"I was a sailor, sailing on sweet seas,
Trading in singing birds and humming bees.
But now I sail no more before the breeze.
You were a pirate met me on the sea;
You spoke, with life behind you, suddenly;
You stepped upon my ship, and spoke to me:
And while you took my hand and kissed my lips,
You sank my ships, you sank my sailing ships."
MARIE sang a little snatch of song as she went back to Miss
Chester; she had not felt so lighthearted for many a day.
"I'm going into the country with Mr. Dakers to-morrow." she said.
"Think of it--a whole day in the country! Won't it be lovely?"
Miss Chester looked up with shrewd eyes.
"You talk as if you have never had the opportunity before," she
said. "The car is always here--you might spend all your time in the
country if you chose, Marie."
"I know--I suppose it never occurred to me."
Miss Chester knitted a row without speaking, then she said gently:
"Dear child, do you think Chris would be quite pleased if he knew
you were running about London with his friends like this?"
Marie swung round as if she had been struck.
"What do you mean. Aunt Madge?" Her voice was defiant, but the old
lady went on insistently without raising her eyes:
"I know things have progressed since I was a girl, but if I were a
man I should not care for my wife to have men friends, as you seem
to have."
"Chris does not care," said Marie, and she laughed.
"I suppose you are still thinking about Mr. Atkins, Aunt Madge. He
was only a boy."
"Do you call Mr. Dakers a boy, too?" Miss Chester asked quietly.
"Of course not." Marie frowned; then all at once she broke into a
laugh of sheer amusement. "Aunt Madge, you're not suggesting that
Mr. Dakers, too, is fond of me? Why, don't you know that he hates
women?"
Miss Chester stooped for her ball of wool, which had fallen to the
floor. "As a rule, Marie, men are rather selfish, and I cannot
imagine a man going out of his way to take any woman whom he hated
for a day in the country."
Marie laughed again.
"Oh, don't be silly, dear!" she protested.
She went behind Miss Chester's chair and clasped her arms loosely
round the old lady's neck, standing so that she could not be seen.
"I've only ever loved one man," she said in a hard voice. "And you
know who that is, don't you?"
Miss Chester put her wrinkled hand over Marie's.
"My old eyes see a great many things I am supposed to be unable to
see," she said sadly.
There was a little silence; then Marie whispered:
"Yes--I knew that."
"And so that is why I say be careful, dear child," the old lady
went on. "But I know you will."
Marie bent and kissed her.
"Poor Mr. Dakers!" she said, with a little grimace. "He would run
away forever and ever if he could hear what we have been saying."
Miss Chester did not answer.
Marie slept dreamlessly that night, and for the first time since
her marriage woke with the feeling that there was something
pleasant to look forward to.
The sun was shining and there was not a cloud in the sky as she
flung the window wide.
Across the rows of houses and crowded chimney-pots she seemed to
hear the voice of the country calling to her--seemed to hear the
wind in the trees and smell the magic of the hay.
"And they will be making the hay." she told herself delightedly, as
she waited for Feathers to come. "I wonder if they will let us
help!"
She had almost forgotten that there might be a letter from Chris
that morning. It gave her a little shock to see it lying on the
breakfast-table. It was as if for a space she had forgotten how to
suffer and grieve, and now the sight of his handwriting had dragged
her back to it once again.
Chris had written in a tearing hurry--or so he said. He had packed
up to come home, and then a friend of his had asked him to play in
a golf tournament, and after a lot of persuasion he had given in,
and he was going to play with Dorothy Webber for a partner, so he
thought they stood a good chance of carrying off a prize.
Marie read it apathetically. Her heart felt as hard as a stone. The
letter told her nothing she had not already guessed. She crushed it
into her coat pocket and tried to forget it.
He had put the importance of a stupid golf handicap before her!
Well, if she cried herself blind it would not alter things or
change him.
"I suppose Mrs. Heriot didn't turn up in Scotland," she said
cynically to Feathers as they drove away.
He kept his eyes steadily before him as he answered:
"If she did I did not see her."
Marie laughed hysterically.
"I thought you might have done so."
There was a little silence, then Feathers said quietly:
"Mrs. Lawless, why do you talk like that? You know quite well you
never thought anything of the sort."
She flushed hotly at the rebuke in his words and answered sharply:
"I forgot that you were Chris' friend. Of course, you are bound to
defend him. I wonder why men always defend one another?"
Feathers smiled rather grimly.
"Perhaps it's a case of thieves hanging together," he said. "But
you do him an injustice if you think that women have the least
attraction for him--you do, indeed! And, as to being his friend . . ."
he hesitated, "I think, perhaps, I am more your friend than his."
