had lied to her, and pretended and deceived her. She felt that she
hated him.
"What's the matter, Marie Celeste?" Chris asked, abruptly. "Aren't
you well? You look so white."
"Do I? It's nothing; I'm quite well." She moved past him, and he
made no effort to stop her, but she knew that his eyes were
following her as she went upstairs.
What did she mean to do? She did not know. Possible and impossible
plans flitted through her mind. First she thought she would tell
Chris that she had found out about Dorothy--then that she would not
tell him, would not stoop to let him think she cared.
Did she care? She did not know. Her whole being was in the throes
of some new, strange passion.
Perhaps even up in Scotland he had made love to Dorothy, and that
was why he had stayed so long. Perhaps he had known that she was
coming to London, and had even asked her to the house! Marie hid
her face.
She would not stay with him. She would go away--she would go away
with Feathers, if he would take her.
She longed for him as a homesick child longs for its father. He
would be kind to her, he would understand.
Dorothy came tapping at the door. She held an open telegram in her
hand.
"Marie, I've got to go home." She gave her the message to read
without another word.
Marie took it mechanically, but the words danced meaninglessly
before her eyes:
"Ronnie died this morning. Come at once."
Ronnie was Dorothy's brother, she knew. She looked at the girl's
white face and quivering lips, but she felt no pity for her.
"I'm sorry--so sorry," she said, but the words were meaningless.
She went with Dorothy to her room and helped her pack. She
telephoned for the car and told Miss Chester.
"Someone must go with her; she ought not to travel alone," the old
lady said, in distress. "Surely Chris will go. It is only kind."
Marie's face burned. Oh, yes, there was no doubt Chris would go--
would be glad to go. She heard Miss Chester make the suggestion to
him, and held her breath while she waited for him to answer.
If he agreed she would know that he was guilty. If he refused there
would be just a hope that Mrs. Heriot had lied.
But Chris turned to her.
"Would you like me to go, Marie?"
She hated him, because he left it for her to settle. She could not
trust herself to look at him.
"Aunt Madge thinks someone should go, and I can't," she said. He
agreed hastily.
"Of course, you can't; I will go, if you wish it. I shan't be able
to get back till to-morrow," he said. "It will be too late to catch
a train back to-night."
Marie did not answer, and he went away. She gave him no chance to
say good-bye to her. He kissed her cheek hurriedly before he
followed Dorothy to the waiting car, and he looked back anxiously
as he closed the door.
"I'll be back as soon as possible to-morrow," he said.
Marie went back to Miss Chester without answering.
"That poor child," the old lady said sadly. "What a trouble for
her! Did you know the brother, Marie?"
"I saw him once. He was a nice boy," Marie said apathetically. She
could remember Ronnie Webber well. He had had a snub, freckled nose
and twinkly eyes.
It seemed impossible that he could be dead. She wished she could
feel more sorry.
The evening seemed interminable.
"Sit down and read a book, child," Miss Chester said once. "Don't
wander about the house like that! I know you must be upset, but
it's no use taking trouble too much to heart."
Marie looked at her, hardly listening.
"I think I'll ring Mr. Dakers up," she said.
Miss Chester's eyes grew anxious.
"I should not, my dear," she said. "Chris told me that he was very
busy packing. He is going away the day after to-morrow."
"I know; but I should like to see him before he goes."
She rang Feathers up, but he was out and not expected in till late.
Fate seemed against her at every turn.
"I must see him again; I must!" she told herself feverishly as she
went to bed. She sat at the open window for a long time looking
into the darkness. Another forty-eight hours and he would be miles
away. She thought of all the pictures she had seen of Florence and
Venice, and wondered what it would be like to visit them with the
man one loved.
Chris had offered to take her there, but she did not want to go
with Chris--he did not care for her! He had lied to her and
deceived her. She lay awake for hours, staring through the open
window at a single star that shone like a diamond in the dark sky.
Where was Chris now, and what was he doing! She tried to believe
that she did not care; tried to keep her thoughts focussed on
Feathers, but they strayed back again and again to her husband.
Little forgotten incidents of the past danced before her eyes
torturingly--Chris in his first Eton suit; Chris when he was
captain of the school eleven, swaggering about on the green; Chris
coming home for Christmas, a little shy and superior; Chris
bullying her, and teasing her, and finally buying his complete
forgiveness by a kiss snatched under the mistletoe. She had loved
him so much--had always been so ready to forgive and forget. Tears
lay on her cheeks because she knew she was no longer ready to do
so; tears of self-pity--shed in mourning over the days that were
gone. She was a child no longer; she was a grown woman looking back
on her childhood.
It was getting light when she fell asleep, and it was late when the
maid roused her.
"I came before, but you were sleeping so sweetly I did not like to
wake you," she apologized. Marie got up and dressed with a curious
feeling of finality. Everything was at an end now; she would bear
no more.
In the middle of the morning a wire came from Chris to say he would
be at home to dinner that evening.
Miss Chester was dining out, and Marie knew she would have to meet
him alone, but she did not care. She welcomed anything that hurried
the ending towards which she was drifting. Each moment seemed like
the snapping of another link in the chain of her bondage.
Chris arrived earlier than he expected. It was only five o'clock
when she heard his key in the door and his step in the hall.
She was in her room and heard him call to her, but she did not
answer, and she heard him question the maid, before he came running
up the stairs.
Her door was open and he saw her at once, standing by the window,
but she did not look round, even when he shut the door and went
over to her.
"Marie Celeste." There was an eager note in his voice, and he would
have taken her in his arms, but she turned, holding him away.
"No--please, we don't want to pretend any more."
He fell back a step, the eagerness dying from his face.
"What do you mean? What has happened?"
"Nothing--except that I know--about you and Dorothy." She put her
hands behind her, gripping the window sill to steady herself as she
went on: "I'm not going to make a scene. I know how you hate them,
and I don't blame you. I don't think either of us is to blame; but--
I've finished, and that's all . . . If you won't go away from the
house, I will, and I don't ever want to see you again."
She felt as if she were listening to the words of someone else--
listening with cool criticism, but she went on steadily:
"We've tried, as you wished, and it's failed. I can go away
quietly, and nobody need know much about it."
She raised her eyes to his stunned face for the first time.
"It's no use arguing about it. My mind is made up. Oh, if only you
would go away and leave me!"
For a moment there was profound silence, then Chris' tall figure
swayed a little towards her, and he caught her arms in a grip that
hurt.
"Who told you? And what do you know?" She hardly recognized his
voice in its choked passion. "It's damned lies, whatever it is! I
swear to you if I never speak again . . ."
She turned her face away with a little disdainful gesture.
"I don't want to hear--it's all so useless. I've said that I don't
blame you--and I mean it. You're quite free to love whom you like."
He broke into rough laughter.
"Love! You're talking like a child! Who's been telling you such
infernal lies? . . . Was it Dorothy herself?" She did not answer,
and he shook her in his rage and despair. She answered then,
breathlessly:
"No."
"Who then?" He waited. "Mrs. Heriot?" he demanded.
She looked at him scornfully.
"Yes, if you must know."
He almost flung her from him.
"And you believe what that woman says! She's a liar, and always has
been! She tried the same lowdown game on me--only yesterday. She
told me that there was something between you and Dakers, and I
threatened to wring her neck if she ever dared to repeat the lie
again . . ." Marie raised her head, and her cheeks were fiery red.
It gave her a fierce delight to feel that perhaps at last she had
the power to hurt him.
"It isn't a lie!" she said, clearly. "I love him."
A cruel shaft of light fell through the window, on the deathly
whiteness of Chris' face as he stood helplessly staring at his
wife. Marie had never seen agony in a man's face before, but she
saw it now, and she averted her eyes with a little shiver.
"It's better you should know the truth," she said at last in a
whisper. "I wanted to tell you before, but I was afraid."
"And--Dakers?" She hardly recognized her husband's voice as he
asked the hoarse question, and it hurt her to hear that he no
longer spoke of his friend by the well-known nickname.
She shook her head.
"He doesn't know; he's never said one word to me that you, or
anyone else, could not hear . . ." She clasped her hands together
passionately. "I wish he had!" she said chokingly. "I tried to make
him, but it was no use . . ." She looked at Chris with feverish
eyes. "It sounds dreadful, doesn't it?" she said piteously. "I
should think it did if I heard anyone else say it. But it's the
truth. I would go to Italy with him to-morrow if he would take me."
Chris stood like a man turned to stone. Then suddenly he fell on
his knees beside her, clasping her in his shakings arms.
"No, no, my dear! my dear! You don't know what you are saying. I'll
forget it all and take you away. You're ill, Marie Celeste. I've
been a brute to you, I know, but I don't deserve this." He took her
hands, such cold little hands they were, and pressed them to his
face. "I love you, too," he said brokenly. "I think I must always
have loved you, only I'm such a selfish swine . . . Marie Celeste,
for God's sake say you didn't mean it? I love you! I'll give my
life to make you happy. Say it isn't true--that you've just done it
to torture me--to punish me?"
She tried to disengage her hands from his, but he held them fast.
He went on pleading, praying, begging her, but she listened
apathetically, her eyes averted from his bowed head.
She did not believe a word he was saying. The wall of her pride
deafened her to the sincerity of his broken words. Her one emotion
was the fierce, triumphant gladness that at last she could make him
suffer as once he had made her.
Perhaps somewhere in a corner of that room the ghost of the child
Marie Celeste stood weeping for the tragedy of it all--weeping
because the woman Marie Celeste could so harden her heart to the
grief of the man who had once been her idol.
Then suddenly Chris released her and stood up. His face was like
gray marble as he took hers between his hands and looked down into
her brown eyes.
"Is it--the truth, Marie Celeste?" he asked hoarsely. "Tell me the
truth--that's all."
And Marie gave a little choking sound like a sob, and the lids fell
over here eyes as she whispered:
"I have--told you."
That was all. Chris let her go. He fell back a step, his arms
hanging limply at his sides. He was beaten and he knew it. No
explanation he could make would be of any avail. She had shut him
out of her heart for ever, and--for such is the tragedy of life--it
was only when it was too late that he knew how much he loved her.
It seemed a long time before he asked:
"Well--what do you want me to do?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know," she said in a frightened whisper.
She had burned her boats, and her whole being was shaken by the
irrevocable act.
She kept the thought of Feathers before her eyes. She clung to the
thought of the happiness he could give her. She never heard the
warning voice that whispered to her of its impossible madness.
"Does--Aunt Madge know?" Chris asked again, and she shook her head,
tears welling to her eyes for the first time.
"No--how could I tell her?"
He turned to the door. He was like a man walking in his sleep as he
reached it, and for a moment stood fingering the handle aimlessly,
then all at once the passionate blood came surging back to his
white face. He strode back to Marie as e stood by the window, and
caught her in his arms.
"I'll never give you up," he said hoarsely. "There's no law in
England that can make me give you up. Kiss me, Marie Celeste, and
say you didn't mean it . . ." His voice was broken; he hardly knew
what he was saying. "You're my wife, and I'll keep you. Feathers
doesn't want you--he has no use for women. You're my wife, and I
love you! I love you with all my heart and soul, Marie Celeste!
I've been a blind fool, but I'm awake now . . ." He kissed her
again and again despairingly.
Marie struggled against his arms. She flung her head far back to
escape his lips, but he was stronger than she, and it was only when
he felt her almost fainting in his arms that he released her.
"You're my wife," he said again, meeting her eyes. "I haven't
forgotten it if you have."
Her lips were shaking so that she could hardly speak, but she
managed to form a few words.
"Don't you ever--touch me again--like that. How dare you--insult
me! You say you don't care for women, and it seems to me as if--any
woman--will do! First Mrs. Heriot--then . . . then Dorothy, and now
. . . now me! Oh, if you knew how I hate you!"
She had gone too far. She knew it as soon as she had spoken, and
she shrank away from him in fear when she saw his eyes.
