tune on his knee with the fingers of one hand. He was waiting.
"Young Val's gone back on me too," moaned Evan, who took the brother's deposal of him hardly more easily than the sister's rejection. Suddenly he brightened up; a smile, but a bitter one, gleamed across his face.
"I think I've put one spoke in his wheel, though," he said.
"Ruston's?" inquired Semingham, still playing his tune.
"Yes. A fortnight ago, old Detchmore" (Lord Detchmore was the very great man before referred to) "asked me if I knew Loring. You know Ruston's been trying to get Detchmore to back him up in making a railway to Omofaga?"
"I didn't know," said Lord Semingham, with an unmoved face.
"You're a director, aren't you?"
"Yes. Go on, my dear boy."
"And Detchmore had seen Loring's articles. Well, I took Tom to him, and we left him quite decided to have nothing to do with it. Oh, by Jove, though, I forgot; I suppose you'd be on the other side there, wouldn't you?"
"I suppose I should, but it doesn't matter."
"Why not?"
"Because I fancy Ruston's got what he wanted;" and Lord Semingham related what he had heard from the Earl of Detchmore.
Evan listened in silence, and, the tale ended, the two lay back in their chairs, and idly looked at the passing carriages. At last Lord Semingham spoke.
"He's going to Omofaga in a few months," he observed. "And, Evan, you don't mean that he's your rival at the Valentines'?"
"I'm not so sure, confound him. You know how pretty she is."
Semingham knew that she was pretty; but he also knew that she was poor, and thought that she was, if not too insipid (for he recognised the unusual taste of his own mind), at least too immature to carry Willie Ruston off his feet, and into a love affair that promised no worldly gain.
"I asked Mrs. Dennison what she thought," pursued Evan.
"Oh, you did?"
"But the idea seemed quite a new one to her. That's good, you know. I expect she'd have noticed if he'd shown any signs."
Lord Semingham thought it very likely.
"Anyhow," Evan continued, "Marjory's awfully keen about him."
"He'll be in Omofaga in three or four months," Semingham repeated. It was all the consolation he could offer.
Presently Evan got up and strode away. Lord Semingham sat on, musing on the strange turmoil the coming of the man had made in the little corner of the world he dwelt in. He was reminded of what was said concerning Lord Byron by another poet. They all felt Ruston. His intrusion into the circle had changed all the currents, so that sympathy ran no longer between old friends, and hearts answered to a new stimulus. Some he attracted, some he repelled; none did he leave alone. From great to small his influence ran; from the expulsion of Tom Loring to the christening of the Omofaga mantle. Semingham had an acute sense of the absurdity of it all, but he had seen absurd things happen too often to be much relieved by his intuition. And when absurd things happen, they have consequences just as other things have. And the most exasperating fact was the utter unconsciousness of the disturber. He had no mystery-airs,no graces, no seeming fascinations. He was relentlessly business-like, unsentimental, downright; he took it all as a matter of course. He did not pry for weak spots. He went right on—on and over—and seemed not to know when he was going over. A very Juggernaut indeed! Semingham thanked Adela for teaching him the word.
He was suddenly roused by the merry laughter of children. Three or four little ones were scampering along the path in the height of glee. As they came up, he recognised them. He had seen them once before. They were Carlin's children. Five there were, he counted now; three ran ahead; two little girls held each a hand of Willie Ruston's, who was laughing as merrily as his companions. The whole group knew Semingham, and the eldest child was by his knees in a moment.
"We've been to the Exhibition," she cried exultantly; "and now Willie—Mr. Ruston, I mean—is taking us to have ices in Bond Street."
"A human devil!" said the astonished man to himself, as Willie Ruston plumped down beside him, imploring a brief halt, and earnestly asseverating that his request was in good faith, and concealed no lurking desire to evade the ices.
"I met young Haselden as we came along," Ruston observed, wiping his brow.
"Ah! Yes, he's been with me."
The children had wandered a few yards off, and stood impatiently looking at their hero.
"He's had a bit of a facer, I fancy," pursued Willie Ruston. "Heard about it?"
"Something."
