"I sat with Love upon a woodside well.
Leaning across the water, I and he;
Nor ever did he speak, or look at me,
But touched his lute wherein was audible,
The certain secret thing he had to tell."
FEATHERS walked around the following afternoon. "I've left the car
to be tuned up," he explained as he and Marie shook hands. "And
I've got a brilliant idea for to-morrow!" He looked round the room.
"Where is Miss Chester?"
"Lying down. The sun this morning gave her a headache."
"Well, do you care to go on the river to-morrow?"
Marie's eyes sparkled.
"Oh, I should love it! In a punt?"
"We can have a punt, if you like; I'll wire to-day for it, and we
can drive down and take our lunch. Do you know the river?"
She laughed.
"I've seen it at London Bridge and once at Putney--that's all."
"You've never seen Wargrave?"
"No."
"Good! We'll go there---" Feathers hesitated. "Do you think your
aunt would care to come?" He tried to put enthusiasm into the
question, but not very successfully. Marie shook her head.
"I am sure she would not. She does not like the river, and she is
horribly afraid of small boats. She thinks they are bound to
upset."
"They are all right if you know how to manage them. It's all fixed
up, then? I'll order the lunch---"
She interrupted quickly: "Oh, I can do that; you don't want to have
all the bother."
"It's no bother to me; I was always chief cook and bottle washer
when Chris and I camped out together. As a matter of fact, lunch is
ordered already."
"You were so sure I would come?"
"I hoped you would."
She gave a little sigh of eager anticipation.
"Oh, I should love it."
"Let's hope it will keep fine." Feathers glanced towards the
window. "It looks promising. Wear something that won't spoil--the
river ruins good clothes."
He took up his hat.
"Oh, won't you stay to tea?" Marie asked disappointedly. "It will
be here in a moment."
He hesitated, then sat down again.
"Well--I did not mean to, but as I've been asked----"
Marie laughed.
"Do you always do as you're asked?"
"It depends on who asks me."
She rang the bell for tea.
"And please tell my aunt that Mr. Dakers is here," she said to the
maid.
She was always very punctilious about telling Miss Chester whenever
Feathers called.
"Have you heard from Chris?" Feathers asked suddenly.
"Yes--last night. He is at Windermere--on his way home."
Feathers looked up quickly.
"Then he may be here at any time?"
Marie shrugged her shoulders. "I don't expect him yet," she said in
rather a hard voice. "If he likes Windermere, I dare say he will
stay for a week or so."
There was a little silence.
"Of course if he should turn up to-morrow, our little outing must
be postponed," Feathers said quietly.
Marie did not answer, and he repeated his words.
"Yes, of course," she agreed then.
She looked at him critically. Had he begun to dress better since he
came back to London? Or was it just that she was getting used to
him, she wondered? She would have been surprised if she had known
the time and trouble Feathers spent on his appearance each morning
before he came to see her, and how he cursed his ugliness and
ungainliness every time he caught sight of himself in a glass.
He turned up in white flannels the following morning, with a light
dust coat and a soft felt hat.
Miss Chester refused to come, as Marie had prophesied.
"I detest the river," she said strenuously, "And after your
dreadful experience, Marie, I wonder you have the pluck to go near
water again."
"I shall be quite safe with Mr. Dakers," Marie answered, "and it's
such a lovely day! Do change your mind and come, dear."
But Miss Chester would not be persuaded.
"And don't be late home," was her last injunction. "I shall be
nervous and unhappy about you till you are safely back again."
"I am going to enjoy myself," Marie said. "I am quite sure we are
going to have a lovely day." She ran upstairs to put on her hat.
She had carried out Feathers' instructions by choosing a white
linen frock and a Panama hat, and white shoes and stockings. She
looked very young and dainty. Feathers thought, as she came running
down the stairs.
"You will want a coat," he said quietly. "It may rain."
"Rain!" she echoed, scornfully. She made a little grimace at him.
"Why, there isn't a cloud in the sky." But she went back obediently
for the coat, and to say good-bye to Miss Chester.
