A LADY'S BIT OF WORK.
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 dine _en 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 sweets and 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 no help 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 she hesitated 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 his hand 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.
He sat longer than he meant. It was past ten when he went upstairs. Mrs.
Cormack had gone, and his wife was in an armchair by the open window. He
came in softly and surprised her with her head thrown back on the
cushions and a smile on her lips. And the letter was in her hands.
Hearing his step when he was close by her, she sat up, letting the note
fall to the ground.
"What a time you've been! Berthe's gone. Were you asleep?"
"No. I was thinking; Maggie, I wish I could come to Dieppe with you."
"Ah, I wish you could," said she graciously. "But you're left in charge
of Omofaga."
She spoke as though in that charge lay consolation more than enough.
"I believe you care--I mean you think more about Omofaga than about----"
"Anything in the world?" she asked, in playful mockery.
"Than about me," he went on stubbornly.
"Than about your coming to Dieppe, you mean?"
"I mean, than about me," he repeated.
She looked at him wonderingly.
"My dear man," said she, taking his hand, "what's the matter?"
"You do wish I could come?"
"Must I say?" smiled Mrs. Dennison. "For shame, Harry! You might be on
your honeymoon."
He moved away, and flung himself into a chair.
"I don't think it's fair of Ruston," he broke out, "to run away and
leave it all to me."
"Why, you told him you could do it perfectly! I heard you say so."
"How could I say anything else, when--when----"
"And originally you were both to be away! After all, you're not stopping
because of Omofaga, but because Sir George has got the gout."
Harry Dennison, convicted of folly, had no answer, though he was hurt
that he should be convicted out of his wife's mouth. He shuffled his
feet about and began to whistle dolefully.
Mrs. Dennison looked at him with smothered impatience. Their little boy
behaved like that when he was in a naughty mood--when he wanted the
moon, or something of that kind, and thought mother and nurse cruel
because it didn't come. Mrs. Dennison forgot that mother and nurse were
fate to her little boy, or she might have sympathised with his naughty
moods a little better.
She rose now and walked slowly over to her husband. She had a hand on
his chair, and was about to speak, when he stopped his whistling and
jerked out abruptly,
"What did he mean about the kingdom?"
Mrs. Dennison's hand slid away and fell by her side. Harry caught her
look of cold anger. He leapt to his feet.
"Maggie, I'm a fool," he cried. "I don't know what's wrong with me. Sit
down here."
He made her sit, and half-crouched, half-knelt beside her.
"Maggie," he went on, "are you angry? Damn the joke! I don't want to
know. Are you sorry I'm not coming?"
"What a baby you are, Harry! Oh, yes, awfully sorry."
He knew so well what he wanted to say: he wanted to tell her that she
was everything to him, that to be out of her heart was death: that to
feel her slipping away was a torture: he wanted to woo and win her over
again--win her more truly than he had even in those triumphant days when
she gave herself to him. He wanted to show her that he understood
her--that he was not a fool--that he was man enough for her! Yes, that
she need not turn to Ruston or anybody else. Oh, yes, he could
understand her, really he could.
Not a word of it would come. He dared not begin: he feared that he would
look--that she would find him--more silly still, if he began to say that
sort of thing. She was smiling satirically now--indulgently but
satirically, and the emphasis of her purposely childish "awfully"
betrayed her estimation of his question. She did not understand the
mood. She was accustomed to his admiration--worship would hardly be too
strong a word. But the implied demand for a response to it seemed
strange to her. Her air bore in upon him the utter difference between
his thoughts of her and the way she thought about him. Always dimly
felt, it had never pressed on him like this before.
"Really, I'm very sorry, dear," she said, just a little more seriously.
"But it's only a fortnight. We're not separating for ever," and her
smile broke out again.
With a queer feeling of hopelessness, he rose to his feet. No, he
couldn't make her feel it. He had suffered in the same way over his
speeches; he couldn't make people feel them either. She didn't
understand. It was no use. He began to whistle again, staring out of the
open window.
"I shall go to bed, Harry. I'm tired. I've been seeing that the maid's
packed what I wanted, and it's harder work than packing oneself."
"Give me a kiss, Meg," he said, turning round.
She did not do that, but she accepted his kiss, and he, turning away
abruptly, shaped his lips to resume his tune. But now the tune wouldn't
come. His wife left him alone. The tune came when she was there. Now it
wouldn't. Ah, but the words would. He muttered them inaudibly to himself
as he stood looking out of the window. They sounded as though they must
touch any woman's heart. With an oath he threw himself on to the sofa,
trying now to banish the haunting words--the words that would not come
at his call, and came, in belated uselessness, to mock him now. He lay
still; and they ran through his head. At last they ceased; but, before
he could thank God for that, a strange sense of desolation came over
him. He looked round the empty, silent room, that seemed larger now than
in its busy daylight hours. The house was all still; there might have
been one lying dead in it. It might have been the house of a man who had
lost his wife.