"It'll come all right, I should think," said Ruston, in a comfortably careless tone. "He's not a bad fellow, you know, though he's not over-appreciative of me." Lord Semingham found no comment. "I hear you're going to Dieppe next week?" asked Ruston.
"Yes. My wife and Mrs. Dennison have put their heads together, and fixed on that. You know we're economising."
Ruston laughed.
"I suppose you are," he said through his white teeth. The idea seemed to amuse him. "We may meet there. I've promised to run over for a few days if I can."
"The deuce you have!" would have expressed his companion's feelings; but Lord Semingham only said, "Oh, really?"
"All right, I'm coming directly," Ruston cried a moment later to his young friends, and, with a friendly nod, he rose and went on his way. Lord Semingham watched the party till it disappeared through the Park gates, hearing in turn the children's shrill laugh and Willie Ruston's deeper notes. Theeffect of the chance meeting was to make his fancies and his fancied feelings look still more absurd. That he perceived at once; the devil appeared so very human in such a mood and such surroundings. Yet that attribute—that most demoniac attribute—of ubiquity loomed larger and larger. For not even a foreign land—not even a watering-place of pronounced frivolity—was to be a refuge. The man was coming to Dieppe! And on whose bidding? Semingham had no doubt on whose bidding; and, out of the airy forms of those absurd fancies, there seemed to rise a more material shape, a reality, a fabric not compounded wholly of dreams, but mixed of stuff that had made human comedies and human tragedies since the world began. Mrs. Dennison had bidden Willie Ruston to Dieppe. That was Semingham's instant conclusion; she had bidden him, not merely by a formal invitation, or by a simple acquiescence, but by the will and determination which possessed her to be of his mind and in his schemes. And perhaps Evan Haselden's innocent asking of her views had carried its weight also. For nearly an hour Semingham sat and mused. For awhile he thought he would act; but how should he act? And why? And to what end? Since what must be must, and in vain do we meddle with fate. An easy, almost eager, recognition of the inevitable in the threatened, of the necessary in everything that demanded effort for its avoidance, had stamped hislife and grown deep into his mind. Wherefore now, faced with possibilities that set his nerves on edge, and wrung his heart for good friends, he found nothing better to do than shrug his shoulders and thank God that his own wife's submission to the man went no deeper than the inside lining of that famous Omofaga mantle, nor his own than the bottom, or near the bottom, of his trousers' pocket.
"Though that, in faith," he exclaimed ruefully, as at last he rose, "is, in this world of ours, pretty deep!"
The Dennison children, after a two nights' banishment, had come down to dessert again. They had been in sore disgrace, caused (it was stated to Mrs. Cormack, who had been invited to dineen famille) by a grave breach of hospitality and good manners which Madge had led the younger ones—who tried to look plaintively innocent—into committing.
The Carlin children had come to tea, and a great dissension had arisen between the two parties. The Carlins had belauded the generous donor of ices; Madge had taken up the cudgels fiercely on Tom Loring's behalf, and Dora and Alfred had backed her up. Each side proceeded from praise of its own favourite to sneers—by no means covert—at the other's man, and the feud had passed from the stage of words to that of deeds before it was discovered by the superior powers and crushed. On the hosts, of course, the blame had to fall; they were sent to bed, while the guests drove off in triumph, comforted by sweetsand shillings. Madge did not think, or pretend to think, that this was justice, and her mother's recital of her crimes to Mrs. Cormack, so far from reducing her to penitence, brought back to her cheeks and eyes the glow they had worn when she slapped (there is no use in blinking facts) Jessie Carlin, and told her that she hated Mr. Ruston. Madge Dennison was like her mother in face and temper. That may have been the reason why Harry Dennison squeezed her hand under the table, and by his tacit aid broke the force of his wife's cold reproofs. But there was perhaps another reason also.
Mrs. Cormack said that she was shocked, and looked very much amused. The little history made up for the bore of having the children brought in. That was a thing she objected to very much; it stopped all rational conversation. But now her curiosity was stirred.
"Why don't you like Mr. Ruston, my child?" she asked Madge.
