The God in the Car Part 19

"Women beat me," he broke out. "I don't understand 'em. How should I?

I'm not one of these fellows who catch women's fancy--thank G.o.d!"

"If you continue to dislike the idea, you'll probably manage to escape the reality," observed Adela, and her tone, for some reason or other--perhaps merely through natural championship of her s.e.x--was rather cold and her manner stiff.

"Oh, some women are all right;" and Adela acknowledged the concession with a satirical bow. "Look here, can't you help?" he burst out. "Tell her what a brute he is."

"Oh, you do not understand women!"

"Well, then, I shall tell Dennison. He won't stand nonsense of that kind."

"You'll deserve horsewhipping if you do," remarked Adela.

"Then what am I to do?"

"Nothing. In fact, Mr. Loring, you have no genius for delicate operations."

"Of course I'm a fool."

Adela played with her _pince-nez_ for a minute or two, put it on, looked at him, and then said, with just a touch of unwonted timidity in her voice,

"Anyhow, you happen to be a gentleman."

Poor Tom had been a good deal buffeted of late, and a friendly stroking was a pleasant change. He looked up with a smile, but as he looked up Adela looked away.

"I think I'll stop those articles," said he.

"Yes, do," she cried, a bright smile on her face.

"They've pretty well done their work, too."

"Don't! Don't spoil it! But--but don't you get money for them?"

Tom was in better humour now. He held out his hand with his old friendly smile.

"Oh, wait till I am in the workhouse, and then you shall take me out."

"I don't believe I did mean that," protested Adela.

"You always mean everything that--that the best woman in the world could mean," and Tom wrung her hand and disappeared.

Adela's hand was rather crushed and hurt, and for a moment she stood regarding it ruefully.

"I thought he was going to kiss it," she said. "One of those fellows who take women's fancy, perhaps, would have! And--and it wouldn't have hurt so much. Ah, well, I'm very glad he's going to stop the articles."

And the articles did stop; and perhaps things might have fallen out worse than that an honest man, driven hard by bitterness, should do a useful thing from a doubtful motive, and having done just enough of it, should repent and sin no more; for unquestionably the articles prevented a great many persons from paying an unduly high price for Omof.a.ga shares. This line of thought seems defensible, but it was not Adela's.

She rejoiced purely that Tom should turn away from the doubtful thing; and if Tom had been a man of greater acuteness, it would have struck him as worthy of note, perhaps even of gratification, that Miss Adela Ferrars should care so much whether he did or did not do doubtful things. But then Miss Ferrars--for it seems useless to keep her secret any longer, the above recorded interview having somewhat impaired its mystery--was an improbably romantic person--such are to be met even at an age beyond twenty-five--and was very naturally ashamed of her weakness. People often are ashamed of being better than their surroundings. Being better they feel better, and feeling better they feel priggish, and then they try not to be better, and happily fail. So Adela was very shamefaced over her ideal, and would as soon have thought of preaching on a platform--of which practice she harboured a most bigoted horror--as of proclaiming the part that love must play in her marriage. The romantic resolve lay snug in its hidden nest, sheltered from cold gusts of ridicule by a thick screen of worldly sayings, and, when she sent away a suitor, of worldly-wise excuses. Thus no one suspected it, not even Tom Loring, although he thought her "the best of women;" a form of praise, by the way, that gave the lady honoured by it less pleasure than less valuable commendation might have done. Why best?

Why not most charming? Well, probably because he thought the one and didn't think the other. She was the best; but there was another whose doings and whose peril had robbed Tom Loring of his peace, and made him do the doubtful thing. Why had he done it? Or (and Adela smiled mockingly at this resurrection of the Old Woman), if he did do it, why did he do it for Maggie Dennison? She didn't believe he would ever do a doubtful thing for her. For that she loved him; but perhaps she would have loved him--well, not less--if he did; for how she would forgive him!

After half-an-hour of this kind of thing--it was her own summary of her meditations--she dressed, went out to dinner, sat next Evan Haselden, and said cynical things all the evening; so that, at last Evan told her that she had no more feeling than a mummified Methodist. This was exactly what she wanted.

