The God in the Car Part 59

"He sees no change in her, or he sees a change that makes him love her more. Surely, surely, some day, Lord Semingham----?"

She broke off, leaving her hope unexpressed, but a faint smile on her face told of it.

"It may be--some day," he said, as though he hardly hoped. Then, with one of his quick retreats, he took refuge in asking, "Are you happy with your husband, Adela? I hope to goodness you are."

"Perfectly," she answered, with a bright pa.s.sing smile.

"But you get no dividends," he suggested, raising his brows.

"No; no dividends," said she. "No more do you."

"No; but we shall."

"I suppose we shall."

"He'll pull us through."

"I wish he'd never been born," cried Adela.

"Perhaps. Since he has, I shall keep my eye on him."

From the shrubbery at the side of the lawn, Maggie Dennison came out.

She was leaning on her husband's arm, and Tom Loring walked with them. A minute later they had heard from Adela the news of the ending of young Sir Walter's life and hopes.

"Good G.o.d!" cried Harry Dennison in grief.

They sat down and began to talk sadly of the lost boy. Only Maggie Dennison said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the sky, and she seemed hardly to hear. Yet Adela, stealing a glance at her, saw her clenched hand quiver.

"Do you remember," asked Semingham, "how at Dieppe Bessie would have it that the little red crosses were tombstones? She was quite pleased with the idea."

"Yes; and how horrified the old Baron was," said Adela.

"Both he and Walter gone!" mused Harry Dennison.

"Well, the omen is fulfilled now," said Tom Loring. "Ruston need not fear for himself."

Harry Dennison turned a sudden uneasy glance upon his wife. She looked up and met it with a calm sad smile.

"He was a brave boy," she said. "Mr. Ruston will be very sorry." She rose and laid her hand on her husband's arm. "Come, Harry," she said, "we'll walk again."

He rose and gave her his arm. She paused, glancing from one to the other of the group.

"You mustn't think he won't be sorry," she said pleadingly.

Then she pressed her husband's arm and walked away with him. They pa.s.sed again into the fringing shrubbery and were lost to view. Tom Loring did not go with them this time, but sat down by his wife's side. For a while no one spoke. Then Adela said softly,

"She knows him better than we do. I suppose he will be sorry. Will he be sorry for Marjory too?"

"If he thinks of her," said Semingham.

"Yes--if he thinks of her."

Semingham lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl skywards.

"Some of us are bruised," said he, "and some of us are broken."

"Not beyond cure?" Adela beseeched, touching his arm.

"G.o.d knows," said he with a shrug.

"Not beyond cure?" she said again, insisting.

"I hope not, my dear," said Tom Loring gently.

"Bruised or broken--bruised or broken!" mused Semingham, watching his smoke-rings. "But the car moves on, eh, Adela?"

"Yes, the car moves on," said she.

"And I don't know," said Tom Loring, "that I'd care to be the G.o.d who sits in it."

While Maggie Dennison walked with Harry in the shrubbery, and the group on the terrace talked of the G.o.d in the car, on the other side of the world a man sat looking out of a window under a new-risen sun. Presently his eyes dropped, and they fell on a wooden cross that stood below the window. A cheap wreath of artificial flowers decked it--a wreath one of Ruston's company had carried over seas from the grave of his dead wife, and had brought out of his treasures to honour young Sir Walter's grave; because he and they all had loved the boy. And, as Maggie Dennison had said, Ruston also was sorry. His eyes dwelt on the cross, while he seemed to hear again Walter's merry laugh and confident ringing tones, and to see his brave, lithe figure as he sprang on his horse and cantered ahead of the party, eager for the road, or the sport, aye, or the fight. For a moment Willie Ruston's head fell, then he got up--the cross had sent his thoughts back to the far-off land he had left. He walked across the little square room to an iron-bound box; unlocking it, he searched amid a pile of papers and found a woman's letter. He began to read it, but, when he had read but half, he laid it gently down again among the papers and closed and locked the box. His face was white and set, his eyes gleamed as if in anger. Suddenly he muttered to himself,

"I loved that boy. I never thought of it killing him."

And on thought of the boy came another, and for an instant the stern mouth quivered, and he half-turned towards the box again. Then he jerked his head, muttering again; yet his face was softer, till a heavy frown grew upon it, and he pressed his hand for the shortest moment to his eyes.

It was over--over, though it was to come again. Treading heavily on the floor--there was no lightness left in his step--he reached the door, and found a dozen mounted men waiting for him, and a horse held for him. He looked round on the men; they were fine fellows, tall and stalwart, ready for anything. Slowly a smile broke on his face, an unmirthful smile, that lasted but till he had said,

"Well, boys, we must teach these fellows a little lesson to-day."

His followers laughed and joked, but none joined him where he rode at their head. The chief was a man to follow, not to ride with, they said, half in liking, half in dislike, wholly in trust and deference. Yet in old days he had been good to ride with too.

The car was moving on. Maybe Tom Loring was not very wrong, when he said that he would not care to be the man who sat in it.

THE END.