". . . the leaves are curled apart.Still red as from the broken heart,And here's the naked stem of thorns."
". . . the leaves are curled apart.Still red as from the broken heart,And here's the naked stem of thorns."
". . . the leaves are curled apart.
Still red as from the broken heart,
And here's the naked stem of thorns."
THE game stopped abruptly, and between them Chris and Feathers carried Marie from the room. "It was the smoke, and the heat!" Atkins kept saying in distress. He felt angry with himself for not having noticed how pale she looked. "It was jolly hot! It was the smoke and stuffiness. It'' an ordinary faint, isn't it?"
Nobody took any notice of him, or answered him, but he kept on talking all the same. He was young and impressionable, and he thought Marie was altogether charming. He was thankful when at last her lashes fluttered and she opened her eyes.
Feathers, who was bending over her, moved away, and Chris came forward.
"Better?" he asked. "It was the hot room; I'll take you upstairs. It's all right, you only fainted."
Only fainted! Years afterwards he remembered the passionate look in her brown eyes as she raised them to his face, and wondered what her thoughts had been. Perhaps he would have understood a great deal of what she was suffering if he had known that the wild words trembling on her lips were:
"I wish I could have died! I would like to have died!"
Feathers picked up her gloves and fan, which had fallen to the floor. His ugly face was commiserating as he looked at her.
"The room was very stuffy. It was inconsiderate of us to let you be26there, Mrs. Lawless. I am afraid it was my fault!"
His fault. Everything was his fault, she told herself bitterly, as she turned away. And yet—surely it was better to know now the true facts of her marriage than to learn them later on—when it was too late.
A bachelor husband. How infinitely funny it was! She looked at Chris as he walked with her to the stairs. His eyes were concerned, but as he had said, she had "only fainted," and a faint was nothing. She wondered if he would have cared had she been dead.
He slipped a hand through her arm to steady her.
"I am afraid it was all my fault," he said. "You told me you were tired. I'm sorry, Marie Celeste."
Her lip quivered at the sound of the two little names. Nobody but Chris ever called her that, and she turned her head away.
"I'll fetch one of the maids to look after you," he said, as they reached her room. He turned away, but she called him back.
"Chris, I want to speak to you."
"Well?" He followed her into the room. A pretty room it was the best in the hotel, and the very new silver brushes and trinkets which Aunt Madge had given her for a wedding present were laid out on the dressing-table.
When she had dressed there for dinner only two hours ago she had been the happiest girl in the world, but now . . . a long, shuddering sigh broke from her lips.
Chris was looking at her anxiously. He was worried by her pallor, and sorry she had fainted, but he quite realized that there was nothing serious in a faint. Some women made it a habit, he believed, and he was anxious to get back and finish that game of billiards!
"What do you want to say to me?" he asked. "Won't it do presently?"
She shook her head.
"No."
She was standing by the dressing-table, nervously fingering a27little silver box, and for a moment she could not speak, then she said in desperation:
"Chris—I want to tell you—I know all about our Wedding!"
He echoed her words blankly.
"You know all about it. You funny kid! I suppose you do. Why——"
He stopped, struck by something in her eyes.
"What do you mean, Marie Celeste?"
She turned round and faced him squarely. "I mean—I know why you married me," she said.
"Why?" The hot blood rushed to his face. "Who told you?" he asked sharply.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Does that matter? I—just found out. And I—I wanted to say that . . . that it doesn't matter. I—I think it was quite right of you."
He looked rather puzzled, then he smiled.
"Oh, well—if you think it's right." He hesitated, and drew a step nearer to her. "Who told you, Marie?" he asked. "Aunt Madge agreed with me that there was no need for you to know."
She pushed the soft hair back from her forehead. So Aunt Madge had been willing to deceive her as well. That hurt. Somehow she had always believed in Aunt Madge.
She managed a smile.
"What does it matter? I only thought it was better we should start by—by not having any secrets. We—we've always been good friends, haven't we?" Friends! When she adored him.
"Of course!" He gave his agreement readily, and a sharp pain touched her heart. It was only friendship, then—on his side, at least. She knew how much she had longed for him to wipe out that word and substitute another.
There was a little silence, then Chris said again: "Marie—is there anything the matter? You look—somehow you look—different!"
28He walked up to her, and laid his hands on her shoulders.
"Look at me," he said.
She raised her eyes obediently.
"Now tell me what is the matter!" he demanded. "There is something you are keeping from me! I haven't known you all these years for nothing, you know, Marie Celeste."
There was a little laughing note of tenderness in his voice, and for a moment the girl swayed in his grasp.
If only she could put her arms round his neck and lay her head on his breast and tell him the truth, the whole wretched truth of what she had heard! Even if he did not love her, it would be such exquisite relief to unburden her heart to him, but she did not dare!
Chris had always hated what he called "scenes." Years ago, when they were both children, tears had been the last means whereby to win his sympathy or admiration. He liked a girl to be a "sport" he had always been nicest to her when she could take a knock without flinching under the pain.
She remembered that now—forced herself to remember it, and nothing else, as she raised her eyes to his.
"Yes—what is it?" he urged. "Don't be afraid! It's all right, whatever it is, I promise you."
Twice her lips moved, but no words would come, and then with a rush of desperation she faltered:
"It's only—it's only . . . you said just now—we had always been good friends . . ."
"Did I?" he laughed. "I was rather under the impression that it was you who said that, but never mind. Go on!"
