"You went away--
The sun was warm--the world was gay;
My heart was sad, because although
I bade you stay you did not so!
But went away . . ."
CHRIS went on the Friday, and for days beforehand he was like a
schoolboy going off for an unexpected holiday.
He packed his things long before they would be needed, and unpacked
them again because he wanted to use them; he took stacks of clothes
and golf sticks and a brand-new fishing-rod, which he put together
for Marie's benefit, showing her how perfectly it was made and
telling her what sport he hoped to have with it.
Marie tried to be enthusiastic and failed; once long ago she had
stood on a river bank with Chris and watched him play a trout,
finally landing the silvery thing on the grassy bank, where it lay
and gasped in the burning sunshine before he mercifully killed it
with a stone.
She had hated the sport ever since--it had seemed so cruel, she
thought.
In a moment of bravado she had once dared to say so to him, and had
never forgotten the stony look of disapproval with which he
regarded her.
"Cruel!" he echoed scathingly. "How In the world do you suppose
fish are caught, then? You seem to like them for breakfast,
anyway."
She knew that was true enough, but to see them served up cooked and
inanimate was one thing, and to see them dragged from the clear
depths of a river to gasp life away on the bank quite another.
Chris put the new rod away rather offendedly.
"Of course, you don't care for sport," he said, "I forgot."
That hurt more than anything, especially as she knew that either
Dorothy Webber or Mrs. Heriot would have thoroughly entered into a
discussion with him upon the merits of bait and the various catches
he had successfully landed.
Marie did her best during those last few days, but all her efforts
went singularly unrewarded.
Chris was too engrossed in his preparations to take much notice of
her, though once he brought her the old tweed coat to have a button
sewn on, and once he asked diffidently if she would mind marking
some new handkerchiefs for him.
Marie did both little services with passionate gratitude to him for
having asked her. During the last day she followed him round the
house just as she had been wont to do when they were both children
and he had come home for the holidays.
She ran errands for him, and did all the odd jobs which he did not
want to do for himself, and at the last, when his fattest
portmanteau would not close, she sat on the top of it to try and
coax it to behave.
Chris was kneeling on the floor in his shirt sleeves, tugging at
the straps and swearing under his breath. He looked up at her once
to say what a pity it was she did not weigh more, but there was a
smile in his eyes. "You're such a kid," he said affectionately.
But he managed to fasten the bag at last, and stood up, hot and
perspiring.
"You've got my address, haven't you?" he asked, looking round his
dismantled room. "Write if you want anything, and I'll send you
some postcards. You've got plenty of money in the bank, and there's
heaps more when that's gone. Have a good time."
"Yes," said Marie, and wondered if he would be very contemptuous if
she told him that it felt like dying to know that he was going away
and that she was to be left behind.
He had a last hurried lunch with her and Miss Chester, during
which he looked at his watch almost every minute, and hoped that
the taxi would not forget to come.
"You could have had the car, Chris," Miss Chester said, but Chris
replied that it was not worth while and that a taxi would do.
He went out in the hall to have a last look at his luggage and make
sure that nothing was forgotten, and Marie ran up to her room.
She stood there with clenched hands and lips firmly set; she was
dreadfully afraid that she was going to cry and disgrace herself
forever, and then what a memory Chris would have of her to carry
away with him! She heard the taxi come up to the door, and the
sound of the luggage being taken out, then Chris came running
upstairs calling to her.
"Yes--here I am."
He came into the room in his overcoat; she had not seen him look so
young or happy for weeks, and it gave her another pang to realize
that he was quite pleased to be leaving her behind.
"I'm just off," he said. He came up to her and put his arm round
her waist "Take care of yourself, Marie Celeste."
"Oh, yes." He turned her face upwards with a careless hand and
kissed her cheek. "I'll send you a wire as soon as we get there."
"Yes." She stood quite impassively beside him, and then as he would
have moved away she suddenly turned and put her arms round his
neck.