He caught her roughly by the wrist, dragging her towards him.
"And you dare . . . you dare say a thing like that to me!" he
panted. "It's not what you believe--you know it's not the truth!
It's just a damnable excuse to get rid of me--to leave you free to
go to Dakers. My God, I could almost kill you . . ."
He was beside himself with rage and thwarted passion. He let her go
so violently that she staggered and fell backwards, striking her
head against the wooden window-sill; but Chris was blind and deaf
to everything. He went downstairs and out into the street, hatless
as he was, slamming the front door after him.
It was still light, and people stared at him curiously as he strode
by, his eyes fixed unseeingly before him.
He was incapable of thought or action. He only felt that he must
keep on walking, walking, to outstrip this terrible thing that
walked gibbering beside him.
He had never suffered in all his life until now, and he did not
know how to bear it.
He loved his wife and she hated him. He saw the world red as he
walked along, careless of which way he went.
She loved Dakers! Feathers, ugly Feathers, who had never looked at
a woman in his life! He laughed aloud at the thought.
And Feathers was his friend! They had been more than brothers, and
now this tragic thing had occurred.
Presently he found himself outside Feathers' rooms in Albany
Street, standing on the path, staring aimlessly at the door.
Why had he come there? He did not know. But he went up the steps
and rang the bell.
Mr. Dakers was out, the maid told him, but he passed her and went
up to his friend's room.
There was a packed portmanteau in one corner and the hearth was
strewn with torn-up papers. Some whiskey and soda stood on the
table, and Chris helped himself to a stiff dose.
He felt better after that, though there was a stabbing pain in his
temples, and he sat down and leaned his head in his hands.
What should he say when Feathers came in? What should he do?
He tried to think, but he could grip nothing definitely. All thought
melted away from him as soon as he thought he had got it.
The only thing he could see distinctly against his closed lids was
the face of Marie Celeste as she had said, "Oh, if you knew how I
hate you!"
He would always hear her voice to his dying day. He would carry the
memory of it with him to the grave.
Imagination came to add to his torture. What had happened between
her and his friend during all those days they had been together?
Was it true what Marie had told him, that Feathers had never spoken
one word of love to her? He tried to disbelieve it, but he knew his
friend to be an honorable man.
Feathers was no wife-stealer; Feathers was the straightest chap in
the world.
Then came a revulsion of feeling. He hated him! He would kill him
if he came in now! Chris started up and began pacing the room.
What was to be the end of it all? He was helpless--powerless! And
he loved her so . . .
Fool that he had been never to know it before--to need the
hysterical outburst of a woman for whom he cared less than nothing,
to show him how much he loved his wife.
He thought of the scene on the golf links with Dorothy, and a
shiver of distaste shook him. He had never dreamed that she cared
for him, that he was any more to her than she was to him--and at
first he had been sorry for her, and ashamed of his own
shortsightedness. Then he had grown angry and disgusted.
And that hell-cat, Mrs. Heriot, had seen it all! Chris struck his
clenched fist against his forehead. He had never met a woman who
was fit to hold a candle to Marie Celeste. And then, with that
thought, the agony began all over again.
He had lost her! She would never look at him any more with shy
adoration in her brown eyes. They might have been so happy, but it
was too late now.
And the memory came to torture him of how Feathers had saved her
life! Perhaps she had begun to love him then! If so, how could he
blame her for caring! Feathers was one in a thousand, with a heart
of gold. Feathers would make her happy where he had failed so
miserably.
The room seemed suddenly unbearably suffocating, and he went out
again into the street.
He walked about all night, until wearied out, he turned back home
and flung himself, dressed as he was, on the bed.
CHAPTER XX
"First will I pray, do Thou
Who ownest the Soul
Yet wilt grant control
To another, nor disallow
For a time, restrain me now."
HE woke with a racking headache and nerves like wire that is
stretched to snapping point. He made a pretense of breakfast, not
daring to ask after Marie. He was afraid to go out for fear he
should return to find her gone. He went into the library and tried
to read the newspaper, and fell asleep over it, waking with a start
when the gong for lunch rang through the house, to find Miss
Chester standing beside him.
"My dear boy! Are you ill that you fall asleep at such an hour?"
she asked anxiously.
He managed to laugh.
"I was late last night," he apologized.
"Marie has one of her bad headaches, too," the old lady said. "She
is not strong, you know, Chris. I wish you could persuade her to go
away for a rest. I've been to her room twice, and she won't let me
in. Have you seen her this morning?"
He had to lie to comfort her.
"Yes--she's all right--she'll be better when she's had a rest."
He went up to her door twice during the afternoon, but came away
without daring to knock. He could hear her moving about inside, and
once the shutting of a drawer.
He went down again and wrote a note to her. Would she see him just
for a moment? He would not worry her, but he must see her. He
slipped it under the door of her room, but though he waited about
all the evening no answer came.
His head was unbearable then, and, feeling as if the pain would
drive him mad, he took his hat and went out after dinner.
From her window Marie saw him go down the street. She had been
watching all day for him to leave the house, and she drew a sharp
breath as she saw his tall figure turn the corner of the road. She
wondered if she would ever see him again. For a moment the thought
stabbed her heart with a little pain, but it was gone instantly,
and she crossed the room and quietly unlocked the door.
It was very quiet, and she slipped downstairs and out of the house
without being seen.
It was almost dark now, and nobody noticed her as she went down the
road and hailed a taxicab.
She gave the driver Feathers' address in Albany Street, then sat
back in a corner, trembling and shaking in every limb.
There was a queer rapture in her heart, which was yet half fear.
She was going to be happy, she told herself, fiercely; she was
going to offer herself to a man who loved her and who would make
her happy, and yet it terrified her to know that she was
deliberately cutting herself off from her old life.
She tried not to think, not to reason. Since yesterday her heart
had been like a stone and she dreaded that its hardness should
melt.
The door of the house was open when the taxicab stopped, and a
woman stood at the entrance looking out into the night.
Marie spoke to her timidly.
"Is Mr. Dakers in, please?"
The woman's eyes scanned her white face interestedly.
"I think he is," she said. "Do you know which are his rooms, or
shall I take you up?"
"Thank you; I know." She had never been in the house before, but
she had heard a great deal about his rooms from Chris, and she went
up the staircase in the darkness, her heart shaken with a wild sort
of happiness, and reached the landing above.
The door of Feathers' sitting-room stood open, and he was standing
at the table in his old tweed jacket, packing some papers away in a
box.
He had not heard Marie's step, and he did not move or glance up
till she was actually in the room and had whispered his name.
"Mr. Dakers!"
He started then as if he had heard a voice from the dead. He had
been thinking of her a moment ago, and his face was white as he
stared at her across the table. Then he took a swift step forward.
"Mrs. Lawless! Good heavens! Is anything the matter?"
He drew her into the room and closed the door.
"Chris? Where is he?" he asked hoarsely.
"I've told him I can't live with him any more"
She broke down into stifled sobbing. "I've done my best--you know I
have--and now it's finished. We had a dreadful scene last night . . .
and I can't go back to him again--I can't."
Feathers tried to speak. Twice he moistened his lips and tried to
speak, but no words would come. The room was rocking before him.
The night was full of tempting voices whispering that she had come
to him because she loved him, and because she knew he loved her.
With a desperate effort he found his voice.
"You don't mean what you are saying, I know, Mrs. Lawless; you are
tired and upset. Let me see Chris, and if there is any little
trouble that can be put right he will listen to me." He held out
his hand to her. "Let me take you home."
"It can never be all right again," she said, her voice broken with
sobbing. "He never cared for me, you know he never did . . ."
Feathers interrupted gently.
"But you love him. My dear, I know that you have always loved him."
Marie looked up, the tears wet on her cheeks, her sobbing suddenly
quiet. "Do you know what I told him?" she asked, and then, as he
did not answer, she added in a whisper: "I told him that I loved
you."
It seemed to Feathers as if all the world stood still in that
moment--as if he and Marie were alone in a great silence, looking
into one another's eyes.
His heart was thumping up in his throat, almost choking him, and
his hands were clenched in the pockets of his shabby tweed jacket.
The light in the center of the room fell full on his ugly face,
cruelly revealing all its grimness and pallor, and the trembling
tenderness of his mouth. He made no attempt to ignore her meaning.
It was too great a moment for pretense.
She was so small, such a child, that his passionate love died down
into something infinitely gentle as he spoke.
"Do you know what it means, Marie? Do you realize that you will
break Miss Chester's heart, and ruin your husband's life? Do you
know what everyone will say of you and me?"
She broke in feverishly.
"I don't mind what they say. I've never had any happiness, and I
could be happy with you--I am always happy with you . . . Oh, I
thought you loved me," she added with a broken little cry.
It seemed a long time before he answered, and then he said in a
voice that was slow and labored with emotion:
"I love you as the sweetest and dearest woman I have ever met. I
love you for your kind friendship to me, and because you did not
shrink from my ugly face. I love you because you're as far above me
in goodness and purity as the stars." He stopped with a hard breath
before he went on again. "You've been my ideal of everything I hold
sacred, and you are asking me to trample it all underfoot and drag
it in the mud."
He broke off jaggedly, and Marie said in a whisper:
"If--if you love me like that, don't you know--can't you _see_--how
happy we could be together?"
Did he know? He had dreamed so often of an impossible future in
which she might be his, of long days spent with her, and hours of
contentment, of the touch of her lips on his, and the sound of her
footsteps pacing beside him for the rest of his life and hers; but
they had only been dreams--dreams that could never come true.
He sought desperately in his mind for words with which to answer
her appeal, but what poor things were mere words in comparison with
his longing to take her in his arms and kiss the smiles back to her
tremulous lips.
And she said again desperately, fighting for her ground inch by
inch:
"Chris never loved me. It was only the money he wanted . . . oh,
you know it was!"
It was hard to find a reply to such an unanswerable argument.
"Years ago, before I knew you, Marie," Feathers said presently,
"Chris saved me from what might have been lifelong disgrace. He was
the best friend a man ever had. What would you think of me if I
paid my debt to him by taking his wife? Oh, my dear, think what it
would mean . . ."
She thought she heard a note of yielding in his voice, and she
reached out a trembling hand and put it into his.
"If you go away I shall have nobody left. Oh, I can't bear you to
go away!"
He kept the little hand in his very gently. He went on talking to
her as if she had been a child. He tried to show her the tragic
impossibility of it all--the hopelessness. He spoke to her of the
past, of the days when she and Chris has been children together; he
pleaded for his friend as eloquently as he might have pleaded for
himself, and at last he stopped, struck to the heart by her
silence.
She drew her hand away.
"You mean . . . all this means . . . that you don't love me."
Feathers bit his lip till the blood came. Not love her! When every
drop of blood in his body was on fire with love for her; when he
was holding himself in with a grip of iron from taking her into his
arms. He laughed drearily as he answered:
"If I loved you less I should not try to send you away."
She looked up then, the blood rushing in a crimson wave to her
face. He knew he had but to say the word and she would leave
everything for him, and the knowledge tore his heart with pride and
humility. He knew he had but to hold out his arms and she would
come to them as a child might, trusting him, confident of
happiness.
And it was because she was such a child that he would not, dare
not! She did not understand what she was doing, he kept telling
himself. She did not realize into what a pitiful trap she was
trying to lead both him and herself. His heart ached with
tenderness for her, even while it bled with the wounds of the
battle he was fighting.
There were moments when nothing seemed to matter but this girl and
her wistful eyes--moments when honor was but a paltry rag, and
friendship a thing at which to scoff--moments when he told himself
that he had as much right to happiness as anyone in the world, and
that it was here for the taking--moments when he would have sold
his immortal soul to hold her to his heart and kiss her lips. He
felt his resistance breaking down, and in despair he broke out:
"Mrs. Lawless, let me take you home . . . I beg of you--for both
our sakes . . ."
She stood quite still, her hands tearing at her gloves, then
suddenly she looked up at him with burning eyes.
