* * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * *
As the train drew slowly out of the station, Chris looked across at his wife with a rather nervous smile.
"Well, that's the end of our honeymoon," he said grimly.
"Yes"—Marie had quite recovered from her breakdown of the morning and she answered quietly enough—"we've had a good time, haven't we?"
"Have we? Opinions differ, I suppose."
She took no notice.
"I've never stayed in an hotel before," she went on, "so I suppose that's why I enjoyed everything so much. It will seem very quiet with Aunt Madge, won't it?"
"We need not stay with her."
"I think we must for a week or two, till something can be arranged."
Chris threw down a magazine he had picked up.
"What sort of arrangement would you like?" he asked. "I want you to please yourself in every way without considering me." He paused.
"I've got some rooms at Knightsbridge, you know," he went on casually. "I'm not at all sure that it wouldn't be a good idea to keep them on for a while."
Marie caught her breath with a little stifled sound.
"Keep them on?" she echoed.
"Yes—they're only bachelor rooms, but I've had some pretty good times there, and they might be handy until we can find something better."
"Yes."
"So I don't want you to feel tied at all," he went on. "I want you to do as you like, you know—have your own friends, and go about! There isn't any need to worry about money—there's plenty."
"Yes," she said again stupidly; then, "I suppose father left a great deal?"
"He did, yes. I didn't bother you about the will—it wasn't108necessary; but, of course, everything has been properly drawn up."
"Yes." She was not interested; what did mere money matter? It could not buy for her the only thing she wanted in the world.
They seemed to have left the sunshine behind them with the sea, for as they neared London the sky grew overcast and large raindrops splashed down and against the windows.
Marie looked at Chris; the last time she had traveled this way was when she was summoned from Paris at her father's death.
So much had happened since then, and yet Chris looked exactly the same, no older, no sadder, though she felt that she herself was both.
"I hope Mr. Dakers will come and see us soon," she said impulsively.
Chris laughed
"I don't suppose he will—he likes a free-and-easy life; he'd hate it if Aunt Madge expected him to get into dress togs every evening."
"Would he?" She felt despondent; she supposed that she could not expect anyone to wish to come and visit her.
She thought of her friend, Dorothy Webber, with envy. If only she had been like Dorothy, full of go and a great sportswoman, Chris would at least have been pleased to be with her for the sake of mutual tastes and agreeable companionship.
It was raining fast when they got to London; a crowd of people had come up on their train, and it was difficult to get a taxi.
Chris began to get irritable.
"Didn't you tell Aunt Madge what time we should arrive?" he asked. "She might have sent the car."
"I didn't know what time—you hadn't decided when I wrote," Marie answered anxiously. "I am sure she would have sent the car if she had known."
Chris looked inclined to be sulky.
109"I shall buy one of my own, and be independent." he said with a frown.
But they secured a taxi in the end, and Chris slammed the door and sat down beside his wife with a sigh of relief.
"I loathe traveling," he said.
She looked at him in surprise.
"I thought you liked it; you used to do a great deal before—before we were married."
He laughed.
"Oh, well, a bachelor's travels are rather different to taking a wife and half a dozen trunks along. It's the luggage that's such a bother." He sat up with sudden energy. "Marie Celeste, what are you going to tell Aunt Madge?"
"What do you mean?" But she knew quite well.
He avoided her eyes.
"You know what I mean. I don't want to talk about it, but it's just as well for us both to tell the same story, or at least not to contradict one another."
"I see. Well—I wasn't going to tell her anything. Why should I? It's nothing to do with Aunt Madge."
He colored a little.
"Very well, if that is your wish; and—Marie Celeste?"
"Yes."
"I hope you've forgotten about this morning. I lost my temper; I ought not to have spoken to you as I did."
"It's all quite forgotten," she assured him steadily.
His face cleared.
"That's good; I don't want the old lady to think things are wrong already."
Marie almost laughed. Wrong already! He spoke as if the scene in her room that morning had been the first storm to mar a honeymoon of otherwise complete happiness.
Chris let down the window with a run and looked out.
"Here we are!" he said cheerily. "And there she is at the window."
He waved his hand to Miss Chester, and turned to see about the luggage. Marie went on into the house.
