"Time keeps no measure when two friends are parted."
MARIE woke on the Friday morning with the vague feeling that
something unpleasant was going to happen.
She lay for a moment looking round the room with sleepy eyes, then
suddenly she remembered--they were going back to London!
She sat up in bed, her dark hair falling about her shoulders, and
stared at her half-packed luggage.
This was the end of her honeymoon! Nearly a month since she had
been married--a month of bitterness and disappointments, with only
one bright memory attaching to it--her friendship with Feathers.
And now she was leaving even that behind! She was conscious of a
little shrinking fear as she thought of it.
Who would help her through the long days when he was not at hand?
She fell back helplessly on her old futile hope.
"I shall be used to it soon! I must get used to living like this
soon, surely!"
There would be Aunt Madge, too; It was comforting to think of her,
but Marie did not realize that when she married Chris she had burnt
her boats behind her, and would never again find happiness or
contentment in the simple things that had pleased her before.
Her heart was heavy as she went downstairs; it was a particularly
beautiful morning, and her eyes were misty with tears as she looked
at the blue sea and the sunlight and realized that to-morrow she
would open her eyes on bricks and mortar and smoky London.
Yet it had been her own wish to return. She could have stayed on
had she chosen.
"Good morning," said Feathers beside her.
She turned quickly, her eyes brightening.
"Am I down before you? It's generally the other way about?"
"Yes, I overslept myself. Where's Chris?"
"I don't think he's up yet."
There was a little silence.
"Are you going by the morning train?" Feathers asked presently.
"No, after lunch, I think; we shall be home about five."
She looked up at him wistfully. "Have you got a headache?" she
asked in concern. "You look as if you have."
He laughed.
"No. I don't indulge in such luxuries, but I didn't sleep
particularly well last night."
"A guilty conscience?" Marie said, teasingly.
"Probably." He stepped out into the sunny garden. "Shall we go for
a stroll, as it's your last morning?"
She followed at once.
"That sounded so horrid," she said, with a half sigh. "My last
morning! It sounds as if I were going to be executed or something."
"The last of happy days here, I should have said," Feathers
corrected himself gravely. "I hope it will also be the first of
many and much happier days to come."
"Thank you." Suddenly she laughed. "Why, it's Friday! I always seem
to choose unlucky days to go to places or do important things. I
was married on Friday, and I came home from Paris after father died
on Friday."
"Well, it's as good a day as any other."
She shook her head.
"Not for me," she said, unthinkingly, then laughed to cover the
admission of her words.
"I'm superstitious, you see."
"Absurd!"
"I know it is, and I never used to be."
"I don't believe you are now." he declared.
"What are you looking at?" Marie had stood suddenly still, and was
looking down on the sands.
The tide was out, and a man and woman were walking along together
close to the water's edge.
"It's Chris and Mrs. Heriot," Feathers said quietly. "Shall we go
and meet them?"
He turned towards the steps leading down to the shore, but Marie
did not move. She was very pale, and the look in her eyes cut him
to the heart when he looked at her.
"I don't think I will--I'd rather go back--they haven't seen us,"
she answered.
She would have turned back the way they had come, but Feathers
resolutely barred the way.
"Mrs. Lawless, don't you think it would be much wiser to come along
and meet them?" he asked deliberately.
She raised her troubled eyes to his.
"I don't want to . . . why need I? Oh, do you think I must?"
He tried to laugh, as if it were a subject of no importance.
"Why not? They have probably seen us."
He could see refusal in her face; then all at once she gave in.
"Very well." But her steps dragged as she followed him down to the
sands, and her face had not regained its color.
Feathers was racking his brains for means whereby to disperse the
suspicion which he knew was in her mind. He was cursing Chris with
all his heart, even while he was level-headed enough to guess that
in all probability his friend's meeting with Mrs. Heriot was
entirely one of chance. When they were near enough he called out to
them cheerily:
"Now, then, you two, it's breakfast time, so hurry! Mrs. Lawless
and I have been right along to the headland."
It was not the truth, but Marie hardly noticed what he said; she
was trying desperately to recover her composure and face Mrs.
Heriot with a smile.
They walked back to the hotel, the two men behind.
"I am so sorry we are leaving, now it has really come to the
point," Marie said. She kept her hands clenched in the pockets of
the little woolly coat she wore; she wondered if the elder woman
could hear the hardness of her voice.
"I'm ever so sorry, too," Mrs. Heriot said gushingly. "It's the
worst of an hotel, isn't it? As soon as one gets to like people
they leave."
"One can always meet them again," Marie said deliberately. She was
wondering desperately if Chris had already made some such
arrangement with this woman.