He could read the thoughts behind those eyes--shame that he was
sending her away, and shame because she had come. Feathers stifled
a groan as he turned from her.
Then--"I am quite ready," she said, in the faintest whisper.
He stood aside to let her pass, but as she reached him she swayed
and would have fallen fainting to the floor but for his arms.
He caught her and held her as if she had been a child Her eyes were
closed, and her face and lips quite colorless.
Feathers put her down in the shabby armchair in which Chris had so
often sat and grumble and tried to force water between her lips.
Her hat had fallen off, and there was an ugly bruise on her
forehead where last night she had fallen against the window sill.
It stood out painfully against the whiteness of her skin.
And suddenly Feathers' strength gave way. He gathered her into his
arms as if he could never let her go. He kissed her hair and the
ugly bruise that had broken him down. He kissed her hands and the
unconscious face that rested against his shabby coat.
For a moment at least she was his--even if in all his life he never
saw her again.
Even Samson was robbed of his strength by a woman.
And even as he held her Feathers felt her stir in his arms, and the
fluttering of her breath, and he released her a little, watching
the color creep back to her face with passionate eyes.
Then her lids lifted, and she saw him bending over her.
She struggled free of him and sat up, pushing the dark hair from
her forehead. She tried to remember what had happened, but it only
came back to her slowly and with difficulty; then she made a
movement to rise to her feet.
"I forgot . . . you asked me to go . . ."
"Marie!" said Feathers brokenly.
She looked up, a wild hope in her eyes, then she fell forward into
his arms.
"Oh, do you love me?--say you love me . . ."
"My darling--my beloved . . ."
Everything was forgotten. The world was at a standstill. In his
arms she felt that she had come home at last to rest and perfect
happiness.
They talked in broken whispers. He would take her away, he said;
they would find their happiness together. Between kisses they made
their plans.
"And you will never be sorry--and hate me?" she asked painfully.
He turned her face to his.
"Am I to answer that question?" he asked hoarsely, and she shook
her head. "No--I know you never will."
Her head was on his shoulder, his cheek pressed to hers. Presently
she raised herself, and put her arms round his neck.
"Are you quite--quite happy?" she whispered. The grip of his arms
left her breathless as he answered:
"I never believed in heaven--till now." She rubbed her soft face
against the rough tweed of his coat.
"I love your coat," she said. "I love all of you."
Feathers turned his face sharply away, and she put up her hand,
forcing him to look at her again.
"Do you really love me?" she asked. She had had so little of love
in her life, it was hard to believe that at last she was everything
in the world to this man.
He answered her with broken words and kisses. She could feel the
passionate beating of his heart beneath her cheek, and she looked
up at him with shy eyes. "You always will--always!" she insisted.
"Always--always . . . all my life--and after."
He put his lips to hers in a long kiss; he kissed her hands and
slender wrists.
"My love--my love," he said brokenly, and could say no more.
Presently he drew her to her feet
"I must take you home." He looked at her with eyes that were hot
and passionate. "Marie, do you despise me? I tried to send you
away, but I love you so, I love you so."
"I love you, too," she said.
"My beloved."
She looked up at him.
"It's good-night then?" She lifted her face like a child to kiss
him. "Good-night till to-morrow," she said. "And then . . ."
He kissed the words from her lips.
She tidied her hair by the little glass over the mantel-shelf.
"My cheeks burn so," she said shyly. She had never before been
kissed as Feathers had kissed her.
Her eyes fell on a photograph of Chris as she turned away. Chris at
his handsomest and happiest, his eyes meeting hers with the old
smiling carelessness, and she felt as if a cold hand had clutched
her heart.
Until now she had forgotten Chris! She had forgotten everything.
She turned quickly to the man behind her.
"I am quite ready." She was only anxious now to go.
He kissed her again on the dark stairs, very humbly and reverently,
and he kept her hand in his as they walked together along the
street.
"Is it very late?" she asked once, and he said: "No--only ten; do
you think they will have missed you?"
"I locked my door; they will think I am asleep. Greyson will let me
in."
He clenched his teeth in the darkness. Already the lying and
subterfuge had begun. Where was it going to end? He could feel
shame like a mantle on his broad shoulders.
He said good-night to her at the end of the street, following her
slowly till she was safe indoors. Then he turned and walked back to
his rooms. His head was burning, and he took off his hat to bare it
to the cool night air. He did not know if he was more happy than he
had ever been in his life before, or unutterably wretched.
The thought of her kisses made his head reel, but the shame of his
own pitiable weakness was like a searing flame.
He had said that he would take her away to-morrow. He was going to
cut her off from everything she had held dear, and make her a
nameless outcast! He was prepared to bring his idol down to the
dust at his feet.
Looking back on the last hour, it seemed impossible he had yielded
to such delirium. He had arranged every detail for her, had written
them down so she could not forget, and at this time to-morrow . . .
He could not pass that thought. He stood still in the cool night
and looked up at the stars.
"God, it can never be!" he told himself despairingly.
He had said that she was as far above him as the stars, and here he
was in his madness trying to bring a star down to earth.
It was not of himself he thought at all. He would have gloried in a
shame shared with her; but for Marie, little Marie Celeste . . .
He went up to his rooms with dragging steps. There was a light
shining through the half-closed door, and he supposed vaguely that
he must have left it burning when he went out.
He pushed open the door, and saw Chris sitting in the chair where
so short a time ago he had held Marie in his arms.
CHAPTER XXI
"I fought with my friend last night.
And it was not with honest swords;
No steel sprang out to gleam and bite
We fought with poor, mean words."
THERE was a moment's silence, then Feathers went forward. The
riotous blood in his veins had quieted and he felt a little cold
and breathless.
"Hullo!" he said.
Chris looked up.
"Hullo! I thought I'd wait till you came in as they said you'd only
just gone out."
"Yes . . . yes . . . I went down to the end of the road, that's
all."
He poured out two whiskies with a hand that shook badly, and pushed
one across to Chris.
"Have a drink?"
Chris tasted it and made a wry face.
"Lord! That's a strong dose," he said. He added more soda to it,
but Feathers drained his at a gulp.
"Well, how goes it?" he asked. He sat down on the other side of the
table, so that his face was out of the light. The room to him
seemed filled with Marie's presence. It was so real that he
wondered Chris did not guess she had been here.
Chris stood up, his shoulders against the mantelshelf.
His handsome eyes met his friend's with haggard pain.
"I've got something to tell you," he said. "I'm telling you because
you've always been--been my best friend."
There was a little silence, then:
"Yes," said Feathers hoarsely. Chris told his story abruptly.
"Mrs. Heriot went to our place two days ago. You know Miss Webber
and I were golfing with them the day before."
"Yes."
Chris flushed and his eyes wavered.
"A damnable incident happened when we were down there--Miss Webber
. . ." He could not go on.
Feathers nodded.
"I know. Don't trouble to explain. I could see it in Scotland. She
thinks she is in love with you--is that it? and told you so? Mrs.
Heriot overheard, or saw, and told . . . your wife . . . Go on."
Chris looked relieved.
"That's it, more or less. I swear to you that there was nothing in
it on my side at all! I've never given the girl a thought, beyond
to play golf with her; you know that!"
"Yes, go on!" There was a long silence.
"Marie won't believe me---" Chris said then brokenly. "She won't
even let me explain. Miss Webber's brother died unexpectedly, and I
took her back home. I only went because Marie and Aunt Madge both
seemed to think I ought to. I never spoke a dozen words to the
wretched girl the whole way; I didn't want to go with her. I stayed
at an inn in Chester that night--her home is in Chester--and came
back as soon as I could the next morning, and this is what I got!
. . ." He dropped back into his chair despairingly. "She's done
with me," he said hoarsely.
Feathers stared at his friend with strained eyes, and after a
moment Chris started up once more.
"I'll kill that Heriot woman if I ever see her again," he broke out
passionately. "I loathe women! They're cruel devils to each other!
Why did she want to go and hurt Marie Celeste like that? We were
getting on better together--things would have been all right, and
then that hell-cat must needs come in and ruin everything . . ."
His voice was choked and broken.
"She said she hated me--Marie said so," he stumbled on. "She looked
as if she meant it, too . . . My God, you don't know what it was
like, to have to stand there and listen! I think I went mad--I
know I hurt her, but I didn't know what I was doing . . . I'd give
my soul to undo the past three months and start again. It's all
been my fault!" He brought his clenched fist down on the table with
a crash. "Blind, insensate fool that I am! I never knew that she
was more to me than anything on earth . . ."
Feathers closed his eyes, and for a moment there was absolute
silence. He had never heard Chris speak with such passionate
despair before; had not believed him to be capable of so much
feeling, and it drove home to him with brutal force the terrible
tragedy upon the brink of which they now stood.
It was not merely his own happiness, or Marie's that was involved,
but that of his friend as well, for Feathers knew with unerring
instinct that Chris had only spoken the simple truth when he said
that he loved his wife. He had been slow to realize it perhaps, but
now it had come Feathers knew him sufficiently well to know that it
would be deep and lasting.
He braced himself for the thing which he knew was yet to come, and
a terrible feeling of enmity rose in his heart against this friend
of his, who had never discovered that he loved Marie until the fact
that he stood in great danger of losing her, had been driven home
to him.
Half an hour ago Feathers had told himself that he must give her
up, but now he had forgotten that, and all his love and strength
rose in defense of her. She was his--he would hold her against all
the world.
Chris was pacing the room agitatedly, and after a moment he broke
out again:
"That isn't all--it isn't the worst--" he swung round looking at
Feathers with haggard eyes. "How would you feel," he demanded
hoarsely, "if your own wife told you that she cared for another
man?"
There was a poignant silence, and as their eyes held one another,
the realization came home to Feathers with overwhelming shock, that
in spite of everything he had heard, in spite of what Marie herself
had told him, Chris still trusted him and believed in him. He tried
to find his voice, but it seemed to have deserted him, and as he
cast desperately about for words, Chris turned away and flung
himself down into a chair, his face buried in his hands.
There was a long silence, then he said in a dreary, muffled voice:
"It's only what I deserve, I know--but . . ." He could not go on.
He was up again, pacing the room in a frenzy of impotence.
Feathers watched him for a moment with beaten eyes, then he said
jerkily:
"You didn't--didn't care for her when you were married, Chris? I
thought--wasn't it--just to get the money?"
Chris turned his haggard face.
"To get what money?" he asked vaguely.
Feathers tried to explain.
"I was told--I understood--that the money was left to your wife--to
your wife alone I mean, unless she consented to marry you, and that
then . . . then you divided it."
Chris laughed mirthlessly.
"Good lord, it was the other way about," he said in a hard voice.
"Her father was always a crank, and he never forgave her for not
being a boy--that was why he adopted me. He left every farthing to
me--and I knew how proud she was--knew she'd never take a shilling
if she was told the truth about the will, so . . . so I married her
to settle it! It seemed the best way out at the time," he added
hopelessly. "I thought I was being rather clever . . . I know now
what a damned fool I was."
Feathers got up slowly and, walking across to Chris, put his hands
heavily on his shoulders, looking at him with desperate eyes.
"Is that the truth?" he asked hoarsely. "Will you swear that it's
the truth?"
Chris stared at him in blank amazement.
"What on earth do you mean? Of course it's the truth. Ask Miss
Chester if you don't believe me--she's known about it all along. It
was she who first suggested keeping it from Marie . . . Here, I
say, what's the matter?"
"Nothing . . . I wish I'd known before, that's all." He laughed
grimly. "Aston Knight told me a very different yarn," he broke out
with violence after a moment. "He said that the money had been left
to your wife, which was why you had married her--and I believed
him! My God, what a fool!"
Chris was watching him with angry mystification.
"I don't know what you're driving at," he said shortly. "But I'm
much obliged to you for the compliment, I'm sure. Marie hadn't a
farthing when I married her--but I settled half of everything on
her on our wedding day."
Feathers turned his white face.