"Well—well . . . Can't we go on . . . just being good friends?— justonlybeing good friends, I mean."
He did not answer, though it was not possible to mistake her meaning, and in the silence that followed it seemed to Marie that every hope she had cherished was throbbing away with each agonized heart beat. Then his hands fell slowly from her shoulders.
"You mean—that you don't care for me?"
29She almost cried out at the tone of his voice. That he tried to make it property hurt and amazed, she knew, but her heart told her that his one great emotion was an overwhelming relief. That he had no intention of even paying her the compliment of discussion.
Her lips felt like ice as she answered him in a whisper.
"No—" And the silence came again before Chris said constrainedly:
"Very well—it shall be as you wish—of course!"
He waited a moment, but she did not speak, and he turned to the door. "Good-night, Marie Celeste."
"Good-night."
The door opened, and after a moment she heard it shut again softly, and the sound of his footsteps dying away down the corridor.
That nobody should know, that nobody should ever guess, was the one feverish thought in Marie's brain as she lay awake through the long night, listening to the sound of the waves on the shore, and trying to make some sort of plans for the future.
To behave as if nothing were the matter, as if she were quite happy. An impossible task it seemed, and yet she meant to do it. She would not further alienate Chris by scenes and tears.
If he did not care for her she would not let him think that it worried her. Surely, if she were brave and turned a smiling face to a world that had suddenly grown so empty something good would come out of it all. Some small reward would creep out of the blackness that enveloped her.
Though she knew it was unjust in her heart she laid all the trouble at Dakers' door—"Feathers," as Chris and young Atkins called him. She thought of his ugly, kindly face as she lay there in the darkness, and silently hated him. She would never be able to like him, she would never be able to forgive him. But for him and his carelessly spoken words . . . and then she hid her face in the pillow, and for the first time the tears came. What was the use of blaming him when the blame was not his? How could he help it that Chris did not love her? What was it to do with him if Chris had30seen fit to marry her in order to get her father's money?
It was fate, that was all. A cruel fate that had drawn a line through her happiness almost before the word had been written.
It hurt unbearably to think that Aunt Madge had known all the time. Marie clenched her hands as she recalled the old lady's whispered good-bye:
"God bless you and make you very happy!"
How could she have said such a thing—knowing what she knew?
"I will be happy, I will," the girl told herself over and over again. After all, there were other things in the world besides love.
She got up early, long before the other people in the hotel were astir, and went out and down to the sands.
It was a lovely morning, warm and sunny, and the tide was out, leaving a long wet stretch of golden sand behind.
A boy with bare, brown legs was pushing his way through the little waves with a shrimping net, and further along a man was strolling by the water's edge, idly picking up pebbles and throwing them into the sea.
Marie walked on, the fresh breeze blowing through her hair and fanning her tired face.
Only two months ago and she had been a girl at school, with her hair down her back and not a care in the world save an occasional heartache when she thought of Chris. Only two months! She felt as if she had taken a great spring across the gulf dividing girlhood from womanhood, and was looking back across it now with regretful eyes.
Why had she been in such a hurry to grow up? She understood for the first time what Aunt Madge and other grown-up people meant when they said that they looked upon their school days as the happiest of their lives.
"Are mine going to be the happiest?" Marie thought. Even they had not been very happy. She had never been very popular at school, and she had never been clever. Her lessons had always worried her, and she never quite got over het first feeling of homesickness as the31other girls did.
"You're too sentimental, too romantic!" so her best friend, Dorothy Webber, had often told her. "If you don't cure yourself, my dear, you'll find a lot of trouble waiting for you in the future."
She had found it already, sooner even than Dorothy had dreamed.
She looked down at her hand with its new wedding ring, and a little blush rose to her pale cheeks.
"He's mine, at any rate," she told herself fiercely. "Even if he doesn't love me, he is my husband, and nobody else can have him."
It was some sort of comfort to know that the adored Chris was hers. The knowledge sent some streak of sunshine across the blackness of last night.
She strolled along restlessly, blind to the beauty of the sea and sky, lost in her own bruised, bewildered thoughts. She had passed the boy with the shrimping net, and had come abreast with the man sauntering at the water's edge without noticing it, until he spoke to her.
"Good morning, Mrs. Lawless."
She started, flushing painfully as her eyes met the kindly quizzical gaze of "Feathers."
He looked uglier than ever in the morning sunshine, was her first bitter thought, and he wore a loose, collarless shirt which was open at the neck and showed his thick, muscular throat.
His big feet were thrust into not over-clean white canvas shoes, and a damp towel and bathing costume hung inelegantly over one shoulder.
"Good morning," said Marie. "I thought I was the first one up," she added resentfully.
He laughed carelessly.
"I'm always up with the lark—or aren't there any larks at a place like this? I've had a dip—I like the sea to myself, before it's crowded with flappers and fat old ladies."
"Perhaps they prefer it, too," said Marie. The words had escaped32her almost before she was aware of it, and she flushed hotly, ashamed of her rudeness.
But "Feathers" only laughed.
"I knew you didn't like me," he said in friendly fashion. "I could read it in your eyes last night."
She was nonplussed by his frankness.
"I can't like you or dislike you," she said after a moment. "I don't know anything about you."
"I know you don't," he agreed calmly. "But you think you do! And that's where you are mistaken! If you take my advice, Mrs. Lawless, you'll make a friend of me."
She stared at him with growing indignation.