"And yet you hated it when he married me," she said impulsively.
"Perhaps I am still unreconciled to that," he said.
"What do you mean?"
He looked down at her from beneath his shaggy brows. "I am going to
answer that question by asking another. Why did you take such a
violent dislike to me the first night we met?"
The color rushed to her face. The memory of that night was still
bitter and unforgettable. Her first impulse was to refuse to tell
him. Then suddenly she changed her mind.
Why should she spare Chris, or try any longer to defend him when he
was undefendable?
"You said that you would tell me some day," Feathers reminded her.
"I know." But it was some minutes before she told him.
"I was sitting in the lounge that night after dinner, and heard you
telling someone that Chris had only married me for my money."
The driving-wheel jerked furiously beneath Feathers' hand, and for
an instant the car swerved dangerously. Then he jammed the brakes
home and brought it to a standstill at the roadside.
They were in the country now, with hedge-topped banks on either
side, and it was all so still and silent that they might have been
the only two in the world.
Feathers half-turned in his seat. His face was white and horrified,
and for a moment he stared at her, his lips twitching as if he were
trying to speak and could find no words.
Marie looked at him with misty eyes, and, seeing the pain and shame
in his face, laid her hand gently on his arm.
"Please don't look like that. It hurt at first, but afterwards I
was glad that I knew--really glad!"
"No wonder you hated me."
"That was because I did not know you," she said quickly. "I don't
hate you now, do I?"
He looked away from her.
"So it's all my fault," he said harshly.
She echoed his words:
"All your fault? What do you mean?"
"That you and Chris are not happy . . ."
Her face quivered sensitively, then she said very gently:
"You mustn't think that--please! All you did was to let me know a
little sooner than I should have done if I hadn't overheard what
you said. And I'm glad, really glad, about it now! It would have
hurt much more if I'd not found out for some time afterwards. You
see"--she paused a moment to steady her voice--"you see, Chris
never really loved me, and that's all about it."
"No wonder you hate me," he said again heavily.
"I don't hate you--in fact, I should like to tell you something,
Mr. Dakers, then perhaps you won't feel so badly about it. May I?"
"Well?" The monosyllable came gruffly.
"It's just that the one good thing that has happened to me since--
since I married Chris--is having met you! I shall always be glad of
that, no matter what happens, for you've been such a kind friend.
Please believe me."
Dakers looked down at the hand resting on his arm.
"Do you believe in friendship between a man and woman, Mrs.
Lawless?" he asked, in a queer voice.
"Oh, yes!" said Marie, fervently. "Don't you?"
"I am not sure."
She looked up in dismay.
"But you said--I thought you said . . ."
He broke in abruptly.
"Look at the view on your left." She turned her head obediently and
gave a little exclamation of delight. The high hedge had suddenly
ended, leaving only a wide expanse of meadows that sloped down to a
river flowing at the bottom of a high wooded hill.
Some women in picturesque cotton frocks were tossing the hay in one
of the meadows, and the scent of it was wafted through the
sunshine.
Marie clasped her hands like a delighted child.
"I did so hope we should see them making hay," she said. "Oh, do
you think we might go and help?"
She had forgotten their previous serious conversation, to Feathers'
infinite relief. He laughed as he answered that he did not think
they could very well suggest giving any assistance.
"I want to take you much further, too," he said. "I know an inn
where we can get a lunch fit for a king, and any amount of cream
and things like that."
"I love cream," said Marie.
She leaned back beside him contentedly, and fell into a day dream.
The easy droning of the engine was very soothing, and the soft air
on her face seemed to blow away all the cobwebs and perplexities
that had worried her during the past two months. For a little time
she gave herself up to the restfulness of it all and the simple
enjoyment.
Feathers let her alone. He was not a talkative man, and he only
spoke now and again to point out some exquisite bit of scenery or
tell her something of the surrounding country.
"You know it well, then?" she asked, and he said that he and Chris
had often motored that way together.
Her husband's name gave Marie a stab of pain. For a little while
she had resolutely pushed him into the background of her thoughts.
She sat up when Feathers spoke of him, and the look of quiet
contentment faded from her eyes.
What was Chris doing now? And why was he not here beside her
instead of this man? Then she looked at Feathers' kind, ugly face
and remorse smote her.
He was such a good friend. She knew she ought to be grateful to him
for the unobtrusive help he had tried to give her.
But she could not resist one question: "You and Chris used to go
about together a great deal?"
"Yes; nearly always."
"And now--I suppose I have spoilt it all. Have I?"
