"It is the little rift within the lute.
Which, widening ever, make the music mute."
MARIE had stopped dead, the blood rushing to her face, her hands
nervously clutching the brim of the hat she had taken off when she
entered.
Chris was almost as embarrassed as she. He colored to the roots of
his hair and laughed awkwardly.
"So you've got back, Marie Celeste."
"Yes." And the dreadful pause fell again.
They both knew quite well that Miss Chester was watching them, but
for the life of her Marie could not have moved a step towards him.
Then, at last, Chris said, "Well, aren't you going to give me a
kiss?"
He was terribly nervous, which partially accounted for the
lightness of the words, but Marie read no meaning into them, except
the old dreaded indifference, and she turned her face away when he
bent towards her, so that his kiss fell on her cheek.
"You look very well," he said, because it was the exact opposite to
what he was thinking, and Marie said, "So do you," as she moved
over to Miss Chester as if for protection, and sat down on the arm
of her chair.
Chris lounged against the mantelshelf and stared up at the ceiling.
"Did you have a good time with Feathers?" he asked, bringing his
eyes down to his wife's pale face.
"Yes--I'd never been before. We went up to Wargrave. It was
lovely!"
She answered mechanically, in little jerky sentences.
"We had some good times camping out years ago," Chris said. "It's
all right if the weather holds."
"Yes," said Marie. She looked at him with brown eyes that were
merely critical and no longer slavishly adoring. He was handsomer
than ever, she thought, but the wonderful feeling of pride in him
had gone. She could admire him almost with indifference.
"It was queer, you meeting Dorothy," she said, with an effort, and
Chris said, "Yes, the world is a small place."
"I told her that I was sure you would be pleased to have her to
stay any time she liked to write and fix it up," he added. "She
plays a fine game of golf, but I beat her in the end."
"She was always good at sports," Marie said mechanically.
Miss Chester gathered up her knitting and said it was time she went
to bed. It was infinitely pathetic to her, because both Chris and
Marie immediately protested that it was still quite early, and that
surely there was no hurry.
But she persisted, and went off to her room.
There was an awkward silence when she had gone. Chris lit a
cigarette and forgot to keep it alight.
"I've brought you a bracelet," he said abruptly. "I hope you'll
like it." He took a little box from his pocket, "I got it in
Edinburgh coming down--I thought it was rather pretty."
He held the case to her. "Well, don't you want it?"
"Thank you, Chris; of course, I do! Thank you, very much." She
opened the snap and gave a little exclamation of pleasure; the
bracelet was designed like a wreath of small water lilies, the
petals made of platinum, with a diamond in the heart of each
flower.
"It's very pretty," she said. "Thank you so much."
But she made no attempt to take it from the case or slip it on her
wrist, and with a little impatient movement he took it from her.
"Come here," he said. "Hold out your hand."
She did so, and he snapped the bracelet on to her arm.
"It's very pretty," said Marie, but she did not dare to raise her
eyes to her husband's face. The touch of his hand on her arm had
communicated to her something of his old magnetism, and she knew
that she was trembling in every limb.
Then, suddenly, before she could guess at his intention, Chris had
caught her in his arms, and was kissing her passionately, bringing
stinging patches of crimson to her white face, and almost robbing
her of breath.
Then he held her at arm's length, his handsome face flushed, and
his eyes very bright and triumphant.
"You little iceberg! How dare you give me such a cold reception!
I've been looking forward to seeing you and you calmly go out as if
I didn't exist . . . Why, what's the matter, Marie Celeste?"
He seemed suddenly aware of the strange expression of her eyes. His
hands relaxed their grip, and she twisted herself free.
She had felt his kisses to be an outrage. She knew that he did not
love her, and that this sudden burst of passion was worth nothing
at all. There was something akin to hatred in her eyes as she
raised them to his abashed face.
"Please never dare to do that again," she said in a voice that was
all the more intense for its quietness. "I have never bothered you,
or asked anything of you--you have gone where you liked and stayed
away as long as you pleased--you always can--but in exchange I
expect you to allow me the same freedom."
Chris flushed scarlet, but more with surprise than any other
emotion. That she should dare so to speak to him was the biggest
shock of his life.
For a moment he could find no words, then he broke out savagely:
"Someone has been talking! Someone has been setting you against me.
I felt that you had changed directly I came into the room. Who is
it? Tell me who it is?"
She smiled contemptuously.
"I have hardly seen anyone, except Aunt Madge's friends and your
own, and if you think they have any reason to speak against you it
is no fault of mine."
He broke in passionately: "It's that young devil, Atkins. I knew he
was keen on you; I--Marie---" He caught her by the arm, swinging her
round to him as she would have turned away, his eyes searching her
face with bitter suspicion. "I suppose you've forgotten that you are
my wife?" he demanded.
She looked up.
"If I have, it isn't for you to be surprised, seeing that you have
never once troubled to remember it."
"Marie--what do you mean? I thought . . . I mean--it was your wish
. . ." He stammered and broke off; then all at once he turned away
with a little harsh laugh.
"What a nice home-coming! I wish to God I'd stayed away."
"You would have done so if you'd wanted to," Marie said quietly.
She waited a moment, but Chris did not speak, and she moved towards
the door. "I am tired--and I dare say you are. Good-night."
He did not answer, and she went silently away.
Chris stood with his elbow on the mantelshelf, staring down into
the empty grate. His pride, if nothing more serious, had received a
nasty blow.
He had come home quite happily--having had the time of his life--
had looked forward to seeing Marie Celeste--had planned all sorts
of things for her amusement--and, incidentally, his own--in the
future, and this was the reception he got!
He bit his lip savagely. What was the explanation of it all? She
had always been so docile and devoted. It turned his blood to white
heat to think of the apathy with which she had received his kisses--
kisses that had been meant, too! His face darkened--it was the
first time in his life he had ever known the slightest desire to
kiss any woman, but she had looked so provokingly pretty in her
white frock . . .
Chris swore and lit another cigarette. It would be a very long time
before he troubled about her again, he promised himself.
He would have been furiously indignant had anyone told him that it
was Marie's indifference that had fired his imagination, and
wakened the desire to rouse in her some show of affection.
It was not exactly pleasant to remember the years that were gone,
through which she had so faithfully adored him, and contrast them
with the steely feeling of her lips beneath his and the resistance
of her slim body in his arms.
Who was responsible for the change? He sought for it in everyone
but himself. He was the most suspicious of young Atkins--he was
near Marie's age, and had from the first shown a ridiculous
interest in her.
It was odd that he never seriously considered Feathers. Feathers
was his friend and disliked all women; any attention he had shown
to Marie had been out of ordinary courtesy, nothing more.
Well, if this was the attitude she meant to adopt, he would soon
let her see that he was quite indifferent. He would go his own way
and leave her severely alone. Hang it all, he had brought her home
a bracelet, and written whenever there had been anything to write
about. He would not have believed it possible for her to be so
unreasonable.
He comforted himself with the reflection that in a few days she
would come to her senses. All their lives there had been little ups
and downs of this kind, and she had never failed in the end to say
she was sorry.
She needed a firm hand--he supposed that all women did.
Having argued himself back into a more complacent state of mind,
Chris turned out the light and went, up to bed.
His room was next to Marie's, and as he moved about it in his
stockinged feet, once or twice he was sure that he heard the sound
of stifled sobbing, though whenever he stood still to listen all
was quiet again.
Once he even softly tried the handle of the communicating door, but
it was locked, and he frowned as he turned away.
She had been so different that Sunday afternoon when he asked her
to marry him. It gave him an unpleasant twinge to remember the shy
radiance of her face. He was very sure that she would not have
repulsed him then had he taken her in his arms and kissed her.
And his mind went back again to young Atkins with angry
persistence. Young cub! If he had been making love to Marie
Celeste, he would break his neck for him.
With singular blindness, he believed that the surest way to put
things right between himself and Marie, was to ignore the fact that
anything was wrong.
When they met he was always smiling and cheerful, but he never
asked her to go out with him, never showed the slightest interest
in what she did, or how she spent her time.
Miss Chester looked on in troubled perplexity. She loved them both,
and did not know with which of them the real fault lay.
She was afraid to ask questions, so matters were just allowed to
drift, and whatever battles Marie had to fight, she alone knew of
them.
She spent a great deal of her time with Miss Chester; she drove
with her and walked with her, and patiently wound wool for the
knitting of that interminable shawl.
She had not seen Feathers since the day on the river, though she
knew that he was often with Chris, and her heart was sore at the
loss of her friend.
She missed him terribly, though their companionship had only lasted
a little more than a week, and it hurt her inexpressibly to hear
the casual way in which Chris spoke of him--Feathers had been on
the ran-dan! Feathers had lost sixty pounds at poker! Feathers had
had to be taken home from his club in a taxi.
Miss Chester looked up from her work.
"Chris, what is the ran-dan?" she asked.
Chris laughed, and it was Marie who explained.
"It's a slang word for dissipation. Aunt Madge."
Miss Chester said "Oh!" in a rather shocked voice, adding slowly,
"I should not have thought Mr. Dakers a dissipated man."
"Nor I," said Marie.
"You don't know him as well as I do." Chris said. "And, by the way,
I'm golfing with him on Sunday."
Marie looked up.
"To lunch at the Load of Hay?" she asked quietly.
Chris raised amazed eyebrows.
"How ever did you know?"
"I went there with him once. We motored out, and Mrs. Costin gave
us lunch."
"You never told me."
"I forgot. We met Mrs. Heriot there."
"Yes; so Feathers said. We're going to fix up a foursome with her."
"Why don't you go, too, Marie?" Miss Chester said. "The drive would
do you good. You haven't been out in the car since that day Mr.
Dakers took you on the river."
"Yes; why not come along, Marie Celeste?" Chris said.
"I don't think I care about it," Marie answered.
Later on Chris tried again to persuade her.
He had followed her into the dining-room, where she was arranging
flowers for the dinner table.
"Why won't you come on Sunday?" he demanded.
"Because I should not find it very amusing. I don't play golf, you
know."
Chris fidgeted round the room, jingling some loose coins in his
pocket.
"I suppose you'd go if Feathers asked you," he said suddenly--so
suddenly that the hot color flew to Marie's face.
"I don't know what you mean," she said steadily.
"I mean that from all accounts you were with him every day before I
came home."
"Every day! When he was in Scotland with you for a month!"
"You split straws," he answered irritably. "You know quite well
what I mean."
"He took me motoring two or three times. I was glad to go; I had
not had a very exciting time."
"You could have had friends to stay with you."
"I asked Dorothy Webber, and she refused."
Chris colored a little.
"I should not imagine that she is your sort, anyway," he said
offhandedly.
"She was my best friend at school."
Chris took up a book and threw it down again.
"Well, will you come on Sunday?"
"No, thank you."
He caught her hand as she passed him, and his voice was hoarse as
he asked:
"Marie Celeste, what the devil have I done to make you hate me like
this?"
He had not meant to say it. He had intended to maintain his dignity
and indifference until it conquered her, but instead she had
conquered him, and now there was a passionate desire in his heart
to see the old shy look of adoration in her eyes and set the blood
fluttering in her pale cheeks.
She gave a little, nervous laugh.
"I don't hate you; don't be absurd, Chris. Let me go; I want to
finish these flowers."
"You can go if you will promise to come with me on Sunday."
She looked up.
"Why are you so anxious for my company all at once?"
He frowned.
"It looks so--so rotten, our never being together. Feathers is
always getting sly digs in at me about it, and it isn't as if there
is any real reason; we have always been good friends, Marie
Celeste, until lately."
So it was not that he wanted her. It was just that Feathers had
commented on the fact that they were so seldom together, and she
knew how Chris hated to be talked about.
She thought of Feathers with a little heartache. It seemed an
eternity since she had seen him or felt the strong clasp of his
hand, and quite suddenly she made up her mind.
"Very well, I will come."