"Why, whatever for?" she asked blankly. She had never been spoken to in such a manner before.
Feathers laughed again, and ran his fingers through his unruly hair.
"Well, for one thing, I'm your husband's best friend," he said sententiously. "And I always think it's policy for a woman to keep in with her husband's best friend. What do you think?"
There was nothing but friendliness in his voice and words, but they angered Marie.
"My husband's friends don't interest me in the least," she said untruthfully.
Feathers stooped and picked up another smooth pebble, with which he skillfully skimmed the surface of the sea half a dozen times.
"That's a pity," he said. "And sounds as if you are very young." He looked down at her. "How old are you?" he asked interestedly.
She ignored the last question. Her eyes were indignant as she answered: "It may sound as if I am very young, but it also sounds as if you are very rude and inquisitive."
His dark face flushed.
"I beg your pardon. I hadn't the least intention of being either rude or inquisitive," he said hastily. "I should like to be friends with you. As a rule, I've no use for women any more than . . ." He stopped abruptly, biting his lip, but Marie knew that he had been33going to add, "Any more than Chris has."
There was a little silence.
"Have you got any brothers?" he asked abruptly. "No, of course, I know you haven't. Well, why not look upon me as a sort of big brother?" His eyes were upon her again; kind eyes they were beneath their shaggy brows.
Marie gave a forced little laugh.
"Thank you; I don't want a brother."
"Not now, of course," he agreed. "But we never know what we may want in this queer old world, and brothers can be very useful things at times, you know."
She did not answer. She thought he was the strangest man she had ever met.
"We ought to be turning back," he said presently, "It's nearly nine o'clock, and we're some way from the hotel."
She walked reluctantly beside him.
Suddenly she asked a question.
"If you are Chris' best friend, why weren't you his best man at—at our wedding?"
She looked up at him as she spoke, and saw the quick frown that crossed his face.
"Am I to answer that question?" he asked.
"Of course. I should like to know."
"Very well, then, as you insist—Chris asked me to be best man, or whatever you call it, and I refused."
"Why?" She was really interested now.
"Why? Well, because—before I saw you—I disliked the idea of Chris being married. Marriage spoils most friendships between men."
Marie looked out over the sea with wistful eyes.
"I don't think marriage will spoil Chris' friendships," she said, with faint bitterness.
"No," he agreed, "I am afraid it will not."
There was a queer, hard note of disapproval in his voice, and Marie looked at him in bewilderment.
"I don't think I understand you," she said angrily. "I don't think I understand a bit what you mean."
34"Perhaps I don't understand myself." he answered. "Let's leave it at that, shall we, and forget all the nonsense I've been talking?"
They went up to the hotel silently. There were several people about now and a smartly-dressed woman with red hair, to whom Feathers bowed formally, stared at Marie rather insolently as they passed.
"Is that one of Chris' friends?" Marie asked with an effort when they were out of hearing.
"Chris knows her," was the reply. "She is a Mrs. Heriot."
"She is very smart," Marie said wistfully.
"Smart!" Feathers stopped and looked back at the woman deliberately. "Do you call her smart?" he asked, mildly amazed. "I think she looks a sight; but, then, so do most of the women in this hotel. I suppose it's their way of attracting attention—all others failing."
Marie smiled faintly.
"You don't like women," she said.
He shook his shaggy head.
"I do not," he agreed.
"And yet—just now, you told me I should be wise to make a friend of you."
"I did—and I still mean it, and hope some day that you will do so . . . Here is Chris."
Chris came towards them with a batch of newspapers in his hands. He looked at his wife with faint embarrassment.
"Early birds!" he said, and then, as Feathers moved away. "Is your head better, Marie Celeste?"
She smiled nervously.
"Oh, yes, it's quite gone! I got up early and had a long walk along the sands, and I met Mr. Dakers and he came back with me."
"Call him 'Feathers,'" said Chris. "Everybody does."
"Do they? But I hardly know him!"
"You soon will." He looked at her doubtfully. "Do you think you will manage to have a good time here, Marie?"
35"Oh, yes, with . . . " "With you," she had been going to add, but stopped. She felt instinctively that she would not be allowed to have much of her husband's undivided attention. There were so many people in the hotel who were friends of his.
"There is a Mrs. Heriot here who knows you," she said, more for something to say than for any other reason, and she was surprised at the way Chris suddenly flushed.
"Yes, I know," he said. "I saw her last night."
They went in to breakfast together. Marie thought she had never seen such a big room. She kept close to Chris, conscious that all eyes were upon her.
Feathers and young Atkins occupied a table a little way from theirs, and Atkins got up as soon as he saw Marie, and came over to ask how she was.
"I'm quite well, thank you, and isn't it a lovely morning?"
"Ripping! I say, can you swim?"
"Yes."
Chris looked up. "Can you?" he asked in surprise, then laughed and colored, realizing how very little he really knew about Marie and her accomplishments.
"I wish people wouldn't stare at me so," she said to him nervously, when breakfast was over and they were out in the lounge once more. "Is there anything funny-looking about me, Chris?"
He cast a casual eye over her daintiness.
"You look all right," he said, without much enthusiasm. "Probably they know we're newly married." he added.
Marie said nothing, but she turned away from him and looked out over the sea, a little wintry smile on her quivering lips.
He was quite indifferent to her, she knew! And in her passionate pain and bitterness she almost wished for his hatred. Anything, anything rather than this terrible feeling that she was nothing at all in his life!
