The God in the Car: A Novel. Hope Anthony

Dennison was standing in the hall. He went in, and followed her into the library.

      "Well?" she asked, standing by the table, and wasting no time in formal greetings.

      "Oh, it's all right," said he.

      "You got my telegram?"

      "Your telegram, Mrs. Dennison?" said he with a smile.

      "I mean – the telegram," she corrected herself, smiling in her turn.

      "Oh, yes," said Ruston, and he took a step towards her. "I've seen Lord Semingham," he added.

      "Yes? And these horrid Germans are out of the way?"

      "Yes; and Semingham is letting his shooting this year."

      She laughed, and glanced at him as she asked,

      "Then it cost a great deal?"

      "Fifty thousand!"

      "Oh, then we can't take Lord Semingham's shooting, or anybody else's. Poor Harry!"

      "He doesn't know yet?"

      "Aren't you almost afraid to tell him, Mr. Ruston?"

      "Aren't you, Mrs. Dennison?"

      He smiled as he asked, and Mrs. Dennison lifted her eyes to his, and let them dwell there.

      "Why did you do it?" he asked.

      "Will the money be lost?"

      "Oh, I hope not; but money's always uncertain."

      "The thing's not uncertain?"

      "No; the thing's certain now."

      She sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, and passed her hand over her broad brow.

      "Why did you do it?" Ruston repeated; and she laughed nervously.

      "I hate going back," she said, twisting her hands in her lap.

      He had asked her the question which she had been asking herself without response.

      He sat down opposite her, flinging his soft cloth hat – for he had not been home since his arrival in London – on the table.

      "What a bad hat!" said Mrs. Dennison, touching it with the end of a forefinger.

      "It's done a journey through Omofaga."

      "Ah!" she laughed gently. "Dear old hat!"

      "Thanks to you, it'll do another soon."

      Mrs. Dennison sat up straight in her chair.

      "You hope – ?" she began.

      "To be on my way in six months," he answered in solid satisfaction.

      "And for long?"

      "It must take time."

      "What must?"

      "My work there."

      She rose and walked to the window, as she had when she was about to send the telegram. Now also she was breathing quickly, and the flush, once so rare on her cheeks, was there again.

      "And we," she said in a low voice, looking out of the window, "shall just hear of you once a year?"

      "We shall have regular mails in no time," said he. "Once a year, indeed! Once a month, Mrs. Dennison!"

      With a curious laugh, she dashed the blind-tassel against the window. It was not for the sake of hearing of her that he wanted the mails. With a sudden impulse she crossed the room and stood opposite him.

      "Do you care that," she asked, snapping her fingers, "for any soul alive? You're delighted to leave us all and go to Omofaga!"

      Willie Ruston seemed not to hear; he was mentally organizing the mail service from Omofaga.

      "I beg pardon?" he said, after a perceptible pause.

      "Oh!" cried Maggie Dennison, and at last her tone caught his attention.

      He looked up with a wrinkle of surprise on his brow.

      "Why," said he, "I believe you're angry about something. You look just as you did on – on the memorable occasion."

      "Uh, we aren't all Carlins!" she exclaimed, carried away by her feelings.

      The least she had expected from him was grateful thanks; a homage tinged with admiration was, in truth, no more than her due; if she had been an ugly dull woman, yet she had done him a great service, and she was not an ugly dull woman. But then neither was she Omofaga.

      "If everybody was as good a fellow as old Carlin – " began Willie Ruston.

      "If everybody was as useful and docile, you mean; as good a tool for you – "

      At last it was too plain to be missed.

      "Hullo!" he exclaimed. "What are you pitching into me for, Mrs. Dennison?"

      His words were ordinary enough, but at last he was looking at her, and the mails of Omofaga were for a moment forgotten.

      "I wish I'd never made them send the wretched telegram," she flashed out passionately. "Much thanks I get!"

      "You shall have a statue in the chief street of the chief town of – "

      "How dare you! I'm not a girl to be chaffed."

      The tears were standing in her eyes, as she threw herself back in a chair. Willie Ruston got up and stood by her.

      "You'll be proud of that telegram some day," he said, rather as though he felt bound to pay her a compliment.

      "Oh, you think that now?" she said, unconvinced of his sincerity.

      "Yes. Though was it very difficult?" he asked with a sudden change of tone most depreciatory of her exploit.

      She glanced at him and smiled joyfully. She liked the depreciation better than the compliment.

      "Not a bit," she whispered, "for me."

      He laughed slightly, and shut his lips close again. He began to understand Mrs. Dennison better.

      "Still, though it was easy for you, it was precious valuable to me," he observed.

      "And how you hate being obliged to me, don't you?"

      He perceived that she understood him a little, but he smiled again as he asked,

      "Oh, but what made you do it, you know?"

      "You mean you did? Mr. Ruston, I should like to see you at work in Omofaga."

      "Oh, a very humdrum business," said he, with a shrug.

      "You'll have soldiers?"

      "We shall call 'em police," he corrected, smiling.

      "Yes; but they keep everybody down, and – and do as you order?"

      "If not, I shall ask 'em why."

      "And the natives?"

      "Civilise 'em."

      "You – you'll be governor?"

      "Oh, dear, no. Local administrator."

      She laughed in his face; and a grim smile from him seemed to justify her.

      "I'm glad I sent the telegram," she half-whispered, lying back in the chair and looking up at him. "I shall have had something to do with all that, shan't I? Do you want any more money?"

      "Look here," said Willie Ruston, "Omofaga's mine. I'll find you another place, if you like, when I've put this job through."

      A luxury of pleasure rippled through her laugh. She darted out her hand and caught his.

      "No. I like Omofaga too!" she said, and as she said it, the door suddenly opened, and in walked Tom Loring – that is to say – in Tom Loring was about to walk; but when he saw what he did see, he stood still for a moment, and then, without a single word, either of greeting or apology, he turned his back, walked out again, and shut the door behind him. His entrance and exit were so quick and sudden, that Mrs. Dennison had hardly dropped Willie Ruston's hand before he was gone; she had certainly not dropped it before he came.

      Willie Ruston sat down squarely in a chair. Mrs. Dennison's hot mood had been suddenly