The God in the Car Part 39

"You're as bad as the children," said Mrs. Dennison, laughing gently.

"Come, go back to bed. Shall I come and sit by you till it's light?"

The girl seemed not to hear; she drew nearer, searching Mrs. Dennison's face with suspicious eyes. Maggie could not face her; she dropped her glance to the floor and laughed nervously and fretfully. Suddenly Marjory threw herself on the floor at her friend's feet.

"Maggie, come away from here," she beseeched. "Do come; do come away directly. Maggie, dear, I love you so, and--and I was unkind last night.

Do come, darling! We'll go back together--back home," and she burst into sobbing.

Maggie Dennison stood pa.s.sive and motionless, her hands by her side. Her lips quivered and she looked down at the girl kneeling at her feet.

"Won't you come?" moaned Marjory. "Oh, Maggie, there's still time!"

Mrs. Dennison knew what she meant. A strange smile came over her face.

Yes, there was time; in a sense there was time, for the uncertain footfalls had not reached their goal--arrested by that cry from the window, they had stopped--wavered--retreated--and were gone. Because a girl had not slept, there was time. Yet what difference did it make that there was still time--to-night? Since to-morrow was coming and must come.

"Time!" she echoed in a whisper.

"For G.o.d's sake, come, Maggie! Come to-morrow--you and the children.

Come back with them to England! Maggie, I can't stay here!"

Mrs. Dennison put out her hands and took Marjory's.

"Get up," she said, almost roughly, and dragged the girl to her feet.

"You can go, Marjory; I--I suppose you're not happy here. You can go."

"And you?"

"I shan't go," said Maggie Dennison.

Marjory, standing now, shrank back from her.

"You won't go?" she whispered. "Why, what are you staying for?"

"You forget," said Mrs. Dennison coldly. "I'm waiting for my husband."

"Oh!" moaned Marjory, a world of misery and contempt in her voice.

At the tone Mrs. Dennison's face grew rigid, and, if it could be, paler than before; she had been called "liar" to her face, and truly. It was lost to-night her madness mourned--hoped for to-morrow that held her in her place.

The fog was lifting outside; the darkness grew less dense; a distant, dim, cold light began to reveal the day.

"See, it's morning," said Mrs. Dennison. "You needn't be afraid any longer. Won't you go back to your own room, Marjory?"

Marjory nodded. She wore a helpless bewildered look, and she did not speak. She started to cross the room, when Mrs. Dennison asked her,

"Do you mean to go this morning? I suppose the Seminghams will take you, if you like. We can make some excuse if you like."

Marjory stood still, then she sank on a chair near her, and began to sob quietly. Mrs. Dennison slowly walked to her, and stood by her. Then, gently and timidly, she laid her hand on the girl's head.

"Don't cry," she said. "Why should you cry?"

Marjory clutched her hand, crying,

"Maggie, Maggie, don't, don't!"

Mrs. Dennison's eyes filled with tears. She let her hand lie pa.s.sive till the girl released it, and, looking up, said,

"I'm not going, Maggie. I shall stay. Don't send me away! Let me stay till Mr. Dennison comes."

"What's the use? You're unhappy here."

"Can't I help you?" asked the girl, so low that it seemed as though she were afraid to hear her own voice.

Mrs. Dennison's self-control suddenly gave way.

"Help!" she cried recklessly. "No, you can't help. n.o.body can help. It's too late for anyone to help now."

The girl raised her head with a start.

"Too late! Maggie, you mean----?"

"No, no, no," cried Mrs. Dennison, and then her eager cry died swiftly away.

Why protest in horror? By no grace of hers was it that it was not too late. The girl's eyes were on her, and she stammered,

"I mean nothing--nothing. Yes, you must go. I hate--no, no! Marjory, don't push me away! Let me touch you! There's no reason I shouldn't touch you. I mean, I love you, but--I can't have you here."

"Why not?" came from the girl in slow, strong tones.

A moment later, she sprang to her feet, her eyes full of new horror, as the vague suspicion grew to a strange undoubting certainty.

"Who was it in the garden? Who was out there? Maggie, if I hadn't----?"

She could not end. On the last words her voice sank to a fearful whisper; when she had uttered them--with their unfinished, yet plain and naked, question--she hid her face in her hands, listening for the answer.

A minute--two minutes--pa.s.sed. There was no sound but Maggie Dennison's quick breathings; once she started forward with her lips parted as if to speak, and a look of defiance on her face; once too, entreaty, hope, tenderness dawned for a moment. In anger or in sorrow, the truth was hard on being uttered; but the impulse failed. She arrested the words on her lips, and with an angry jerk of her head, said petulantly,

"Oh, you're a silly girl, and you make me silly too. There's nothing the matter. I don't know who it was or what it was. Very likely it was nothing. I heard nothing. It was all your imagination." Her voice grew harder, colder, more restrained as she went on. "Don't think about what I've said to-night--and don't chatter about it. You upset me with your fancies. Marjory, it means nothing."

The last words were imperative in their insistence, but all the answer Marjory made was to raise her head and ask,

"Am I to go?" while her eyes added, too plainly for Maggie Dennison not to read them, "You know the meaning of that."

Under the entreaty and the challenge of her eyes, Mrs. Dennison could not give the answer which it was her purpose to give--the answer which would deny the mad hope that still filled her, the hope which still cried that, though to-night was gone, there was to-morrow. It was the answer she must make to all the world--which she must declare and study to confirm in all her acts and bearing. But there--alone with the girl--under the compelling influence of the reluctant confidence--that impossibility of open falsehood--which the time and occasion seemed strangely to build up between them--she could not give it plainly. She dared not bid the girl stay, with that hope at her heart; she dared not cast away the cloak by bidding her go.

"You must do as you like," she said at last. "I can't help you about it."

Marjory caught at the narrow chance the answer left her; with returning tenderness she stretched out her hands towards her friend, saying,

"Maggie, do tell me! I shall believe what you tell me."