Young Atkins joined them almost immediately and attached himself to Marie.
36"We're going to bathe presently." he said. "You'll come, too, won't you?"
Marie looked at her husband, but he was talking to someone else, and she answered hurriedly.
"Oh, yes, I'll come, of course! What time are you going?"
"We generally go about half-past ten—before the crowd gets down. We'll take a boat out if you're sure you can swim."
She laughed. "Why, of course, I can!"
"Let your breakfast settle first, my boy," said Feathers, looking up from his newspaper. "There's no hurry, is there?"
"Oh, shut up!" said young Atkins lightly. "You're always such an old croaker."
At half-past ten he sought Marie out again.
"Are you coming?" he asked. "It'll be topping this Morning."
"I know—Chris has gone to phone to someone. I wonder if I ought to wait . . ."
"Of course not! He'll be all right! Leave a message."
"Very well." It would be a good opportunity to show him that she did not depend on him for her amusement she thought desperately. She went off through the sunshine with young Atkins chattering nineteen to the dozen beside her.
It was a perfect morning! Marie stood for a moment on the steps of the bathing machine in her blue and white costume, and looked up at the sun! It might be such a perfect world if only things were a little different! She wondered if there was always something in life to prevent people being too happy.
Young Atkins called to her from a diving stage a little distance out, and she dived into the water and swam out to him.
"Ripping, isn't it!" he said as she clambered up to sit beside him in the sun "Look here! I'll race you round that buoy and back. Will you?"
"Yes—I'll bet you a box of cigarettes I win."
37"Right! Bet you a box of chocolates you don't. Now then—one, two, three! Go!" They dived from the staging together, laughing and full of excitement. They were both good swimmers, and for a little they kept abreast, then slowly but surely young Atkins forged ahead.
Marie felt rather tired. They were swimming towards the sun and its brightness blinded her. Her headache had returned, too; she had almost forgotten it until a little stabbing pain in her temples made her close her eyes.
She thought it must be because she had not slept all night! That would account for her feeling of weakness and lassitude. She ought not to have come out so far—sudden panic closed about her heart— she tried to call to the boy ahead of her, but a little wave broke in her face and carried her voice away. She thought that she screamed—she was quite sure that she screamed aloud in terror before someone put out the sunshine and blotted out the world, leaving only miles and miles of clear, green water, into which she sank slowly down . . .
38
"Thy friend will come to thee unsoughtWith nothing can his love be bought;Trust him greatly and for aye,A true friend comes but once your way."
"Thy friend will come to thee unsoughtWith nothing can his love be bought;Trust him greatly and for aye,A true friend comes but once your way."
"Thy friend will come to thee unsought
With nothing can his love be bought;
Trust him greatly and for aye,
A true friend comes but once your way."
CHRIS LAWLESS came back into the hotel lounge almost as soon as his wife and young Atkins had left it. He looked quickly round for Marie.
His conscience had begun to prick him a little. He had noticed the pallor of Marie's face at breakfast time, and the something strained in her determined cheeriness, and, good fellow as he really was at heart, he felt unhappy.
He had meant to do the right thing by her when he married her. He had always prided himself upon being a sportsman. He had no intention of allowing people to say that he neglected his wife, or that his marriage had turned out a failure. He liked everything he undertook to be a success.
And he was fond of Marie! He had always been fond of her in his own way. There was no earthly reason that he could see why they should not get on ideally well together.
But Marie was not in the lounge. He looked round with a slight frown, and his gaze fell upon Feathers, yawning behind his paper.
Chris went up to him.
"Where's Marie?"
"She went out just now with Atkins. I heard them say something about a swim."
Chris looked annoyed.
"She ought to have waited for me," he said shortly. "Atkins takes too much upon himself."
39Feathers rose and threw down his paper.
"They've only just gone," he said. "We can catch them up if you come now."
But Chris was thoroughly out of temper. He had letters to write, he said, and no doubt Marie would be back before long. He turned away and Feathers strolled out into the sunshine alone.
He knew to which beach Marie and Atkins had gone, and he sauntered slowly along in that direction.
It was a glorious morning, and the sea front was crowded. The hot sun beat down on his uncovered head and dark face, and one or two women looked after him interestedly.
Feathers was not just merely ugly to all women. Some of them realized the strength and character in his face, and with true femininity wondered what his wife was like!
But Feathers was unmarried, and fully intended to remain so. He had spent a roving life, and always declared that he was not going to put on a clean collar or wash his hands unless he felt inclined to for any woman's sake.
"Not that any woman is ever likely to interest herself either in my hands or collars," he added ruefully.
Chris had sworn eternal bachelorhood also, which partly accounted for Feathers' disgust when he wrote to him of his intended marriage.
He had written back a sarcastic letter which Chris had carefully destroyed without showing it to Marie.
"I never thought you were a petticoat follower . . . What in the name of all that's holy has made you change your mind? Is it money, brains, or merely a pretty face? No, I will not be your best man—I won't even come to your beastly wedding. If you choose to get into a tangle like this you can do so without my assistance, and later on, if you want to get out of it, don't come crying to me for help either. I wash my hands of you!"
He had been quite prepared to dislike Marie, and was surprised because he did not; but then—so he argued to himself—how could anybody dislike such a child? And his sentiments veered right round40the other way, until he decided that in all probability she would need protecting from Chris, though why, or in what way, he had not the smallest idea.