"I hope you will have a very good time, Chris," she said, and for
the first time since their marriage kissed him of her own accord.
The hot color flew to Chris' face; she had always been so cold and
unemotional that this impulsive embrace embarrassed him.
For a moment he looked at her wonderingly, then he asked:
"Why did you do that, Marie Celeste?"
She forced a little laugh.
"Because you're going away, of course."
"Oh, I see--well, good-by."
"Good-by." But still he hesitated before he turned to the door, but
she did not speak, and he went on and downstairs again.
Marie went over to the window. There were tears in her eyes, but it
did not matter now that Chris had gone. She pulled the curtain
aside and looked down into the street.
What a heap of luggage he had taken! And she remembered how he had
once said that he disliked traveling with a woman because she
always took such quantities of baggage!
Then Chris came out of the house and got into the taxi. He slammed
the door, and she heard him speak to the driver, and the next
moment the taxicab had wheeled about and gone.
She let the curtain fall and looked round the room. How quickly
things happened! A moment ago and she had stood here with his arms
about her, and now he had gone--for how long she did not know.
When she had asked him he had answered vaguely that it all depended
on the weather, but that he would let her know.
"A fortnight?" she hazarded timidly, and he had answered, "About
that, I expect."
She went through the dividing door to his deserted room. It was all
upside down as he had left it, and strewn with things he had
discarded at the last moment.
It almost seemed as if he had died and would never come back, she
thought drearily, then tried to laugh.
After all, there was nothing so strange in his going away for a
holiday with his friends; she knew she would not have minded at all
had things been all right between them. It was just this dreadful
feeling that, although she was his wife, she held no place in his
life, that made trivialities a tragedy. She did not count--he could
give her a careless kiss just as he had done years ago when he came
home from Cambridge or went back again, and walk out of the house
without a single regret.
She wondered what Feathers thought about it all, and her heart
warmed at the memory of him--kind, ugly Feathers! She wished she
could see him again.
She did her best to be cheerful during the days that followed, but
it was uphill work. After the first telegram she heard but seldom
from Chris. The weather was topping--so he wrote on a postcard, and
they were having splendid golf.
He never mentioned Feathers, or spoke of coming home, and it seemed
to Marie as if he and she were in different worlds.
That he could enjoy himself and be quite happy without her seemed
an impossibility when she was so miserable and restless.
Then one morning she ran across young Atkins in Regent Street. She
would have passed him without recognition but that he stopped and
spoke her name.
"Mrs. Lawless!" He was unfeignedly delighted to see her. He
insisted on her lunching with him.
"I've thought about you ever since we said good-by," he declared.
"I've often longed to call, but did not like to."
She laughed at his eagerness.
"Why ever not? I gave you my address. I should have been awfully
pleased to see you."
"Really! It's topping of you to say so, but I don't think Chris
would have been exactly tickled to death! He never forgave me for
nearly drowning you, you know."
"Nonsense! And, besides, you didn't nearly drown me. It was my own
fault," she laughed suddenly. "You know I never gave you that
promised box of cigarettes. Don't you remember that we had a bet of
a box of chocolates against a box of cigarettes? Well--you won."
She was delighted to see him again; he was very young and cheerful,
and quite open in his adoration of her.
Nobody had ever looked at Marie with quite such worshipful eyes,
and though she knew it was just a boy's absurd fancy, she was
grateful to him for it.
They had a merry lunch together, and afterwards Marie took him back
to see Miss Chester.
"I thought you were going to Scotland with Chris and Mr. Dakers,"
she said as they walked home.
"So I wanted to, but they didn't seem exactly keen, and besides--I
don't care about Aston Knight, you know--awful ass, I think."
"I don't think I like him very much, either," Marie admitted
reluctantly. "And anyway I'm glad you didn't go---" She smiled into
his beaming face. "Perhaps we could go to some theatres together."
"Could we? By jove, that would be ripping! I say, it's an awful
piece of luck running across you like this, you know."