Mrs. Heriot smiled enigmatically.
"It so seldom happens, though," she said. "Life is so like that
book, 'Ships that pass in the night,' don't you think?"
"I haven't read it," Marie said bluntly.
She hated Mrs. Heriot, hated everything about her--her voice, her
smile, even her clothes--she hated them all; she went straight in
to breakfast without waiting for Chris, and when he joined her she
was quite well aware that his eyes were turned to her again and
again anxiously.
Directly breakfast was over she turned to go upstairs, but he
Followed.
"Where are you going, Marie Celeste?" He tried hard to speak
naturally, but he had never felt more uncomfortable in his life; he
knew what Marie must be thinking, and he realized that the only
explanation he could offer of his early walk with Mrs. Heriot was a
very thin one indeed.
She answered without stopping or looking round.
"I am going to finish packing."
"I'll come with you."
She did not answer, and he followed her up to her room.
"Why don't you go and have a swim?" she asked then. "It's a pity to
waste the last morning indoors."
"I will go if you will come with me," he said at once.
She shook her head.
"No, thank you; I haven't got the nerve."
"You'll be perfectly safe with me; I'll look after you."
She shook her head again.
"No, thank you."
She began walking about the room, folding up the few things she had
not already packed and ramming them anyhow into the open trunk.
Chris watched her for a moment with morose eyes; then all at once
he blurted out:
"Hang it all! I know what you're thinking, so why don't you say
it?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You do know. Marie, stop walking about and come here."
"I can't; there's a lot to do, and I'm busy."
Chris strode across to her, tore the little frock she was folding
from her hands and threw it down on the bed.
"I hate being treated like this!" he said passionately. "I won't
have it! If you think I arranged to meet that infernal woman, why
the devil can't you say so and have done with it?"
"I don't care if you arranged to meet her or not."
He laughed. "You do! I could see in your face at once that you were
angry about it. Come, Marie Celeste, own up!"
He laid his hand on her arm carelessly, but she flung him off; his
touch seemed to rouse all her pent-up passion and bitterness; her
eyes blazed as she turned and faced him.
"How many more times am I to tell you that I don't care what you do
or who you spend your time with? You can go out with Mrs. Heriot
all day and every day for all I care. I should stay down here
longer, if I were you; there's no need for you to come home."
She was trembling in every limb; she leaned against the end of the
bed to steady herself.
Chris had flushed up to his eyes; he had a hot temper once it was
aroused, as Marie knew, and something in the way in which she
looked at him had roused it now.
He answered as angrily as she that he should choose his own
friends, and spend his time as he liked; if she thought he was
going to be tied to her apron strings for the rest of his life she
was mistaken; he had been used to having his own way, and he was
going to continue to have it. Having relieved himself of a few more
violent remarks, he calmed down a little, strode over to the window
and flung it wide.
"Dash it all," he went on presently, more quietly. "It's no worse
than you walking about the whole time with Feathers. I might just
as well cut up rough and forbid you to speak to him, but I'm not
such a fool; I hope I can trust you." He liked the sound of that
last phrase; he thought it exceedingly tactful; he looked round at
his wife with a faint smile.
He thought he knew her so well--thought he had sounded every depth
and shallow of her nature. All their lives they had had these
little breezes, which had blown over almost at once and been
forgotten.
He was horrified, therefore, to see Marie standing with her face
buried in her hands, her whole slim body shaking with sobs.
Chris stood staring at her helplessly. Marie so seldom cried, it
gave him a bad shock to see her so upset--he must have said a great
deal more than he had intended. He flushed with angry shame.
"Marie--for heaven's sake!" He went to her and put his arms round
her, clumsily, but still with something comforting in their clasp.
"Don't cry, for God's sake!" he begged agitatedly. "What did I say?
Whatever it was, I didn't mean it--you know that!" He pressed her
head down against his shoulder, keeping his hand on her soft hair.
"Sorry, Marie Celeste!" he said humbly. "I was a brute; it shall
never happen again."
She pushed him gently from her, walking away to try and recover
herself.
"It's all right," she said presently with an effort, her voice
broken by little sobbing breaths. "It's all right. Please go away
and leave me alone."
She was bitterly ashamed to have broken down before him--he who so
hated tears and a scene.
She dried her eyes fiercely and tried to laugh.
"I don't often--cry, you know," she defended herself.
"I know you don't." Chris ran agitated fingers through his hair.
"It was my fault. I hope you'll forgive me." He followed her and
put an arm round her shoulders.
"Forgive me and forget it, Marie Celeste, will you?"
"It's all forgotten."
