PAST PRAYING FOR.
Mrs. Dennison needed not Marjory to tell her. She had received Willie
Ruston's note just as she was about to leave her bedroom. It was
scribbled in pencil on half a sheet of notepaper.
"Am called back to England--something wrong about our railway.
Very sorry I can't come and say good-bye. I shall run back if I
can, but I'm afraid I may be kept in England. Will you write?
"W. R. R."
She read it, and stood as if changed to stone. "Something wrong about
our railway!" Surely an all-sufficient reason; the writer had no doubt
of that. He might be kept in England; that meant he would be, and the
writer seemed to see nothing strange in the fact that he could be. She
did not doubt the truth of what the note said. A man lying would have
piled Pelion on Ossa, reason on reason, excuse on excuse, protestation
on protestation. Besides Willie Ruston did not lie. It was just the
truth, the all-sufficient truth. There was something wrong with the
railway, so he left her. He would lose a day if he missed the boat, so
he left her without a word of farewell. The railway must not suffer for
his taking holiday; her suffering was all his holiday should make.
Slowly she tore the note into the smallest of fragments, and the
fragments fell at her feet. And his passionate words were still in her
ears, his kisses still burnt on her cheek. This was the man whom to sway
had been her darling ambition, whom to love was her great sin, whom to
know, as in this moment she seemed to know him, her bitter punishment.
In her heart she cried to heaven, "Enough, enough!"
The note was his--his to its last line, its last word, its last silence.
The man stood there, self-epitomised, callous and careless, unmerciful,
unbending, unturning; vowed to his quest, recking of naught else.
But--she clung to this, the last plank in her shipwreck--great--one of
the few for whom the general must make stepping-stones. She thought she
had been one of the few; that torn note told her error. Still, she had
held out her hands to ruin for no common clay's sake. But it was too
hard--too hard--too hard.
"Will you write?" Was he tender there? Her bitterness would not grant
him even that. He did not want her to slip away. The smallest addition
will make the greatest realm greater, and its loss sully the king's
majesty. So she must write, as she must think and dream--and remember.
Perhaps he might choose to come again--some day--and she was to be
ready!
She went downstairs. In the hall she met her children, and they said
something to her; they talked and chattered to her, and, with the
surface of her mind, she understood; and she listened and answered and
smiled. And all that they had said and she had said went away; and she
found them gone, and herself alone. Then she passed to the sitting-room,
where was Marjory Valentine, breathless from mounting the path too
quickly; and at sight of Marjory's face, she said,
"I've heard from Mr. Ruston. He has been called away," forestalling
Marjory's trembling words.
Then she sat down, and there was a long silence. She was conscious of
Marjory there, but the girl did not speak, and presently the impression
of her, which was very faint, faded altogether away, and Maggie Dennison
seemed to herself alone again--thinking, dreaming, and remembering, as
she must now think, dream, and remember--remembering the day that was
gone, thinking of what this day should have been.
She sat for an hour, still and idle, looking out across the sea, and
Marjory sat motionless behind, gazing at her with despair in her eyes.
At last the girl could bear it no longer. It was unnatural, unearthly,
to sit there like that; it was as though, by an impossibility, a dead
soul were clothed with a living breathing body. Marjory rose and came
close, and called,
"Maggie, Maggie!"
Her voice was clear and louder than her ordinary tones; she spoke as if
trying to force some one to hear.
Maggie Dennison started, looked round, and passed her hand rapidly
across her brow.
"Maggie, I--I've not done anything about going."
"Going?" echoed Maggie Dennison. But her mind was clearing now; her
brain had been stunned, not killed, and her will drove it to wakefulness
and work again. "Going? Oh, I hope not."
"You know, last night----" began Marjory, timidly, flushing, keeping
behind Mrs. Dennison's chair. "Last night we--we talked about it, but I
thought perhaps now----"
"Oh," interrupted Mrs. Dennison, "never mind last night. For goodness'
sake, forget last night. I think we were both mad last night."
Marjory made no answer; and Mrs. Dennison, her hand having swept her
brow once again, turned to her with awakened and alert eyes.
"You upset me--and then I upset you. And we both behaved like hysterical
creatures. If I told you to go, I was silly; and if you said you wanted
to go, you were silly too, Marjory. Of course, you must stop; and do
forget that--nonsense--last night."
Her tone was eager and petulant, the colour was returning to her cheeks;
she looked alive again.
Marjory leant an arm on the back of the chair, looking down into Maggie
Dennison's face.
"I will stay," she said softly, ignoring everything else, and then she
swiftly stooped and kissed Maggie's cheek.
Mrs. Dennison shivered and smiled, and, detaining the girl's head, most
graciously returned her caress. Mrs. Dennison was forgiving everything;
by forgiveness it might be that she could buy of Marjory forgetfulness.
There was a ring at the door. Marjory looked through the window.
"It's Mr. Loring," she said in a whisper.
Maggie Dennison smiled--graciously again.
"It's very kind of him to come so soon," said she.
"Shall I go?"
"Go? No, child--unless you want to. You know him too. And we've no
secrets, Tom Loring and I."