"Why didn't you tell her the truth?" he asked with difficulty. "No
good ever comes of lying and subterfuge and deceit . . ." He
laughed grimly at his own words! He was a fine one to get up in the
pulpit and preach when in another twenty-four hours he would have
broken every code of honor and friendship.
It was trembling on his lips to tell Chris the whole truth, to keep
back nothing from that first moment in the hotel lounge, when his
too-ready tongue had started all the mischief.
But for him and his blundering, Chris and his wife would have been
happy enough now. He seemed to see it all as plainly as if it were
a picture unraveled before his eyes.
Marie had turned against Chris from the moment when she had
overheard what he had said to Atkins. All her pride had been up in
arms and had gone on increasing from that day until to-night, when
in her desperation and unhappiness she had come to him.
"I don't know that it matters about not telling her," Chris said
wretchedly. "She told me afterwards that she had known all the
time, though God alone knows who told her."
There was a little silence; then:
"I did," said Feathers quietly.
"You!" The blood rushed to Chris' face. He swung round and stared
at his friend with hot eyes.
"You!" he said again.
"Yes; I was talking to Atkins in the lounge the first night you
were married. I repeated to him what Aston Knight had told me--that
you had married your wife for her money . . . and she overheard."
He looked at Chris' incredulous face.
"It's the truth," he said. "I never knew until weeks afterwards
that she had overheard, until she told me herself, and even then I
believed that I had only repeated what was true."
He smiled painfully. "Go on, curse me to all eternity; I deserve
it; I've been at the bottom of all the mischief."
There was a terrible silence. Chris understood well enough now
without further explanations, and for a moment he saw the world
red. He broke out savagely:
"Then it's you I've got to thank! You, with your damned humbugging
pretense of friendship trying to steal my wife---"
He raised his fist in blind passion, and Feathers broke out in an
agony:
"Chris! for God's sake . . ."
There was something so tragic in his ugly face, that Chris' hand
fell limply, and he turned away, leaning his arms on the
mantelshelf and hiding his face.
"It's absurd to say I'm sorry," Feathers said after a moment dully.
"One can't find adequate words for--for a thing like this . . .
There's only one reparation I can make, Chris . . . to tell--your
wife."
Chris did not answer, and he went on. "I should like to feel that
you still trust me sufficiently to--to allow me to tell her."
Chris flung up his head.
"Nothing will do any good. She hates the sight of me--and I don't
wonder--if that is what she thought." There was something like a
sob in his voice, and Feathers winced.
The delirium of that hour with Marie seemed like a dream. What
madness had possessed him? Her love had been given to Chris and no
one else. It was only in her unhappiness that she had turned to
him, as a sick child will often turn to a stranger away from the
one it really loves best in all the world.
The thought hurt unbearably, but he knew it was the truth--knew
that his only reparation was to give her back to Chris.
Chris turned suddenly, his young face aged by pain and despair.
"She told me that she hated me." he said again. It seemed as if the
fact was engraved on his heart and mind, to the exclusion of
everything else. He broke off, breathing hard, as if he were
choking. "She told me that she loved you--you who ruined my
happiness and set her against me . . . Curse you, I say! Curse you
to all eternity . . ."
"Chris, for God's sake!"
Chris turned away. He was shaking with passion, and for a long time
neither of them spoke.
Then Feathers got up from the table and laid a hand on his friend's
shoulder.
"Marie has never loved anyone but you," he said slowly. "She's been
desperately unhappy, and when--when a woman is unhappy, she turns
to the first friend who will listen to her! . . . Your wife turned
to me . . . If I had been any other man, she would have done just
the same. Will you believe me when I tell you that I know things
are going to be all right? . . . Chris, for God's sake, believe
me."
Chris shook his hand off impatiently.
"But when? How? You can't take away hatred with words." he said.
"And she meant what she said . . . She's never looked at me like
that in her life before . . ."
Feathers walked over to the window and looked out into the
darkness. The stars seemed to be watching him with sympathetic
eyes--the stars that were as far removed from him as was the woman
he loved.
Chris spoke again presently:
"I'll get off. If I talk till Doomsday nothing can be done." He
turned to the door. "Good-night." he said gruffly.
Feathers held out his hand, but Chris would not see it, and he went
out, shutting the door hard behind him.
Feathers stood at the window and listened to his steps dying away
down the street. It was the end of their friendship, he knew, and
the knowledge cut him to the heart.
He sat up all night, trying to make some sort of order out of his
tangled thoughts. He would never see Marie again! He would write to
her and explain.
But he knew she would be unconvinced by a letter, and, after all,
what could he say that he would give her back her lost happiness,
poor child!
He waited till ten o'clock the following morning and rang Chris on
the 'phone.
The servant who answered it said that Mr. Lawless had gone out.
"And--Mrs. Lawless?" Feathers asked.
"She has gone out, too--for the day," she said.
"With--with her husband?"
"Oh, no, sir!"
The surprise in the girl's voice was like a knife in his heart. So
the servants knew how seldom Chris and his wife went about
together; and it was all his doing!
Marie had gone out for the day! He knew only too well what that
meant--that she had already left home forever, to join her life
with his.
It was impossible to stop her now. He would have to go and meet
her, as they had arranged last night.
He had told her to meet him at a little inn on the Oxford road. He
had arranged to drive the car down in the evening and take her
away!
Last night it had sounded like sense! But this morning . . .
Madness!--utter madness!
Twice during the morning he rang Chris again, but each time he was
still out, and finally Feathers wrote to him.
He sent the note by a boy who lived in the house, and went round to
the garage to fetch his car.
If Marie had gone to the inn earlier than he had told her, there
was still time to tell her the truth and take her back home.
It was afternoon then; an unusually hot day for September, with a
curiously humid feeling in the air.
Feathers drove like a man in a dream. Everything seemed so unreal
and impossible. He wondered what the end of it all would be.
It was only four o'clock when he reached the inn, but Marie was not
there. He supposed he could hardly have expected her to be, seeing
that he had not told her to meet him until eight that evening.
He remembered how he had calculated that it would be dark and that
they could make their escape under cover of the friendly night. His
whole soul writhed now as he thought of it. The shame of what he
had done overwhelmed him.
He never knew how he got through the long hours. He could not keep
still for a moment. In and out he wandered, looking up and down the
long road by which she must come.
It seemed to get dark early. The river flowed close to the inn, and
a curious gray mist rose from the fields and the water till almost
a fog lay over the countryside.
Feathers suffered the tortures of the damned. His heart was sick
with mingled dread and longing. One moment he was praying that she
would not come, that at the last moment she would change her mind
and not dare to face it, and the next his soul was in agony lest he
should never see her again. A thousand times he went into the quiet
little inn parlor and looked at the clock. It was five minutes to
eight, and he had told Chris to be there at half-past seven! It had
seemed the only way! If Chris came, between them they could tell
her the whole story, but the clock struck the hour and there was no
sign of Chris, no sign of Marie.
Feathers went to the door again. He was shaking as if with ague and
his lips were like ice.
Had anything happened to her? He thought he should go mad with
dread. He paced back into the inn again. Perhaps the clock was
wrong--perhaps . . .
"Mr. Dakers," said a timid voice, and he turned slowly to find
Marie beside him.
CHAPTER XXII
"I am old and very tired, though to strangers I am young;
Life was just a sporting gamble, but for me the game is done;
It was worth it, and I'm scoffing now the reckoning has come;
That's the worst of too much loving--
Hurts like Hades when it's done."
FEATHERS' relief was so great that at first he could not speak, and
she went on tremulously: "I've been here ever so long, walking up
and down the road." She cast a timid glance behind her. "I saw
you"--she went on almost whispering. "But I was afraid. I thought--
oh, I thought so many dreadful things." He could see how she was
trembling, and he took her hand into a warm clasp. "Oh, I am so
glad to be with you," she said passionately.
He drew her into the parlor, closing the door. Though the evening
was warm a fire burned in the old-fashioned open grate, its flames
throwing fantastic shadows on walls and low ceiling.
Feathers put Marie into a chair, and stood beside her.
"There is nothing to be afraid of," he said gently. "You are quite
safe with me"--but he looked away from her as he spoke, and the
devil of desire rose again in his heart, turning his blood to fire,
and forcing his pulse to racing speed. In that moment he fought the
hardest battle of his life, as he stood there, her soft fingers
clinging to his, in the intimacy of the firelit room, and with the
silent country lying all around them outside.
He was an ugly man, with a hulking, grotesque body, but there was
something of the angel in his eyes when presently he looked down at
the girl's bowed head.
"Marie--will you answer me one question?"
She nodded, her lips were trembling too much to speak.
"Are you sure--can you tell me truthfully, with all your heart and
soul, that you wish to come away with me to-night? that you know it
is for your complete happiness?--that you have not one single fear,
or regret?"
She nodded again, not looking at him.
"When you left me--last night," he insisted gently, "were you still
quite happy?--perfectly happy?"
Silence now, then suddenly she looked up.
"Were you?" she whispered.
"No."
He never knew how he forced the word to his lips. The old longing
was rending his heart, the old tempting whispers torturing him.
Marie hid her face in her shaking hands.
Feathers sat down beside her. He put an arm round her shrinking
figure as a big brother might have done, and his voice when he
spoke was infinitely gentle.
"Last night was a dream," he said. "Let us forget it. I alone am to
blame. No, no--let me go on," as she would have spoken. "No matter
how much we might--I might love you, there are other things that
count even more in the sum total of happiness--things I should be
powerless to give you, and so . . . so we must forget . . . last
night . . . and go back . . . . But you know that, Marie--without
my telling you."
She looked up at him then, and suddenly she broke out wildly:
"It isn't that I don't love you--that I didn't mean it when I said
I loved you. Oh, don't think that--don't think that!"
Feathers rose abruptly. He walked away from her, and his face was
white, as Marie went on hopelessly.
"I can't explain myself--I don't understand myself. I only know
that I've never been so happy in all my life as--as I was last
night when--when you kissed me--I shall always remember it, always--
It's too late to hope that I shall ever be happy with . . . with
Chris--even if--if I wanted to; but--but he is my husband, and so
. . ." She half turned, flinging despairing arms towards him. "Oh,
help me, please help me," she said sobbing.
Feathers came back to her, knelt down beside her, and took both her
hands in his. The pallor had not left his face, but it was
wonderful in its tenderness and his voice was infinitely gentle
when he spoke.
"Chris came to my rooms last night--after . . . after you had
gone." She looked up with terrified eyes.
"Chris!"
"Yes." Feathers drew a hard breath. "Marie, you know that . . .
that he loves you, too?"
"Loves me!" she laughed harshly. "When he married me for my money--
when he left me alone all those weeks! If it hadn't been for you
. . ." She pushed his arm away and rose to her feet. "Oh, I don't
want to talk about him. I never wish to see him any more."
Feathers stood up, so that his big figure was between her and the
door.
"He is coming here--this evening--to take you home," he said.
For an instant she stared at him with an ashen face; then she gave
a little stifled scream.
"No, no; I can't! I never want to see him again! Let me go! Oh! Let
me go! I thought you loved me, and now this is what you have done."
He put her into the chair again, keeping her hands firmly in his.
He told her as briefly as possible of his conversation last night
with Chris.
"It was never the truth that he married you for your money," he
said. He said it over and over again, trying to drive it home to
her. She looked so dazed and white, almost like a sleep-walker who
had been roughly aroused.
"I alone am to blame," he insisted quietly. "But for me Chris would
have found out from the first that he loved you . . . Oh, Marie,
try and understand, dear--try and understand."
She looked up at him with vague eyes and nodded vacantly.
She was trying to understand; she wanted to understand, but her
brain refused to work.
She kept telling herself that she was going back home, that Chris
was coming to take her home, that she was not going away with
Feathers, after all, that it had just been a sweet, impossible
dream, but it all sounded like so much foolishness.