Chris brightened immediately.
"Thank you, Marie Celeste. I shan't tell Feathers, it will be a
pleasant surprise for him." There was a little sneer in his voice,
but Marie took no notice, as she went on arranging the flowers with
hands that were not quite steady.
She did not expect to enjoy herself by accompanying Chris. She
hated Mrs. Heriot, and she knew she would feel out of everything
and unwanted, but--and she knew this had been the determining
factor--she would see Feathers.
She wore her prettiest frock on Sunday, and turned a deaf ear to
Mrs. Chester's lamentations that it would be ruined.
"The roads are so dusty--wear something that can't be spoilt, my
dear child."
"I'll take a cloak," Marie said.
She was conscious of a little feeling of nervousness as she drove
away with Chris.
"I'm going to pick Feathers up at his rooms," he said. "He's got
rooms in Albany Street, you know."
"Yes, he told me."
Her heart was beating fast as they drew up at the house, and she
kept her eyes steadily before her as Chris left the car and rang
the door bell violently.
It was opened by Feathers himself, ready to start and with his golf
bag slung over his shoulder.
"Ten minutes late, you miserable blighter," he began, then stopped,
and his face seemed to tighten as he looked at Marie. "How do you
do, Mrs. Lawless?" He went forward and shook hands with her
formally. "This is a pleasant surprise," he said quietly.
"Well, don't waste time--get in," Chris struck in bluntly. He took
his seat again beside his wife and drove on.
Marie felt strained and nervous. She tried hard to think of
something to say. She knew it would be the most natural thing in
the world for her to turn and speak to Feathers, but she could not
force herself to meet his eyes.
"You're very talkative," Chris said with faint sarcasm, looking
down at her. He glanced over his shoulder at Feathers.
"Was she was quiet as this when you took her out, Feathers?"
Feathers laughed, and made some evasive answer. He tried not to
look at Marie, but his eyes turned to her again and again. It
seemed a lifetime since they had met, and it filled him with
unreasonable jealousy to see her sitting by his friend's side as
once she had sat by his, and to know that she belonged to Chris--
irrevocably.
It had cost him a tremendous effort to keep away from her. Chris
had asked him to the house a dozen times since his return, but he
had always managed to avoid going. What was the use? He had had his
little hour of life. There was nothing more to hope for.
Mrs. Heriot was out in the road looking for them when they drew up
at the inn. A faint shadow crossed her face when she saw Marie,
though she was effusive in her welcome.
"And Mrs. Lawless too! How delightful--and how perfectly splendid
you are looking, Chris!"
Chris walked on with her to the inn, and for a moment Marie and
Feathers were left together.
They both tried to think of something to say, but even ordinary
conversation seemed difficult.
It was only when Marie's coat slipped from her arm and they both
stooped to recover it, that for an instant their eyes met, and she
broke out, as if the words were formed without her will or
knowledge, "It is nice to see you again, Mr. Dakers."
Poor Feathers! He flushed to the roots of his rough hair as he
answered gruffly:
"You are very kind, Mrs. Lawless," and then, with a desperate
attempt to change the subject, "Chris looks well, doesn't he?"
"Yes." She looked at him resentfully, but something in his face
soothed the soreness of her heart, for there was a hard unhappiness
in his eyes, and a bitter fold to his lips.
"He is not happy, any more than I am," she thought, and wondered
why. She sat next to him at lunch, and Mrs. Heriot and her sister
took the whole of the conversation between them. They talked of
golf till Marie's head reeled, and Feathers interrupted at last.
"This is not very interesting to you, I am afraid, Mrs. Lawless."
Mrs. Heriot laughed.
"Mrs. Lawless ought to learn to play! Why don't you teach her, Mr.
Dakers? She really ought to play."
"I'm afraid I should never be any good at it," Marie answered. "I
never could walk far, and it seems to me that you spend all the
time walking round and round."
Mrs. Heriot looked at Chris.
"Your wife is a vandal," she told him. "I am surprised that you
have not made her into more of a sportswoman."
He would have spoken, but she rattled on. "Did they tell you how
they ran into us down here ten days ago? Wasn't it queer? And what
do you think that silly Mrs. Costin thought?--why, that Mrs.
Lawless was Mr. Dakers' wife! We had such a laugh over it, didn't
we?" she appealed to her sister.
Marie had flushed crimson. She looked appealingly across at her
husband, and was stunned by the look of anger in his eyes--anger
with her, she knew. With a desperate effort she pulled herself
together.
"I wonder if people thought any of the women Chris played golf with
in Scotland were his wife?" she said.
Mrs. Heriot screamed with laughter.
"That's the first time I've ever seen you hit back," she cried,
clapping her hands. "You dear, delightful child."
Feathers pushed back his chair and rose.
"Are we obliged to waste all the day here?" he asked. "I thought
the main object was to play golf."
Mrs. Heriot followed him with alacrity, and her sister glanced at
Marie.
"What are you going to do?" she asked. "You'll find it very tiring
walking round with us, I'm afraid; the sun is so hot."
"I should like to come." Marie said. "You would like me to,
wouldn't you, Chris?"
"My dear child, please yourself, and you will please me."
He tried to make his voice pleasant, but to Marie, who knew him so
well, there was an underlying current of angry bitterness.
Was he jealous because of that remark about Feathers, she wondered,
and laughed at herself. Chris had never been jealous of anyone or
anything in his life.
"I shall come then," she said, and walked out of the room.
But before they had got half-way round the course she was tired
out, and had to admit it. There were hardly any trees for shelter,
and the sun blazed down relentlessly on the dry grass.
Mrs. Heriot and Chris were playing together and a little ahead, and
Marie said to Feathers:
"I'm going to stay here and rest. Please go on, and I will walk
back to the clubhouse directly."
They were passing a little group of trees.
"It will be cool in the shade here," she added.
Mrs. Heriot's sister called to them.
"Now then, you two! What are you waiting for?"
"You'd better have my coat to sit on," Feathers said. "Yes, I know
it's hot, but there are heavy dews at night and the grass may be
damp, and you don't want to take any risks."
He had been playing without his coat, and he handed it to her
before he went on to join his partner.
Marie sat down in the shade. Her head ached and she was glad of the
rest. She let Feathers' coat lie on her lap listlessly. What did it
matter if she caught cold or not? Certainly nobody cared what
became of her.
The others had gone on over a rise in the ground and out of sight
before Chris noticed that Marie was not with them.
He called out to Feathers, "Where is Marie?"
"She was tired--she is going back to the clubhouse when she has
rested."
Mrs. Heriot laughed as she walked on by Chris' side. "Mr. Dakers is
very devoted," she said softly.
"Devoted!" Chris echoed the word blankly. "Devoted to what?" he
asked.
She raised her eyes and lowered them again immediately.
"To your wife, I mean," she said.
"To--my--wife!"
She gave a little affected laugh.
"My dear Chris, don't pretend to be surprised when everyone down at
the hotel noticed it, even on your honeymoon. Why, Mrs. Lister even
asked me which of you was her husband--you or Mr. Dakers. So silly
of her, of course, but it shows how people notice things. You know
I always think that when a man dislikes women, as Mr. Dakers has
always professed to do, in the long run he is bound to be badly
caught."
Chris turned on her furiously.
"I think you forget you are speaking of my wife," he said.
She flushed scarlet.
"My dear boy, I meant nothing against her. I know as well as you do
that there is nothing in it, on her side at all. I only meant that
Mr. Dakers . . ."
"Dakers is my friend. I would rather not discuss him, if you have
no objection."
She saw that she had gone too far, and relapsed into silence. They
both played badly for the remainder of the game, and lost the
match.
They were rather a silent party as they walked back to the
clubhouse.
Feathers looked round quickly.
"Mrs. Lawless is not here," he said to Chris.
Chris threw his clubs into a corner.
"No; I'll go and find her," he said, and walked out again into the
sunshine.
CHAPTER XVI
"Better for both that the word should be spoken;
Fetters, than heart, if one must be broken."
MARIE sat lost in thought for a long time after the others had gone
on. It was very peaceful out there on the links, and to-day there
was hardly anybody about.
She wondered why it was that, no matter how hard she tried, she
always seemed to find herself left alone and out of everything.
Did the fault lie in her own temperament, or was it merely that she
was not physically strong enough to enter into things as other
women did?
She knew that she was totally unsuited to be Chris' wife, and,
knowing it, wondered why it was she had ever loved him so much; why
things so often seemed to happen like that in life, without any
apparent reason.
In spite of the subtle change in her feelings towards her husband,
she never for a moment blamed him. It was Fate--one could not avoid
these things, and she found herself wondering if Feathers would
have been kinder and less selfish had he found himself in similar
circumstances.
She looked down at his rough tweed coat lying across her lap. It
was well worn and very shabby, much more shabby than any coat of
her husband's. She smoothed the rough fabric with gentle fingers.
It was odd how blind women were, she thought; odd that an ugly face
should so repel them that they never troubled to look beyond it and
discover that it is possible for a heart of gold to lie hidden
behind blunt features and an ungainly figure.
She had made the same mistake herself. She had adored her husband's
handsome face and proved to her bitter cost that alone it was
unsatisfying and offered nothing in exchange for all her love.
What was to become of her? The bond of marriage which she had at
first believed she could tolerate because she loved her fellow
prisoner was now growing into a fetter, and she felt that she would
give anything to be free of it.
She had thought herself miserable when Chris was away in Scotland,
and yet she knew she had been happier then than she was now, when
his presence in the house was a constant worry to her, and left her
with an eternal sense of captivity.
She had tried hard to get used to it, and failed. Surely there must
be some other way of escape for them both.
Across the hills she thought she heard somebody calling to her, and
she scrambled to her feet with a sense of guilt. Time had passed so
quickly--she supposed they had got back to the clubhouse and were
looking for her.
Feather's coat had fallen to the grass, and as she stooped to
recover it a litter of papers and odds and ends tumbled out of one
of the pockets.
Marie went down on her knees to gather them up, smiling at the
motley collection. There was a bundle of pipe-cleaners and a
half-empty packet of cigarettes, a bone pocket knife, some papers
that looked like bills and a sheet torn from a bridge scorer with
something folded between it--something that fluttered down to the
grass--a dead flower!
The color flew to Marie cheeks as she stooped to pick it up. It was
a faded blossom of love-in-a-mist--the flower she herself had given
to Feathers the last time they drove this way.
She held it in her band for a moment, her eyes a little misty, then
she unfolded the page from the bridge scorer and put it back in its
place, and on the inside of the paper, scrawled in Feather's
writing, were the words "Marie Celeste," and the date of the day
she had given it to him.
Marie sat down on the grass with a little feeling of unreality. Why
had he kept it? She shut her eyes and conjured up his kind, ugly
face, and all at once it was as if a burning ray of light
penetrated her mind, showing her the thing he had never meant her
to see.
He loved her! She could not have explained how it was that she knew
or why she was so sure, but it came home to her with a conviction
that would not be denied. He loved her.
How blind she had been not to have known all along! A hundred and
one little incidents of their friendship came crowding back to her,
fraught with a new meaning and significance.
He loved her, and his was a love so well worth having; a love that
would make a woman perfectly contented and happy, that would allow
of no room for jealous doubts or bitterness, that would be like the
clasp of his hand, strong and all enfolding.
She had often thought with faint envy of the unknown woman whom
some day he might love, and all the time she was that woman!
The little dried flower had betrayed his secret, and the knowledge
of it sent a wave of such happiness through her heart that for an
instant she felt as if she were floating on clouds far above all
the bitter disappointments and disillusionments that marriage had
brought her.
For the first time in her life Chris no longer had a place in her
thoughts. She gave herself up to the sweetness of a dream that
could never be realized--the wonder of complete happiness.
"Marie," said a voice behind her, and she looked up with dazed eyes
to her husband's face.
She had not heard his step over the soft grass, and he was close
beside her as with trembling fingers she thrust the papers and odds
and ends back into Feathers' coat.