Tom Loring had mounted the hill very slowly. The giving of that "piece
of his mind" seemed not altogether easy. He might paint poor Harry's
forlorn state; Mrs. Dennison would be politely concerned and politely
sceptical about it. He might tell her again--as he had told her
before--that Willie Ruston was a knave and a villain, and she might
laugh or be angry, as her mood was; but she would not believe. Or he
might upbraid her for folly or for worse; and this was what he wished to
do. Would she listen? Probably--with a smile on her lips and mocking
little compliments on his friendly zeal and fatherly anxiety. Or she
might flash out on him, and call his charge an insult, and drive him
away; and a word from her would turn poor old Harry into his enemy.
Decidedly his task was no easy one.
It was a coward's joy that he felt when he found a third person there;
but he felt it from the bottom of his heart. Divine delay! Gracious
impossibility! How often men adore them! Tom Loring gave thanks, praying
silently that Marjory would not withdraw, shook hands as though his were
the most ordinary morning call, and began to discuss the scenery of
Dieppe, and--as became a newcomer--the incidents of his voyage.
"And while you were all peacefully in your beds, we were groping about
outside in that abominable fog," said he.
"How you must have envied us!" smiled Mrs. Dennison, and Marjory found
herself smiling in emulous hypocrisy. But her smile was very
unsuccessful, and it was well that Tom Loring's eyes were on his
hostess.
Then Mrs. Dennison began to talk about Willie Ruston and her own great
interest in him, and in the Omofaga Company. She was very good-humoured
to Tom Loring, but she did not fail to remind him how unreasonable he
had been--was still, wasn't he? The perfection of her manner frightened
Marjory and repelled her. Yet it would have seemed an effort of bravery,
had it been done with visible struggling. But it betrayed no effort, and
therefore made no show of bravery.
"So now," said Maggie Dennison, "since I haven't got Mr. Ruston to
exchange sympathy with, I must exchange hostilities with you. It will
still be about Omofaga--that's one thing."
Tom had definitely decided to put off his lecture. The old manner he had
known and mocked and admired--the "these-are-the-orders" manner--was too
strong for him. He believed he was still fond of her. He knew that he
wondered at her still. Could it be true what they told him--that she was
as a child in the hands of Willie Ruston? He hated to think that,
because it must mean that Willie Ruston was--well, not quite an ordinary
person--a conclusion Tom loathed to accept.
"And you're going to stay some time with the Seminghams? That'll be very
pleasant. And Adela will like to have you so much. Oh, you can convert
her! She's a shareholder. And you must have a talk to the old Baron.
You've heard of him? But then he believes in Mr. Ruston, as I do, so
you'll quarrel with him."
"Perhaps I shall convert him," suggested Tom.
"Oh, no, we thorough believers are past praying for; aren't we,
Marjory?"
Marjory started.
"Past praying for?" she echoed.
Her thoughts had strayed from the conversation--back to what she had
been bidden to forget; and she spoke not as one who speaks a trivial
phrase.
For an instant a gleam of something--anger or fright--shot from Maggie
Dennison's eyes. The next, she was playfully, distantly, delicately
chaffing Tom about the meaning of his sudden arrival.
"Of course _not_----" she began.
And Tom, interrupting, stopped the "Adela."
"And you stay here too?" he asked, to turn the conversation.
"Why, of course," smiled Mrs. Dennison. "After being here all this time,
it would look rather funny if I ran away just when Harry's coming. I
think he really would have a right to be aggrieved then." She paused,
and added more seriously, "Oh, yes, I shall wait here for Harry."
Then Tom Loring rose and took his leave. Mrs. Dennison entrusted him
with an invitation to the whole of the Seminghams' party to luncheon
next day ("if they don't mind squeezing into our little room," she gaily
added), and walked with him to the top of the path, waving her hand to
him in friendly farewell as he began to descend. And, after he was gone,
she stood for a while looking out to sea. Then she turned. Marjory was
in the window and saw her face as she turned. In a moment Maggie
Dennison saw her looking, and smiled brightly. But the one short instant
had been enough. The feelings first numbed, then smothered, had in that
second sprung to life, and Marjory shrank back with a little
inarticulate cry of pain and horror. Almost as she uttered it, Mrs.
Dennison was by her side.
"We'll go out this afternoon," she said. "I think I shall lie down for
an hour. We managed to rob ourselves of a good deal of sleep last night.
You'd better do the same." She paused, and then she added, "You're a
good child, Marjory. You're very kind to me."
There was a quiver in her voice, but it was only that, and it was
Marjory, not she, who burst into sobs.
"Hush, hush," whispered Maggie Dennison. "Hush, dear. Don't do that. Why
should you do that?" and she stroked the girl's hot cheek, wet with
tears. "I'm very tired, Marjory," she went on. "Do you think you can dry
your eyes--your silly eyes--and help me upstairs? I--I can hardly
stand," and, as she spoke, she swayed and caught at the curtain by her,
and held herself up by it. "No, I can go alone!" she exclaimed almost
fiercely. "Leave me alone, Marjory, I can walk. I can walk perfectly;"
and she walked steadily across the room, and Marjory heard her
unwavering step mounting the stairs to her bedroom.
But Marjory did not see her enter her room, stop for a moment over the
scraps of torn paper, still lying on the floor, stoop and gather them
one by one, then put them in an envelope, and the envelope in her purse,
and then throw herself on the bed in an agony of dumb pain, with the
look on her face that had come for a moment in the garden and came now,
fearless of being driven away, lined strong and deep, as though graven
with some sharp tool.