How could Chris possibly love her? How could he possibly wish to
take her home after all that had happened? He would hate and
despise her when he knew.
She felt so cold! Her hands were like ice, and yet her head was
burning hot.
Feathers went on talking to her, and she tried to listen, tried to
keep her thoughts concentrated, but they would wander away; then
presently--after a long while it seemed--he lifted her to her feet,
and she heard him say that Chris could not be coming now after all,
that it was too late--that it was past nine o'clock.
She laughed because he seemed so distressed.
"I knew he wouldn't come," she said, but it did not seem to matter.
She let him help her into the car--the same car in which she had
ridden with him happily so many times before. She wished she could
feel that happiness now, but her heart felt all dead and cold.
"I knew Chris wouldn't come," she said again stupidly. "Not that it
matters at all," she added, with an empty little laugh.
Nothing mattered! This second bid for happiness had failed as the
first had done and she wished she could die.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked, as he folded the rug round
her, and he answered "Home."
He looked up and down the road with haggard eyes, his ears strained
for the sound of a car that might be bringing Chris. He could not
understand why he had not come. He had counted on him with such
passionate certainty that it never occurred to him for a moment
that his note could have miscarried. His mind was racked with
torturing doubts.
And all the time Marie's words were hammering against his brain,
adding to his torture.
"It isn't that I don't love you--that I didn't mean it when I said
I loved you. . . ."
Was that the truth? And if so, was he doing the right thing by
sending her back to her husband?
Until to-night he had only tried to cheat himself with the belief
that she loved him, but now everything seemed changed, distorted.
It was unusually dark, and a thick mist from the river made it
difficult to see more than a yard ahead, in spite of the bright
headlamps of the car.
Feathers had been tinkering with the engine in order to gain time,
but he closed down the bonnet now, and came to the side of the car
where Marie sat.
"Are you ready?" he asked hoarsely.
"Yes--" he had turned to move away, when she caught his arm.
"If--if it's good-bye--" she said, in such a faint whisper that he
could hardly hear the words. "I should . . . oh, I should like to
kiss you once more."
For an instant he stood like a man turned to stone, then he turned
deliberately, and crushed her in his arms.
For a long moment their lips clung together, and it seemed to Marie
that in that kiss, Feathers gave her his heart and himself and all
that he had--forever. When he released her and she sank back,
trembling and faint, she heard his hoarse "God bless you" as if in
a dream, and presently he was beside her, driving slowly back
through the mist and darkness.
She only spoke to him once to say:
"Supposing--supposing they won't have me at home any more?"
The blood rushed to his face.
"We won't suppose anything so impossible," he said, but a fierce
exultation passed through him; for if such a thing were to happen,
he knew that she would be his in very truth.
CHAPTER XXIII
"And if I die first, shall death be then
A lonesome watchtower whence I see you weep?"
CHRIS had gone out that morning without seeing either Miss Chester
or his wife. His first passionate bitterness and anger against
Feathers had passed, leaving him more wretched than he had ever
been in his life, as he remembered their long friendship.
He who had never known trouble hitherto was almost crushed to the
earth by it now; and the hardest part of it all to bear was the
knowledge that to a large extent he and his selfishness had been to
blame.
He told himself that he had no wish to see Feathers any more, and
yet it was with the sneaking hope that he would find him there that
he went to the club after having mooned about the West End all the
morning.
He made a pretense of lunch, and drank three whiskies and sodas,
which made him feel quarrelsome, and he had just decided that he
would hunt up Aston Knight and tell him what he thought of him,
when one of the waiters came to him in the smoking-room.
"If you please, sir, you are wanted on the 'phone; very urgent, if
you please."
Chris was up in a second. There was only one thing in the world
that could be urgent to him, he knew, and that was if it concerned
Marie.
It was Miss Chester's maid, Greyson, who answered his impatient
hullo, and his heart seemed to stop beating as he could hear the
distress in her voice.
"Oh, sir, could you come home, please? I've been trying to find you
all the morning. I rang up Mr. Daker's rooms, but you weren't
there."
Chris struck in roughly:
"Well, I'm here now. What is it? Can't you speak up?"
"It's Miss Chester, sir! She was all right when I called her this
morning, but when I went up again . . ."
Chris caught his breath with a sob of relief. Only Aunt Madge!
Thank God nothing was wrong with Marie.
"I'll come at once," he said, not waiting to hear any more. "Send
for a doctor, and I'll come at once."
He hung up the receiver and sent for a taxi. He was home in less
than ten minutes, to find the doctor's car at the gate. He ran up
the steps hastily and was met by Greyson, who was crying bitterly.
"Well, how is she?" he asked.
"She's dead, sir," she told him, sobbing. "She was dead when I
'phoned you. I tried to tell you on the 'phone, but you wouldn't
let me."
"Dead!" The news came as an awful shock to Chris. He stood quite
still, his heart slowing down sickeningly; then he went on and up
the stairs to Miss Chester's room.
He had expected to find Marie there, but only the doctor and
housekeeper stood by the bed.
Miss Chester was lying just as if she were asleep, her white hair
parted smoothly on either side of her face, and a little smile on
her lips, as if behind her closed lids she was looking into the
future and could see something that pleased her well.
Chris stood silently looking down at her. He had been very fond of
her and she had always been very good to him. There was an
uncomfortable tightness in his throat.
The housekeeper was sobbing quietly.
Chris looked at her. "Where's--my wife?" he asked in a whisper.
She shook her head.
"I don't know, sir; she went out almost directly after breakfast.
Oh--the poor lamb, it will break her heart."
When Chris turned away, she followed him on to the Landing. She was
carrying a big white woolly shawl over her arm.
Chris touched it. "Was she still working?" he asked. He knew it was
the shawl without which he had hardly ever seen Miss Chester.
The woman broke into fresh tears. She held the shawl up for his
inspection.
"It's finished, sir! She must have put the last stitch into it just
before she died, because Greyson said she was sitting up working at
it when she called her this morning. She was so anxious to get it
made--she always told me it was for Marie--for . . ."
"That will do," said Chris. He went downstairs and waited about
till the doctor came down.
"There was nothing to be done," the doctor told him. "If I had been
sitting beside her when it happened I could not have done
anything." He looked at Chris' pale face sympathetically. "It's
been a shock to you," he said. "And your wife--I am afraid she will
feel it very much."
"Yes--especially as she was out." Chris spoke constrainedly. He
dreaded having to break the news to Marie.
The afternoon went by, and she did not come. Greyson did not know
where she had gone.
"Nobody rang her up?" Chris asked, with sudden apprehension.
"No, sir; Mr. Dakers rang up twice before lunch, but he asked for
you."
Chris went to the 'phone and gave Feathers' number, but Feathers
had gone out in the car, so they told him, and had left no word as
to when he would return.
Greyson brought Chris some tea in the smoking-room, but he left it
untouched.
"There are some letters, sir," she said, as she came to take the
tray away, but Chris did not even glance at them.
His heart was racked with anxiety for his wife. He wished he had
insisted on seeing her that morning and he blamed himself bitterly.
Evening came, but no Marie.
"I don't want any dinner," Chris said, when the servants begged him
to eat. He wandered in and out of the house restlessly. He had rung
up everyone where he thought there was the slightest chance of
finding Marie, but nobody had seen her. He had rung Feathers twenty
times without result.
It was approaching seven o'clock before his eyes fell on the little
heap of letters on the smoking-room table, and from sheer
restlessness he took them up and opened them one by one.
A bill--a note from a man asking him to play golf--a letter in Miss
Chester's writing, sent back from Scotland, and a note without a
stamp.
He was about to throw the last listlessly aside as of no interest,
when he recognized Feathers' writing.
With his heart racing, he broke open the flap and for a moment
everything swam before his eyes, so that he could not read a word.
Dear Chris,--I rang you this morning, but they said you were out,
so I am writing and sending the note by hand, as I want you to get
it as soon as you come in. You will know by the time you receive
this that your wife has left the house. If you had not come to my
rooms last night and told me what you did, God only knows in what a
tragedy we might have found ourselves. This morning I did my best
to set things right, but I was too late, so am writing this note to
you. You know the Yellow Sheaf on the Oxford road near Somerton
Lock? If you will be there this evening at half-past seven you will
find Mrs. Lawless. I know this is the end of our friendship, and
through my fault My only excuse is that I thought I was a strong
man, but perhaps we are all weak when it comes to the test--
Feathers.
Half-past seven! It was nearly seven now, and Somerton Lock was
forty miles away.
Chris never knew what happened during the next hour. He only came
to himself again as he was driving like a madman through the
darkening night, the cool breeze stinging his face.
She had gone--and with Feathers! His best friend had failed him,
had lied to him and dishonored him! There was murder in Chris'
heart as he stared ahead into the darkness and tried to control his
thoughts.
Twice he took the wrong road, and had to turn back, cursing and
praying, and almost sobbing in his fear.
The darkness seemed to deepen in order to hamper him. As he neared
the river a slight dip in the road plunged him into a thick mist
that was almost a fog.
He had to slow down--could hardly see a yard ahead of him.
Once he stopped, and with the aid of a lamp from the car found a
signpost.
Somerton Lock--one mile . . .
Almost there! He tried to believe it was not too late, tried to
remember that for all these years Feathers had been his loyal
friend. Once the car swerved under his shaking hand, and he had to
stop dead with grinding brakes, thinking he was off the road.
It was then that he heard steps running up the road towards him,
and a man's voice calling through the mist and darkness.
He started the car again impatiently, but as he did so a man's
figure came out of the gloom into the uncertain light of his lamps.
"There's a car in the river . . . For God's sake, sir, come. It's a
mile from the lock and not a soul nearer! Lost the road in this
mist they must have done." He read the refusal in Chris' face, and
he broke out again passionately, "Oh, for God's sake, sir! There's
a woman in it!"
As if in corroboration of his statement, a frantic cry came faintly
to them through the mist.
Chris hesitated no longer. He caught up a strap which lay at the
bottom of the car and, dragging a lamp from its hook, ran back
along the road with the man.
"Are you sure?" he asked breathlessly as they ran. "How can a car
have got into the river?"
They were at the water's edge now and holding the lamp low down,
they could see the wheel tracks through the damp, short grass on
the bank and the broken rushes where the car had taken its plunge.
The river was deep there, but if it had been half the depth the
danger would have been almost as great, for Chris knew that the car
would in all probability have turned over had it been going even at
a moderate speed. He flung off his coat and, making a cup of his
hands, shouted into the darkness:
"Hullo! Hullo!" And the same terrified voice cried in answer, only
weaker now, and choking, as if already the silent flowing water had
begun to take its toll.
Chris caught up the strap. He fastened one end round his wrist and
gave the other to the man, who stood shaking and helpless beside
him:
"Here! Take this, and don't let it go! I'm going in!"
He took the plunge through the darkness blindly. The water was icy
cold as it closed over his head, and he could feel the rushes and
weeds clutching at him as he struggled up to the surface.
He shouted again breathlessly, and the faint cry came again close
beside him this time, it seemed.
He struck out desperately, every nerve strained, and then suddenly
his hand came into contact with something which at first he thought
was a man's arm, but it seemed to slip beneath the water before he
could grip it.
He groped round desperately, cursing the darkness, and his fingers
caught in the soft silkiness of a woman's hair.
There was no mistaking it this time. Twisting it anyhow about his
wrist and arm so she could not slip from him, he turned for the
bank again, guided by the strap which still held.
He was hampered by his clothes and the weight of the woman, though
from what he could tell she seemed small and light enough, and he
was almost exhausted by the time he reached the bank.
There were several figures there now, and a lantern flashed a
bright light into his face as willing hands dragged him ashore with
his burden.
He fell heavily as soon as he reached the bank and lay prone for a
moment, panting and exhausted.
Someone came to his help, but he waved him away.
"I'm all right--there's another out there--a man, I think."
Presently he struggled to his feet. The mist seemed to have risen a
little, and above it a pale moon gleamed faintly down on to the
silent river.