Feathers' face hardened. "I wish I could be sure that you had," was
the answer that rose to his lips, but he checked it, and only said:
"I have told you you must not talk nonsense." He pointed ahead.
"That is the inn. I hope you are hungry."
He ran the car into a queer, cobble-stoned yard, and drew up at the
door of the inn.
It was a very old house, with sloping roofs, on which lichen
grew in short, thick clumps, and a straggly vine covered its
weather-beaten face.
"I wired we were coming," Feathers said. "The people here know me."
He led the way into the parlor. It was bare-boarded with a trestle
table running its full length, and wooden benches on either side,
but everything was spotlessly clean, and Marie was delighted.
She had never seen an old fireplace with chimney corners like the
one in this room. She had never seen such wonderful copper as the
old shining pots and pans that hung on the walls.
The landlady was stout and smiling, with a face that shone with a
generous application of soap, and she wore long amber earrings.
She seemed very pleased to see Feathers.
"It's a long time since you came to visit us, sir! And the other
gentleman--Mr. Lawless--I hope he is well."
"I've just left him in Scotland," Feathers explained. "I dare say
you will see him before long. He's been getting married, you know."
"Indeed, sir! I'm sure I wish him luck." She looked at Marie, and
Feathers said hastily: "This is Mrs. Lawless."
He had a vivid recollection of another occasion when somebody had
asked if he were Marie's husband, and he was not risking a
repetition of it.
"Many people staying here, Mrs. Costin?" he asked.
"No, sir--only two ladies at present, but we expect to be full for
the week-end." She looked at Marie. "There are fine golf links
close to us," she explained.
"I seem to be hopelessly out of fashion because I don't play golf,"
Marie said when she and Feathers were alone again. "I think I am
beginning to hate the very name of it."
"You must let me teach you to play."
Marie sighed and looked out of the window to the narrow country
road. "I think I'm too tired to learn anything," she said
despondently.
Feathers frowned; he thought she looked very frail, and in spite of
his words he could not picture her swinging a club and ploughing
through all weathers as Dorothy Webber had done in Scotland.
"You've no right to be tired," he said angrily. "A child like you!"
She looked up, the ready tears coming to her eyes.
"Do you think I'm such a child?" she asked. "That's what Chris
always says--a kid, he calls me! And yet I don't feel so very
young, you know."
"I should like to be as young," Feathers said.
She leaned her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Thirty-eight next birthday--as you insist."
She did not seem surprised.
"I wonder what I shall be like when I'm thirty-eight?" she
hazarded.
Feathers did not answer; he was doing a rapid calculation in
his mind; he knew that she, nineteen now, was nineteen years
his junior. That meant that when she was thirty-six he would
be fifty-five!
His mouth twisted into a grim smile. Life was a queer thing. He
wondered what he would have said had anyone told him three months
ago that he would be lunching here with Christopher's wife--quite
contentedly.
There were voices in the cobble-stoned yard outside, and Marie
looked towards the window.
"Two people coming in," she said. "I suppose that's who the other
places are laid for." She indicated the further end of the table.
"The two people Mrs. Costin mentioned, I suppose," Feathers said.
"Won't you have some more cream? I always think . . ." he broke off
as the door opened and Mrs. Heriot walked into the room.
There was a moment of blank surprise, then he rose to his feet.
"The world is a small place; how do you do?" he said calmly.
Mrs. Heriot found her voice, of which sheer astonishment had robbed
her; she broke out volubly.
"Mr. Dakers, of all people! And Mrs. Lawless too! Who on earth
would have dreamed of meeting you here? That must be your car in
the yard!"
She shook hands with Marie. "The world is a small place, isn't it?"
"Are you staying here?" Marie asked. She did not care in the least,
but it was something to say.
"Yes--with my sister. It's dull, but at week-ends we have quite a
good time. You must come down," she added, turning to Feathers. "And
how is Chris?"
"I left him in Scotland--golfing," Feathers said. "He is coming up
to town this week."
"Really! How delightful! Bring him down, and we'll have a foursome.
You don't play, do you, Mrs. Lawless? What a pity! Don't you care
for the game?"
"I've never played."
"Well, you must begin. Get Mr. Dakers to teach you." She turned as
her sister entered. "Lena, I've just run into two friends. Isn't it
queer? May I introduce my sister, Mrs. Rendle--Mrs. Lawless, and
Mr. Dakers."
Mrs. Rendle looked Marie up and down critically and nodded. She was
very like her sister, only older and less smart.
"You've just finished lunch, I see," Mrs. Heriot said. "What a
pity! We might have all had it together."
"We're not staying--we're going on," Feathers said hurriedly. "I'm
taking Mrs. Lawless down to see some friends at Wendover."