110"My darling child!" She was clasped in Miss Chester's arms and fervently kissed. "How glad I am to see you again! And have you had a happy time?"
"Of course we have!" Marie bent to kiss her again to end further questioning, and they went into the drawing-room together.
Marie looked round her with sad eyes. It seemed such an eternity since she was here—such an eternity since that Sunday afternoon when Chris had asked her to go for a walk with him and the walk had ended in that never-to-be-forgotten moment outside Westminster Abbey.
Then she had looked forward to radiant days of happiness, but she felt now that ever since she had been going backwards, retreating from the golden hopes that for a little while had dazzled her eyes.
Miss Chester was pouring out tea and talking all the time.
"I have had your rooms all redecorated, Marie, because—though of course I know you will get a house of your own before long—I like to think that you will often come here, you and Chris."
"Yes, dear, thank you."
Marie tried to speak enthusiastically, but it was a poor little failure, and Miss Chester looked up quickly, struck by some new tone in the girl's voice.
But she made no comment until later on when she and Chris were alone for a moment, and then she said anxiously:
"Chris, I don't think you ever told me how very ill Marie was after that accident in the sea?"
"How ill?" he echoed. "She wasn't very ill; she had to stay in her room for a few days of course, but she wasn't really ill. Aunt Madge. What do you mean?"
"My dear boy! When she is such a shadow! Why, there is nothing of her, and her poor little face is all eyes! She looks to me as if she is recovering from a terrible illness."
Chris smiled rather uneasily.
"You're over-anxious," he said. "The doctor assured me that she was111all right, and I think she is. Has she complained about not feeling well to you?"
"Oh, no, nothing, but I haven't seen her for a month, and perhaps I notice the change more than you do. Chris——" He had turned to go, but stopped when she spoke his name.
"Yes, Aunt Madge."
"Come here, Chris."
He came back reluctantly, and Miss Chester rose from her chair, and, laying her hands on his shoulders, looked earnestly into his eyes.
"There isn't anything wrong, Chris? You're both quite happy?"
"Of course!" But he, too, bent and kissed her as Marie Celeste had done to avoid further questioning.
112
"The hour which might have been, yet might not be.Which man's and woman's heart conceived and bore.Yet whereof life was barren, on what shoreBides it the breaking of Time's weary sea?"
"The hour which might have been, yet might not be.Which man's and woman's heart conceived and bore.Yet whereof life was barren, on what shoreBides it the breaking of Time's weary sea?"
"The hour which might have been, yet might not be.
Which man's and woman's heart conceived and bore.
Yet whereof life was barren, on what shore
Bides it the breaking of Time's weary sea?"
MARIE had only been back in London two days when she realized that, as far as Chris was concerned, she need expect nothing more than the casual affection which he had always bestowed upon her.
He was just the Chris she had always known—selfish and irresponsible and wholly charming.
Sometimes she despised herself because, no matter how indifferent he might be to her, her love in no way lessened. She felt that it would be much more for her happiness and much more sensible if she could grow as indifferent to him as he was to her.
Time after time she told herself that she would not care, that she would not let him hurt her, but it was useless. The first cold glance, the first small act of neglect, and the old wound ached afresh.
Her greatest fear was that Miss Chester would know the real state of things. When she was present Marie always exerted every nerve to appear bright and happy; she went out of her way to talk to Chris. She was determined that the old lady should believe they had had a thoroughly good time and were perfectly happy.
She did not understand that eyes that appear woefully blind can often see the clearest. Miss Chester had long ago discovered for herself that this marriage, like many others she had seen during her life, was turning out a failure.
She was too wise to let either of them know of her discovery, but she shed many tears over it in secret and lay awake night after night wondering what she could do to help and put things right, but113realizing that she could do absolutely nothing.
Interference would make things worse. She understood thoroughly the different temperaments with which she had to contend; she knew just how proud Marie was, just how obstinate Chris could be. She could only wait and hope with a trembling heart.
Chris seemed to have drifted back to his bachelor days; he came and went as he chose, and he said no more about looking for a house wherein he and Marie might make their home.
Miss Chester spoke of it once to Marie.
"My dear, don't you think you should be looking about for a house of your own? I love you to be with me, but I am sure that Chris must want his own home—it's only natural."