Miss Chester liked young Atkins. She thought him a very charming
boy, she told Marie when, at last, he took a reluctant departure,
arranging to call again next day.
"He is a friend of Chris', you say?"
"Yes--we met him when we were away."
"A very nice boy--a thorough gentleman," Miss Chester said
complacently. "I hope he will call often."
Marie laughed.
"I am sure he will with the least encouragement." she said.
He had done her good, and she quite looked forward to seeing him
again. She wrote to Chris that night and told him of their meeting.
"It was quite by chance, but I was very pleased to see him, and we
are going to a theater together to-morrow."
She knew that all her letters to Chris were stiff and
uninteresting, but she was in constant dread of letting him read
between the lines and guess how unhappy she was. For his benefit
she often manufactured stories of things she was supposed to have
done and entertainments she had visited.
He should not think she was moping or wanted him back. She would do
without him if he could do without her.
Young Atkins got tickets for the most absurd farce in town, and he
and Marie laughed till they cried over it.
Marie had only been to the theater half a dozen times in her life,
and then always to performances of Shakespeare or some other
classic. She told him quite frankly that she did not know when she
had enjoyed herself so much. They went on to Bond Street together
afterwards and ate an enormous tea.
Although she was reluctant to admit it to herself, Marie knew that
she had enjoyed herself far more with young Atkins than she had
done that afternoon with Chris when he bought the pearls. She put
up her hand with a little feeling of guilt to the necklace, which
she was wearing. Young Atkins noticed the little gesture.
"Are they real?" he asked.
"Yes, Chris gave them to me."
"Mind you, don't lose them--they must be worth an awful lot.
"They are, rather a lot."
She assented listlessly, knowing that their value was nothing to
her.
He drew his chair a little nearer to hers.
"When shall we go out together again?"
"When you like--I can go on Saturday if you care about it."
He pulled a long face.
"Saturday! Why, that's another three days."
"Well, we can't go every day," she protested, laughing. "Besides,
don't you have to work?"
"Yes, I'm in the guv'nor's office, but he's away to-day, so I took
French leave."
"What will he say?"
"He won't know, and I don't care if he does; it's been worth it!"
He was silent for a moment, then broke out again: "My guv'nor's an
old pig, you know; he's worth pots of money, but he won't do a
thing for me. I hate an indoor job; I wanted to go to sea, but no!
He drove me into his beastly office, and I loathe it."
"What a shame!"
"Yes." He laughed with his old lightheartedness. "I don't see why
we're bound to have fathers," he submitted comically.
"Well--we'll go to another theater on Saturday," Marie consoled
him. "Saturday is a half-day holiday for everybody, isn't it?"
"Yes--till Saturday, then."
He wrung her hand so hard at parting that her fingers felt quite
dead for some seconds afterwards, but she had really enjoyed
herself, and looked after young Atkins gratefully as he strode off
down the street.
"There's a letter from Chris," Miss Chester said, as Marie entered
the room. Her quick eyes noticed the color that rushed to her
niece's cheeks. "Over there on the mantelshelf."
Marie took the treasure upstairs to read. She sat down on the side
of the bed and broke open the envelope with trembling hands. She
had not heard from him now for three days; she wondered if this was
to say that he was coming home.
"Dear Marie Celeste,--Hope you are well--I have had no letter from
you since the end of last week. The weather has changed a bit up
here, and we have had some rain. Feathers sent you a box of heather
this morning; I don't suppose you'll care much for it, but he
insisted on sending it. By the way, a curious thing happened
yesterday. We were at the third hole, and there were some girls on
the green in front of us. One of them had lost a ball and I found
it, so we talked, and who do you think she turned out to be? Why,
your friend, Dorothy Webber! It's a coincidence, isn't it? You
never told me she was such a fine player. I've got a match with her
this afternoon. She sent her love to you. I hope you are having a
good time. I've got as brown as coffee since I came up here--being
out-of-doors all day, I suppose. By the way, if you look in my room
you'll find a box of new golf balls. You might send them up to me.