"Really! How perfectly delightful!" She drew Feathers a little away
from her sister and Marie. "Has she been ill again?" she asked,
with assumed concern. "I never saw anyone age as she has."
"Really!" Feathers looked at her stonily. "Mrs. Lawless looks just
the same to me." He had always hated Mrs. Heriot and he hated her
now more than ever. He made some pretext and went out to the car.
"Be sure to tell Chris that we are here," Mrs. Heriot said to
Marie. "It's a nine hole course, but quite good! Send him down for
a week-end."
"I won't forget," Marie promised.
She was thankful when Feathers came to say it was time to start.
She gave a little sigh of relief as they drove away.
Feathers glanced down at her sympathetically.
"Cat!" he said eloquently.
"I am afraid I do rather hate her," Marie faltered.
"The sister is a give-away," Feathers said. "One can see now what
Mrs. Heriot will be like in another ten years."
Marie could not help laughing.
"Oh, but how unkind!" she said. A little mischievous sparkle lit
her brown eyes. "And we're not really going to see any friends at
Wendover, are we?"
"No," he laughed with her. "I'd tell that woman anything," he said,
with a sort of savagery.
They stopped again for tea at a cottage, and the woman who owned it
gave Marie a big bunch of flowers to carry away.
"Now I really took as if I've been for a day in the country," she
said laughingly to Feathers. "People always trail home with bunches
of flowers, don't they?"
"I suppose they do." He touched the bunch lying in her lap. "May I
have one?"
"Of course!" She picked them up quickly. "Which one?"
He indicated a blue flower.
"Don't you think that would rather suit my style of beauty?" he
asked grimly.
She drew it from the bunch.
"It's called 'love-in-a-mist,'" she said. "Shall I put it in your
coat?"
"Please."
He had been starting the engine, and he came to the door of the car
and stooped for her to fasten the flower in his button-hole.
"Will that do?" she asked.
"Thank you." He got in beside her and they drove on.
"Which way shall we go home?" he asked.
"Any way--I don't mind. I don't know the roads, but I should like
to pass those hayfields again."
"Very well. You're not cold, are you?"
"Oh, no."
"If you are, there is my coat."
It was getting dusk rapidly, the moon stood out like a golden
sickle against the darkening sky, and there was a faint breath of
autumn in the air.
Marie drew the rug more closely about her. She felt gloriously
sleepy, and the scent of the big bunch of flowers on her lap was
almost like an anaesthetic with its intoxicating mixture of
perfume.
When they came to the hayfields which they had passed early in the
morning Feathers stopped the car and spoke:
"Are you asleep? You are so quiet."
"No; I was just thinking."
She sat up and looked at the view, more beautiful now in the
subdued light and shadow of evening.
The world seemed filled with the scent of the warm hay, and once
again, with a swift pang, her thoughts flew to Chris.
Where was he? Oh, where was he? Her heart seemed to stretch out to
him with a great cry of longing, but her little face was quiet
enough when presently she looked up at Feathers.
"Shall we go on now?"
He drove on silently.
"It's been such a lovely day," Marie said. "I have enjoyed it.
Thank you so much for bringing me."
"That's like a little girl coming home from a party," Feathers
said. "We can have another run out any time you like."
"It's been perfectly lovely! I was so tired when we started, but
it's been a beautiful rest, and I'm not tired any more."
But, all the same, when next he spoke to her she did not answer,
and, looking v quickly down at her, he saw that she was asleep.
Her head had drooped forward uncomfortably, and he could see the
dark lashes down-pointed on her cheek.
He slowed down a little, and slipping an arm behind her, and drew
her gently back until her head rested against his shoulder.
Mrs. Heriot had said that Marie looked years older, and in his
heart Feathers knew she was right, but the kindly hand of sleep
seemed to have wiped the lines and shadows from her face, and it
was just a child who rested there against his shoulder.
What was to become of her, he asked himself wretchedly, and what
was to be the end of this mistaken marriage?
He could almost find it in his heart to hate Chris as he drove
grimly on through the gathering night, with the slight pressure of
Marie's head on his shoulder.
Only nineteen! Only a child still! And a passionate longing to
shield her and secure her happiness rose in his heart. He had led a
queer life, a selfish life, he supposed, pleasing himself and going
his own way in very much the same fashion as Chris Lawless had
always done and was still doing, but then he had had no woman to
love him or to love--until now, and now . . . Feathers looked down
at the delicate little face that lay like a white flower against
his rough coat in the moonlight, and he knew with a grim pain that
yet was almost welcome to his queer nature that he would give
everything in the world if only her happiness could be assured.