"I was just coming back," she said. She tried desperately to
control her voice, but her agitated heartbeats seemed somehow to
have got hopelessly mixed up with it. "Mr. Dakers left me his coat,
and the things all fell out of the pocket--I hope I've found them
all."
She scrambled up.
"Let me take it," Chris said. She made a little involuntary
movement as if to refuse, then gave it to him silently.
That old tweed coat had suddenly grown dear to her--more dear than
anything else in the world. She averted her eyes, so she should not
see the careless way in which Chris slung it over his arm.
She walked along beside him without speaking, hardly conscious of
his presence. Her thoughts were all in the clouds, her pulses were
still throbbing.
Somebody loved her--that was the great joy and wonder of the world.
She no longer felt herself unwanted. There was one man to whom she
was not merely a tie and a nuisance.
Then Chris said abruptly: "It's a pity you came if you're so easily
tired."
She started and looked up at him.
"What do you mean? I'm not tired."
All her weariness had forsaken her, driven away by new and happier
thoughts.
He laughed grimly.
"Feathers told me that you were tired and had stayed behind to
rest."
He searched her face with vague suspicion.
Marie answered rather sharply:
"There seemed no object in my trudging round behind you all; I was
not playing and I did not understand the game."
She quickened her pace a little as the clubhouse came in sight. She
did not desire his company. She hardly considered him.
They had tea outside in the shade of a tree. Mrs. Heriot was very
quiet. She looked rather sullen.
"Have you got a headache?" Marie asked sympathetically. She felt
that to-day she could even be nice to this woman.
Mrs. Heriot's sister broke in spitefully: "Headache! Of course she
hasn't. She lost the game, that's all, and it always makes her
sulky."
Mrs. Heriot flushed.
"We'll take you on again after tea, and beat you," she said. "We
never should have lost, only Chris slacked off."
She shot him an angry glance.
Feathers took no interest in the conversation. He had had one cup
of tea, refusing anything to eat, and sat back in his chair, his
hat tilted over his yes, smoking hard.
Marie hardly glanced in his direction, but she was painfully
conscious of his every movement. Her thoughts all the time were
picking out little incidents of their friendship, translating them
anew, hugging their meaning to her heart.
She did not know that Chris was watching her closely--would not
have cared if she had known. For once she had been lifted above the
level of pain and disappointment to which marriage with him had
relegated her.
Presently another man strolled up and joined them. He knew both
Chris and Mrs. Heriot, it seemed He asked if there was any chance
of a foursome.
Chris indicated Feathers.
"My friend here is going to play. Sorry."
Feathers looked up.
"I'm not keen--I'm quite happy where I am. Mrs. Lawless and I will
keep one another company. Shall we?" he asked, glancing at her.
Marie nodded. Her heart was racing, and she was afraid that every
one would see her agitation. Chris laughed.
"I dare say you'll be able to amuse one another." he said, and
presently Marie was left with Feathers.
He sat up then with some show of energy.
"Nice place here, isn't it?"
"Yes--very."
"I wish you would play golf, Mrs. Lawless."
"Who do you suppose would teach me? I don't know the first thing
about it."
"I shall be delighted to offer myself for the post, if Chris has no
objection."
Her brown eyes shone. "Why should he? He would not care to teach me
himself."
It seemed as if she saw Feathers now for the first time. He was no
longer Chris' friend, the man she had hated for having brought her
castle tottering earthwards. He was no longer even the kind friend
he had been to her--he was the man who loved her.
Her thoughts seemed to travel so fast ahead, weaving all sorts of
impossible day-dreams for the future.
"I'll speak to him about it," Feathers said briefly.
His kind eyes dwelt on her face.
"I thought you said you were tired," he said, suddenly. "I don't
think I have ever seen you look better in your life."
She laughed and flushed.
"Haven't you?" She looked away from him across the green slope up
which Chris and the others were disappearing.
"You ought to have played," she said irrelevantly. "Why didn't you?
I am sure you would have enjoyed it better than sitting here."
She asked the question intentionally, hoping with almost childish
eagerness that he would say he preferred to be where he was. She
knew it would be only the polite thing to say, although in her
heart she would understand that in this instance he was sincere.
But Feathers did not say it. He was filling his pipe with tobacco,
ramming it down into the bowl with careful precision.
"I don't care for mixed games," he said. "Mrs. Heriot always loses
her temper so shockingly."
"Does she?" She leaned her chin in her hand and looked at him with
rather wistful eyes. She wondered what he would say if she told him
about that little dead flower.
He broke into her thoughts.
"Has Chris told you that I am leaving England?"
The words gave her a terrible shock; the color drained away from
her face, leaving her eyes very piteous against its pallor.
"Leaving--England!" she echoed the words in a whisper.
"Yes," he went on, ramming tobacco into his pipe, hardly conscious
of what he was doing.
"You remember that I told you I always went with the tide. Well,
three weeks ago it washed me up in London, and now it's washing me
off again. I'm going to Italy."
"Oh--what for?" She asked the question without expression.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know; nothing in particular. I've been before, of course.
I'm just going to take a stick and a knapsack, and walk around the
country, sleep anywhere--eat anything--and enjoy myself."
"I wish I could come with you." The words broke from her with a
little cry, and Feathers raised his eyes at last.
He saw the pallor of her face and the distress in her eyes, and his
heart began to race, but he only said very quietly: "You'd soon get
tired of living my Bohemian life. When you go to Italy Chris will
take you, and you must do the thing properly."
She seemed hardly to hear. She went on passionately: "It seems as
if I must lose all my friends. It isn't fair! First there was Mr.
Atkins, and now . . ."
"Atkins!" said Feathers sharply.
"Yes." She laughed recklessly. "He went away because . . . oh, I
suppose I ought not to tell you, really, but I know you think that
nobody cares for me--because I'm so uninteresting, but he did--he
was only a boy, but he was really fond of me--and so . . . so I
sent him away! And now you are going, too! . . . I wish I could
die!" said Marie Celeste, in a tragic whisper.
There was a long silence. Feathers' big hands hung limply between
his knees, his fingers still clutching at his pipe, then he said
slowly, as if he were carefully choosing his words:
"If young Atkins could be man enough to--go--what would you think
of me--if I stayed?"
His voice was quite quiet, though a little hoarse, but its very
steadiness seemed both to conceal and reveal more than an outburst
of passion would have done, and Marie gave a little stifled cry.
And Feathers went on, speaking in the same quiet voice:
"You see, Mrs. Lawless, I know the world, and you do not! I know
what a mountain of regrets one lays up for the future if--if one
forgets other things . . . Chris is a good fellow--until he married
you I thought him the best chap in the world--I think so still,
except that I cannot forgive him for having failed to make you
happy; but . . . but my failure will be worse than his, if I--if I
try to deceive myself with the belief that I can . . . can give you
what he cannot."
"I have always been happy with you," said Marie in a whisper.
Her cheeks were like fire, and she felt that she could never look
him in the face again, and yet her whole desire was to keep him
with her--to prevent him from walking out of her life, as she knew
he intended doing.
She felt very much as she had done that morning when he saved her
from drowning--a terrible feeling of hopelessness and despair,
until the moment when the grip of his strong hands caught her.
He had saved her life then. Was he going to let her drown now in
the depths of her own misery?
Once he went away it would be the end of everything, she knew. He
would never come back any more, and for the rest of her life she
would have to go on trying to make the best of things, trying to
get used to having a bachelor husband.
She knew that the silence had lasted for a long time before
Feathers said gently: "There are some people coming, Mrs. Lawless!"
She looked up then with fiery eyes.
"Well, you haven't gone yet," she said defiantly. "Ever so many
things may happen before you do."
The day had been a failure, and the drive home was a silent one.
Marie sat beside Chris as she had done before, and her eyes were
very bright as she looked steadily ahead of her down the road.
It was like looking into the future, she thought, as London drew
nearer and nearer, and the many lights were symbolical of the
happiness that lay in wait for her.
She refused to believe that Feathers really would go away. Her
whole heart and soul were bent on keeping him near her.
She was very young, or she would have seen the impossibility of the
whole thing as he did. Reaction was the power driving her. She who
had hitherto had nothing found herself all at once with full hands,
and she clasped her treasure to her desperately.
Chris put her down at the house and drove around to the garage with
Feathers; he was a long time gone--and when he came back he was
alone.
Marie peeped over the banisters when she heard his voice in the
hall below, and a faint chill touched her heart when she saw that
Feathers had not come in with him. She felt like a disappointed
child as she went back to her room.
She had changed her frock to please Feathers. There was somebody at
last who cared how she looked. Though he would have said nothing,
perhaps would hardly have glanced her way, she would have known
that he liked to see her look pretty.
Now that he was not coming she had lost all interest. Her face was
listless as she crossed the landing to go downstairs.
As she did so, the door of Chris' bedroom opened, and he called to
her:
"I want you, Marie Celeste."
Marie hesitated.
"It's nearly dinner-time; what do you want?"
"I want to speak to you."
One of the servants was coming upstairs, and more for appearance
sake than anything Marie obeyed.
"Yes." She stood in the doorway waiting.
Chris had made no attempt to change for dinner, though he had been
in some time. He stretched a hand past her as she stood there and
shut the door. Then he said abruptly:
"I'm going away to-morrow, Marie. I'm sick of London." He did not
look at her as he spoke, but he heard the quick breath she drew,
and knew it was one of relief.
His voice was hard as he went on, "I want you to come with me."
"No." She was hardly conscious of having spoken the word till she
saw the sudden change in his face, but he kept himself under
admirable control.
"Why not?" he asked.
She looked away from him.
"I would rather stay here--that is all."
"But I wish you to come."
She looked up.
"You have never wanted me to go anywhere with you before."
"I know--perhaps because I was a damned fool. Anyway, we won't
argue. You will come with me tomorrow."
"No, Chris, I shall not."
There was a tragic silence.
"Why not?" Chris asked again hoarsely.
Her lips trembled, but she answered quite gently: "Because I would
rather stay here--with Aunt Madge."
She saw the hot blood leap to his face, and quite suddenly he broke
out in blind passion.
"With Feathers, you mean! Speak the truth and admit it! You want to
stay here with him and knock about with him, as you did when I was
in Scotland I I'm not such a blind fool as you think! It's Feathers
who has changed you so! Do you think I can't see the difference in
you when you're with him and when you're with me? Do you think
other people can't see it, too? You heard what that woman, Mrs.
Heriot, said at lunch to-day . . ."
Marie's lip curled contemptuously, though her heart was racing and
she was as white as a ghost.
"Mrs. Heriot!" she echoed disdainfully.
"And everyone else, too!" he raved on. "It's got to stop, I tell
you. You're coming away with me to-morrow. Do you think I want my
wife talked about by a lot of scandalmongering women? . . ." He
broke off breathlessly, but Marie neither spoke nor raised her
eyes, and the coldness of her averted face cut him to the heart. He
caught her by the shoulders roughly.
"You used to love me, Marie Celeste," he said brokenly.
"Did I?" The brown eyes met his now. "You never loved me," she
said, very quietly.
He broke out again into fresh anger. He raged up and down the room,
hardly knowing what he was doing. He hated himself for his
blindness, hated her more because she could stand there so unmoved.
"You'll come away with me to-morrow," he said hoarsely. "I insist--
you're my wife!"
"Yes--unfortunately," she said, white-lipped.
He stared at her with hot eyes.
"Is that how you feel about it? You hate me as much as that? I know
I haven't treated you as well as I might have done--I know I'm a
selfish chap--but you knew that when you married me--you've always
known it."
She gave a little weary sigh.
"What does it matter? I'm not complaining; you've always been
free."
"I don't want to be free; you're my wife. Marie Celeste, for God's
sake . . ." She put up her hand.
"Oh, Chris--please."