"And, oh, my dear, do be careful!" the old lady urged anxiously.
"Whatever shall I say to Chris if anything happens?"
"Nothing will happen," said Marie, "except that we shall thoroughly
enjoy ourselves."
She shut the drawing-room door behind her, and stopped for a moment
in the hall to peep at herself in the glass.
She had not looked so well for a long time. She turned away with a
little sigh of contentment, and at that moment a telegraph boy ran
up the steps to the front door.
Seeing Marie, he did not ring the bell, but handed her the yellow
envelope. It was addressed to "Lawless," and Marie tore it open
apprehensively.
"Home this afternoon--Chris."
Marie's heart gave a great leap, then seemed to stand still.
"No answer," she said mechanically.
She watched the boy go down the steps and mount his bicycle at the
curb, then she read the short message again.
"Home this afternoon--Chris."
This meant that she could not have her day on the river--that she
must tell Feathers she could not go with him.
He was outside in the road, tinkering with the car, and had not
seen the telegram delivered. With a sudden impulse Marie thrust it
into her frock. Why should she stay at home just because after all
these weeks Chris chose to come back? Why should she give up a
day's enjoyment with a man who really enjoyed her society just to
be hurt and ignored and made to suffer afresh?
Feather called to her from the road: "Are you ready, Mrs. Lawless?"
"Yes, coming now." She ran down the steps, her cheeks flushed with
a defiant sense of guilt. It was the first time in her life that
she had done anything mean or shabby, but her heart had grown hard
during the past days, and it no longer seemed a dreadful matter
that she should not trouble to be present when Chris came home.
There was a large picnic basket strapped to the back of the car,
and Feathers told her laughingly that he had brought a magnum of
champagne.
Marie opened her brown eyes wide.
"Gracious! Who do you think will drink it all?"
"Oh, I think we can, between us, quite easily. We've got all day
before us, you know."
Marie leaned back luxuriously. She had resolutely pushed all
thought of Chris from her mind and she did not mean to think of him
till they got back home again.
"I'm going to enjoy myself, and not worry about anything," she said
recklessly.
Feathers looked down at her. "Do you worry about things?" he asked
gently. "Don't do it, Mrs. Lawless! It brings wrinkles and chases
away smiles."
"Does it? How do you know?"
"I suppose I have eyes like other people," he answered.
"Aunt Madge would not come, you see; I was sure she would not,"
Marie said presently. "And she has quite made up her mind that I am
going to be drowned and that she will never see me any more."
"I don't think she need worry."
"That's what I told her; I said I knew I should be quite safe with
you."
"Thank you." She looked up, surprised by the gravity of his voice,
but he was not looking at her, and his ugly profile was a little
hard and stern.
It was a silent drive, but Marie gave a little cry of delight, when
at last a curve in the road brought them within sight of the river.
"There's an inn further down the road where we can leave the car
and get a punt," Feathers said. "Then well get up in the backwater
and have lunch."
Marie's face was glowing and she looked like a child who has
unexpectedly come across an illuminated Christmas tree.
"I never knew there were such lovely places in the world," she
said. When Feathers had run the car into the yard adjoining the inn
she went down to the river, and stood on the small, rough wooden
landing-stage, looking down at the silently flowing water with
dreamy eyes.
It was so peaceful, so restful, with the soft sound of the breeze
in the trees and tall rushes, and the sensuous lap of the water
against the boats moored to the landing-stage.
And again the thought went through her mind--what a lovely world it
would be if one could only have things just a little, little bit
different!
Feathers brought an armful of cushions from the boathouse, put the
luncheon hamper on board, and stripped off his coat preparatory to
starting business.
He pushed off from the landing-stage, and let the punt drift down
stream. He was a square, strong figure standing up against the
cloudless sky, and a thought that had often crossed Marie's mind
came again as she looked at him: What a kind man he could be to
some woman, and how happy some woman could be with him!