"I don't dislike him," said Madge, rosy red, and speaking with elaborate slowness. She said it as though it were a lesson she had learnt.
"But why, then," said Mrs. Cormack, whirling her hands, "beat the little Carlin?"
"That was before mamma told me," answered Madge, the two younger ones sitting by, open-mouthed, to hear her explanation.
"Oh, what an obedient child! How I should have liked a little girl like you, darling!"
Madge hated sarcasm, and her feelings towards Mrs. Cormack reflected those of her idol, Tom Loring.
"I don't know what you mean," she said curtly; and then she looked anxiously at her mother.
But Mrs. Dennison was smiling.
"Let her alone, Berthe," she said. "She's been punished. Give her some fruit, Harry."
Harry Dennison piled up the plate eagerly held out to him.
"Who'll give you fruit at Dieppe?" he asked, stroking his daughter's hair.
Mrs. Cormack pricked up her ears.
"Didn't we tell you?" asked Mrs. Dennison. "Harry can't come for a fortnight. That tiresome old Sir George" (Sir George was the senior partner in Dennison, Sons & Company) "is down with the gout, and Harry's got to stay in town. But I'll give Madge fruit—if she's good."
"Papa gives it me anyhow," said Madge, who preferred unconditional benefits.
Harry laughed dolefully. He had been looking forward to a holiday with his children. Their uninterrupted society would have easily consoled him for the loss of the moor.
"It's an awful bore," he said; "but there's nohelp for it. Sir George can't put a foot to the ground."
"Anyhow," suggested Mrs. Cormack, "you will be able to help Mr. Ruston with the Omofaga."
"Papa," broke out Madge, her face bright with a really happy idea, which must, she thought, meet with general acceptance, "since you can't come, why shouldn't Tom?"
Mrs. Cormack grew more amused. Oh, it was quite worth while to have the children! They were so good at saying things one couldn't say oneself; and then one could watch the effect. In an impulse of gratitude, she slid a banana on to Madge's plate.
"Marjory Valentine's coming," said Mrs. Dennison. "You like her, don't you, Madge?"
"She's a girl," said Madge scornfully; and Harry, with a laugh, stroked her hair again.
"You're a little flirt," said he.
"But why can't Tom?" persisted Madge, as she attacked the banana. It was Mrs. Cormack's gift, but—non olet.
For a moment nobody answered. Then Harry Dennison said—not in the least as though he believed it, or expected anybody else to believe it—
"Tom's got to stay and work."
"Have all the gentlemen we know got to stay and work?"
Harry nodded assent.
Mrs. Cormack was leaning forward. A moment later she sank back, hiding a smile behind her napkin; for Madge observed, in a tone of utter contentment,
"Oh, then, Mr Ruston won't come;" and she wagged her head reassuringly at the open-mouthed little ones. They were satisfied, and fell again to eating.
After a few moments, Mrs. Dennison, who had made no comment on her daughter's inference, swept the flock off to bed, praying Berthe to excuse her temporary absence. It was her habit to go upstairs with them when possible, and Harry would see that coffee came.
"Poor Madge!" said Harry, when the door was shut, "what'll she say when Ruston turns up?"
"Then he does go?"
"I think so. We'd asked him to stay with us, and though he can't do that now, he and young Walter Valentine talk of running over for a few days. I hope they will."
Mrs. Cormack, playing with her teaspoon, glanced at her host out of the corner of her eye.
"He can go all the better, as I shall be here," continued Harry. "I can look after Omofaga."
Mrs. Cormack rapped the teaspoon sharply on her cup. The man was such a fool. Harry, dimly recognising her irritation, looked up inquiringly; but shehesitated before she spoke. Would it spoil sport or make sport if she stirred a suspicion in him? A thought threw its weight in the balance. Maggie Dennison's friendship had been a trifle condescending, and the grateful friend pictured her under the indignity of enforced explanations, of protests, even of orders to alter her conduct. But how would Harry take a hint? There were men silly enough to resent such hints. Caution was the word.
"Well, I almost wish he wasn't going," she said at last. "For Maggie's sake, I mean. She wants a complete rest."