A small boat had been pushed off from the bank, and Chris could
hear the splash of sculls through the mist.
A group of men were bending over the figure of a girl lying on the
bank--the girl he had pulled from the water, Chris supposed. He
drew a little nearer, and looked down at her as she lay there, the
light of the lantern falling on her upturned face. Then he gave a
great cry of agony and fell on his knees beside her, clutching her
limp body with desperate hands for the girl was his own wife--Marie
Celeste.
CHAPTER XXIV
"World if you know what is right,
Take me in his stead,
Bury me deep out of sight,
I am the one that's dead."
THEY took Marie back to the Yellow Sheaf Inn, on the Oxford road,
carrying her on a rough stretcher made of a broken gate, covered
with coats, and Chris walked beside her, holding her hand in his.
A doctor had come from Somerton, and they took her away from him
upstairs, and shut the door.
The woman who kept the inn came up to him as he stood on the
landing outside her room and tried to persuade him to come away and
change his wet clothes.
"You'll take your death of cold," she said in kindly anger.
"There's a suit of my husband's that you're welcome to, sir, I'm
sure."
Chris thanked her absently, but hardly heard what she was saying.
In his heart he was sure that Marie was dead, though as yet the
shock of the tragedy kept him from feeling anything acutely.
It was a nightmare as yet--that was all! And he had the childish
feeling that if he were patient, he would wake up and be able to
laugh at it all.
Presently the woman climbed the stairs again with a cup of steaming
coffee, into which she had put a strong dose of brandy. She stood
over him as if she had been his mother while he drank it.
"It's no use everyone getting ill," she scolded. "If the poor dear
in there wants you, you won't be in a fit state to go to her."
She had struck the right note, and Chris went off obediently to
change his clothes.
The mist seemed to have quite cleared away as he looked towards the
window for a moment, and there was bright moonlight--as bright as
it had been that night when he went out on to the sea with Mrs.
Heriot and the skiff broke away--so long ago it seemed!
He shivered, and went back to the door of Marie's room.
Feathers was dead--he knew that now--but as yet had not been able
to realize it. He knew that down on the river bank men were still
searching for him--unsuccessfully. It was a horrible thought. He
knew he would never be able to rid himself of the feeling of those
slimy reeds and rushes that had tried to drag him down with them.
Feathers was dead! Chris knew that it must have been his arm about
which his groping fingers had first closed. He shut his eyes with a
sense of physical sickness.
Where was this tragedy, which had begun with his own selfishness,
going to end?
Supposing Marie died, too! He gripped his arms above his heart as
if to still the terrible pain that was rending him. He did not
deserve that she should live, he knew. His face was ashen when
presently her door opened and the doctor came out.
He was a young man and sympathetic. He put a kindly hand on Chris'
shoulder.
"It's all right," he said. "She'll be all right--thanks to you.
Shock to the system, of course, but"--he gave an exclamation of
concern as Chris swayed--"you'd better come downstairs and let me
prescribe for you," he said bluntly. "No, you can't see your wife
yet. That face of yours would only make her worse."
He would not allow Chris to see her that night
"She must be kept perfectly quiet. My dear chap, listen to reason,"
he urged, when Chris objected. "Do you want to kill her outright?
No? Very well, then, do as I say."
He hesitated, then asked: "Were you with her--in the car?"
"No"--Chris' voice shook--"my friend was with her," he added,
turning his face away.
"I see. Terrible thing--terrible!"
Chris followed him to the door.
"And--my wife? You are sure--quite sure?" he asked in agony.
"Quite sure . . . She wants rest, of course, but it's been a most
wonderful escape." He hesitated. "They haven't found the other poor
fellow yet?" he asked.
"No."
He saw the grief in Chris' face, and held out his hand.
"You did your best; it was a gallant thing--going into the river
like that--in the darkness. They would both have gone but for you."
"You'd best go to bed, sir," the innkeeper's wife said to Chris, as
he went back upstairs. "Lie down and try to sleep: I'll call you
the very minute if she asks for you."
But he would not, and in the end she brought an armchair to the
door of Marie's room, and, worn out with exhaustion and emotion,
Chris fell asleep in it.
He woke to daylight and the tramp of feet on the road outside. He
stared up and stood listening and shaking in every limb.
He knew what it meant--they were bringing Feathers in . . .
The awfulness of it seemed to come home to him with overwhelming
force as he stood there and listened.
He had lost his best friend--the man who for years had been more to
him than a brother, and they had parted in anger. He had refused to
shake hands with him--he would have given five years of his life
now to live that moment again.
The innkeeper's wife came tiptoeing to him across the little
landing as he stood looking out of the window on to the road. She
had been up with Marie all night, and whispered to him now that she
had fallen asleep.
"Such a lovely sleep, bless her!" she said, with pride. "And if you
was to be very quiet . . ."
No more words were needed. Chris went past her and into the room
where Marie lay.
She was fast asleep, her hair spread out over the pillow like a
dark wing, and Chris went down on his knees beside her and hid his
face. She had nobody now in the world but him--Miss Chester had
gone, and Feathers. . . Oh, he would make it up to her! He would
spend his whole life trying to make up to her all she had suffered.
"I love you, I love you," he said aloud, as if she could hear, but
she did not move or stir, and presently he went away again.
He had not kissed her--not even her hands. Something seemed to hold
him back from doing so, until she herself should say that he might.
The news of the accident had spread like wildfire, and all the
morning people were walking out from the villages round about to
stare with morbid interest at the spot on the river bank where the
car had plunged into the water, or to crowd outside the inn in the
hope of catching a glimpse of Chris.
The doctor came again, and was very pleased with Marie's progress.
"I think she could be taken home to-day," he told Chris. "It will
be just as well to get her from this place."
Chris said he would make all arrangements.
"I can see her, of course?" he asked.
"Yes." But the doctor looked away from his anxious eyes. "I should
not worry her or question her at all," he said diffidently, and
then he added uncomfortably: "She seems somehow afraid at the
thought of seeing you."
"Afraid!" The color rushed to Chris' face.
"Yes. Perhaps it is only my fancy, but she seemed nervous, I
thought, when I mentioned you." He looked at the young man kindly.
"Be gentle with her," he said, "I think she has suffered very
much."
Chris did not answer, and the doctor went away.
Afraid! Afraid of him, when he loved her so! It was another hard
blow to Chris to feel that Marie did not wish to see him. He tried
to make allowances for her. He knew what she had suffered. With
sudden impulse he ran downstairs, overtaking the doctor in the hall
below.
"My wife--does she know--that . . . that Feathers was drowned?" he
asked jaggedly.
"Feathers?" the other man echoed, not understanding. "Oh you mean
that poor fellow. Yes--I told her---"
"What--what did she say?"
"Nothing--she just turned her face away."
"I see. Thank you." Chris went upstairs slowly. He stood for a long
time at his wife's door, not daring to knock, but at last he
summoned his courage.
He heard her say "Come in" in a little quiet voice, and he opened
the door.
She was dressed and sitting up in a big chair. She did not look so
ill as he had expected, was his first relieved thought, and yet in
some strange way she seemed to have changed. Was it that she looked
older? He could not determine, but her eyes met his steadily,
almost as if she did not recognize him, and her voice was quite
even as she answered his broken question.
"I am--much better, thank you," and then: "The doctor says I may go
home."
"Yes--I will take you this afternoon."
She twisted her fingers together restlessly, her eyes downcast,
then quite suddenly she raised them to his face.
"I wish you had let me drown," she said, with passionate intensity.
"Marie--Marie," said Chris, in anguish.
She seemed heedless of his pain and went on talking as if to
herself. "I'm no use to anybody. I bring nothing but trouble with
me! That fortune-teller was right, you see, when she told me that
she could see water in my life again--that would bring trouble . . .
and tears!" Her voice fell almost to a whisper.
Chris stood looking at her helplessly. She seemed in some strange
way to be a great distance from him and yet by putting out his hand
he could have touched her.
"Feathers gave his life for me" she went on, in that curious
sing-song tone. "He could have saved himself, but he would not
leave me--and we were . . . oh, hours in that dreadful darkness!"
"Don't think of it, Marie! Oh, my dear, try and forget it all."
She raised her haunted brown eyes to his face.
"I can't! I can't hear anything any more but the sound of that
dreadful river! It was like a voice, mocking us. And he was so
brave!" She caught her breath with a long, shuddering sob, but no
tears came.
"I am glad that he loved me," she said again presently. "It is
something to be proud of--always--that Feathers loved me."
Chris could not bear to look at her tragic face She had no thought
for him, he knew, but she had never been so inexpressibly dear to
him as she was now.
He was at his wits' end to know what to do with her. It was
impossible to take her home with Miss Chester lying dead in the
house, and there seemed nobody to whom he could turn for help.
Presently, he said gently:
"I shall have to run up to Town this afternoon--only for an hour or
two. I shall come back as soon as possible. You don't mind, Marie?"
"Oh, no!" She seemed surprised at the question. "I shall be quite
all right."
But still he lingered. He longed to put his arms round her and
speak the many wild, passionate words of remorse and grief that
trembled on his lips, but the new inexplicable aloofness of that
girlish figure held him back.
"You are quite sure you don't mind being left?" he asked again. He
longed for her to say that she wanted him to stay, but Marie only
shook her head.
"I shall be quite all right," she said, apathetically.
He left her then, and presently from the window Marie saw him
driving away down the road.
She gave a little sigh of relief, and for a moment covered her face
with her hands.
She was free for a little while at last--free from the possibility
of interruption. She crossed the room and opened the door. The
little inn was very quiet, and nobody seemed to hear her step as
she crept down the stairs and across the narrow, uneven hall to a
closed door. She knew what lay behind that door, and for a moment
she caught at the banisters with a sick feeling of anguish before
she went steadily on and turned the handle.
CHAPTER XXV
"Oh heart that neither beats nor heaves,
In that one darkness lying still.
What now for thee my love's great will?
Or the fine web the sunshine weaves?"
C. D. Rossetti
MARIE had never seen death, but there was no fear in her heart as
she softly closed the door behind her, and went forward into the
room.
The cotton blind at the window fitted badly, and gleams of sunlight
found their way through on either side of it, seeming to
concentrate in a strangely deliberate manner about the silent
figure of the man who had given his life for her.
A white sheet covered him, but Marie's hand did not tremble as she
gently drew it down and looked at the marble whiteness of Feathers'
ugly face.
Death had been kind to him. It had wiped out the hard lines, and
left him with a peculiarly noble, and boyish look. But even the
waters of the treacherous river had been unable to smooth his rough
hair, and it stood up over his head with just the same obstinate
untidiness that she had always known, and with sudden impulse she
laid her hand on it, smoothing it gently, as a mother might smooth
the hair of a sleeping child.
Were there two ways of loving, she was asking herself desperately?
and was it possible to love two men at the same time, or had she
indeed ceased to love Chris?
Feathers had given her her first man's kiss of passion. In his arms
she had first known complete happiness, and it seemed a crude
impossibility that she would never hear his voice again, that his
eyes would never open any more to look at her with their faithful
adoration.
And it came home to her with bitter truth as she stood there, that
in her selfishness, and self absorption, she must have caused him
great suffering.
Last night, right from the first moment of their meeting at the
inn, he had thought only of her, never once of himself--even down
to the very end, when wounded to death, he had given his last ounce
of strength to save her, spent his last breath on words of cheer
and encouragement.
And what had she given him in return?--little enough it seemed now,
as she looked at his marble face about which the autumn sunshine
flickered.
He had loved her so completely, and now she would never be able to
tell him how much she honored him, loved him!
For Marie Celeste knew that she did love him! Not perhaps with
romantic passion with which she had once loved Chris; not perhaps
as she would some day love Chris again--but with the wonderful,
trusting, imperishable love which one must feel for a friend who
has never failed.