After all, what did a handsome face matter when it came down to the
difficult business of every-day life? It was kindness that counted
and sympathy and gentleness and understanding. Her brown eyes grew
wistful as she watched his ugly, preoccupied face.
Here was a man who disliked all women even as Chris did, and yet he
had found it possible to be kind to her, to befriend her in her
loneliness and perplexity. She felt that she could not be
sufficiently grateful to him.
Feathers did not speak till they had left the main stream and
slipped into the wonderful backwater that lies between Wargrave and
Henley. Marie had never seen anything like it in her life. She held
her breath in sheer delight as she lay back amongst the cushions
and looked up at the canopy of leaves overhead.
There were very few people about. Now and then a laugh reached them
across the water or the sound of row-locks, and once a big water
rat scurried past them along the margin of rushes and reeds,
staring at them for a second with dark, bright eyes before it
plunged and disappeared.
Feathers drew in the punt pole and took a paddle.
"Well, how do you like it?" he asked.
Her brown eyes shone.
"I never knew there was anything so lovely in England," she said.
"That is the mistake so many people make," he answered. "They rush
off abroad with a party of dreadful tourists and tire themselves
out in order to see some musty old museum or cathedral, and never
trouble to see the beauty spots of their own country. Look behind
you now!"
Marie turned her head obediently. They were nearing an old bridge,
built so low down to the water that it was only possible for a boat
to pass beneath it if the occupants bent their heads.
"We'll go through and tie up on the other side," Feathers said.
"Mind your head." He guided the boat skillfully through and out on
the other side.
Marie laughed and raised her head. Her soft hair was all roughened
by the cushions, and one long strand had tumbled down over her
shoulder.
"How old did you tell me you were?" Feathers asked rather grimly.
"Nineteen or nine?"
"Nearly twenty," Marie said indignantly.
"I refuse to believe it," he answered. "You are only just out of
the schoolroom with that curl hanging down." He indicated the
fallen lock of hair and Marie laughed and blushed as she hurriedly
fastened it up.
They tied up to a bank, and Feathers set out the lunch.
Marie wanted to do it, but he said no, it was her holiday, and she
was not to work at all.
"Look upon me as a sort of serf, or vassal!" he said, laughingly.
"Order me about; put your foot on my neck, for to-day I am your
humble servant."
"But only for to-day!" said Marie, with a quick little sigh.
He looked up sharply.
"What do you mean?"
She answered quite innocently:
"I only meant that I wish good things did not last such a little
while. I've never been so happy as I am now."
"Never, Mrs. Lawless? Isn't that rather a big order?"
She sat up, leaning her chin in the palm of her hand.
"It's true," she said quietly. "I used to dream about a lot of
silly things that could never really come true, but this"--she
looked at the beauty of the peaceful scene surrounding them.
"I never thought I could be so--so peacefully happy as I am now."
Feathers had been opening a tin of tongue, and the knife slipped
suddenly, cutting deeply into his hand.
He gave a little exclamation of annoyance, and Marie started up.
"Oh, you have hurt yourself."
"Nothing, nothing at all." He dipped his hand into the water and
hurriedly bound it round with a handkerchief. "Heavens, don't look
so scared! It's nothing to what has happened when we've been
camping out! The tent we were sleeping in collapsed on us one
night, and we were nearly smothered. I should have been, but for
Chris--he hauled me out."
"Did he?" her face grew wistful. "Chris is very fond of you," she
said.
Feathers shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, we get on very well together."
He went on preparing the luncheon, and when it was ready he rose to
his feet and made her a salaam.
"The feast is served, fair lady!"
He had tied the champagne bottle to the side of the boat, letting
it dangle in the water, and he drew it carefully up and released
the cork, letting it fly up into the trees overhead with a
tremendous report.
Marie laughed like a child; she was so happy to-day that everything
pleased and amused her.
Feathers filled two glasses and handed one to her, holding out his
own in a toast.
"To your future happiness," he said gravely.
Marie flushed a little.
"To yours," she said tremulously. "And--and to many happy returns
of this very happy day."