But he had offered her his friendship in all good faith, and was feeling a little sore at the manner of her refusal as he strolled along now in the sunshine through the crowds of holiday-makers, keeping a careless look-out for young Atkins.
There were a great many people bathing, and he stopped for a moment, one foot on the low railing that divided the promenade from the beach, scanning the water.
There was a good deal of laughter and chattering and screaming going on amongst the girls and women in the water, and he watched them with a sort of amused contempt. Why did they bathe if they found it so cold, and what fun could there be in standing in a few inches of water shivering and screaming?
And then all at once a change came over the whole scene. From light-hearted frivolity it seemed to turn to panic and fear. People left their seats on the parade and crowded down to the sands. A man's voice, frantic and agonized, raised itself above all the chatter and noise.
Feathers knew instinctively what had happened. He vaulted the low railing and ran across the sands, tearing off his coat as he went.
He kicked off his shoes at the water's edge and dashed into the sea, wading until the depths took him off his feet, and then swimming strongly.
A boat was circling round and round helplessly some way beyond the diving board. A youth in a wet bathing suit, white as a ghost and shivering with fright, was bending low over its bow, searching the smooth water with terrified eyes; when he caught sight of Feathers he broke into agonized words:
"Feathers! For God's sake! She's gone! Mrs. Lawless! She screamed and I tried to get to her . . . I was too late, and she went down . . . It must have been cramp—she was all right a moment before. . . Oh,41for God's sake!"
He dived from the boat to his friend's side but Feathers shook him off.
"Get away . . . you fool! Can't you see you're hampering me?"
He dived again and again, desperately swimming under water in a vain search for the drowning girl.
Young Atkins had clambered back to the boat. He sat there in the hot sunshine, his face in his hands, sobbing like a woman.
He felt that it was all his fault He knew he could never be able to face Chris again. Over and over in his mind rang the tragic words: "And she was only married yesterday! Only married yesterday!"
At that moment he would gladly have given his life for hers. He felt that he would not go on living if she had gone.
And then a sudden wild shout went up from the crowds on the beach. Young Atkins looked up, not daring to hope, and there in the sea, only a few yards from the boat, the rough dark head of Feathers appeared above the smooth water, swimming strongly with one arm and supporting a small, helpless object with the other.
He seemed to have forgotten the boat, for he made straight for the shore, and though eager men waded out to his help, and a dozen pairs of arms were stretched out to take his burden from him, he shook his head and held her jealously.
"Beauty and the beast!" someone whispered as the tall, ugly man waded ashore with the girl's limp body in his arms.
Perhaps he heard, for at any rate a faint, grim smile crossed his dark face as he laid her down on the warm sands.
There was a doctor amongst the crowd, and a little group closed about her, chafing her limbs, working her arms up and down, frantically trying to beat life back into the inert little body.
42Feathers stood by breathing hard, the water dripping from him.
He kept his eyes fixed on Marie's deathly face.
A woman in the crowd began to cry, "Poor child! Poor child!" For Marie Celeste looked only a child as she lay there, her wet hair tumbled all around her.
"It's too late, she's gone!" someone else said, hopelessly, and Feathers turned like a lion.
"It's not too late," he thundered. He went down on his knees beside her, exhausted as he was, and worked like a giant to save her, and all the time he was wondering what Chris would do, what Chris would say, and if he would be expected to break the news to him.
And then, after a long time, a little shell-like tinge of color crept back to the marble whiteness of Marie's face—the doctor gave a little exclamation, and went on with his work harder than before.
Feathers asked him a harsh question:
"Can we save her?"
"I think so—yes! . . ."
Each moment seemed an eternity, until, with labored, choking breaths and little gasping cries, Marie struggled back to life and the golden summer morning.
Feathers rose to his feet. "I'll go on and tell her husband. You're sure she's out of danger?"
The doctor smiled, well pleased.
"Oh, she's all right now." He turned to the stretcher upon which they had laid the girl, and Feathers started to walk away, but the crowd would not have this. They surged round him, slapping him on the back and cheering him to the echo. They were only too eager and willing to give praise where it was due, and at last, in desperation, Feathers broke into a run and eluded them.
He went into the hotel across the garden, and through a side door, his dripping clothes leaving little wet marks all the way. He met one of the porters in the passage. The man stopped with a gasp of dismay.
"Good heavens, sir! Has there been an accident?"
"Yes, one of the ladies here, a Mrs. Lawless, but she's all right43now. Can you find her husband for me? He's probably in the writing- room. Do you know him?"
"Oh, yes, sir, but . . ."
"Well, clear off and fetch him, then! I'm all right—don't make a fuss. They're bringing her here. Hurry, man, hurry!"
He was back in a moment with Chris, looking greatly mystified and not at all upset, for the porter had been afraid to tell him the truth of what had happened, and had merely said he was wanted.
Feathers explained in a few words.
"Mrs. Lawless got out of her depths or got cramp or something, but she's all right. She had a nasty scare, though. It's all right; they're bringing her along."
Chris went dreadfully white. He clutched his friend's arm. "You're not lying to me!" he said, hoarsely. "She's not—dead!"
Feathers laughed. "Good lord, man, no! I tell you it's all right. She got a bit of a ducking. She's probably back in the hotel by this time; you'd better go and see for yourself."
But Chris had gone before he had finished speaking, and Feathers crept away up to his room and peeled off his sodden clothes.