He laughed ruefully.
"You say that, but you don't mean it. And really it wasn't my fault
this morning. I went out early and met Mrs. Heriot on the sands--I
thought she never got up early. I swear to you that it was no fault
of mine. I don't care for the woman. I've told you so, haven't I?"
"Yes." She could not explain that it was not ordinary jealousy of
Mrs. Heriot that was breaking her heart, but jealousy of the fact
that this woman could prove an amusing companion to him, whereas
she herself was such a failure. The tears came again in spite of
her efforts, and she pressed her hands hard over her eyes in a vain
effort to restrain them. "Oh, if you would only go away!" she
faltered wildly.
Chris turned away with an impatient sigh; he felt at fault because
of his inability to comfort her; he went downstairs and hunted up
Feathers.
"Come on out for a walk," he said gruffly.
Feathers looked up from his paper, saw the frown on his friend's
face and rose.
"Right-oh! Where is Mrs. Lawless?"
"Packing."
"It seems a pity for her not to get all the air she can, as it's
her last morning."
"I asked her to come out, and she refused."
They went out together.
Chris walked along, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched
dejectedly. Feathers was perfectly well aware that something was
wrong, but asked no questions, and presently Chris broke out
wrathfully.
"What the devil a man wants to get mixed up with women for I'm
hanged if I know."
Feathers was looking out at the sea, and his face changed a little
as he asked carelessly:
"Well, who has been getting mixed up with them?"
"No one in particular that I know of! I simply made a remark."
"Oh, I see."
There was a faint sneer in Feathers' voice, and his eyes looked
grim; he knew that if he waited Chris would presently explode
again, and he was right.
"Marriage," said Chris, with the air of one who has suddenly
lighted upon a great and original discovery, "is a damned awful
gamble, and that's a fact."
Feathers stopped to knock the ashes from his pipe against a wooden
post.
"It's not compulsory, anyway," he said quietly. "After all, men
marry to please themselves."
"Or to please someone else," said Chris with a growl.
There was a little silence.
"Or for money," said Feathers deliberately.
Chris stopped to kick a pebble off the promenade to the sands
below, and he answered his friend gloomily:
"Nobody but a fool would marry a woman for her money."
Feathers stared. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it
again with a little snap.
After all, what use was it to raise an argument? He did not want to
quarrel with Chris, and yet he knew that he had never had a better
reason for so doing.
"When are you coming back to town?" Chris asked after a moment.
"Don't know; haven't made up my mind yet." Feathers looked at Chris
quizzically. "Suppose you'll rather drop out of things now, eh?" he
asked.
Chris stared.
"Drop out? Good Lord, no!" he flushed angrily. "What do you mean--
because I happen to have got married?"
"It generally makes a difference." Feathers said lightly.
"Not in my case. Marie's a sensible girl--dash it! I've known her
all my life."
"Yes, that's the trouble."
"What the deuce do you mean?"
"I mean that you're rather apt to lose sight of the fact that she's
no longer a kind of sister to you, but a wife," Feathers said
quietly. "Also, I suppose that when you were kids together she
spoilt you like the devil, and it looks as if she means to go on
spoiling you."
Chris laughed in amusement.
"Spoils me--Marie spoils me! That's good!" He really thought it
was. Like most men whose chief ambition it is to see that they get
their own way no matter at what inconvenience to others, he was
quite unconscious of the fact; he really thought he was rather an
unselfish man; he certainly considered that perhaps with the
exception of the little scene this morning when he had lost his
temper he had treated Marie rather well.
"You don't understand women, my dear chap," he said cheerily.
Feathers looked at him squarely.
"Do you?" he asked.
Chris looked rather nonplussed.
"Well, perhaps I don't," he admitted. "And perhaps I don't want to.
I prefer a man's company any day to a woman's, you know that--
except Marie's, of course," he added hastily.
There was a little silence.
"What do you think of my wife, anyway?" he asked, with a rather
forlorn attempt at jocularity.
"What do I think of her?" Feathers echoed. "Well--she's all
right," he added lamely. He stopped, and bared his head to the cool
sea breeze. "Hadn't we better turn back?" he asked.
They strolled back to the hotel together; a perspiring porter was
staggering across the lounge with Marie's luggage. Chris'
portmanteau and suit-case stood already by the door.
"We're not going till after lunch," Chris said, "They turn you out
of your rooms in a hurry, don't they? I wonder where Marie is?"
"She's sitting over there in the window." Feathers answered.
He had seen Marie as soon as they entered the lounge--seen
something in her face, too, that pierced his heart like a knife as
he turned deliberately and walked away from her.