Feathers winced as if she had hurt him, but he answered lightly:
"Well, why not? We can come again to-morrow if you like? Wise
people take advantage of the sunshine in this country."
Her face paled; she put the glass down untouched. Then abruptly she
drew the crumpled telegram from her frock and gave it to him.
"Mr. Dakers, this came this morning."
He took it wonderingly; read it, and handed it back.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. She did not answer, and he went
on almost angrily: "You should have stayed at home. Mrs. Lawless,
why didn't you tell me? We could easily have cancelled our
arrangements."
She answered him then, in a little shamed whisper:
"Because--because I wanted to come with you."
And there followed a long silence, unbroken save for the soft
cooing of a wood pigeon in the trees overhead.
Feathers was kneeling on the grassy bank to which the punt was
moored, his head a little downbent, his brows furiously frowning.
All her life Marie remembered him as he looked then, such a big,
very masculine man, with his great shoulders and ugly head, his jaw
thrust out in an obstinate line, and yet--there seemed to be
something strangely helpless about him, something that seemed to
contradict the angry tone in which he had just spoken.
Then, quite suddenly he looked up and their eyes met, Marie's hot
and ashamed, though she could not have explained why, and his
trying so hard not to betray the agitation that was rending him.
"Are you angry with me?" she faltered. "Oh, don't be angry with
me." And, covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.
Feathers got up abruptly and stood with averted head staring down
stream.
The river was flowing swiftly just there, and it was carrying with
it a little toy boat which someone had twisted out of a newspaper.
Feathers followed its passage mechanically. It seemed symbolical of
his life during the past ten years, during which he had just
allowed himself to drift helplessly with the tide, until now, when
he stood face to face with the disaster of the hidden rock of a
girl's simplicity and desperate unhappiness.
Feathers was no fool, and he knew quite well that Marie's tears
were the outcome of all she had suffered since her marriage.
She had looked for love and happiness, and had found neither. She
had been flung back on herself and his friendship, and in her
gratitude for the little he had done to try and cheer her she had
magnified her affection for him.
He did some swift thinking as he stood there, his face resolutely
turned from her as she sat crying desolately.
Every instinct of his manhood was to take her in his arms and
comfort her, but he knew that such happiness was not for him--could
never be for him.
After a moment he went back to the deserted lunch. His face was
white, but he made a desperate effort to speak cheerily.
"And this is the day we were going to enjoy so much! You will never
come out with me any more now I have been such a brute. Mrs.
Lawless, won't you have some of this jam sandwich before the wasps
consume it all?"
Marie dried her tears, and laughed and cried again.
"I'm so sorry; I don't know why I was such a baby. No; don't look
at me; I'm so ashamed."
She leaned over the side of the punt and bathed her eyes in the
cool water, drying them on Feathers' silk handkerchief, which he
put within her reach.
He went on calmly serving out the lunch and talking about anything
that came into his head.
"Last time I was here, it came on to pour cats and dogs just as
we'd started lunch! There was lobster mayonnaise, I remember, and a
fine mess it was in. We're luckier to-day. There isn't a cloud. Do
you like cream? Yes, I remember you said you did when we lunched at
Mrs. Costin's inn."
He gave Marie plenty of time to recover herself. A great sigh of
relief escaped him when at last she looked up and smiled.
"All right now?"
"Yes."
"And I'm quite forgiven?"
"It wasn't your fault! You know it wasn't."
"Well, we won't argue! Mrs. Lawless, if you don't drink that
champagne I shall have to come and make you."
Marie drank some of it, and it did her good. The color stole slowly
back to her cheeks.
They talked trivialities for the remainder of the meal, and then
Feathers gravely washed up and stowed the remains of the feast away
in the hamper.
"We'll go on to Henley for tea," he said, "and you'll see the
houseboats. I came down to one three years ago with a house party.
Chris and Atkins were there as well. By the way, I had a note from
Atkins last night."
"Did you?" Marie flushed. "I should like to see him again," she
said.