I will write again soon.--Yours affectionately, Chris."
So he had met Dorothy Webber after all. Marie Celeste's heart felt
as cold as a stone as she sat there with Chris' scrappy letter in
her hand.
He was up there in Scotland, amongst the heather and the mountains,
quite happy and contented, whilst she . . . Her eyes fell again to
his hurried scribble.
". . . Feathers sent you a box of heather this morning . . ."
Kind, ugly Feathers! He, at least, had not forgotten her.
During the days that followed Marie suffered tortures of jealousy.
Her overstrained imagination exaggerated things cruelly. She began
to sleep badly, and a defiant look grew in her brown eyes. She
encouraged young Atkins so openly that at last even Miss Chester
was moved to remonstrate gently.
"My dear, I am afraid that nice boy is getting a little too fond of
you?"
"Is he?" Marie laughed. "He's only a boy," she said carelessly.
Miss Chester looked pained.
"Boys have hearts as well as grown men," she said gently.
"More, sometimes," Marie answered flippantly.
But she knew that Miss Chester was right. She knew that lately
there was a different light in young Atkins' eyes and a strange
quality in his voice whenever he spoke to her.
Sometimes she was sorry--sometimes she told herself that she did
not care! Why should she be the only one to suffer?
"He can't love me--really," she told herself fretfully, when
conscience spoke more loudly than usual, reproaching her. "He has
always known I am married--he would never be so silly as to fall in
love with a married woman." Then she would shed bitter tears as she
thought of the farce her marriage had been, and long with all her
soul for someone to love her--not a boy, as young Atkins was, but a
man to whom she could look up, a man who would see that the
pathways ran as smoothly as possible for her tired feet.
Often the temptation came to her to write and ask Chris to come
home. He had been away three weeks now, and she knew that Miss
Chester was wondering about it all and worrying silently.
After all, she was his wife, and it was his duty to be with her! So
Marie argued sometimes, knowing all the time that she would rather
die than ask anything of him which he would only grant unwillingly.
The big box of heather had arrived from Feathers, and as Marie
buried her face in it and closed her eyes she seemed to breathe the
keen mountain air that had swept it on the Scotch moors and feel
the soft, springy turf beneath her feet.
Oh, to be there with Chris!--to pass the long hours of the fading
summer days with him and be happy!
She wrote a little note to Feathers and thanked him.
"It was kind of you to think of me. I have never been to Scotland,
but the smell of the heather seemed to show it to me as plainly as
if I could really see it all. You have never found any white
heather, I suppose? If you do, please send me a little piece for
luck."
She had no real belief in luck--it had long since passed her by,
she was sure--but a day or so later a tiny parcel arrived
containing a little bunch of white heather, smelling strongly of
cigarettes--for a cigarette box had been the only one Feathers
could find in which to pack it.
He had got up with the dawn the day after her note reached him and
searched the country for miles to find the thing for which she had
asked him.
Marie slept with it under her pillow and carried it in her frock by
day; a sort of shyness prevented her from showing it to Miss
Chester, though once she asked her about it.
"Aunt Madge, are you superstitious?"
Miss Chester looked up and smiled.
"I used to be years ago," she admitted. "I used to bow to every
sweep I met and refuse to sit down thirteen at a table."
"Is that all?" Marie asked.
Miss Chester stifled a little sigh.
"Well, I once wore a piece of white heather round my neck night and
day for two years," she said after a moment. "It was given to me by
the man I should have married if he had lived. But the white
heather brought me no luck, for he was drowned at sea when he was
on his way home for our wedding."
Marie's face hardened a little.
"There is no such thing as luck." she said.
"I know a better word for it." Miss Chester answered gently. "I
mean Fate. I think each one of us has his or her fate mapped out,
and that it always happens for the best, though we may not think
so."
There was a little silence.
"I wonder!" Marie said sadly.
But she still wore the white heather.