It hurt inexpressibly to hear him pleading to her--he who had never
done such a thing in his life--and yet . . . "I don't care! I don't
care at all!" she was saying over and over again in her heart.
He took her hand.
"Can't we start again? I'll do my very best--I swear I will. I know
you're too good for me--you ways have been. I don't deserve that
you should ever have married me, but it's not too late, Marie
Celeste. Come away with me, and I'll show you that I can treat you
decently when I like."
Someone knocked at the door. "Please, sir. Miss Chester sent me to
say that dinner was ready half an hour ago."
Marie drew her hand away quickly. The interruption was very
welcome.
"Let me go--please! Aunt Madge will think it so strange."
"In a moment, Marie. Will you come with me to-morrow? We'll go
where you like; I'll do anything in the world you wish. . ."
She shook her head.
"I don't know; I can't decide now. Ill think it over."
"When will you tell me?"
"I don't know; to-morrow--yes, to-morrow morning."
She made the terms to escape from him and went to her room and
stood for a moment with her hands hard pressed over her eyes.
The storm had come so suddenly. She wondered what had been
responsible for it. Had Mrs. Heriot said anything more--or could it
have been Feathers himself? She could hardly force herself to go
down to dinner, as she was shaken to the depths of her soul.
Chris talked ceaselessly during dinner. He drank a good deal of
wine, and his face grew flushed and his eyes excited.
"You're not going out again, surely?" Miss Chester asked him when
afterwards he came to the drawing-room for a moment in his
overcoat.
"I am--just for a stroll; it's so hot indoors." He looked at Marie.
"Will you come?" he asked jerkily.
"I'd rather not; I'm tired--I think I'll stay with Aunt Madge."
But as soon as he had gone she went up to her room and sat down in
the darkness. A lifetime seemed to have been crowded into this one
day. She felt that she had aged years since they started out in the
morning.
Feathers loved her! The knowledge stood out like a beacon light in
the darkness. She knew what her life would be with him--happiness
and contentment, and she did so long for happiness.
He was a good man, and a strong man; all her empty heart seemed to
stretch out to him in passionate gratitude and longing.
But she was married . . . She felt for her wedding ring in the
darkness and held it fast.
She had married the man she loved, believing that he loved her.
Well, he did not! She was his wife in name only! Would there be any
great harm if she snapped the frail tie between them?
She sat there for a long, long time, tortured with doubts and
indecision. What ought she to do?
Miss Chester came up presently to say good-night. She knew quite
well that there had been some trouble between Chris and Marie, but
she asked no questions.
"Sleep well, dearie," she said as she went away, and Marie smiled
bitterly. How could anyone sleep well, torn as she was by such
miserable indecision?
Did she love Feathers? She could not be sure. That she loved him as
a dear friend she knew; that she was always happy with him she also
knew; but there was none of the romance and wonder in it that had
thrilled her when Chris asked her to marry him.
She wrung her hands in the darkness.
"I don't know--oh, I don't know!"
Chris cared nothing for her. His outburst this evening had been
partly anger and partly outraged pride. His was a dog-in-the-manger
affection; he did not want her himself, and yet he would allow
nobody else to have her.
She got up presently and unlocked the door between their rooms,
groping along the wall for the switch.
She looked round her husband's room with unhappy eyes, and
something of the old tenderness flowed back into her heart.
She had loved him for so long, her life and his were so irrevocably
bound up together. How could she take this step that would sever
the tie once and for all?
She wandered round the room aimlessly, picking up little things of
his, looking at them, and putting them down again, and all the time
the same unanswerable questions were going on in her mind.
If she stayed with him what was there for her in the future? She
could only see more disillusionment and tears and sorrow, and if
she went with Feathers . . . Marie laughed brokenly, the tears
running down her cheeks. How could she go with Feathers when he had
not asked her? And suddenly she remembered the look in his eyes as
he said good-night to her an hour or two ago.
She had tried to believe that it was not farewell and renunciation
that she had read in them, but she had known that it was. He was
stronger than she--his heart might ache, but he would not dishonor
his friend. He would walk away with a smile on his lips, and nobody
would ever know what he suffered.
If she tried to break down his strength she was not worthy of his
love, and suddenly Marie Celeste hid her face in her hands and
broke into bitter crying, which yet brought tears of healing to her
heart. She would be worthy of him--she would not be a coward,
snatching greedily at the one hope of happiness offered to her; she
would go on, trying to be brave, trying to make the best of things.
She went back to her room, leaving the door ajar so that she could
hear when Chris came in. He was very late--she heard the clock
strike twelve, and then half-past, but still he did not come; and
then--at twenty minutes past one she heard a taxi drive up to the
door and voices on the path outside.
She pulled aside the blind and peered out, but it was too dark to
distinguish anything. Then the cab drove away, and she heard the
front door opening below and the sound of steps in the hall.
She crept out oh to the landing and looked over the banisters. She
could see Chris, his hat pushed to the back of his head and the top
of a cigar stuck jauntily into the corner of his mouth, laughing
immoderately, and swaying a little on his heels, as he resisted the
other man's attempt to help him off with his coat.
Marie had never seen anyone the worse for drink in her life. Miss
Chester had always brought her up in the belief that no gentleman
ever took too much to drink. She would have been horrified if
anyone had told her that most men of her acquaintance had, at one
time or another, been helped home to bed. She stood clutching at
the banisters, her face white with horror.
She did not know the man who was with Chris, so she hardly glanced
at him. Her feet seemed glued to the spot and her eyes never left
her husband's face.
And this was the man of whom she had a moment ago cherished such
tender thoughts of forgiveness; this was the man for whose sake she
had made up her mind to forego her happiness.
Her overstrained nerves exaggerated the whole thing painfully. She
fled back to her room and locked and bolted the door.
She heard Chris come upstairs and heard him walking unsteadily
about the room, and after a long time she heard him click out the
light. Everything was silent then, but Marie Celeste lay awake till
dawn, her brown eyes wide with horror.
She had kept her idol on its pedestal with difficulty for some time
now, but to-night it had fallen . . .
Chris was down late for breakfast the next morning; but he looked
quite fresh and brisk as she met him in the hall.
"You had better ring for more coffee," she said. "I am afraid it is
cold; you are late."
"I know; I was late home last night."
She did not say that she had heard and seen him and went on without
answering. Presently he sought her out. His blue eyes were anxious,
and he looked very boyish and nervous.
"Well, Marie, what is it to be?"
Marie was writing a letter in the drawing-room and she laid the pen
down and turned in her chair.
Perhaps he read the answer in her face, for he took a quick
protesting step forward. "Marie--you're not . . ."
She stood up, her hand on the chair between them.
"I've been thinking it over, Chris, and--and I can't go away with
you to-day."
Their eyes met steadily for a moment, and she saw his lips quiver
as if she had hurt him, but Chris knew how to take a hard blow. He
shrugged his shoulders.
"Very well--I know I've only myself to blame."
He turned to the door, but she called him back.
"There's something else, Chris."
"Well?"
But now she could not meet his eyes, and her voice was almost a
whisper as she said:
"I wanted to ask you--it's . . . it's so hopeless going on like
this. You are not any more happy than I am . . . Couldn't we--isn't
there some way of . . . of both of us getting our freedom again?"
She did not dare to look at him as she spoke. Her heart was beating
furiously; there was a little hammering pulse in her throat that
almost choked her. Then Chris covered the distance between them in
a single stride and took her roughly by the shoulders.
"How dare you--how dare you say such a thing to me?" he said
hoarsely. "Good God! don't you think I've got any--any feeling? Do
you think I'm such a blackguard as to--to listen to such a thing
for one moment? You must be mad!"
"I'm not--and you know I'm not. I'm tired--sick to death of living
like this." Her voice rose excitedly. "Why, we may have to be
together for years and years--twenty years, if we don't try and get
free!" Her brown eyes were feverish. "You hate it as much as I do.
Oh, surely it can be arranged if we try very hard!"
Chris was as white as death. This was the worst shock he had ever
had in his life, and, coming from Marie Celeste of all people, it
left him stunned and speechless.
Until his return from Scotland he had been quite happy and
contented, but since that first evening when she had so coldly
repulsed him there had been a restlessness in his heart, a
miserable sort of feeling that he could settle to nothing--a
consciousness that things were all wrong and that he had not the
power to put them right.
And the discovery that he had only himself to thank for it all did
not help him in the least. In his blindness he tried every way but
the right way to get back to his old contentment.
Marie was in love with love, not with Feathers, but, being a man,
Chris could not tell this. He only saw the thing that lay
immediately beneath his notice, and it told him that his wife had
given her love to his friend.
He had no more idea than the dead what was going to happen, but,
with his bulldog obstinacy, he knew he had no intention of allowing
her to go free.
He cared nothing for scandal, though he pretended to. He hardly
considered Feathers at all in the case. The one thing that racked
him was the knowledge that he was in danger of losing something
that had all at once become very precious.
His lips twitched badly when he tried to speak. He felt as if he
were fighting in the dark--as if there were some unseen foe pitting
its strength against him that would not come out into honest
daylight.
Marie stood twisting her handkerchief childishly, her head
downbent, and yet she had never looked less of a child in his eyes.
The little girl he had known all his life seemed suddenly to have
disappeared, leaving in her place a woman who looked at him with
the eyes of Marie Celeste, but without the shy admiration to which
he had grown so accustomed that he never thought about it at all.
A great longing came to him to take her into his arms and tell her
that she was talking nonsense, to kiss the strained look away from
her face and the severe line of her pretty mouth into smiles, to
tell her that they were going to begin all over again and be happy--
that the last weeks had been just a bad dream from which he had
awakened, but his pride and some new dignity about her prevented
him.
This was not the Marie Celeste he had known. She had escaped him
while he had been looking away from her for his happiness.
After a moment he asked stiffly:
"Supposing--supposing it were possible--to do as you say--for each
to get our freedom again . . . what would you do?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know!"
Miss Chester came to the door.
"Marie, I've been looking everywhere for you--I've lost one of my
knitting needles."
Marie flew to find it for her. She avoided Chris for the rest of
the morning for she was afraid of him now. Although she had
deliberately precipitated matters, she awaited the issue with
dread.
Chris did not come in to lunch, and, though once during the
afternoon Marie heard his voice in the house, he did not seek her
out, and at dinner time he was absent again.
Though nothing was said. Miss Chester could feel the tension in the
air, and late that night she asked hesitatingly: "Is anything the
matter, Marie?"
"Nothing--no, auntie, of course not."
But Miss Chester was not deceived, and her mind was racked with
anxiety.
Marie felt as if she were waiting for something great to happen,
though what it was she did not know. Every knock or ring of the
bell made her pulses race.
That Chris was deliberately avoiding her she knew, and she wondered
how long it would be before the breaking point came. She longed to
get it over.
Once she caught sight of herself in the glass and was startled by
her pallor and the strained look in her eyes. A frightened look it
was, she thought, and she passed her hands across them as if to
brush it out.
She stayed downstairs till Chris came in that night. She stood just
outside the drawing-room door, her heart beating apprehensively.
Supposing he was the worse for drink, as he had been last night?
But she need not have been afraid. Chris was sober enough. He had
been walking the streets for hours, beating against the invisible
bars that had so suddenly appeared in his life.
When he saw his wife his face hardened.
"You ought to have gone to bed hours ago," he said.
"I waited for you; I want to speak to you; I waited last night,
too," she added deliberately.
He did not look at all ashamed, only laughed rather defiantly.
"And I was the worse for drink, eh? I suppose the elevating fact
did not do my cause any good."
She did not answer, wondering what he would say if she told him
what determinating factor against him that glimpse over the
banisters had been.
He leaned against the mantelpiece and looked at her.
"Well, I'm stone sober to-night, anyway," he said morosely.
There was a little silence.
"What do you want to see me about?" he asked. "Only the same old
thing, I suppose--the desire to be free."
He took a sudden step towards her, tilting her downbent face
backwards by her chin.