Her heart ached for the sound of his voice--to hear him say that he
understood and forgave. His last kiss on the dark road that night
would always be one of her most cherished memories she knew, as she
stood there, her eyes fixed on his face, while her heart made its
last farewell.
He had told her to go back to Chris--she knew that it had been his
earnest wish, and she knew too, that some day she would obey.
But not yet! oh not yet! She must have a little time first to
herself to get back her lost courage, and to forget the sweetness
of a lost dream.
She took the little sprig of white heather which he had sent her
from Scotland--so long ago it seemed--and which she had always worn
about her neck, and laid it between his folded hands. Then she
kissed him as so short a time ago he had kissed her--his hands, and
his closed eyes, his rough coarse hair, and the lips that felt like
marble beneath her own.
She was sobbing now--cruel sobbing that brought with it no relief
of tears as she whispered a last good-bye and over and over again
"God bless you--God bless you--always--always."
And it seemed to her distraught imagination that now there was a
little smile of contentment shadowing Feathers' cold lips, where
before no smile had been, and something seemed to snap on her heart
and brain as she cried his name in anguish through the silent room.
"Feathers!--_Feathers!_"
And the woman who kept the inn came running swiftly at the sound of
a fall, and found Marie Celeste lying senseless, her arms flung out
towards the man who, for the first time in his life, could not hear
or answer when she called to him.
CHAPTER XXVI
"And justice stood at the proud man's side,
'Whose is the fault? Accuse!' it cried;
And the proud man answered in humbled tone,
'I cannot accuse--the fault is mine own.'"
CHRIS got back to Miss Chester's deserted Town house to find young
Atkins on the doorstep, staring with horrified eyes at the drawn
blinds.
He had heard of the accident at Somerton it appeared, and had
rushed off to assure himself that Marie was safe. He was shocked to
hear of Miss Chester's death, and his young face was white and
sobered as he followed Chris into the silent house.
He was very boyish and sincere in his sympathy, and though Chris
had never particularly cared for him, he was glad of his sympathy.
"I say, it's awful, you know!" young Atkins said aghast. "Miss
Chester, and poor old Feathers! I say, what a shocking thing! And
what a marvelous escape Mrs. Lawless must have had."
"Feathers saved her," said Chris, and impetuously he began to pour
out something of his present difficulties, of how impossible it was
to bring Marie to London.
"I've got a sister--" young Atkins made the suggestion eagerly.
"She lives close to Somerton, and she's a nurse, but she's not
doing anything just now. I'll run down and explain to her. I've got
a motor-bike. She'd love to have Mrs. Lawless, if you'd care for
her to go."
Chris was only too glad of the suggestion.
"It's most awfully good of you," he said gratefully. "You see how
impossible it is for me to bring her here?"
"Of course! Well, this will be all right, you see; I'll run down
there straight away." He turned at the door in his impetuous
fashion. "I say--" he said again, "Poor old Feathers! Isn't it
awful."
Chris could not answer, and young Atkins went on blunderingly: "I
say, is it true what they say in the papers, that when they found
him--someone told me--both his legs were broken? It must have been
when the car turned over . . . my God, what an awful thing! I can't
imagine how he kept up as he did . . . oh, all right, I'm going."
He went off hurriedly, and Chris put his head down on his arms and
cried like a child.
He blamed himself mercilessly, and forgave his friend everything,
if indeed there had ever been anything to forgive. He felt that he
had grown into an old man during those hours of agony last night
when he waited outside the closed door of his wife's room.
She was living, but she cared nothing for him, and he could almost
find it in his heart to envy Feathers who, although he was dead,
had once known the happiness of her love.
He had stood beside his friend that morning, and held the hand he
had refused, his heart almost breaking with grief and remorse.
He could trace everything back to his own selfishness and neglect.
But for him, this tragedy would never have happened.
No wonder Marie had loved Feathers--the most unselfish, the kindest
hearted . . . he felt his own unworthiness keenly.
He made what arrangements he could in Town and hurried back to
Somerton, and the woman who kept the inn told him how she had found
Marie unconscious in the room downstairs.
"Unconscious for an hour she was," she said distressed. "I put her
to bed and sent for the doctor. I don't know how she came down
without my hearing her. I wouldn't have had it happen for the
world."
Chris' face whitened. Although dead, it seemed to him that in the
future Feathers would stand more effectually between him and his
happiness than ever he had done in life.
A fresh punishment upon which he had not yet reckoned.
He was not allowed to see Marie that night, and it was two days
before the doctor would consent to her being moved.
She looked so white and frail that Chris' heart sank as he carried
her down to the car. She was like a child in his arms, and it hurt
him intolerably to see how resolutely her eyes avoided him.
She never spoke during the short drive to the village where young
Atkins' sister lived. She asked no questions, seemed not to care
what was to become of her.
"If you would rather I stayed with you, of course, I will," Chris
said hoarsely, when he bade her good-bye that evening. He longed
with all his soul for her to ask him to stay, but she only shook
her head.
She seemed quite happy to be left with Millicent Atkins, and Chris
felt sure she would be safe with her and well cared for.
"I will come and see you every day, Marie Celeste," Chris said
again, and she said: "Yes, thank you," but he had the curious
impression all the time that she hardly heard or understood what he
was saying.
It was only just as he was going and had impulsively raised her
hand to his lips to kiss it that a little look almost of horror
crossed her white face.
"No--no--please!" she said.
She tore her hand from him and ran from the room.
"She will be better soon," Millicent assured Chris, seeing the pain
in his eyes as he bade her good-bye, "If you take my advice, Mr.
Lawless, you will leave her alone for a day or two. She has had a
terrible shock, you know." She was a kind-faced girl, with steady,
capable eyes that had seen a great deal more than she had been
told.
Chris would not listen. He must come down the following day, he
said; he could not rest if he stayed away.
He felt desperate as he drove back to London. What was the good of
living? There was nothing in the future for him.
He made up his mind that he would sell the London house and
everything in it as soon as possible, and take Marie away and make
a fresh start; but . . . would she go with him? Somehow he did not
think that she would.
He had left it to Millicent Atkins to break the news of Miss
Chester's death to her, and it was with an unhappy heart that he
went down to the cottage the following afternoon.
Millicent came to him in the garden, as she saw him drive up. Her
eyes were compassionate.
"I am so sorry, Mr. Lawless, but she will not see you. Somehow, I
felt sure this would happen, and that was why I asked you to stay
away for a little while. Oh, don't look like that," she added, as
Chris turned his face away.
"You must just humor her a little," she went on gently. "Things
will come all right in the end, I am sure . . ." She hesitated,
then: "She asked me to give you this letter," she added.
Chris took it without a word. He drove away again along the dusty,
sunny road by which he had come, with here and there a glimpse of
the river sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight between its green
banks.
There was nothing cruel about it to-day, he thought. It was all
smiling and seductive, and he shivered as he remembered the feel of
the wet, slimy reeds, and realized what his friend's death must
have been in the mist and darkness.
He did not open Marie's letter till he got back home, and he read
it in the deserted drawing-room where she and Miss Chester had so
often sat together. The house felt like a tomb now, he thought
wretchedly. He wished never to see it again.
Marie's letter was very short:
"Please do not try to see me. I can't bear it. I want time to think
things over and decide what to do. I will send for you if ever I
want you.--Marie Celeste."
That was all; but it was like a death warrant to him.
If ever she wanted him! His heart told him that she would never
want him again! He had had his chance and thrown it away.
During the days that followed, in his distress and loneliness,
Chris fell back a great deal upon young Atkins.
After Miss Chester's funeral and the closing of the house it was
Chris' suggestion that he and Atkins should go into rooms together.
Chris hated the idea of his own company, and he knew that as long
as he lived he would never find another friend to take Feathers'
place.
He had suffered acutely over his friend's tragic death; he could
not bear to speak of him. He even put away his golf sticks because
they were such a vivid reminder of the happy days they had spent
together.
"I never want to play the beastly game again!" he told a man who
questioned him about it in the club one night.
He was at a terribly loose end in those days and young Atkins was
just the right sort of companion for him--always cheery and bright
and full of the optimism of youth.
He had quarreled badly with his father and had been cut off with
the proverbial shilling.
"Not that it matters," he said philosophically. "I've got about two
hundred a year the mater left me, and I reckon I can always knock
up another two hundred."
He had decided to go to America, but for Chris' sake he put it off
indefinitely. He felt that it was doing something for Marie if he
helped her husband through the dark days before him. Though he did
not know anything like the whole of the story, he was shrewd enough
to piece together the few little bits which Chris sometimes let
drop.
He was intensely sorry for them both and would have given a great
deal to have helped put things right. Once, unknown to Chris, he
hired a motor-bike and went down to see Marie and his sister.
He found them in the garden, pacing together up and down the little
lawn.
It was autumn then, and the bosom of the river was covered with
brown and yellow leaves from the trees on its banks. There was an
acrid smell in the air, too, which always comes with the end of
summer.
He thought Marie was pleased to see him--certainly the color
deepened a little in her pale face when she first saw him.
But she had changed! Oh, how she had changed, he thought sadly.
There was not much left of the little girl who had first of all
attracted his boyish fancy.
He talked of everything under the sun, rattling on in his usual
haphazard manner, and she listened gravely, sometimes smiling, but
hardly speaking.
He did not mention Chris or tell her that they were sharing rooms--
much more expensive rooms than he could possibly have afforded
alone; but Chris had insisted on paying the difference.
It was just as he was going, and Millicent had left them together
for a little while, that Marie said suddenly:
"Tommy--do you know that it's a month to-day since--Mr. Dakers
died?"
He started and flushed in confusion.
"Is it? A month! How the time flies, doesn't it?"
"Yes." She was looking out across the open country at the back of
the little house, and he thought he had never before seen such
sadness in anyone's face.
He laid a hand on hers in clumsy comfort.
"It was a fine sort of death, anyway," he said in desperation.
"Just the sort of death a man like Feathers would have chosen . . .
Marie--he saved your life twice."
He realized too late that he had spoken tactlessly, but to his
surprise she only smiled--a wise little smile which he could not
fathom.
"Yes," she said softly, almost happily it seemed.
There was a little silence, then he broke out again.
"It seems a lifetime since we all met for the first time down at
that bally old hotel, doesn't it? you and I, and Chris, and poor
old Feathers."
"It's only a little more than three months." she told him.
"Is it?" he cleared his throat nervously. "Jove! how time flies,"
he said again, reminiscently.
They sat silent for some minutes, then he rose to his feet, and
said that he must be going.
"I told Chris I would be in at seven," he said unthinkingly, then
stopped, furious with himself for having mentioned the name he had
sworn to avoid.
She looked up quickly, her brown eyes dilating.
"Chris! Are you living with him then?"
"Yes." He twisted his cap with agitated fingers. "He went back to
his Knightsbridge rooms after--well, after Miss Chester's house was
sold, you know, but of course you do know."
She shook her head.
"I have not seen him for a month."
Young Atkins looked wretched. He knew from the little Chris had
told him that this separation had been her own wish, and therefore
he could not understand her attitude now.
He did not know that she had written that last note to her husband
more as a test than for any other reason. With her old childish way
of reasoning, she had argued to herself that if he really cared for
her nothing on earth would keep him away; and once again she had
been disappointed. He had apparently agreed without a word of
demur--he had never attempted to approach her.
"I know he's jolly miserable, anyway," young Atkins broke out
explosively after a moment. "He never goes anywhere--he just sits
and smokes and thinks. He's changed so! It's rotten! And he used to
be such a cheery soul."
He seemed afraid all at once that he had said too much, for he made
another attempt to escape.
Marie went with him to the gate.
"Your sister has been so good to me," she said suddenly. "I don't
know what I should have done without her. I shall miss her
dreadfully when I go away."
He looked up in swift distress.
"But you're not going! You mustn't! She's ever so pleased to have
you with her. Where are you going?"
She looked away from him down the dusky road, and there was a
little eloquent pause before she said slowly:
"I'm going back--to Chris."