He had been prepared to dislike Christopher's wife, because he had
thought she would rob him of his friend, but in the last three
weeks something seemed to have played pitch and toss with all his
preconceived ideas of marriage and women.
He went out into the garden, and stayed there until he knew that
lunch must be almost finished, then he strolled in.
Chris and his wife were in the lounge, dressed for traveling. Marie
was looking anxiously towards the door as he came slowly forward
and her wistful face lightened as she saw him.
"Where have you been?" Chris demanded. "We're just off, you old
rotter."
"I didn't know it was so late." He looked at Marie. "I hope you'll
have a pleasant journey back," he said. The words sounded absurdly
formal and unlike him, and the girl's face flushed in faint
perplexity.
"Thank you, I hope we shall."
There was a taxi at the door, piled with luggage; Mrs. Heriot was
close by, dressed in a very smart tweed costume, and with her golf
clubs slung over her shoulder.
She looked at Chris commiseratingly.
"You poor dear, going back to smoky old London! Don't you wish you
were coming out on the downs with me?"
Chris laughed, and held out his hand.
"Good-by, Mrs. Heriot. Good-by and--what do people say?--until our
next merry meeting!"
She shook hands with Marie.
"Good-by, you dear thing, and I'm so glad you're so much better."
Feathers was standing by the door of the taxi, his rather shabby
slouch hat tilted over his eyes, his hands thrust into his pockets.
Marie turned to him.
"Good-by, Mr. Dakers."
"Good-by, Mrs. Lawless." He shook her hand in his big paw, squeezed
it and let it go, standing back to make room for Chris.
Several of the hotel visitors who had been rather friendly with
Chris came clustering for a last word.
"See you in town, old chap--cherio! Don't forget to look me up!
You've got my address."
The taxi-driver interposed.
"You ain't got too much time for the train, sir."
"Right-oh! Good-by." The taxicab wheeled about and out into the
road. A sudden mist blurred Marie's eyes as she turned in her seat
for a last look. She had been unhappy here, and yet--something
within her shrank from the thought of leaving it all behind. She
had grown to dread the future. In her nervous, apprehensive state
she had no hope that this fresh step would be for the better, and
she shrank from further pain and disappointment.
When the cab had vanished down the road Mrs. Heriot turned to
Feathers.
"You haven't had any lunch," she said.
"No, no, I'm not hungry," he said absently.
He walked away from the door and into the hotel. The lounge was
crowded with people, laughing and chattering together, and as he
passed the inquiry desk he heard one of the clerks say:
"We shan't have a room vacant for three weeks. I don't remember
when we were so full."
Was the hotel full! Feathers turned and looked round the crowded
lounge as he went slowly up the stairs to his room; strange that it
seemed more empty and deserted to him than ever before.
* * * * *
As the train drew slowly out of the station, Chris looked across at
his wife with a rather nervous smile.
"Well, that's the end of our honeymoon," he said grimly.
"Yes"--Marie had quite recovered from her breakdown of the morning
and she answered quietly enough--"we've had a good time, haven't
we?"
"Have we? Opinions differ, I suppose."
She took no notice.
"I've never stayed in an hotel before," she went on, "so I suppose
that's why I enjoyed everything so much. It will seem very quiet
with Aunt Madge, won't it?"
"We need not stay with her."
"I think we must for a week or two, till something can be
arranged."
Chris threw down a magazine he had picked up.
"What sort of arrangement would you like?" he asked. "I want you to
please yourself in every way without considering me." He paused.
"I've got some rooms at Knightsbridge, you know," he went on
casually. "I'm not at all sure that it wouldn't be a good idea to
keep them on for a while."
Marie caught her breath with a little stifled sound.
"Keep them on?" she echoed.
"Yes--they're only bachelor rooms, but I've had some pretty good
times there, and they might be handy until we can find something
better."
"Yes."
"So I don't want you to feel tied at all," he went on. "I want you
to do as you like, you know--have your own friends, and go about!
There isn't any need to worry about money--there's plenty."
"Yes," she said again stupidly; then, "I suppose father left a
great deal?"
"He did, yes. I didn't bother you about the will--it wasn't
necessary; but, of course, everything has been properly drawn up."
"Yes." She was not interested; what did mere money matter? It could
not buy for her the only thing she wanted in the world.
They seemed to have left the sunshine behind them with the sea, for
as they neared London the sky grew overcast and large raindrops
splashed down and against the windows.
Marie looked at Chris; the last time she had traveled this way was
when she was summoned from Paris at her father's death.
So much had happened since then, and yet Chris looked exactly the
same, no older, no sadder, though she felt that she herself was
both.