"I think Chris is quite happy, Aunt Madge," Marie answered, in the too quiet voice in which she always spoke to Miss Chester.
"Quite happy! But what about you?" the old lady asked indignantly. "Every wife wants her own home; it's only natural, and there's plenty of money for you to have a delightful home."
"Money again!" Marie thought wearily. What great store everyone seemed to set by it!
Chris had opened a banking account for her, and told her to draw what she wanted and amuse herself; but Marie had not yet learnt the value of money, and beyond spending a few pounds on clothes and odds and ends she had not touched it.
He had given her a diamond engagement ring and another beautiful ring when they were married. One afternoon when they were lunching alone. Miss Chester being absent, he said to Marie suddenly:
"Wouldn't you like a pearl necklace or something?" The vagueness of the question made her smile; there was something so boyish about it, so very like the Chris she had known years ago.
"I should if you think I ought to have one," she answered.
114"I don't know about 'ought to,'" he said, dubiously. "But other women have trinkets and things, and pearls would suit you, you're so dark! We'll go out this afternoon and look at some, shall we?"
She flushed with pleasure; it was so seldom that Chris suggested taking her anywhere. She ran upstairs to dress, feeling almost happy; she was so easily influenced by Chris—a kind word or thought from him kept her content for days, just as a cross word or an act of indifference carried her down to the depths of despair.
It was a sunny afternoon, and a heavy shower of rain overnight had washed the smoky face of London clean and left it with a wonderful touch of brightness.
"Are we going in the car?" Marie asked, and was glad when Chris said that he would rather walk if she did not mind.
They set off together happily enough. It was on occasions like this that Marie tried to cheat herself into the belief that Chris did care for her a little after all, and that it was only his awkward self-consciousness that prevented him from letting her know of it— a happy illusion while it lasted!
It was after they had bought the necklace—a charming double row of beautiful pearls—and were having tea that Chris said suddenly: "Marie Celeste, why don't you go about more and enjoy yourself?"
She looked up with startled eyes.
"Go about!" she echoed quietly. "Do you mean by myself?"
He did not seem to hear the underlying imputation, and answered quite naturally: "No, can't you make friends or ask some people to stay with you? You must have friends."
The color rushed to her face.
"I had some friends at school," she answered, "but not many. I don't think I was very popular. There's Dorothy Webber——"
"Well, why not ask her to stay with you?"
There was a little silence.
"I don't think I want her," Marie said slowly. Dorothy Webber and115Mrs. Heriot had always somehow gone together in her mind; they were both essentially men's women—very gay and companionable—and though she would not have admitted it for the world, Marie did not want Chris to meet Dorothy Webber.
"Oh, well, if you don't want her, of course that alters things," he said with a shrug. "But it seems a pity not to have a better time, Marie Celeste! Most women with your money would be setting the Thames on fire."
"Would they? What would they do?"
He looked nonplussed.
"Well, they'd go to theatres and dances, and play cards, and things like that," he explained vaguely. "I don't know much about women, but I do know that not many of them stay at home as much as you do."
She sat silent for a moment, then she said: "You mean that it would please you if—if I was more like other women?"
He laughed apologetically. "Well, I should feel happier about you," he admitted awkwardly. "It's not natural for a girl of your age to stick at home so much. Time enough in another thirty years."
"Yes." Marie remembered with a little ache the kindly warning which Feathers had several times tried to give her.
"Chris wants a woman who can be a pal to him—to go in for things that he likes—and you could, if you chose to try!" He had said just those words to her many times, and though in her heart she had always known that the first part of them was true, she felt herself utterly incapable of following his advice.
If she had loved Chris less it would have been far easier for her, but as it was, she was always fearful of annoying him, or of wearying him with her attempts to be what he wanted.
"There's no need to stay in town all the autumn, either," Chris went on, after a moment. "Why not go down to the country, or to somewhere you've never been? There must be heaps of places you know nothing about, Marie Celeste."
116She laughed at that.
"Why, I've never been anywhere, except to school in France, and to Brighton or Bournemouth for summer holidays."
Chris lit a cigarette.