CHAPTER IX.

AN OPPRESSIVE ATMOSPHERE.

The Right Honourable Foster Belford, although not, like Mr. Pitt, famous for "ruining Great Britain gratis"--perhaps merely from want of the opportunity--had yet not made a fortune out of political life, and it had suggested a pleasant addition to his means, when Willie Ruston offered him the chairmanship of the Omof.a.ga Company, with the promise of a very comfortable yearly honorarium. He accepted the post with alacrity, but without undue grat.i.tude, for he considered himself well worth the price; and the surprising fact is that he was well worth it.

He bulked large to the physical and mental view. His colleagues in the Cabinet had taken a year or two to find out his limits, and the public had not found them out yet. Therefore he was not exactly a fool. On the other hand, the limits were certainly there, and so there was no danger of his developing an inconvenient greatness. As has been previously hinted, he enjoyed Harry Dennison's entire confidence; and he could be relied upon not to understand Lord Semingham's irreverence. Thus his appointment did good to the Omof.a.ga as well as to himself, and only the initiated winked when Willie Ruston hid himself behind this imposing figure and pulled the strings.

"The best of it is," Ruston remarked to Semingham, "that you and Carlin will have the whole thing in your own hands when I've gone out. Belford won't give you any trouble."

"But, my dear fellow, I don't want it all in my hands. I want to grow rich out of it without any trouble."

Ruston twisted his cigar in his mouth. The prospect of immediate wealth flowing in from Omof.a.ga was, as Lord Semingham knew very well, not a.s.sured.

"Loring's stopped hammering us," said Ruston; "that's one thing."

"Oh, you found out he wrote them?"

"Yes; and uncommonly well he did it, confound him. I wish we could get that fellow. There's a good deal in him."

"You see," observed Lord Semingham, "he doesn't like you. I don't know that you went the right way about to make him."

The remark sounded blunt, but Semingham had learnt not to waste delicate phrases on Willie Ruston.

"Well, I didn't know he was worth the trouble."

"One path to greatness is said to be to make no enemies."

"A very roundabout one, I should think. I'm going to make a good many enemies in Omof.a.ga."

Lord Semingham suddenly rose, put on his hat, and left the offices of the Company. Mrs. Dennison had, a little while ago, complained to him that she ate, drank, breathed and wore Omof.a.ga. He had detected the insincerity of her complaint, but he was becoming inclined to echo it in all genuineness on his own account. There were moments when he wondered how and why he had allowed this young man to lead him so far and so deep; moments when a convulsion of Nature, redistributing Africa and blotting out Omof.a.ga, would have left him some thousands of pounds poorer in purse, but appreciably more cheerful in spirit. Perhaps matters would mend when the Local Administrator had departed to his local administration, and only the mild shadow of him which bore the name of Carlin trod the boards of Queen Street, Cheapside. Ruston began to be oppressive. The restless energy and domineering mind of the man wearied Semingham's indolent and dilettante spirit, and he hailed the end of the season as an excellent excuse for putting himself beyond the reach of his colleague for a few weeks. Yet, the more he quailed, the more he trusted; and when a very great man, holding a very great office, met him in the House of Lords, and expressed the opinion that when the Company and Mr. Ruston went to Omof.a.ga they would find themselves in a pretty hornets' nest, Lord Semingham only said that he should be sorry for the hornets.

"Don't ask us to fetch your man out for you, that's all," said the very great man.

And for an instant Lord Semingham, still feeling that load upon his shoulders, fancied that it would be far from his heart to prefer such a request. There might be things less just and fitting than that Willie Ruston and those savage tribes of Omof.a.ga should be left to fight out the quarrel by themselves, the civilised world standing aloof. And the dividends--well, of course, there were the dividends, but Lord Semingham had in his haste forgotten them.

"Ah, you don't know Ruston," said he, shaking a forefinger at the great man.

"Don't I? He came every day to my office for a fortnight."

"Wanted something?"

"Yes, he wanted something certainly, or he wouldn't have come, you know."

"Got it, I suppose?" asked Lord Semingham, in a tone curiously indicative of resignation rather than triumph.