"Well, why not? Now Chris is home we must make up some dinner
parties and theatre parties."
She looked away. "He's not home yet."
"No; but he will be. You'll find him looking for you when we get
back, and ready to break my head for having taken you out."
"Do you think so?" Her voice was coldly contemptuous, and Feathers
hurriedly tried another subject.
"The thing to do in a punt is to go to sleep. Have you ever slept
in a punt in a backwater like this? No? Then you've missed half the
joys of life. Come out on the bank a minute and let me arrange
those cushions."
He held his hand to her, but she avoided it, and stood watching
silently as he made a great business of plumping up the cushions
and spreading his coat for her to lie on.
"There you are! Isn't that great? Mind, you'll upset the whole
show!"
He tightened the moorings a little and looked down at her with a
strained smile.
Marie had gone back to the punt and dragged a cushion beneath her
dark head.
Feathers sat down on the grass, his back to a tree, and produced a
pipe which he gravely lit.
"I've had this pipe four years," he said. "Chris says it's a
disgrace to civilization, but I like it! You don't mind if I
smoke?"
"No, please do."
She closed her eyes, not from any wish to sleep, but to avoid
talking. There was a little fear at the back of her mind which she
could not capture or recognize.
Why had she cried? Why was it now that when Chris was on his way
home--perhaps was already in London--there was no joy in her heart,
only dread?
It was very still there in the backwater. Now and then a bird
darted down from the trees overhead and skimmed the clear water
with a flash of brown wings; or some little creature stirred in the
rushes, splashing the water and sending out ever-widening circles
to the opposite bank.
Feathers sat motionless, his arms folded, puffing at his pipe, his
eyes fixed on Marie's face.
Such a child! Such a child! That was always his compassionate
thought of her; and yet--those tears she had shed just now had not
been a child's tears, but a woman's.
He was afraid to question himself, afraid to read the answer which
he knew was there in his heart, but his eyes searched the soft
contours of her face with passionate longing.
Was she asleep? Somehow he did not think she was. And yet he was
glad of these moments in which he might look at her without having
to hold the mask before his face--for this little time in which she
seemed to be his own.
He had long known that he loved her and had accepted the fact as
philosophically as he had accepted the many other ironies and
disappointments of his life.
It was meant to be! He could not have helped or prevented it, even
had he wished. She was his friend's wife, and there was not one
disloyal thought in Feathers' heart at he sat there and let his
pipe grow cold and dreamed with his eyes on little Marie Celeste.
There was a gramophone playing somewhere in the distance, and the
water between lent it a softness and melody that was undeserved. It
grew clearer and clearer as the boat carrying it came up stream,
and presently Feathers could distinguish the words of the song:
I dream of the day I met you;
I dream of the light divine
That shone in your tender eyes, love.
When first they looked in mine,
I dream of the rose you gave me,
I dream of our last farewell,
I dream of the silent longing
That only the heart can tell . . .
Feathers had a healthy scorn for all things sentimental, but he
found himself listening till the boat had passed on and the song
vanished again into silence.
He looked at his watch then--it was four o'clock. If they started
at once they could not possibly get home before half-past seven or
eight, he knew, and recklessness closed down upon him.
It was his last day! Why not snatch all the hours possible? What
could it matter to Chris if he lost a little of his wife's company?
So he let Marie sleep on, and sat there without moving, torturing
himself with thoughts of the future, till presently she roused and
opened her eyes.
She lay for a moment looking at him unrecognizingly, then she
started up, rubbing her eyes in confusion.
"Have I been asleep? Why didn't you wake me? What is the time?"
"I am afraid I dozed off myself. It's the heat, I expect." He made
a great business of yawning and stretching his arms, though he had
not once closed his eyes. "It's nearly six--I am afraid we shall
not have time to go on to Henley."
"It doesn't matter," she said quickly. "We can go another day."
"Yes, we can go another day," he echoed, with the full knowledge
that for him there would never be another day.
The sun was sinking down behind the trees and pastureland and a
cool breeze had risen.