"I hope Mr. Dakers will come and see us soon," she said
impulsively.
Chris laughed
"I don't suppose he will--he likes a free-and-easy life; he'd hate
it if Aunt Madge expected him to get into dress togs every
evening."
"Would he?" She felt despondent; she supposed that she could not
expect anyone to wish to come and visit her.
She thought of her friend, Dorothy Webber, with envy. If only she
had been like Dorothy, full of go and a great sportswoman, Chris
would at least have been pleased to be with her for the sake of
mutual tastes and agreeable companionship.
It was raining fast when they got to London; a crowd of people had
come up on their train, and it was difficult to get a taxi.
Chris began to get irritable.
"Didn't you tell Aunt Madge what time we should arrive?" he asked.
"She might have sent the car."
"I didn't know what time--you hadn't decided when I wrote," Marie
answered anxiously. "I am sure she would have sent the car if she
had known."
Chris looked inclined to be sulky.
"I shall buy one of my own, and be independent." he said with a
frown.
But they secured a taxi in the end, and Chris slammed the door and
sat down beside his wife with a sigh of relief.
"I loathe traveling," he said.
She looked at him in surprise.
"I thought you liked it; you used to do a great deal before--before
we were married."
He laughed.
"Oh, well, a bachelor's travels are rather different to taking a
wife and half a dozen trunks along. It's the luggage that's such a
bother." He sat up with sudden energy. "Marie Celeste, what are you
going to tell Aunt Madge?"
"What do you mean?" But she knew quite well.
He avoided her eyes.
"You know what I mean. I don't want to talk about it, but it's just
as well for us both to tell the same story, or at least not to
contradict one another."
"I see. Well--I wasn't going to tell her anything. Why should I?
It's nothing to do with Aunt Madge."
He colored a little.
"Very well, if that is your wish; and--Marie Celeste?"
"Yes."
"I hope you've forgotten about this morning. I lost my temper; I
ought not to have spoken to you as I did."
"It's all quite forgotten," she assured him steadily.
His face cleared.
"That's good; I don't want the old lady to think things are wrong
already."
Marie almost laughed. Wrong already! He spoke as if the scene in
her room that morning had been the first storm to mar a honeymoon
of otherwise complete happiness.
Chris let down the window with a run and looked out.
"Here we are!" he said cheerily. "And there she is at the window."
He waved his hand to Miss Chester, and turned to see about the
luggage. Marie went on into the house.
"My darling child!" She was clasped in Miss Chester's arms and
fervently kissed. "How glad I am to see you again! And have you had
a happy time?"
"Of course we have!" Marie bent to kiss her again to end further
questioning, and they went into the drawing-room together.
Marie looked round her with sad eyes. It seemed such an eternity
since she was here--such an eternity since that Sunday afternoon
when Chris had asked her to go for a walk with him and the walk had
ended in that never-to-be-forgotten moment outside Westminster
Abbey.
Then she had looked forward to radiant days of happiness, but she
felt now that ever since she had been going backwards, retreating
from the golden hopes that for a little while had dazzled her eyes.
Miss Chester was pouring out tea and talking all the time.
"I have had your rooms all redecorated, Marie, because--though of
course I know you will get a house of your own before long--I like
to think that you will often come here, you and Chris."
"Yes, dear, thank you."
Marie tried to speak enthusiastically, but it was a poor little
failure, and Miss Chester looked up quickly, struck by some new
tone in the girl's voice.
But she made no comment until later on when she and Chris were
alone for a moment, and then she said anxiously:
"Chris, I don't think you ever told me how very ill Marie was after
that accident in the sea?"
"How ill?" he echoed. "She wasn't very ill; she had to stay in her
room for a few days of course, but she wasn't really ill. Aunt
Madge. What do you mean?"
"My dear boy! When she is such a shadow! Why, there is nothing of
her, and her poor little face is all eyes! She looks to me as if
she is recovering from a terrible illness."
Chris smiled rather uneasily.
"You're over-anxious," he said. "The doctor assured me that she was
all right, and I think she is. Has she complained about not feeling
well to you?"
"Oh, no, nothing, but I haven't seen her for a month, and perhaps I
notice the change more than you do. Chris---" He had turned to go,
but stopped when she spoke his name.
"Yes, Aunt Madge."
"Come here, Chris."
He came back reluctantly, and Miss Chester rose from her chair,
and, laying her hands on his shoulders, looked earnestly into his
eyes.
"There isn't anything wrong, Chris? You're both quite happy?"
"Of course!" But he, too, bent and kissed her as Marie Celeste had
done to avoid further questioning.