"If you could get a friend to go with you, there's no reason why you shouldn't go to Wales or Ireland," he said, his eyes bent on his task.
Marie stared at him; she could feel the color receding from her cheeks. So he did not mean to take her himself!
She became conscious that she had been sitting there dumbly for many minutes; she roused herself with an effort.
"Perhaps I will—later on," she said.
The pearl necklace of which she had been so proud a moment ago felt like a leaden weight on her throat. She wondered hopelessly what he was going to say next, and once again the little streak of happiness that had touched her heart faded and died away.
And then all at once she seemed to understand; perhaps the steady way in which he kept his eyes averted from her told her a good deal, or perhaps little Marie Celeste was growing wise, for she leaned towards him and said rather breathlessly trying to smile:
"You are very anxious to dispose of me! Why don't you find a friend and go away for the autumn too?"
She waited in an agony for his reply, and it seemed a lifetime till it came.
"Well, Aston Knight said something about it when I saw him last night. You remember Aston Knight?"
Marie nodded; she remembered him, as she remembered everything else to do with her fateful wedding. He had been best man because Feathers had refused.
"What did he say?" she asked with dry lips.
"Oh, nothing!" Chris spoke as if it were a matter of no consequence. "We haven't arranged anything, but he asked me to run up to St. Andrews with him later on for some golf. You don't care for golf, I know, and I shouldn't care to go unless you were having117a good time somewhere, too . . ."
She did not care for golf. It was clever of him to put it that way, she thought, as she answered bravely:
"Well, why don't you go? You would enjoy it."
He looked at her for the first time, and there was a vague sort of discomfort in his handsome eyes.
"You're sure you don't mind?"
"Mind!" Marie almost laughed. What difference would it make if she told him that she hated the idea of his going away from her more than anything in the world. "Of course I don't mind; I should certainly arrange to go. I thought we agreed that we were each to go our own way?"
"I know we did, but I thought . . . well, if you are quite sure you don't mind."
"Quite sure." There was a little pause. "Perhaps Mr. Dakers will go, too," she hazarded.
"Yes, probably, I should think. I heard from him this morning."
"And is he still away?"
"Yes; he asked if we had made any plans for the autumn."
She noticed the little pronoun, and her heart warmed; she knew that Feathers at least—with all his contempt for women and marriage— would not leave her out of a scheme of things that concerned Chris.
She looked at her husband, and her throat ached with tears, which she had kept pent up in her heart for so long now.
She was sure that Chris could always tell when she had been crying, and she was sure that it made him a little colder to her, a little less considerate.
She loved him so much! Even the little line between his brows, which was the result of his habit of frowning, was beautiful to her; she still thought him the handsomest man in the world.
She would have loved to go to St. Andrews with him; she knew Chris had been before for golf many times, and the very name conjured up visions of his old tweed coat and the thick low-heeled shoes he118always wore when he played, and she wished with all her heart that she had the courage to ask him to take her.
She had never been to Scotland, but the very mention of it seemed to speak of wide stretches of moorland and purple heather and the cool fresh mountain air.
She moved restlessly, and Chris looked up.
"Shall we go?"
"Yes, I am ready."
They went out into the street Marie knew now why he had brought her out this afternoon, why he had suggested that pearl necklace; it was a kind of offering in exchange for his freedom for the next few weeks.
She supposed that most women would have acted differently; would have refused to be left at home—would have cried and made a scene; but the heart of Marie Celeste felt like a well from which all the tears have been drawn.
Let him go! What use to try and keep him an unwilling prisoner?
She passed a sleepless night turning things over in her tired mind, trying to find a way out of the entanglement which seemed to grow with every passing day.
Surely there must be some way out that was not too unhappy! Surely there must be women in the world sufficiently clever to do what hitherto she had failed to do!
In the end she decided to write to Dorothy Webber. After all, they had been good friends, and it would be pleasant to see her again. She wrote the following morning, and asked Dorothy to come to London. "Chris is going away," she wrote. "So I would love to have you for company. Shall we go to Wales or Ireland for a little trip?"
She asked the question, parrot-like, in obedience to her husband's suggestion, not in the very least because she wished to leave London, or to visit any place. Wales or Ireland might have been Timbuctoo or Honolulu for all she cared.