"Why did you marry me, if you hate me so?"
She closed her eyes to hide their pain.
"I was--was fond of you--I thought it would be all right--I thought
you were fond of me."
"I have always been fond of you."
She looked up quickly.
"You would never have married me if it hadn't been for the money."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"It's not in me to love any woman a great deal," he said evasively.
"I've never been a woman's man, you know that. There was never
anything in that Mrs. Heriot affair, though I know you don't
believe me."
He stood back from her, his hands thrust into his pockets.
"Supposing we could get a divorce--separation--whatever you like to
call it, how much better off are you going to be?" he asked after a
moment "What's the good of washing dirty linen for the amusement of
the public?"
The burning color rushed to her face. She had lived so much in the
clouds since the moment when she found that little dead flower in
Feathers' coat pocket that Chris' blunt words sounded horribly
brutal. Chris, watching her narrowly, saw the sudden quivering of
her lips, and his heart smote him.
"Go to bed, Marie Celeste," he said more gently. "It's no use
worrying about things to-night."
He cared so little. The thought stung her afresh as she turned
away. He would have been quite content to go on in the old,
semi-detached fashion, with not a thought for her.
Chris listened to her dragging steps as she went up the stairs.
They sounded as if they were already walking away out of his life,
he thought, with a little feeling of superstition, and he wondered
if the day would ever come when she would cease to belong to him.
He could not imagine his life without Marie Celeste. She had always
been there, a willing little figure in the background of things.
All his boyhood and early manhood were studded with pictures in
which she had played a part.
She had seemed happy enough when they were first married, or so it
had appeared to his blindness. What had happened since to bring
about such a change?
He could not believe it was altogether Feathers. He did not believe
that his friend was the type of man to seriously interest Marie.
Feathers never took women seriously.
He looked at his watch--not yet half-past eleven.
He had not seen Feathers since they parted at the door on Sunday
evening, and with sudden impulse he took his hat and went off to
Albany Street.
There was a light in one of the windows of Feathers' rooms, and
Chris threw up a stone.
The window was open, and almost immediately Feathers' rough head
appeared against the light.
"Hullo! That you, Chris?"
"Yes; can I come up?"
"Of course."
They met on the stairs.
"Atkins is here," Feathers said; "but he's just off. Come in."
Chris did not care for Atkins, and greeted him rather curtly.
"Mrs. Lawless is well, I hope?" young Atkins asked awkwardly, and
Chris grunted out that she was quite well.
"I haven't seen her for some time," Atkins said rather wistfully.
Nobody answered, and he took up his hat.
"Well, I'll be off." He said good-night and clattered away down the
stairs.
"Young idiot!" Chris said, flinging himself into a chair. "Phew!
It's warm, isn't it?"
"It's abnormal weather for September," Feathers agreed.
There was a little silence, then Feathers knocked the ashes from
his pipe and stood up.
"Well, out with it! What's the matter?"
"What do you mean?"
"That I know you've come here with something on your mind. Get it
off and you'll feel better."
He half-expected an outburst of rage from his friend, but none
came, and there was a painful note in Chris' voice as he said:
"It's--my wife!"
"Yes." It gave Feathers a little shock to hear Chris speak of Marie
in those words. He could not remember ever having heard him use
them before. It was usually "Marie" or "Marie Celeste." It brought
home to him with sharp reality how far removed she was from him,
how much she belonged to the man whose name she bore.
Chris looked up, his eyes hot and faintly suspicious.
"Damn it! You know as well as I do that things are all wrong
between us," he said roughly. "And now the climax has come and she
wants to be free of me--separation, divorce--whatever it is you get
when your wife hates you like poison."
Feathers did not move. His ugly face was a little pale, but his
eyes betrayed nothing. Chris started up and began pacing the room.
"I'm to blame, I suppose," he said hoarsely. "I ought not to have
married her, but it seemed the best thing to do at the time."
A little contemptuous flash crossed his friend's eyes, but he made
no comment.
Chris swung round with startling suddenness.
"What would you do if you were me?" he demanded.
"My dear chap! What an impossible question to answer! I know
nothing about women--you know that. You should be the best judge as
how to settle your own affairs."
Chris crumped his hair agitatedly.
"I'm hanged if I am! I never was so up against it in my life.
Perhaps if I cleared off abroad somewhere for a year . . ."
Feathers interrupted quietly:
"Don't you think you've been away long enough already?"
"You mean Scotland! Pooh! That was nothing. She wouldn't have cared
about that." But his voice was uncertain, and after a moment he
asked suspiciously:
"What are you driving at?"
"Nothing. But I think, as I thought at the time, that it would have
saved a lot of trouble if you had taken her with you. You were
newly married. It would have been a most natural thing to do."
Chris colored, but he did not feel at all resentful. He was
grateful to Feathers for his interest. It was a relief to be able
to tell his troubles to somebody.
"I don't think it made any difference," he said after a moment.
"It's not as if ours was an ordinary sort of marriage. I mean---"
He broke off in confusion, to blunder on again: "Marie doesn't care
for me, and that's the whole truth. I thought she did once upon a
time. It shows my darned conceit, I suppose."
Feathers said nothing, and, struck by his silence, Chris said with
slow deliberation: "Sometimes, now and again, I've wondered if
there isn't some other fellow she cares for--some chap she would
marry if I wasn't in the way."
He was looking hard at Feathers all the time he spoke, and his
friend's ugly face was at the moment mercilessly exposed to the
glare of the electric light, but there was no change in its quiet
indifference, and Chris gave a sharp sigh of relief.
He had not realized till now how great had been that vague dread in
his heart. Marie might care for Feathers, but at that moment Chris
was sure that Feathers cared nothing for her--perhaps because he
wished to be sure. Feathers was scraping out the bowl of his pipe
with an irritating little sound and finished it carefully before he
spoke:
"I'm not much of a judge of that sort of thing, but I should not
think it at all likely. Mrs. Lawless does not know many people,
does she?"
"If you mean men--as far as I know there is only Atkins and--you."
Feathers looked up. There was a little wry smile in his eyes.
"You are hardly flattering to your wife," he said quietly, "if you
think that either Atkins or myself could make an impression where
you have failed."
Chris laughed awkwardly.
"I never was a suspicious chap," he said. "I hate suspicious
people, but since I came home, well . . ." He turned and looked
Feathers squarely in the eyes. "I've thought all sorts of queer
things--things I would even hesitate to tell you," he added
deliberately.
Feathers laughed casually.
"I don't want your confidences, my son," he said. "You started this
conversation, you know, and I didn't offer my advice, but as we're
on the subject I should just like to remind you that Mrs. Lawless
is very young, little more than a child, and--children like
attention and amusement."
Chris colored.
"You mean that she hasn't had either from me." he said. "I know
you're right, but what the deuce can I do?"
"As you insist on my mounting the pulpit," Feathers said, rather
wearily, "I'll repeat an old chestnut of a proverb which says that
it's never too late to be what one might have been, or words to
that effect. Have a Scotch?"
"No, thanks. I went home too merry and bright the night before
last, and Marie was waiting up for me." Chris avoided his friend's
eyes. "It's not a thing I often indulge in, you know that," he went
on, gruffly, "but I felt like the devil that night."
Feathers made no comment, but he thought of Marie with passionate
pity. He could understand so well what a shock it had been to her
to see Chris the worse for drink--realize just how she would shrink
from him.
The clock struck twelve, and Chris rose reluctantly.
"Well, I'll be off." He hesitated, then added, with a touch of
embarrassment: "Thanks awfully for what you've said. I'll remember;
I'll speak to her in the morning, and see if we can't patch things
up." He went to the door and came back. "You--er, don't tell her I
said anything about it to you."
"Of course not."
Chris went home full of good resolutions. He lay awake half the
night, plotting and planning what he could do in the future to make
amends. Though he did not love Marie, it seemed a dreadful thing to
him that they were in such mortal danger of drifting finally apart.
He fell asleep, meaning to have a good, long talk with her in the
morning and try and straighten out the tangle.
But Marie did not appear at breakfast, and in reply to his
inquiries the maid told him that Mrs. Lawless had a bad headache
and was going to stay in her room.
"To avoid me, I'll be bound," Chris told himself savagely, and his
good resolutions began to waver.
What was the use of trying to turn over a new leaf when she refused
to help him? What was the use of throwing an insufficient bridge
across the gap between them which would only collapse and let him
down again sooner or later?
It was a lovely morning, and he thought longingly of the golf
links. Twice he went to the 'phone to ring up a friend to join him,
but each time he wavered, and at last in desperation he went
upstairs to his wife's room.
She was lying by the window on a couch, her dark hair falling
childishly over her dressing-gown, and she started up in confusion
when she saw Chris.
"I did not think it was you; I thought you had gone out."
"No." He saw the marks of tears on her face, and his heart gave a
little throb of remorse. She was only a child, after all, as
Feathers had said.
"I am sorry your head is so bad," he said gently.
She turned her face away.
"It's better; I am coming down to lunch. I haven't been sleeping
very well lately."
Chris sat down beside her. There were so many things he wanted to
say, but he had never been eloquent, and this morning his tongue
seemed more stupid than usual.
It was only after some minutes' silence that he blurted out: "Look
here, Marie! Can't we start again? I'm most awfully sorry things
have gone wrong like this, and I know it's my fault. Last night I
thought it would be the best thing if I cleared off and left you
for a year or so. I thought perhaps it might be all right later on
if I came back, but I've changed my mind, and . . . look here--will
you forgive me and let us start again?"
He laid his hand clumsily on hers, the hand that wore his ring.
"There's no earthly reason why we can't be happy and get along
splendidly," he urged. "I know I'm a selfish devil, but I've always
been the same. But I'll try--I'll try all I know if you'll give me
a sporting chance."
He waited, but she did not speak, and he went on: "We've seen so
little of each other lately--my fault, too, I know--I wish I'd
taken you to Scotland with me."
"I wish you had, too." The words broke from her lips bitterly. So
much might have been averted, she knew, if only Chris had taken her
with him.
The color mounted to his cheeks. Even her voice had changed lately,
he thought. There was something hard in its soft tone that vaguely
reminded him of Mrs. Heriot.
"It's not too late now," he urged. "There's lots of places you've
never seen that I'll take you to! Heaps of shows in London that
you'd thoroughly enjoy. . . ." He waited eagerly. "What do you say,
Marie Celeste?"
She did not know how to answer. If he had made this offer a month
ago she would have accepted it gladly, but now it did not seem so
very attractive.
"We might give a few little parties," Chris went on vaguely. "Aunt
Madge won't mind, or if she does--we'll set up a show for
ourselves. You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like pottering
about in a house of your own."
She nodded. She could not trust her voice.
"Is that a bargain, then?" he asked happily. He had so often got
his own way with her that it never entered his head that he might
not be going to get it this time. His fingers tightened over her
hand. "Say it's a bargain, Marie Celeste, and be friends with me
again."
She turned her head slowly and looked at him.
His eyes were very eager and anxious, but for the first time in her
life Marie's heart was not at his feet, and she was not conscious
of any desperate longing to drive away his anxiety and agree to
what he wanted.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked sharply.
He was beginning to realize that it was not only her voice that had
changed and the expression of her eyes when she looked at him, but
the girl herself; that she could no longer be coaxed and bullied by
him--that she was a woman with a will of her own in her soft frame.
"I was thinking." she said slowly, "that I will agree to try what
you suggest, on one condition . . ."
His face brightened.
"Anything, of course! Anything you like." He was sure that she
could not be going to impose anything very hard.
It came, therefore, as something of a shock when she said: "I will
do as you suggest, if--at the end of a month, we find we can't get
on any better, and--and be happy . . . you will let me go."
He echoed her words blankly.
"Let you go! What do you mean?"
The sensitive color flew to her face, but she answered quite
quietly and steadily:
"We could get a divorce--I don't think it is called that--but I
know we could get a divorce--I--I've found out all about it."