Marie shivered, and Feathers picked up her coat and gave it to her
silently.
"I'm not really cold," she said, but she put it on.
"Have we got to go back now?" she asked, as he began to untie the
rope that held them to the bank.
"Yes, I think we ought. We have to get to London, you know."
"Yes."
It was getting quite dark in the backwater. One punt which passed
them carried Chinese lanterns that glowed like magic eyes through
the September evening.
"Mr. Dakers," Marie said suddenly.
"Yes." He was intent on the paddle and did not look up.
"There is something I want to ask you before--be-fore we go home."
"Yes." His voice sounded a little jerky.
"It's only . . . you will still come and see me, won't you?--I mean
even--even if Chris has come home?"
"Of course. Why shouldn't I?"
"I don't know--I only thought perhaps . . ." Her voice faltered,
only to break out again passionately: "Oh, if you knew how I hate
the thought of the future," and then, with shamed realization of
what her words might convey, she tried to laugh as she went on: "I
don't exactly mean that, but--but, oh, you know I'm not the sort of
wife Chris ought to have married! It's kind of you to try and
pretend that you think I am, but I'm not so blind as I used to be,
and I know now! And I can't even make myself different--I suppose
because I'm too stupid . . . If only I were more like Mrs. Heriot
or Dorothy Webber . . ."
Feathers broke in harshly: "For God's sake, don't compare yourself
with them."
"But it's true--you know it's true," she insisted. "I don't want
you to think I'm blaming Chris; I've never blamed him in all my
life, and I want him to be happy, but . . ." Her voice trailed
hopelessly way, only to recover again with a pathetic effort.
"I'm not the sort of girl ever to make him happy. At first I hoped--
oh, I hoped so hard that things would come right, but lately--just
during the last few days, I think, I seem to have seen that it can
never be. I suppose I ought not to say all this to you--you're his
friend, and I am glad you are."
"I am your friend, too," said Feathers, quietly.
"I know; that's why I'm telling you. It's--it's dreadful to have no
one I can talk to--no one to understand and help me."
"I am afraid it's beyond me to help you," Feathers said hoarsely.
"I can only tell you to be patient and try and stick it out.
Pluck's everything you know, Mrs. Lawless---"
As if she had not been plucky! He gritted his teeth at his temerity
in daring to preach such a doctrine to her, and yet it was the best
he could do. To offer her the sympathy and tenderness that was
tearing his heart with longing would be to ruin their friendship
once and for all.
He looked back at her with hot eyes. He could only see her face
dimly through the dusk, but he heard the little despondent sigh she
gave as she answered him: "Yes; I suppose you are right. I will try
again--thank you."
"There's nothing to thank me for."
She laughed with soft scorn.
"How can you say that! Why, you've been kinder to me than anyone in
the world."
"My selfishness probably." He was making a desperate effort to get
back to platitudes, but it was difficult on such a perfect night
and in the company of the one woman in the world who had ever
touched his heart.
"I haven't drowned you, you see," Feathers said, as they reached
the boathouse again.
"No--and it's been such a lovely day."
He went off to get the car ready. Every moment was precious now,
and there were so few left. He thought jealously of the short drive
back to London, and wished that its end lay on the other side of
infinity.
"It's been such a lovely day!" Marie said again, as they started.
"I have enjoyed it--tremendously!"
The last word was a sigh.
"So have I."
There were so many things he wanted to say to her, but his tongue
was awkward and unable to find the words. He wanted to tell her
that always, whatever happened, he was her devoted friend, that his
one desire in life was for her happiness, but mile after mile
slipped by and the tender thoughts could get no further than his
sad heart.
And then they were home . . .
Feathers' face was grim as he stopped the car at Miss Chester's
gate and looked down at Marie.
"I hope you are not very tired, Mrs. Lawless," he said, and smiled
grimly to himself in the gray night at the contrast of the banal
inquiry and the passionate words that were almost choking him.
"No, I am not very tired," she said, and she gave him a little pale
smile as they went up the steps together. "You will--will wait and
see if Chris has come?"