She told Miss Chester what she had done.
119"I knew you would not mind, dear," she added.
Miss Chester was pleased, and said so.
"I have often thought how well Chris and Dorothy would get on together," she said innocently. "They are very much alike in their love of sport."
Marie bit her lip.
"Chris is going away to Scotland," she said, "golfing with Aston Knight and Mr. Dakers."
Miss Chester dropped her knitting.
"Then, my dear child, pray go with him! Mountain air is just what you want to put some color into those pale cheeks. If it is for my sake that you are staying I beg of you to go; I will speak to Chris myself."
Marie laughed nervously.
"I don't want to go—I hate long railway journeys. You know I do. I would much rather stay here. Auntie, it's really the truth!"
Miss Chester took a good deal of persuading, but finally gave in. "I don't like the idea of husband and wife being separated when there is no need for it," she said in a troubled voice, but Marie only laughed as she bent and kissed her.
"You need not worry about that," she said. "Think how pleased we shall be to see him when he comes home."
She waited anxiously for Dorothy's reply to her letter, which came two days later.
"I should have loved to come," so she wrote, "but only the day before I got your letter I accepted another invitation, but if you will ask me again later on, Marie, I'll be there like a bird."
Marie's first feeling was one of relief that Chris would not meet her, after all, but the next moment she was despising herself for the thought. How could she be so petty and jealous? And, besides, it would have been less lonely—Dorothy was always good company.
She told Chris of Dorothy's letter, but he seemed unimpressed.
"Well, I should ask her later on," he said casually.
"Yes, I will. Have you fixed anything up yet?"
120"Yes—at least, Knight is doing all the arranging. Feathers is coming along, and another man, and that boy Atkins wanted to butt in, but I shall choke him off. He's such a kid, and besides"—he looked at her with his little frown—"I've not forgotten that he nearly drowned you."
"How absurd!" But the pleased color flew to her cheeks. Perhaps he had cared, after all, when he so nearly lost her.
"And—when are you going?" she asked hesitatingly.
Chris yawned.
"At the end of the week, I think—Friday."
Friday again! A little shiver of apprehension swept through Marie's heart.
121
"You went away—The sun was warm—the world was gay;My heart was sad, because althoughI bade you stay you did not so!But went away . . ."
"You went away—The sun was warm—the world was gay;My heart was sad, because althoughI bade you stay you did not so!But went away . . ."
"You went away—
The sun was warm—the world was gay;
My heart was sad, because although
I bade you stay you did not so!
But went away . . ."
CHRIS went on the Friday, and for days beforehand he was like a schoolboy going off for an unexpected holiday.
He packed his things long before they would be needed, and unpacked them again because he wanted to use them; he took stacks of clothes and golf sticks and a brand-new fishing-rod, which he put together for Marie's benefit, showing her how perfectly it was made and telling her what sport he hoped to have with it.
Marie tried to be enthusiastic and failed; once long ago she had stood on a river bank with Chris and watched him play a trout, finally landing the silvery thing on the grassy bank, where it lay and gasped in the burning sunshine before he mercifully killed it with a stone.
She had hated the sport ever since—it had seemed so cruel, she thought.
In a moment of bravado she had once dared to say so to him, and had never forgotten the stony look of disapproval with which he regarded her.
"Cruel!" he echoed scathingly. "How In the world do you suppose fish are caught, then? You seem to like them for breakfast, anyway."
She knew that was true enough, but to see them served up cooked and inanimate was one thing, and to see them dragged from the clear depths of a river to gasp life away on the bank quite another.
Chris put the new rod away rather offendedly.
"Of course, you don't care for sport," he said, "I forgot."
122That hurt more than anything, especially as she knew that either Dorothy Webber or Mrs. Heriot would have thoroughly entered into a discussion with him upon the merits of bait and the various catches he had successfully landed.
Marie did her best during those last few days, but all her efforts went singularly unrewarded.
Chris was too engrossed in his preparations to take much notice of her, though once he brought her the old tweed coat to have a button sewn on, and once he asked diffidently if she would mind marking some new handkerchiefs for him.
Marie did both little services with passionate gratitude to him for having asked her. During the last day she followed him round the house just as she had been wont to do when they were both children and he had come home for the holidays.