Chris sat staring down at the floor. There was a dreadful feeling
somewhere in the region of his heart, for he had never believed
that she could be so hard and implacable.
She was not yet twenty, but she was calmly proposing to annul their
marriage, if, at the end of a month, it still proved to be a
failure.
He put her hand roughly from him and rose to his feet.
"You don't know what you're talking about, and I refuse to agree--I
absolutely refuse." He began to pace the room agitatedly.
Marie watched him with hard eyes, then suddenly she said:
"If it's the money you're thinking about . . . I don't want any. I
don't mind not having any. Aunt Madge would let me live with her;
we could live quite quietly; it wouldn't cost much."
He turned scarlet.
"The money--good lord! I've never given it a thought." He swung
round and looked at her with passionate eyes, and it slowly dawned
upon him that there was something very sweet and desirable about
Marie Celeste as she sat there in her blue gown, her soft dark hair
tumbled about her shoulders, and her brown eyes very bright in the
pallor of her face.
With sudden impulse he went down on his knees beside her and put
his arms round her, holding her fast.
"Don't be so cruel, Marie Celeste," he said hoarsely. "I know I've
not played the game, but I can if you'll give me a chance--I swear
I can, and I will! It's the whole of our lives that you're so
calmly proposing to smash up. Do you realize that? Have you
forgotten all the good times we used to have together--I haven't--
and what a little sport you were?"
He saw her wince as if he had hurt her, and he went on eagerly,
pushing his advantage.
"Do you remember years ago that you used to say you would never
marry anyone but me when we grew up?"
He laughed rather shakily.
"You never thought it would come true, did you, Marie Celeste? I
didn't anyway. But it has, and we're going to be ever so happy . . .
I swear I've never given a thought to any woman but you. If I've
treated you badly, there's no woman in the world I've treated
better. I know it's a rotten argument, but . . ."
He stopped, choked by a sudden emotion, for Marie had broken down
into bitter crying.
Chris drew her down to his shoulder and kissed her hair. It felt
very soft against his lips. He was sure he had conquered, as he
thought her tears were tenderness for the past and joy for the
future. He did not understand that they were only tears of sorrow
for the dream that had gone so sadly awry.
When presently she turned her face away he drew it back again and
kissed her lips--he had never kissed them before. The only kisses
he had given Marie Celeste in his life had been casual pecks on her
cheek when he came from school or went back, and the few awkward
kisses he had bestowed upon her since their marriage.
She lay limply against his shoulder, too emotionally wearied to
resist him, but her lips were unresponsive.
"Is it all right, Marie Celeste?" he asked presently, and she said:
"Yes--yes, I suppose so."
He echoed her words with a frown.
"You suppose so?"
This vague acquiescence was not what he had wanted or expected.
"I'll try my best--if you will."
He kissed her hand.
"I give you my word of honor." He twisted the wedding ring on her
finger. "It's much too big," he said.
He smiled faintly.
"I've got thinner--that's why."
"You've no right to get thinner," he said hurriedly. "I shall have
to look after you and feed you up. Marie Celeste, we're going to
have no end of a good time!"
He was his light-hearted self once more. He felt quite happy again.
It was surprising how fond he had discovered he really was of Marie
Celeste since he had kissed her lips. He could not understand why
he had never realized before how pretty she was.
"We'll go away somewhere together," he said impulsively. "Where
would you like to go? It will be a fine autumn. Shall we go to the
moors--or Ireland? Would you like Ireland?"
She smiled faintly at his impulsiveness.
"I don't mind where it is."
"I'd take you to Italy, only it's not the right time of year," he
said. "The spring's the time to go to Italy." He laughed. "Feathers
is off there soon, you know! He doesn't care a hang about the
proper seasons and all that sort of stuff. He just goes where he
feels inclined and when."
"Yes." Her face was averted. "I don't think I should care to go to
Italy, anyway," she said. How would it be possible to try and turn
over this new leaf, if Feathers was to be anywhere about? A little
feeling, that was something like homesickness, touched her heart as
she thought of him. Chris was very dear, very boyish in his new
humility and enthusiasm, but in her weariness she longed for
something more stable, something more real and sincere.
She turned to Chris with wet eyes.
"But you can't make yourself love me." she said sorrowfully.
His face flushed and his eyes grew distressed. He drew her back to
lean against him so that her eyes were hidden.
"Perhaps I've always loved you--I don't know," he said with sudden
earnestness. "I can't expect you to believe me yet, but . . .
perhaps some day, Marie Celeste."
He was doing his best, she knew, but his halting words fell vaguely
on her empty heart. She had been right when she said that he could
not make himself love her.
But the wings of the past were wrapping them around, and with
sudden regret fulness for all she had dreamed and lost, she put her
arms round his neck and kissed him.
"Well, we'll try, shall we?" she whispered. He returned the kiss
eagerly. She would see what a model he could be, he promised. He
had not been so happy for a long time. He held her at arm's length,
his fingers lost in her soft hair.
"You're such a child to be anybody's wife!" he said laughingly.
She shook her head.
"I think I've grown up very quickly." she answered with a sigh.
"Very well, then, I shall have to teach you how to be a child
again," he declared. "How's the head? Do you think you could get
dressed and come out? I'm going to buy you a present--lots of
presents, frocks and all manner of things."
"I'll go out after lunch, but I don't want lots of presents,
really, Chris."
"Well, we'll see." He stood up, still holding her hand. He felt as
if a load of care had fallen from his shoulders. He wished he had
tried this way of managing her before. He supposed he ought to have
known that women liked to be kissed and made a fuss of. He really
thought that she was as happy and contented as he was. He drew her
to her feet and kissed her gain.
"I'm glad I married you, and nobody else, Marie Celeste," he said.
He went out and bought the largest bunch of roses he could find and
carried them up to her room. He was desperately anxious to please
her. She thanked him with a little empty smile. It was not roses
that she wanted, or pearl necklaces, or pretty clothes. She wanted
someone really to love her, in all circumstances and for ever and
ever.
But she meant to do her best to keep the compact between them; so
she took great pains with her toilet to go out with him, and Chris
dutifully admired her frock.
"It's a new one, isn't it?" he asked. She had not the heart to tell
him that she had worn it half a dozen times on her honeymoon, and
that he had not noticed it. The car was at the door ready for them
to start, when a taxi, laden with luggage, came swinging up the
road and stopped at the curb.
Chris frowned.
"Who the dickens?" he ejaculated, then broke off as the door of the
taxi opened and a girl came running up the steps towards them.
She gave a little cry when she saw Marie.
"You dear thing! Then you are in town! I was so afraid you might be
away, but I had to chance it! I was on my way home, and then mother
wired to me not to come, as one of the boys has scarlet fever! So I
took the bull by the horns and dashed to you on the chance that you
would be an angel and take me in for a time!"
She kissed Marie and held a hand to Chris. "You dears! How lovely
to see you both!"
It was Dorothy Webber.
CHAPTER XVIII
"Trifles light as air, are to the jealous,
Confirmation sure, as proof of holy writ"
IT was impossible to be ungracious. Marie took Dorothy Webber into
the drawing-room while Chris sent the car away. He stood looking
after it with a frown above his eyes. It was rotten luck, Dorothy
turning up like this just as everything had been going so
swimmingly and he was conscious of a vague apprehension.
He joined the girls in the drawing-room for tea, and Miss Chester
came down, bringing her eternal knitting.
She was pleased to see Dorothy, for she thought she would be a nice
companion for Marie. She said that she hoped she would stay a long
time. She could not understand why Chris was so silent or why he
kept looking at his wife with a queer sort of chagrin in his face.
"I'm looking forward to another round with you," Dorothy said,
turning to him. "Of course, there are lots of links round about?"
"I'm going to teach Marie to play," Chris said. He had made up his
mind that if they went away he would teach her and had been looking
forward to it. He felt decidedly annoyed with Dorothy for having
what he chose to call "butted in."
He sulked about the house till dinner-time, then went to Marie's
room as she was changing her frock. His eyes were rueful as he
looked at her. "It's the devil's own luck, isn't it?" he said
boyishly.
"What do you mean--about Dorothy?"
"Yes. Why the dickens she wanted to come here I'm hanged if I
know!"
Marie smiled faintly.
"Well, we both said we should be pleased to see her at any time,
didn't we?"
"I know--but coming just now!" He took up one of her silver brushes
and fingered it nervously. "I was looking forward to taking you
away, Marie Celeste."
"Perhaps she won't stay long," Marie said, with an effort.
She did not know if she were glad or sorry that Dorothy had so
unexpectedly intervened. She had rather dreaded going away with
Chris, and yet it had been a relief to know that at last there was
some sort of an understanding between them.
Dorothy monopolized most of the conversation at dinner time, and
addressed herself chiefly to Chris. She was a pleasant-looking
girl, very brown-skinned and healthy, with straightforward gray
eyes and fair hair, which she wore brushed back and screwed into
rather a business-like and unbecoming knob.
She talked a great deal about golf, and seemed rather surprised at
Chris' lack of enthusiasm. She kept looking at Marie in a puzzled
sort of way.
During those weeks in Scotland she had formed her own opinion of
this marriage, and therefore had not had the least hesitation in
throwing herself on Marie's hospitality. A man who had been married
so short a time and who could leave his wife at home while he spent
a month in Scotland playing golf would certainly not object to a
third person in the house. So she argued, with some reason, as she
unpacked her boxes and settled down comfortably in the best spare
room.
"It's ages since I was in London for any time," she said. "I'm
going to enjoy myself thoroughly. Marie, where do you buy your
frocks? They make mine look as if they came out of the ark, don't
they?"
Marie laughed. She had been very fond of this girl at school, but
lately all her old affections seemed somehow to have shifted. The
fault was in herself, she knew, so she tried her best to be nice to
Dorothy to make up for the old feeling that was no longer in her
heart.
"I'll take you to all the shops." she said. "We'll have a long day
to-morrow."
"And where do I come in?" Chris asked quickly. His eyes were
pleading as they looked at his wife.
"Men always hate shopping, don't they?" Dorothy chimed in. "They
always look dreadfully out of place, anyway, poor dears."
"Well, I'll be the happy exception to prove the rule," Chris
declared, and he kept his word. He trudged round the West End with
his wife and Dorothy the following morning, and did his best not to
appear bored. He took them to lunch at the Savoy, and escorted them
to more shops afterwards.
"I think you've got a model husband," Dorothy said, when at last
they drove home. "I never would have believed he was capable of it
when we were up in Scotland. It only shows how one can be
deceived."
But Chris gave a deep sigh of relief when they reached home. He
went off to the dining-room and mixed himself a strong whiskey. He
felt irritable, though he tried manfully to suppress his
irritation. What waste of time it all was, he thought--trudging
round on hot pavements, in and out stuffy, uninteresting shops,
when one might be out in the country or up on the Scotch moors.
For three days he did his duty nobly. He was always in to meals--he
took Marie and Dorothy to a matinee, and to dinner at the Carlton.
"We ought to have had another man to make a fourth," he said to his
wife afterwards. "I'll ask Feathers to come to-morrow."
He did ask him, and Feathers refused. He had an appointment, he
said, and would come another day.
"What about Italy?" Chris inquired over the 'phone, and Feathers
said that he expected to go in about ten days' time.
Chris told Marie.
"We ought to ask him round before he goes," he said. "You write and
ask him to dinner, Marie Celeste."
She wanted to refuse, but did not like to.
"Very well." She was looking pale and tired, and Chris' eyes
watched her anxiously.
After a moment he asked:
"How long is Miss Webber going to stay?"
"I don't know. I can't very well ask her to go, can I?" Chris
mooned around the room.
"I wish she'd go," he said inhospitably.
Marie smiled.
"I'm afraid you've had rather a dull week," she admitted. "Why
don't you go for a day's golf to-morrow. Take Dorothy--she would
love it, I know."