"Oh, but she likes him. He amuses her. Why, she's tremendously interested in Omofaga, Mrs. Cormack."
"Ah, but he excites her too. We poor women have nerves, Mr. Dennison. It would be much better for her to hear nothing of Omofaga for a few weeks."
"Has she been talking to you much about it?" asked Harry, beginning to feel anxious at his guest's immensely solemn tone.
Indeed, little Mrs. Cormack spoke for the nonce quite like a family physician.
"Oh, yes, about it and him," she replied. "She's never off the subject. Mr. Loring was half right."
"Tom's objections were based on quite other grounds."
"Oh, were they really? I thought—well, anyhow, Mr. Ruston being there will do her no good. She'll like it immensely, of course."
Harry Dennison rubbed his hand over his chin.
"I see what you mean," he said. "Yes, she'd have been better away from everything. But I can't object to Ruston going. I asked him myself."
"Yes, when you were going."
"That makes no difference."
Mrs. Cormack said nothing. She tapped her spoon against the cup once more.
"Why, we should have talked all the more about it if I'd been there."
His companion was still silent, her eyes turned down towards the table. Harry looked at her with perplexity, and when he next spoke, there was a curious appealing note in his voice.
"Surely it doesn't make any difference?" he asked. "What difference can it make?"
No answer came. Mrs. Cormack laid down the spoon and sat back in her chair.
"You mean there'll be no one to make a change for her—to distract her thoughts?"
Mrs. Cormack flung her hands out with an air of impatience.
"Oh, I meant nothing," said she petulantly.
The clock seemed to tick very loud in the silence that followed her words.
"I wish I could go," said Harry at last, in a low tone.
"Oh, I wish you could, Mr. Dennison;" and as she spoke she raised her eyes, and, for the first time, looked full in his face.
Harry rose from his chair; at the same moment his wife re-entered the room. He started a little at the sight of her.
She held a letter in her hand.
"Mr. Ruston will be at Dieppe on the 15th with Walter Valentine," she said, referring to it. "Give me some coffee, Harry."
He poured it out and gave it to her, saying,
"A letter from Ruston? Let's see what he says."
"Oh, there's nothing else," she answered, laying it beside her.
Mrs. Cormack sat looking on.
"May I see?" asked Harry Dennison.
"If you like," she answered, a little surprised; and, turning to Mrs. Cormack, she added, "Mr. Ruston's a man of few words on paper."
"Ah, he makes every word mean something, I expect," returned that lady, who was quite capable of the same achievement herself, and exhibited it in this very speech.
"What does he mean by the postscript?—'Have you found another kingdom yet?'" asked Harry, with a puzzled frown.
"It's a joke, dear."
"But what does it mean?"
"Oh, my dear Harry, I can't explain jokes."
Harry laid the note down again.
"It's a joke between ourselves," Mrs. Dennison went on. "I oughtn't to have shown you the letter. Come, Berthe, we'll go upstairs."
And Mrs. Cormack had no alternative but to obey.
Left alone, Harry Dennison drew his chair up to the hearthrug. There was no fire, but he acted as though there were, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and gazing into the grate. He felt hurt and disconsolate. His old grievance—that people left him out—was strong upon him. He had delighted in the Omofaga scheme, because he had been in the inside ring there—because he was of importance to it—because it showed him to his wife as a mover in great affairs. And now—somehow—he seemed to be being pushed outside there too. What was this joke between themselves? At Dieppe they would have all that out; he would not be in the way there. Then he did not understand what Berthe Cormack would be at. She had looked at him so curiously. He did not know what to make of it, and he wished that Tom Loring were on the other side of the fireplace. Then he could ask him all about it. Tom! Why, Tom had looked at him almost in the same way as Berthe Cormack had—just when he was wringing hishand in farewell. No, it was not the same way—and yet in part the same. Tom's look had pity in it, and no derision. Mrs. Cormack's derision was but touched with pity. Yet both seemed to ask, "Don't you see?" See what? Why had Tom gone away? He could rely on Tom. See what? There was nothing to see.