She ran errands for him, and did all the odd jobs which he did not want to do for himself, and at the last, when his fattest portmanteau would not close, she sat on the top of it to try and coax it to behave.
Chris was kneeling on the floor in his shirt sleeves, tugging at the straps and swearing under his breath. He looked up at her once to say what a pity it was she did not weigh more, but there was a smile in his eyes. "You're such a kid," he said affectionately.
But he managed to fasten the bag at last, and stood up, hot and perspiring.
"You've got my address, haven't you?" he asked, looking round his dismantled room. "Write if you want anything, and I'll send you some postcards. You've got plenty of money in the bank, and there's heaps more when that's gone. Have a good time."
"Yes," said Marie, and wondered if he would be very contemptuous if she told him that it felt like dying to know that he was going away and that she was to be left behind.
He had a last hurried lunch with her and Miss Chester, during which he looked at his watch almost every minute, and hoped that the taxi would not forget to come.
123"You could have had the car, Chris," Miss Chester said, but Chris replied that it was not worth while and that a taxi would do.
He went out in the hall to have a last look at his luggage and make sure that nothing was forgotten, and Marie ran up to her room.
She stood there with clenched hands and lips firmly set; she was dreadfully afraid that she was going to cry and disgrace herself forever, and then what a memory Chris would have of her to carry away with him! She heard the taxi come up to the door, and the sound of the luggage being taken out, then Chris came running upstairs calling to her.
"Yes—here I am."
He came into the room in his overcoat; she had not seen him look so young or happy for weeks, and it gave her another pang to realize that he was quite pleased to be leaving her behind.
"I'm just off," he said. He came up to her and put his arm round her waist "Take care of yourself, Marie Celeste."
"Oh, yes." He turned her face upwards with a careless hand and kissed her cheek. "I'll send you a wire as soon as we get there."
"Yes." She stood quite impassively beside him, and then as he would have moved away she suddenly turned and put her arms round his neck.
"I hope you will have a very good time, Chris," she said, and for the first time since their marriage kissed him of her own accord.
The hot color flew to Chris' face; she had always been so cold and unemotional that this impulsive embrace embarrassed him.
For a moment he looked at her wonderingly, then he asked:
"Why did you do that, Marie Celeste?"
She forced a little laugh.
"Because you're going away, of course."
"Oh, I see—well, good-bye."
"Good-bye." But still he hesitated before he turned to the door, but124she did not speak, and he went on and downstairs again.
Marie went over to the window. There were tears in her eyes, but it did not matter now that Chris had gone. She pulled the curtain aside and looked down into the street.
What a heap of luggage he had taken! And she remembered how he had once said that he disliked traveling with a woman because she always took such quantities of baggage!
Then Chris came out of the house and got into the taxi. He slammed the door, and she heard him speak to the driver, and the next moment the taxicab had wheeled about and gone.
She let the curtain fall and looked round the room. How quickly things happened! A moment ago and she had stood here with his arms about her, and now he had gone—for how long she did not know.
When she had asked him he had answered vaguely that it all depended on the weather, but that he would let her know.
"A fortnight?" she hazarded timidly, and he had answered, "About that, I expect."
She went through the dividing door to his deserted room. It was all upside down as he had left it, and strewn with things he had discarded at the last moment.
It almost seemed as if he had died and would never come back, she thought drearily, then tried to laugh.
After all, there was nothing so strange in his going away for a holiday with his friends; she knew she would not have minded at all had things been all right between them. It was just this dreadful feeling that, although she was his wife, she held no place in his life, that made trivialities a tragedy. She did not count—he could give her a careless kiss just as he had done years ago when he came home from Cambridge or went back again, and walk out of the house without a single regret.
She wondered what Feathers thought about it all, and her heart warmed at the memory of him—kind, ugly Feathers! She wished she could see him again.
125She did her best to be cheerful during the days that followed, but it was uphill work. After the first telegram she heard but seldom from Chris. The weather was topping—so he wrote on a postcard, and they were having splendid golf.
He never mentioned Feathers, or spoke of coming home, and it seemed to Marie as if he and she were in different worlds.