"I'll go if you come."
"Nonsense. You know how tired I got when we went before. I shall be
quite all right at home, and I do hate to know you are tied to the
house all day."
He looked hurt, and she hastened to add kindly: "It's been very
good of you, Chris, and I do thank you."
He laid his hand on her shoulder.
"If you're pleased that's all I care about," he said. . . .
To Marie's surprise. Feathers rang up and accepted her invitation.
She answered the 'phone herself, and the sound of his voice sent
her pulses racing, and the hot blood rushing to her cheeks.
"Do I have to get into war paint?" he asked, and she laughed as she
said that he could please himself.
"Why haven't you been to see us before?" she questioned.
"Because I knew you had company, and I haven't any company
manners."
"It's only Dorothy Webber--you met her in Scotland."
"Yes. . . ." There was a little pause, and before she could think
of anything else to say he said: "Well, I shall see you this
evening, then."
"Yes."
Marie sighed as she hung up the receiver. She wished he had refused
to come, and yet she was longing to see him. She felt painfully
nervous as the evening drew nearer.
Chris had driven out into the country with Dorothy to play golf,
and for the first time for a week Marie found herself with a little
breathing space.
Chris' attentions had been rather overwhelming. He had done his
best, she knew, and was grateful to him for it, but he left her
rather breathless. She could never lose sight of the fact that his
affections were forced and wondered how much longer he would be
able to keep up the farce.
She never gave herself a moment in which to think. She never looked
forward, but lived in the present only.
Chris had said he should be home at six, but at seven o'clock, when
Feathers was announced, he had not returned.
Marie went down to the drawing-room with a trembling heart. She had
hoped that her husband would have been home before Feathers came.
She knew that her face was white as she crossed the room to him and
that her voice was unsteady as she said:
"Chris hasn't got back yet--I am so sorry. He promised to be in at
six! I am afraid something has gone wrong with the car."
"It's not very late," Feathers said kindly. "I think I am rather
before my time. He is sure to be in directly."
Marie walked over to the window and looked into the street. The
September evening was closing in rapidly, with rather depressing
greyness.
"I hope nothing has happened to them," she said faintly. She was
not at all anxious really, but she felt that she must gain time to
recover her composure before she could talk to Feathers.
He watched her across the room with sad eyes. He had not seen her
since that day on the golf links, and he took in every detail of
her graceful little figure hungrily.
She was wearing a white frock of some gauzy material, cut rather
low, and her soft brown hair curled into little ringlets like a
child's on the white nape of her neck.
Was she any happier, he wondered? He knew that Chris had been about
with her a great deal during the past week, and he hoped with all
his heart that things were improving between them. He longed to ask
her, but was afraid. He knew that the only safe thing for them was
to keep to ordinary topics of conversation.
Marie dropped the curtain presently and came back to him.
"What have you been doing with yourself?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, nothing in particular. Yesterday I played golf with young
Atkins. He asked after you."
"Did he?" Her eyes brightened. "I wish I could see him again."
"He tells me he is going to America shortly. He has been in his
father's office, you know, but they don't get on, and so I think
it's very wise of him to clear out."
"And you are going to Italy?" Marie said constrainedly. "Chris
suggested that we should go, too, but--but I don't think I care
to."
"It's the wrong time of year to see Italy to advantage."
"Yes, I know."
She looked at him wistfully. So strong, such a man! Longing to know
the perfect happiness of his love crept into her heart.
There would be no half measures with him, she knew; no pretences.
He would give all or nothing.
In spite of what he had said, Feathers had struggled into evening
clothes. They did not fit him particularly well, but they seemed to
magnify the squareness and strength of his build. Though he was not
so tall as Chris, he always looked taller, and, despite his ugly
features, there was something very noble in the rough outline of
his head and shaggy hair.
"Where are they playing to-day?" he asked, breaking a silence that
was beginning to get unbearable, and Marie said:
"Where we went before--the place where Mrs. Heriot is staying."
"Oh!" There was something dry in the little monosyllable that made
her say impulsively: "I suggested it. Chris has been so unselfish
lately, taking us about all over the place, I thought he deserved a
holiday--he likes playing with Dorothy, you know."
"Yes." There was the sound of a car driving up outside, and
Feathers said, with obvious relief: "Here they are, I expect."
Chris came into the room a moment later. He looked at his wife
anxiously.
"I'm sorry, Marie Celeste," he said. "The wretched car broke down,
and it took me half an hour to get it right. I hope you haven't
been anxious about us? How are you, old chap?"
The two men shook hands.
"Where is Dorothy?" Marie asked, and Chris looked away from her as
he said, "I believe she went straight upstairs to dress."
"I'll go and tell her not to hurry."
Marie ran up to her friend's room, glad to get away for a moment.
She knocked at the door, and, getting no answer, turned the handle
and went in. Dorothy was standing in the middle of the room, her
hands over her face. She had made no attempt to change her frock,
and she still wore her coat and the jaunty velvet cap with a jay's
wing at the side in which she had started out that morning.
Marie gave a little stifled cry.
"Dorothy! Oh, what is the matter?"
Dorothy started violently. She dabbed her eyes hurriedly with her
handkerchief and tried to laugh.
"Nothing! Don't look so scared! I'm only rather worried." She
turned away to hide her face. "I've had a letter with rather bad
news. No, I can't tell you now--it's nothing! Please, go down and
I'll be ready in a minute. I'm so sorry we're late, Marie. The
silly car went wrong."
"I know. Chris told me. Dorothy, are you sure there is nothing the
matter--nothing I can do for you?"
"Quite sure! Run downstairs, there's a dear; I won't be a minute."
She almost turned Marie out of the room.
Chris was coming upstairs as she crossed the landing, and he
stopped looking at her in quick concern.
"Anything the matter, Marie Celeste?"
"No, only--Chris, Dorothy is crying so! She won't tell me what is
the matter. She says she's had bad news in a letter."
He went to his room, abruptly.
"It's probably nothing; I shouldn't worry."
His voice sounded rather strange and unnatural, and Marie was
puzzled as she went slowly downstairs.
The postman had just been and one of the servants was sorting the
letters at the hall table. Marie went up to her.
"Greyson, were there any letters for Miss Webber by the afternoon
post?"
"No, ma'am--none! Only two for Miss Chester."
Marie's brown eyes dilated.
"There has only been the one post since the early morning, hasn't
there?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Thank you." She went on to the drawing-room, with a little feeling
of apprehension.
Dorothy had lied to her, then. Why? She thought of the strained
note in Chris' voice as he spoke to her on the landing, and a
nameless fear crept into her heart.
Chris talked incessantly during dinner. Marie had never seen him so
gay, and though she tried her best to kill it, the suspicion that
he knew the cause of Dorothy's distress, grew in her heart.
Something had happened between them that afternoon.
"You ladies are very quiet," Feathers said, turning to her, and
Marie roused herself with an effort.
Dorothy Webber was almost silent. Her head ached, she said; she
thought it must have been the sun that afternoon.
"You played a fine game," Chris told her. "I shall have to look to
my laurels." She did not answer, seemed not to have heard, and
Marie asked, "Did you see Mrs. Heriot?"
"Yes. She and her sister had a foursome with us." It was Chris who
answered "She told me to give you her love." he added with a twinkle,
"and to say that she should be in town to-morrow and would call to
see you."
It was in the tip of Marie's tongue to say that she would not be
in, but she checked the words. After all, Mrs. Heriot did not
matter to her. She was no longer actively jealous.
The dinner was hardly a success.
"What's the matter with everyone?" Dorothy asked impatiently as she
and Marie followed Miss Chester to the drawing-room. "Didn't you
think we were all very dull?" she appealed to the old lady.
"I really didn't notice, my dear," Miss Chester answered
complacently. "I have just worked it out in my mind, and I believe
I shall finish that shawl in another three days."
Marie laughed. "And how long has it taken you to work, dear?"
"Nearly two years, but then I worked slowly, and my sight is not so
good as it used to be," Miss Chester answered.
Marie took up a fold of the shawl. It was exquisitely soft and of
the finest pattern.
"It would make a lovely shawl for a baby," she said, and then
flushed, meeting her aunt's eyes. She got up and went over to the
piano, and began turning over some music. She knew the thought that
had been in Miss Chester's mind, and her heart ached. Young as she
was herself Marie loved children, and one very tender dream had
gone crashing to earth with the ruins when her castle fell.
Dorothy had flung herself into an armchair, her arms folded behind
her head, her eyes fixed moodily on the ceiling.
There was a softened, chastened look about her this evening. The
masculinity which was usually her chief characteristic seemed to
have gone, leaving in its place something of greater attraction.
"Play something, Marie," she said suddenly, but Marie shook her
head. "I don't feel in the mood for music." She dragged up a stool
and sat down at Miss Chester's feet. Across the hall she could hear
Feathers' voice and Chris' laugh, and she listened to both with a
queer feeling of unreality.
"What an ugly man Mr. Dakers is!" Dorothy said suddenly. "I don't
think I ever saw anyone so ugly before."
The color rushed to Marie's face.
"I don't think he is in the very least bit ugly," she said
impulsively. "There is something in his face when he smiles that is
far better than just ordinary good looks. What do you think, Aunt
Madge?"
She felt angry with Dorothy. All her heart flew to Feathers'
defence.
"I always liked Mr. Dakers," Miss Chester said mildly. "He is a
good man and a gentleman." She said the same thing of all Chris'
friends. She could never see evil in anyone.
Dorothy laughed.
"Like him, yes! But he's ugly, all the same!" she insisted. "He
doesn't like me, you know."
Nobody answered.
"We had lots of little tiffs when we were up in Scotland," she went
on defiantly. "I always believe that he left Chris and came home
alone because he couldn't stand the sight of me."
"My dear child!" Miss Chester remonstrated.
"So I do," she reiterated. "He told me once that the modern girl
was a horror. I think he thought it was disgraceful because I
played golf all day long with Chris and without a chaperon."
"Mr. Dakers isn't a bit narrow-minded," Marie said hotly.
Dorothy shrugged her shoulders.
"And I don't like Mrs. Heriot either," she said irrelevantly. "You
never told me anything about her, Marie."
"She is a friend of Chris', not mine."
"Oh! And his friends are not yours--eh?"
Marie did not answer. She had never seen Dorothy in such a
quarrelsome mood.
The men joined them from the dining-room and Chris came to his wife
at once.
"On the stool of repentance?" he asked. "Why don't you have a
chair?"
"I'm quite comfortable, thank you." She leaned her head against
Miss Chester's knee with a little snuggling movement, and the old
lady stopped in her work for a movement to stroke the girl's dark
hair.
"I've just remembered," she said, "that I've got some tickets for
that Westminster bazaar to-morrow, Marie. Some of us really ought
to go. I promised the vicar we would. Couldn't you and Dorothy just
run in for half an hour?"
Marie made a little grimace.
"I hate bazaars," she said.
Dorothy looked across the room at Chris.
"I think I ought to go home to-morrow," she said. "I've been here
over a week. You'll all be sick to death of me."
"Of course, we shan't," Marie cried. She was touched by the hard
note of unhappiness in her friend's voice, and stretched out her
hand to her. "Don't go, Dorothy. They can't have finished with the
scarlet fever yet."
"I shall have to see. I dare say I shall hear from home in the
morning."
She excused herself presently on the plea of headache and went to
bed. She shook hands with Feathers and kissed Marie and Miss
Chester, but Marie noticed with a queer little shrinking at her
heart that she seemed to avoid Chris altogether, and her thoughts
went back with unwilling suspicion to the moment when she had found
Dorothy crying.
"Dorothy doesn't look well," Miss Chester said, as the door closed
behind the elder girl. "I really think all this golf is too much
for her. She ought to take a rest and do something less strenuous."
"Knitting shawls, for instance, eh, dear?" Marie asked tenderly.