He felt very exhausted now it was all over. It had been a ghastly five minutes when he dived again and again into that still green water. He felt that he would never care for the sea in the same way any more.
Supposing she had been drowned! Although he knew that she was safe and well, and to-morrow would probably be none the worse for her accident. Feathers involuntarily echoed the words of the woman in the crowd who had wept.
"Poor child! poor child!"
He laughed at himself directly afterwards, as he got into a dry suit, tried to reduce some sort of order to his unruly hair, and went downstairs.
He was a simple sort of fellow, and thought so little of his own action that it gave him a positive shock when the visitors in the lounge insisted on giving him a cheer as he went through. The news44of what had occurred had spread like wildfire and, red faced and frowning angrily. Feathers had to submit to being made a hero.
Mrs. Heriot, who had hitherto deliberately avoided him, insisted on shaking hands, and gushed that she was 80 proud of him, so delighted to know such a brave man.
Feathers turned on her almost fiercely.
"It's all rubbish," he declared. "I happened to be the nearest, that was all! For heaven's sake, Mrs. Heriot, say no more!"
He went without his lunch because he could not bear the battery of eyes which he knew would be upon him all the time. He sat up in his own room reading until Atkins, still pale and shaken, came knocking at the door.
Feathers said, "Come in," not very pleasantly, and the boy went across to him and held out an unsteady hand.
"I say, you're a ripping sport!" he said in heartfelt tones. "If she'd gone I should have jumped in and drowned myself; I swear I should."
"And a lot of good that would have done," Feathers said dryly. "For heaven's sake, chuck it, young 'un, and talk about something we can all enjoy."
But Atkins apparently could talk of nothing else, and he kept harping on the same subject until in desperation Feathers took him by the shoulders and put him outside.
Even then there was no peace, for almost directly Chris himself arrived.
"They tell me you saved her life," he said agitatedly. "I ought to have guessed! It's the kind of thing you would do. I can't—can't tell you how grateful I am. If anything had happened to her . . ."
Feathers chucked the book he was reading across the room with violence.
"Well, nothing has happened to her," he said crossly. "So, for the love of Mike, shut up!" He walked over to the window. "I suppose she is all right?" he asked casually.
"She's weak, of course, but the doctor says she'll be quite herself in a day or two." Chris hesitated. "She'd like to see you, Feathers."
Feathers ran a distracted hand across his hair.
45"More heroics!" he said savagely. "Well, I refuse! I absolutely refuse! I hate this tommyrot, I tell you!"
Chris looked offended. "I think she'll be hurt if you don't go." he said diffidently.
There was a little silence.
"Oh, all right!" Feathers turned resignedly to the door. "Do I go now, and do you come with me?"
"Yes."
They went out of the room together and along the corridor.
Marie was lying on a sofa by the window, wrapped in a blue woolly gown. Her dark hair was spread over the pillow behind her, and she looked very frail and wan.
She held out her hand to Feathers, smiling faintly.
"I know you'll hate it," she said weakly, "but—I want to thank you. They tell me "—her brown eyes went past him to where her husband stood—"Chris tells me that you saved my life."
Feathers managed a laugh.
"Chris exaggerates," he said uncomfortably. "I happened to be lucky enough to pull you out—that was all. I hope you'll soon feel yourself again."
"Thank you, yes." He was still holding her hand, and, suddenly realizing it, he let it go abruptly.
Chris had gone to the door with the doctor, and for a moment Marie and Feathers were alone.
"Mr. Dakers," she said hesitatingly.
"Yes."
Her brown eyes were raised to his ugly face appealingly.
"I was horrid to you this morning, I know! It was—hateful of me! But there was a reason . . . some day I'll tell you."
He fidgeted uncomfortably. "Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Lawless; it's all right."
"Yes, but it isn't," she insisted weakly. "And I want to say that— that if you would still like me to look upon you as—as a sort of big brother" . . . she smiled tremulously.
46Feathers frowned so heavily that his eyes almost vanished beneath their shaggy brows.
"All this because I pulled you out of two feet of water?" he growled.
Tears swam into her eyes.
"It was a good deal more than two feet of water, and you know it was! And—and—it isn't anything to do with that at all! It's just you—you yourself! I should like to have you for a friend."
There was a little silence, then Feathers held out his hand.
47
"For all the world to my fond heart means you,And there is nothing left when you are gone."
"For all the world to my fond heart means you,And there is nothing left when you are gone."
"For all the world to my fond heart means you,
And there is nothing left when you are gone."
MARIE'S narrow escape from death did her one good turn—it sealed her friendship with Feathers, and in the days that followed she owed almost everything to him.
Chris did his best. He really thought he was playing the part of a model husband; he loaded her with sweets which she could not eat and presents which she did not want. He was in and out of her room ceaselessly—a little too ceaselessly, thought the doctor, who soon discovered that her husband's presence did not have a very soothing effect upon his patient.
She always seemed nervous and restless when Chris was around, and after a little hesitation the doctor told Chris frankly that it would be better if Marie was not allowed so many visitors.
Chris opened his handsome eyes wide.
"Visitors! Why, she doesn't have any except me, and occasionally Atkins and Feathers—Dakers, I mean."
"I know—but I think she should not be disturbed during the afternoon at all—not even by you," he added with a deprecating smile. "She is not at all strong, and this unfortunate accident has been a severe shock to her system. It will be months before she properly recovers."