"Yes."
She asked the maid who admitted them, "Has Mr. Lawless come home?"
but she knew before the girl answered, for Chris' big traveling
coat hung in the hall and there was a smell of cigarette smoke in
the house which had been absent during the past weeks.
She felt a little giddy, and her heart was beating wildly. How
could she bear to meet him and hear his casual "Hullo, Marie
Celeste?"
"Mr. Lawless came home this afternoon quite early," the maid
answered. "He had dinner with Miss Chester and went out: he said he
should not be in till late."
There was a little silence.
"I won't stay then, Mrs. Lawless," Feathers said quietly.
"Good-night."
"Good-night." Her fingers fluttered in his big grasp for a moment,
then he turned away and the front door shut heavily behind him.
Marie went into the drawing-room to Miss Chester. She felt very
tired, and her footsteps dragged.
"We've got back," she said.
"Yes." Miss Chester looked up. "I thought I heard Mr. Dakers'
voice," she added.
"So you did, but he would not stay when he heard that Chris had
gone out."
Miss Chester's kindly gaze wavered a little.
"Chris seemed very disappointed not to find you at home," she said.
"He could not understand it. He said that he wired he should be
home this afternoon."
"So he did, and I got the wire, but as he is always so uncertain I
did not think it worth while to stay at home."
There was a little silence. The distressed color rushed to Miss
Chester's thin face, and she laid down her knitting.
"Marie!" she said, aghast.
Marie smiled.
"Well, dear, he has wired before, and written before, and not
come," she said. "And I did so want to go on the river."
She took off her hat and ran her fingers through her hair. Her
nerves felt all on edge. She was afraid that at any moment the door
would open and Chris walk in. She wondered desperately what she
should say to him. It frightened her, because there was none of the
ecstasy in her heart, which had once been such a joy and a torment.
"Chris was hungry, so we did not wait dinner. Have you had yours?"
Miss Chester asked.
"Yes; no, I mean. I am not hungry; we had such a big lunch."
Marie wandered restlessly down the room. A sporting paper lay on
one of the tables amongst the silver trinkets and queer little
Victorian boxes which had belonged to her mother. Chris had thrown
it down there, she knew--and there was cigarette ash in one of the
fern pots.
"He looks splendidly well." Miss Chester went on, attacking her
shawl once more. "So brown! I never saw anyone with such a brown
skin."
Marie could picture him quite well--knew how startlingly blue his
eyes would look against that weather-tanned face. She stopped in
front of a photograph of him, and stared at it with a curious
expression in her eyes.
It had been taken when he was at Cambridge and showed him on the
river in boating flannels. She remembered so well when he had sent
that photograph home--it had been during the one short period of
her life when for a little while she had almost forgotten him.
She had not seen him for weeks, and a fresh school had made new
interests for her that had pushed him into the background of her
thoughts. Then that photograph came, and she could remember as
plainly as though it had been yesterday the sudden revulsion of
feeling that had flooded her heart, bringing back all the old
longing ache and worshipful love, even causing her to despise
herself because just for a little she had forgotten her idol.
As she stood staring at it now, she was conscious of a wish that
was almost a prayer for some such metamorphosis to happen again.
She would have welcomed the old biting jealousy and disappointment
if she could have driven this new feeling of cold indifference from
her heart.
"He brought me some lovely lace," Miss Chester went on. "There is
one thing about Chris, he never forgets to bring us presents when
he has been away. He is always most generous."
Marie echoed the words flatly.
"Yes, he is always most generous." And, for the first time since
she had overheard what Feathers had said in the hotel on the night
of her wedding, the bitter thought awoke in her heart that, after
all, it was only her money with which Chris was being generous--the
price he had paid for his freedom.
"If Chris is going to be late home," she said restlessly, "I will
go to bed. I really am tired. It's the river, I suppose. Mr. Dakers
says it is supposed to make people sleepy."
She had crossed to Miss Chester to kiss her good-night, when the
door opened and Chris walked into the room.