The old lady looked over her glasses.
"It would do her no harm," she said severely.
It was only ten o'clock when Feathers left, and Chris said he would
walk part of the way with him.
"I shan't be long," he said to Marie. "But it's so hot indoors, and
I must get a breath of air."
She said good-night to them both in the hall, and after they had
gone she stood for a moment looking at the closed door with a
feeling of desolation. She had counted so much on this evening, and
on seeing Feathers, and now he had gone--and nothing had happened,
nothing been said!
She did not know what she had expected to happen or what she had
hoped he would say, but she was conscious of bitter disappointment
as she went up to bed.
It seemed as if she must have dreamed about those moments on Sunday
when he had let her know that he loved her--that they could never
have been real, and in her heart she knew that she was not
satisfied. She wanted more than the little he had given.
She heard Chris come in just after she had gone to bed, and her
heart thudded nervously as his step crossed the landing and stopped
outside her door; but he went on again, and presently silence fell
on the house.
And Marie fell asleep, to dream the old, terrible dream that she
once more was drowning--that she was sinking down, down into
bottomless depths of clear green water, and she woke, shivering and
fighting for breath. Her face and the palms of her hands were wet
with perspiration.
She sat up in bed and turned on the light. Only a Dream! She looked
round the room with thankful eyes and yet . . . it would have been
such a simple answer to all her troubles if Feathers had only let
her drown that summer's morning.
* * * * *
"If you two are going to the bazaar this afternoon," Chris said at
lunch next day, "I'll go and look Feathers up. He asked me last
night if I would, but I didn't promise," He looked at Marie, "I'll
come with you if you like," he said quickly.
She laughed.
"Of course not! We shan't stay long, shall we, Dorothy?"
"We won't go at all if you'd rather not," Dorothy said.
"But I promised the vicar," Miss Chester broke in, in distress. "I
think you really must go, my dears."
"Of course we will," Marie said. "If there's a fortune-teller we'll
have our palms read; shall we, Dorothy?"
The elder girl shrugged her shoulders.
"You don't believe in that rubbish, surely?"
"I think it's fun," Marie answered.
She was childishly pleased when, during the afternoon, they found a
palmist's tent in a corner of the big hall where the bazaar was
being held.
"Do let's go in," she urged on Dorothy. "Of course, we shan't
believe it, but it will be fun!"
She lifted the flap of the tent, and Dorothy reluctantly followed
her.
A woman sat at a small round table in the half light of the tent.
She was not at all like the usual fortune teller, and she was
dressed plainly in a white frock, instead of in the usual gaudy
trappings which such people affect.
She was small and dark, with rather a plaintive face and large
eyes, and Marie was struck by the extreme slenderness and whiteness
of her hands as they rested on a little velvet cushion on the table
before her.
"We want to have our palms read," Marie said. She was conscious of
an eerie feeling, and she looked back at the closed flap of the
tent nervously. "Dorothy--you go first . . ."
"I don't believe in it," Dorothy said, hardily, but she sat down at
the table, and laid her hands, palms upwards, on the cushion.
The palmist spoke then, for the first time, to Marie.
"If you will kindly wait outside, mademoiselle," she said. She
spoke with a slightly foreign accent, but her voice was soft and
musical.
Marie went reluctantly. She would like to have heard what Dorothy
was told.
It was only a few minutes before Dorothy was out again, her face
flushed and her eyes bright as if with unshed tears.
"It's all rubbish," she said harshly, when Marie eagerly questioned
her. "As if anybody believes in it! Are you going in? Very well, be
quick. I'll tell you afterwards what she said to me."
Marie went back into the tent. She had taken off her gloves and
slipped her wedding ring into her pocket. The palmist had addressed
her as mademoiselle, and she was curious to know if she would still
believe her to be unmarried when she had examined her hands.
She laid them palm upwards on the velvet cushion, and the woman
opposite took them in her soft clasp, smoothing the palms with her
forefingers and peering into the little lines and creases for a
moment without speaking. Marie watched her curiously. Her first
nervousness had lost itself in interest She almost started when,
quite suddenly, the woman began to speak in a low, clear voice.
"You are very young, but you are already a wife. You have married a
man whom you love devotedly, but he is blind! And because he is
blind he has let your love waver from him to the keeping of
another. You are proud! You have wrapped your heart about with
pride, until you have stifled its best affections, and persuaded
yourself that you do not care."
She ran her slender fingers along a faint line at the base of
Marie's fingers.
"You started with dreams--alas! so many dreams--and they have
forsaken you one by one. But they will come back." And she raised
her dark eyes suddenly to Marie's pale face. "A little patience and
they will come back--dreams no longer, but reality. You were meant
to be a happy wife and mother, my little lady, but something has
intervened--something has fallen across your life like a big
shadow, and for a little the sunshine will be blotted out. . ."
She broke off, and for a moment there was silence. Then she went on
again, more slowly: "If you will allow your heart to govern your
head you can never go far astray--it is only now, when you are
trying to stifle all that your heart would say, that the shadows
deepen. . . ."
She smoothed Marie's hands with her soft fingers.
"You have money--much money," she said "But your friends are few.
You are shy, and you do not make friends easily . . . There has
been one great moment of danger in your life--I cannot tell you
what it was, but I can see the sea in your hand--and again in the
future I can see much water . . . It will come again in your life,
and it carries on its bosom trouble and many tears, and . . ." She
looked again into Marie's face.
"You are trembling, Mademoiselle," she said in her soft voice.
Marie smiled faintly.
"I was nearly drowned once," she said. "I can never forget it."
She drew her hands away. "I don't think I want to hear any more,"
she said.
She paid double the fee and went to join Dorothy.
"Well?" Dorothy questioned hardily.
Marie shivered.
"It was rather eerie," she said. "But I don't believe in it. Shall
we go home?"
"What did she say to you?" Dorothy asked as they drove away
together. "She told me that I had had one disappointment in my life
which I should never get over . . ." She laughed. "She was right,
too! Not that I believe in fortune telling."
Marie hardly listened. She was thinking of the palmist's soft voice
and the touch of her hands as she had said: "I can see the sea in
your hand--and again in the future I can see much water. It will
come again in your life, and it carries on its bosom trouble and
many tears . . ."
She was not superstitious, but the words haunted her.
Troubles and tears. Surely she had had enough of them.
She wished she had not gone to the bazaar; she wished with all her
heart she had not gone to the palmist.
. . . "You started with dreams--alas! so many dreams--and they have
forsaken you one by one. But they will come back ... A little
patience and they will come back; dreams no longer, but reality."
She sat up with a little determined laugh.
"It's all rubbish--I don't believe a word of it," she told herself.
"She only said it because she thought it would please me."
"We're just dying for some tea, Greyson," she told the maid who
admitted them. "I hope you've got some for us."
"Miss Chester is having tea now," the girl answered. "There is a
lady with her in the drawing-room--a Mrs. Heriot."
Marie stood still with a little shock. She had quite forgotten that
Chris had said Mrs. Heriot would probably call.
CHAPTER XIX
"I love him, and I love him, and I love!
Oh heart, my love goes welling o'er the brim;
He makes my light more than the sun above.
And what am I! save what I am to him?"
MRS. HERIOT had quite failed to make a conquest of Miss Chester,
for the old lady considered that every woman who used paint and
powder was a hussy. There was a very formal tea progressing in the
drawing-room when Marie entered.
Mrs. Heriot was genuinely glad to see her as she had found
conversation uphill work with Miss Chester. She kissed Marie
effusively.
"I suppose Chris forgot to tell you I was calling," she said. "Men
are so forgetful."
"He did tell me," Marie answered, "and I am afraid it was I who
forgot. I am so sorry. Won't you have some more tea?"
Dorothy came in, and she and Mrs. Heriot started a passage-at-arms
immediately. They were too much alike ever to agree, and Marie was
relieved when Mrs. Heriot said she must go.
"Come and see me off," she whispered to Marie as she took her
departure. "I want to tell you something."
Marie went reluctantly. She did not wish for any confidences from
Mrs. Heriot, but apparently she was to be given no choice in the
matter, for as soon as the drawing-room door had closed behind them
Mrs. Heriot said in a mysterious voice: "Is there a room where we
can be undisturbed for a moment? I have something very important to
tell you."
Marie smiled nervously.
"Nobody will hear us here," she said "I think---" But Mrs. Heriot
insisted, and Marie led the way into the library, which had been
turned into a sort of smoking-room for Chris since their marriage.
Mrs. Heriot shut the door carefully, then, turning, she asked with
dramatic intensity:
"Mrs. Lawless, who is this Miss Webber?"
Marie stared at her.
"Dorothy Webber? She is my friend; we were at school together."
"My poor child! If you think she is your friend you are being
dreadfully deceived--dreadfully."
"I don't know what you mean."
Mrs. Heriot dabbed her eyes to wipe away imaginary tears.
"I hate to see people deceived," she said. "I hate people who make
scandal and mischief. I am only telling you for your own sake and
because you and I have always been friends; but yesterday--down on
the golf links."
Marie broke in with pale lips:
"Mrs. Heriot, I would much rather you said no more. It is of no
interest to me--I beg of you, please . . ."
But Mrs. Heriot was enjoying herself too much to stop. She had
always disliked Marie, and she hated Dorothy because she had
appeared to be on more friendly terms with Chris than she herself.
She went on, refusing to be silenced.
"You ought to turn her out of the house! She is a false friend!
Why, I saw her--and my sister saw her--with your husband's arms
round her! Crying--in his arms! I hate having to tell you, but I
thought, and my sister thought, that it was only right you should
know." She broke off, looking at Mane's stony face with faintly
malicious eyes. "Men are so weak, poor dears; how can one blame
them!" she went on. "It's the women, with their subtle cleverness."
She did not add that she had tried all her own wiles on Chris with
humiliating failure.
"I am so sorry for you," she pursued softly, "but you should really
insist that she leave the house."
Marie walked past her and opened the door.
"Please go," she said.
"But, Mrs. Lawless---"
"Please go." Marie said again.
"Oh, well, of course, if you wish it!" Mrs. Heriot passed her
jauntily and went out into the hall, just as Chris opened the front
door and came in.
Mrs. Heriot smiled and held out her hand.
"I was so afraid I should have to run away without seeing you," she
said. "We have had such a delightful afternoon. Where have you
been, you bad man!"
Chris made some vague answer. His eyes had gone past her to where
his wife stood at the study door. She was very pale but quite
self-possessed, and she even smiled faintly as she met his eyes.
"Mrs. Heriot is just going," she said clearly. "Perhaps you will
see her out, Chris."
She went back to the library, and stood staring before her with blank
eyes. She had always hated Mrs. Heriot and distrusted her, but
something told her that this time, at all events, the widow had
spoken the truth. The facts seemed to fit so completely into the
chain of last night's events--Dorothy's tears, Chris' pre-occupation,
and her own instinctive feeling that all was not right.
She heard Chris close the front door and come into the room behind
her, and she forced herself to turn.
"Dorothy and Aunt Madge are in the drawing-room," she said stiffly.
He barred the way when she would have passed him.
"Well, there is no hurry to join them, is there? How did you get on
at the bazaar this afternoon?"
"We only stayed a little while. We had our fortunes told."
"Silly child! What did they tell you?"
"Oh . . . lots of things! Nothing that I believe, though."
She stood apathetically with his arm round her. She longed to tear
herself from him, but she was afraid that once she gave way to the
storm of passionate anger that was rending her she would never be
able to control herself.
"I was sorry afterwards that I did not come with you," Chris said.
"Feathers wouldn't come out. He's packing--he's off the day after
to-morrow."
"The day after to-morrow?"
"Yes--something has happened to make him change his mind, I
suppose. He's going, anyway."
Marie's heart felt like a stone, though every nerve in her body was
throbbing and burning at fever point.
Feathers was going! After to-morrow she would not be able to get to
him, no matter how passionately she longed to do so.