Chris was not in the least offended, but it worried him to think that possibly Marie was going to be more or less of an invalid. He had never had a day's sickness himself, and, like most men, he was impatient and over-anxious when it overtook anybody immediately connected with himself.
"Do you think I ought to take her back to London?" he asked.48"Perhaps she would be better looked after at home."
"She is far better here than in London," was the emphatic reply. "This East Coast air is just what is needed to brace her up. No; if she is allowed to rest she will be all right."
Chris told Marie what the doctor had said.
"I am not to worry you—I am in and out of your room too often." He looked at her anxiously. "What do you think, Marie Celeste?"
She smiled faintly. "I suppose the doctor knows best."
"Yes, I suppose he does," Chris agreed, but he felt slightly irritated. If she wanted him to stay with her, why on earth didn't she say so? It never occurred to him that since her accident Marie had suffered agonies because she feared that he was wearied by her helplessness and unutterably bored because he was more or less chained to her side.
She had a vivid recollection of a day, years ago, when, as a child, she had fallen from the stable loft, and Chris had come to see her when she was in bed.
He had stood in the doorway, red-faced and awkward, hands thrust into his pockets, staring at her with half-angry, half-sympathetic eyes.
She had thanked him profusely for condescending to come at all, and he had asked gruffly by way of graceful acknowledgment, "How long have you got to stick in bed? When will they let you get up and come out again?"
Tears had filled her eyes as she answered him, "I don't know— weeks, I suppose!"
Chris said "Humph!" and stared at his boots. "It's topping out of doors!" he said unkindly. "I'm going blackberrying this afternoon."
That was the one and only visit he had paid her during the weeks of her illness, and afterwards he had told her that he hated sick rooms, and that he supposed women were always more or less ailing.
49So now she made every effort to get well and strong. She made too much effort, the doctor told her.
"There's plenty of time." he said. "Why be in such a hurry?"
And at last, in desperation, she told him. "Doctor, it must be awful for Chris—having to wait about here just because of me. It can't be much of a holiday for him."
He looked at her with kindly eyes. "Well, and what about you?" he asked. "It's worse for you, I suppose?"
Marie shook her head. "I—oh, no! He's a man, you see, and he's different."
Dr. Carey said: "Oh, I see," rather drily. He walked away from her and came back, "You've been married—how long?" he asked.
"Only a week."
"Well, it's not long enough for that husband of yours to have got tired of dancing attendance on you, anyway," he answered. "No, you will not be allowed downstairs till Saturday."
"It must be awfully dull for Chris," she sighed.
She said the same thing to Feathers when he looked in that evening for a few seconds.
Feathers never brought her flowers or sweets, or presents, for which she was thankful, and he never stayed more than about five minutes, but he always managed to bring a cheeriness into the room with him and leave her with a smile in her brown eyes.
"Dull! Chris!" he said, echoing her words bluntly. "Not he. Don't you worry, Mrs. Lawless. Chris knows how to look after himself."
He did not tell her that between his spasmodic visits to her Chris was thoroughly enjoying himself.
He played bridge with Mrs. Heriot and her little crowd when there was nothing better to do. He played billiards with anybody who would take him on, and that afternoon he had been out golfing.
"What did he do this afternoon?" Marie asked wistfully.
50"This afternoon! Oh, let me see! Well, I believe he played golf— yes, he did!"
"I'm glad—I'm so glad he doesn't stay indoors all day," said Marie.
Feathers frowned
"Don't you worry about him. I'll look after him," he promised. "You make haste and get well and go and play golf with him."
"I can't play golf!"
"Well, then, you must learn—I'll teach you! Can you play bridge?"
"No, I have tried, but Chris says I'm no good at cards."
"Rubbish! You could play all right with practice!" He looked away from her out of the window where a radiant sunset was spreading rays of gorgeous coloring across the sea.
"Chris is the sort of man who likes a woman to be sporting," he said, after a moment, speaking rather carefully, as if choosing his words. "I mean to say that he is a man who would like his wife to be able to join him in his own sports! Do you understand?"
"Yes." Her eyes were fixed anxiously on his averted face, and then she asked suddenly: "And do you ever think I could be that sort of wife, Mr. Dakers?"
Feathers cleared his throat loudly.
"Do I! Of course, I do!" he said, but his voice sounded as If he were as anxious to convince himself as he was to convince her. "You're the sort of woman who could do anything if you set your mind to it."
She did not speak for a moment, then she said sadly, "It's kind of you to say so, but in your heart, you know it isn't true."
He swung round, his face red with distress. "What do you mean, Mrs. Lawless?"
"I mean that you know I couldn't ever be that sort of wife. I'm not made that way. Dorothy used to say that I should have been an ideal wife for a man in early Victorian days; that I was cut out to stay at home and make jams and bread and jangle keys on my chatelaine,51and tie up the linen in lavender bags, and look after the babies . . ." She broke off, laughing and flushing a little.
"And who is 'Dorothy,' may I ask?" Feathers demanded.
"She was my best friend at school, and she was ever such a sport! She could beat all the other girls at games, and she could ride horse-back, and—oh, lots of things like that!"
"She sounds rather a masculine young lady."
"Oh, no, she isn't! Not a bit! I think you would like her!" A faint smile stole into her eyes. "She was another person who was asked to my wedding and did not come," she added teasingly.
Feathers laughed. "And now I suppose if I stay any longer Chris will be on my track and say that I'm tiring you out."