"To Chris!" he could hardly believe it. He gripped both her hands.
"Hooray! how perfectly splendid! Oh, forty thousand hoorays!"
She disengaged herself from his bearlike grip.
"Oh, Tommy--please!" She sounded more like her old self now, he
thought with some emotion. There was a suspicious moisture in his
eyes as he looked down at her.
"When?" he asked eagerly.
"When? Oh, I don't know yet." There was a note of nervous shrinking
in her voice.
"It's his birthday to-morrow," young Atkins said.
"I know. I've been thinking of that all day."
He caught her round the waist.
"You darling! To-morrow then! I'll make myself scarce. We were
going to have an extra dinner by way of celebration--he wasn't
keen, but it was my idea! I'll pretend to let him down, and you
come instead."
She fell into his mood, and they made their plans like eager
children. It was only when young Atkins was just starting away that
she caught his arm for a moment, and her face was white in the gray
light.
"The summer's quite gone, Tommy," she said sadly. "I often wonder
if it doesn't mean that my summer has gone too, and that it's too
late now."
He pooh-poohed her words scornfully.
"Nonsense! As if summer doesn't ever come again! Why, next year
will be a topper, you'll see! The best in your life."
They were both silent for a moment, listening to the monotonous lap,
lap of the river as it flowed swiftly along between its rush-grown
banks.
"I hate that sound," young Atkins broke out vehemently. "I wonder
you can bear to have been so near to it after . . . there! I didn't
mean that! I'm such a blundering ox."
She smiled through the sudden tears that rushed to her eyes.
"I've never minded it like that, somehow, Tommy. It's never been as
terrible to me as--as perhaps it should be. I've often thought that
those dreadful minutes when it seemed as if--the end of everything
had come for--for both of us--when Feathers was so brave--so
wonderful! Washed everything mean, and small, and unforgiving, out
of my heart--forever."
She looked up at the dark sky overhead where some little stars were
twinkling palely.
Feathers had once told her that she was as far above him as the
stars . . . she never looked at them now without thinking of him,
and wondering if somewhere--he still thought of her.
It was she who had led him into temptation--she still had that to
tell to Chris--if he cared to listen.
"To-morrow then," she said, and young Atkins echoed "To-morrow," as
he sprinted off down the road, disappearing in a cloud of dust.
Marie waited at the gate till the last sound of the motor had died
away in the distance, then she went slowly back to the house.
The voice of the river was still in her ears with its bitter
memories, but there was a new look of contentment in her eyes as
she turned for a moment at the door, and looked up at the stars.
"I'm going back, dear," she said in a whisper, as if there was
someone very close to her in the dusky evening who could hear. "I'm
going back, dear."
CHAPTER XXVII
"But ah! the little things for which I sigh,
As each day passes by,
The open book, the flower upon the floor.
The dainty disarray.
The sound of passing feet.
Alas, the little things of every day!
The silent eve, my sweet,
The lonely waking.
Alas! alas! for little things
My heart is breaking."
CHRIS woke up on the morning of his birthday with the very real
hope in his heart that the post might bring him some message from
Marie Celeste. She had never before forgotten his birthday. Even
when he saw that there was no letter from her he could hardly
believe that there would be none later.
He hung about his rooms all the morning, till young Atkins dragged
him out by main force.
"What's file matter with you that you're so fond of the house
all at once?" he demanded disgustedly. He had previously had a
heart-to-heart talk with their landlady and given her many
instructions with regard to flowers and a lavish dinner that night.
"For only you two gentlemen, sir?" she had asked amazed, and Tommy
had said: "No--I shan't be there--there's a lady coming." Then
seeing the faint disapproval of her eyes, he added, chuckling:
"Cheer up! It's all right! She's his wife!" He had told her enough
of the truth to enlist her sympathy, packed his bag, and promptly
proceded to lose Chris as soon as he had got him out of the house.
"I'll call for you at the club at six," were his last words. "And
mind you're there."
Chris was there an hour before, chiefly because he had nothing else
to do. He was irritated and annoyed, therefore, when the door
porter informed him that Mr. Atkins had left a message to the
effect that he could not get to the club, but would be at the rooms
at seven.
"And would you be sure to be there, sir," he added.
Chris frowned as he turned away. He had a great mind not to go home
at all, but to leave Atkins in the lurch. He thought it very shabby
of him, all things considered, but it came on to rain and the
streets looked dull and uninviting, so he took a taxi and went
home.
Home! He echoed the word in his heart wretchedly. What a home for a
man to go to when he might have everything in the world he wanted,
and a wife to smile at him from the other side of his own table! He
missed Marie a hundred times a day--her step about the house--her
voice--even the sight of her slippers and small personal
belongings.
He took off his coat and hat in the hall, and went upstairs. There
was a light in his room, and he could catch a glimpse of the table
laid for dinner, and flowers . . . so many flowers there seemed.
"I don't know why you chucked money away on all this tomfoolery,"
he said shortly, as he pushed open the door. "If you think because
it's my bally birthday . . . Marie Celeste!" The last words were a
great cry as his wife rose from his big chair by the fire.
For a moment he stood staring at her with disbelieving eyes. He had
longed for her so much all day; had been so hurt because she had
forgotten his birthday, and now--here she was!
She was very pale, but she was smiling. She had taken off her hat
and coat and looked very young and sweet in her little black frock,
the dark hair curling softly about her face.
Chris could not find his voice, could hardly breathe. He was so
sure that if he spoke the spell would be broken and that she would
vanish from his longing eyes.
Then quite suddenly, she said:
"I've come back, Chris--if you want me."
"If I want you!" He fell on his knees beside her, and his shaking
arms closed fast about her.
He had meant to try and explain so many had planned so often in his
mind what he would say to her, how he would humble himself and ask
her forgiveness, but now that the time had come, there seem no need
for any of it.
Kisses and broken words, and the clasp of arms that had ached with
loneliness and emptiness were more eloquent than the finest speech
could have been. It was only when the landlady had knocked three
times to ask if she should bring dinner that Chris thought about
appearances, and then he kept his wife's hand in his all the time
the choice dishes which young Atkins had chosen so carefully were
put upon the table.
They pretended to eat a great deal, but it was only a pretense, and
when the landlady had removed the last dish in offended silence
Chris drew Marie Celeste down into his arms in the big chair.
He passed his hand over her face and hair and soft neck.
"I can't believe you're real," he said huskily. "How long are you
going to keep me in my fool's paradise before you disappear again,
Marie Celeste?" She raised herself and looked at him with mournful
eyes.
"I couldn't come before," she answered "I had to be sure first."
"Sure--of me?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"No; of myself."
The dark flush of pain swept across his face.
"You mean--that you had to be sure whether you . . . you still
cared for me at all."
She looked away from him.
"I loved you when you were a little boy--years ago," she said in a
tremulous whisper. "I loved you when you went to Cambridge, and
snubbed me so dreadfully when you came home . . . Chris--I loved
you when I married you."
He raised her hand to his lips silently. The words were sweet, but
it was not all that he wished to hear, and she went on
disconnectedly.
"Chris--you know . . . I thought you had only married me for--for
the money . . . I never knew till--till that last night---"
He interrupted.
"I don't want to hear--it was all my fault,"
"But I must tell you," she urged. "There is something I must tell
you. It was my fault--everything that happened . . . about . . .
about Feathers. You made me half mad, I think, and--and it was I
who asked him to take me away. It was I who asked him--he was much
too honorable . . . I--I can't bear that--that you should blame
him."
"I blame myself--for everything," but his eyes searched her face
with passionate jealousy.
"You said you hated me once," he reminded her morosely. "Marie
Celeste, when did--when did you begin to care again?"
She looked away from him. Somehow she could not meet his eyes.
There was a knowledge in her heart which she knew must always be a
secret from him--the knowledge of her queer, inexplicable love for
Feathers.
It was still there in her heart, and always would be, she knew, but
already time had begun to soften and change it, as time subtly
changes the outline and coloring of a picture without altering its
beauty in the smallest degree--perhaps even adding to it.
"I saw a photograph of you--in . . . in his rooms," she whispered.
"And I knew then . . . that whatever happened . . . I could not
go."
It was the truth, neither more nor less; the old loyalty and
allegiance had called her back--perhaps the old love, who knows?
Chris' arms tightened about her. Three times he had been so near to
losing her, twice by death, and once--by something that would have
been so infinitely worse!
He drew Marie down to him, and kissed her with passionate
thankfulness.
"He saved your life for me--twice!" he said.
It was an all-sufficient answer to any doubt or suspicion that
might still linger in his heart.
L'ENVOI
CHRIS took Marie abroad immediately, and for a year they stayed
away from England and its many poignant memories.
They wintered in the South of France, and spent the late spring in
Switzerland.
"I should like to take you to Italy," Chris said one day, but Marie
shook her head.
"No--not Italy--I never want to go there."
He wondered a little at the time, and it was only some days
afterwards that he understood, and the old jealousy of his friend
that still slumbered deep in his heart stirred.
He knew that Feathers' death had left a mark on Marie's life that
neither time nor the greatness of his love could ever quite efface;
sometimes still, its memory would rise up like a great black wave
and overwhelm her.
And yet she was happy--happier than she had ever been in her life,
even though she felt she was looking at life and the beauties of
the world through the sad eyes of a bitter experience.
It was a surprise to Chris when one day she told him that she would
like to go back to England. It was early June then, and they were
at Lucerne, and the snow was beginning to melt on the mountain
sides, and little bright colored flowers were springing up
everywhere.
The desire to return had often been in Chris' heart, but not for
the world would he have said so. Marie was everything in his life
now--he could not bear her out of his sight.
"Tired of Lucerne?" he asked.
"No--but I think I would like to go home."
"London in June is appalling," Chris said. "Why not stay on here a
month or two longer and then go up to Scotland. You've never been
to Scotland, Marie Celeste?"
He watched her with moody eyes as he made the deliberate
suggestions. Was she going to shrink from that too, on account of
its memories, as she had done from Italy? But to his relief she
agreed.
"Yes--I should like that."
He caught her hand and raised it to his lips.
"Scotland be it then," he said happily. "I know a ripping little
place, right up in the mountains at a place called . . ." He rubbed
his head boyishly. "Dashed if I can remember the name," he said.
Marie laughed.
"I shall be happy enough, whatever its name is," she told him.
But it was October before they finally went back, and the heather
was paling, and the sunsets were wonderful when at last they
settled down amongst the mountains and the silence.
The little house in the hills was all that Chris had claimed for
it, and the windows of Marie's rooms looked right out on to a
mountain gorge, and a little noisy stream of water.
"Happy, Marie Celeste?" Chris asked one evening, coming into the
room and finding her at the window, her face rather grave in the
sunset light.
He put an arm round her waist. "Quite happy?" he asked anxiously.
She turned her face, stood on tiptoe and kissed him.
"I was thinking about Aunt Madge!--I wonder if she knows that--that
everything's all right."
"Is it--all right?" he asked, jealously.
She looked away from him to the wonderful sunset.
"Don't you know that it is?" she asked.
There was a little silence, and her thoughts went wistfully to
Feathers.
He had always said she would be happy some day--she was happy now.
But it seemed impossible that he was really dead--she could never
think of him as dead but always as she had known him, so full of
health and vigor, and cheeriness, and with the old faithful look in
his eyes. She gave a quick sigh and Chris said anxiously:
"Have you got everything you want in the world, Marie Celeste?"
She laughed and blushed, rubbing her cheek against his coat.
"I think perhaps I shall have--some day," she said.
He held her at arm's length.
"What do you mean, Marie Celeste?"
She disengaged herself gently from him, and turning, opened an old
chest that stood at the foot of the bed. She pulled out something
white and soft and woolly and held it to him.
"Look, Chris?"
He looked, and the color deepened in his face.
"What is it, Marie Celeste?" he asked very gently.
But he knew quite well that it was Miss Chester's shawl.
THE END