ON THE MATTER OF A RAILWAY.
Willie Ruston was half-dressed when the chamber-maid knocked at his
door. He opened it and took from her three or four letters. Laying them
on the table he finished his dressing--with him a quick process, devoid
of the pleasant lounging by which many men cheat its daily tiresomeness.
At last, when his coat was on, he walked two or three times up and down
the room, frowning, smiling for an instant, frowning long again. Then he
jerked his head impatiently as though he had had too much of his
thoughts, and, going to the table, looked at the addresses on his
letters. With a sudden access of eagerness he seized on one and tore it
open. It bore Carlin's handwriting, and he groaned to see that the four
sides were close-filled. Old Carlin was terribly verbose and roundabout
in his communications, and a bored look settled on Willie Ruston's face
as he read a wilderness of small details, skirmishes with unruly clerks,
iniquities of office-boys, lamentations on the apathy of the public, and
lastly, a conscientious account of the health of the writer's household.
With a sigh he turned the second page.
"By the way," wrote Carlin, "I have had a letter from Detchmore. He
draws back about the railway, and says the Government won't sanction
it."
Willie Ruston raced through the rest, muttering to himself as he read,
"Why the deuce didn't he wire? What an old fool it is!" and so forth.
Then he flung down the letter, put his hands deep in his pockets and
stood motionless for a few moments.
"I must go at once," he said aloud.
He stood thinking, and a rare expression stole over his face. It showed
a doubt, a hesitation, a faltering--the work and the mark of the day and
the night that were gone. He walked about again; he went to the window
and stared out, jangling the money in his pockets. For nearly five
minutes that expression was on his face. For nearly five minutes--and it
seemed no short time--he was torn by conflicting forces. For nearly five
minutes he wavered in his allegiance, and Omofaga had a rival that could
dispute its throne. Then his brow cleared and his lips shut tight again.
He had made up his mind; great as the thing was that held him where he
was, yet he must go, and the thing must wait. Wheeling round, he took up
the letter and, passing quickly through the door, went to young Sir
Walter's room, with the face of a man who knows grief and vexation but
has set wavering behind him.
It was an hour later when Adela Ferrars and the Seminghams sat down to
their coffee. A fourth plate was laid at the table, and Adela was in
very good spirits. Tom Loring had arrived; they had greeted him, and he
was upstairs making himself fit to be seen after a night-voyage; his
boat had lain three hours outside the harbour waiting for the fog to
lift. "I daresay," said Tom, "you heard our horn bellowing." But he was
here at last, and Adela was merrier than she had been in all her stay at
Dieppe. Semingham also was happy; it was a great relief to feel that
there was someone to whom responsibility properly, or at least more
properly, belonged, and an end, therefore, to all unjustifiable attempts
to saddle mere onlookers with it. And Lady Semingham perceived that her
companions were in more genial mood than lately had been their wont, and
expanded in the warmer air. When Tom came down nothing could exceed the
_empressement_ of his welcome.
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?