"Does he say that?" she asked, and a little gleam of eagerness crossed her face. She loved to hear that Chris was anxious about her, or that he made it his business to see she was not overtired.
"As a matter of fact, I think it was the doctor who said it," Feathers answered innocently.
"Oh!" said Marie disappointedly. . . .
She persuaded Dr. Carey to allow her downstairs the following day, and Chris carried her out into the garden and propped her up in a deck chair with cushions and rugs.
"I'm not an invalid really, you know," she said, looking up at him shyly. "I could have walked quite well."
She felt bound to say it, and yet not for worlds would she have forgone being carried in his arms. The distance had seemed all too short. Just for a little she had been quite, quite happy.
Young Atkins was fussing around. He had an enormous bunch of roses in one hand and all the newest magazines in the other. He could not do enough for her. As soon as Chris moved away he dragged a52chair up and sat down beside her.
"You look heaps better." he declared fervently. He always said the same thing every time he saw her. "You do feel better, don't you?"
She laughed at his eagerness.
"I really feel quite well, but they will persist that I'm an invalid."
She looked around for Chris, but he had strolled away, and she gave a little sigh.
"I've got to go back to town to-morrow," young Atkins said presently. He spoke rather lugubriously.
"Rotten, isn't it? And, I say, Mrs. Lawless, I may come and see you when you get back, mayn't I?"
"If you want to—of course!"
"Of course I want to?" He had never been in love before, but he was fully persuaded that he was in love now, and he never lost an opportunity to scowl at Chris—when his back was turned!
He moved a little closer to Marie, and looked down at her earnestly.
"If ever there's anything you want done, never be afraid to ask me to do it!" he said. "You'll remember that, won't you?"
Marie did not take him seriously. She was not used to being made love to. She just looked upon him as a boy.
"Why, of course I will! And there's something you can do for me now, if you will—see if there are any letters."
"Of course!" He was off in an instant, and Marie looked across the garden, hoping desperately that Chris would see she was alone and return.
But he was laughing and talking with Mrs. Heriot and an elderly man and a little chill feeling of unwantedness stole into her heart.
Would life always be like this? she asked herself, and closed her eyes with a sudden feeling of dread.
Supposing she had been drowned! Supposing Feathers had not been in time after all!
53She tried to believe that Chris would have been brokenhearted, but she knew the folly of such a belief. He would have been sorry, of course, for they had known one another so long—been such pals, in the past, at any rate!
"A penny for your thoughts," said Feathers beside her, and she looked up with a little half-sigh.
"You will be angry with me if I tell you."
"I shall not! Am I ever angry with you?"
"I think you could be," she answered, seriously.
He sat down in the chair young Atkins had left. "Tell me, and see," he suggested, half in fun.
Marie looked across at her husband, and then back at the man beside her.
"I was wondering," she said, "what would have happened if you had not pulled me out of the sea?"
"What would have happened?" He echoed her words with mock seriousness. "Well, you would have been drowned, of course."
"I know I—I don't mean that I—I mean, what would have happened to—to Chris—and everyone else."
Feathers did not answer. He vaguely felt that there was some serious question at the back of her words, but his experience of women was so small that he was unable to understand.
"We don't want to think of such things," he said briskly after a moment, "You are alive and well. Isn't that all that matters?"
She did not answer, and looking at her curiously, he was struck by the sadness of her face, by the downward curves of her pretty mouth and the wistfulness of her eyes, and suddenly he realized that he had inadvertently stumbled across a secret which he had never suspected, and it was—that this girl was unhappy!
Whose fault? The question clamored at his brain. Chris' fault or her own? He was conscious of anger against his friend.
Chris was sauntering back to them through the sunshine. He looked very careless and debonair, and was whistling as he came.
54Feathers rose. "Take this chair." he said curtly.
"No, don't you get up." But Feathers insisted, and as soon as Chris was seated he walked off to the hotel.
He went into the lounge and aimlessly took up a paper, but he did not read a word.
Fond as he was of Chris, he knew all his faults and limitations, knew just how selfish he could be, and a vague fear for Marie grew in his heart.
A little distance from him Mrs. Heriot and another woman were talking. It was quiet in the lounge, and Feathers could hear what they were saying, without the smallest effort on his part to listen.
The newspaper screened his face, and he could only suppose afterwards that they were unconscious of his presence, for Mrs. Heriot said with a rather cynical laugh:
"Did you see our heroine on the lawn, with her cavaliers? Very amusing, isn't it? I don't suppose she has ever had so much attention in her life? They say that he married her straight from the schoolroom."
"Really! She looks only a child!" the other woman answered interestedly. "By the way, which is her husband? The big, ugly man, or the good-looking one?"
Mrs. Heriot laughed. "My dear! Do you mean to say you don't know! Why, the good-looking one, of course!"
"Perhaps it was stupid of me, but I thought—I really quite thought that it was the other one. There is something in the way he looks at her . . . I can't explain! But if you hadn't told me, I should certainly have said that he was the one who was in love with her."
Feathers' big hands gripped the paper with sudden tension.
What cackling, sentimental fools women were! In love! He! Why, he had never looked at a woman in his life.
He flung the paper down, and, rising, stalked out of the lounge.
The two women looked after him in blank dismay.
55"My dear, do you think he heard?" the younger one whispered.
Mrs. Heriot laughed spitefully.
"I hope he did! It will do him good! He's never even commonly civil to a woman." she said. "But it's really rather droll, you thinking he was the husband! How he will hate it!"
56