That he could enjoy himself and be quite happy without her seemed an impossibility when she was so miserable and restless.
Then one morning she ran across young Atkins in Regent Street. She would have passed him without recognition but that he stopped and spoke her name.
"Mrs. Lawless!" He was unfeignedly delighted to see her. He insisted on her lunching with him.
"I've thought about you ever since we said good-bye," he declared. "I've often longed to call, but did not like to."
She laughed at his eagerness.
"Why ever not? I gave you my address. I should have been awfully pleased to see you."
"Really! It's topping of you to say so, but I don't think Chris would have been exactly tickled to death! He never forgave me for nearly drowning you, you know."
"Nonsense! And, besides, you didn't nearly drown me. It was my own fault," she laughed suddenly. "You know I never gave you that promised box of cigarettes. Don't you remember that we had a bet of a box of chocolates against a box of cigarettes? Well—you won."
She was delighted to see him again; he was very young and cheerful, and quite open in his adoration of her.
Nobody had ever looked at Marie with quite such worshipful eyes, and though she knew it was just a boy's absurd fancy, she was grateful to him for it.
They had a merry lunch together, and afterwards Marie took him back to see Miss Chester.
"I thought you were going to Scotland with Chris and Mr. Dakers," she said as they walked home.
126"So I wanted to, but they didn't seem exactly keen, and besides—I don't care about Aston Knight, you know—awful ass, I think."
"I don't think I like him very much, either," Marie admitted reluctantly. "And anyway I'm glad you didn't go——" She smiled into his beaming face. "Perhaps we could go to some theatres together."
"Could we? By jove, that would be ripping! I say, it's an awful piece of luck running across you like this, you know."
Miss Chester liked young Atkins. She thought him a very charming boy, she told Marie when, at last, he took a reluctant departure, arranging to call again next day.
"He is a friend of Chris', you say?"
"Yes—we met him when we were away."
"A very nice boy—a thorough gentleman," Miss Chester said complacently. "I hope he will call often."
Marie laughed.
"I am sure he will with the least encouragement." she said.
He had done her good, and she quite looked forward to seeing him again. She wrote to Chris that night and told him of their meeting.
"It was quite by chance, but I was very pleased to see him, and we are going to a theater together to-morrow."
She knew that all her letters to Chris were stiff and uninteresting, but she was in constant dread of letting him read between the lines and guess how unhappy she was. For his benefit she often manufactured stories of things she was supposed to have done and entertainments she had visited.
He should not think she was moping or wanted him back. She would do without him if he could do without her.
Young Atkins got tickets for the most absurd farce in town, and he and Marie laughed till they cried over it.
Marie had only been to the theater half a dozen times in her life, and then always to performances of Shakespeare or some other classic. She told him quite frankly that she did not know when she had enjoyed herself so much. They went on to Bond Street together127afterwards and ate an enormous tea.
Although she was reluctant to admit it to herself, Marie knew that she had enjoyed herself far more with young Atkins than she had done that afternoon with Chris when he bought the pearls. She put up her hand with a little feeling of guilt to the necklace, which she was wearing. Young Atkins noticed the little gesture.
"Are they real?" he asked.
"Yes, Chris gave them to me."
"Mind you, don't lose them—they must be worth an awful lot.
"They are, rather a lot."
She assented listlessly, knowing that their value was nothing to her.
He drew his chair a little nearer to hers.
"When shall we go out together again?"
"When you like—I can go on Saturday if you care about it."
He pulled a long face.
"Saturday! Why, that's another three days."
"Well, we can't go every day," she protested, laughing. "Besides, don't you have to work?"
"Yes, I'm in the guv'nor's office, but he's away to-day, so I took French leave."
"What will he say?"
"He won't know, and I don't care if he does; it's been worth it!"
He was silent for a moment, then broke out again: "My guv'nor's an old pig, you know; he's worth pots of money, but he won't do a thing for me. I hate an indoor job; I wanted to go to sea, but no! He drove me into his beastly office, and I loathe it."
"What a shame!"
"Yes." He laughed with his old lightheartedness. "I don't see why we're bound to have fathers," he submitted comically.
"Well—we'll go to another theater on Saturday," Marie consoled him. "Saturday is a half-day holiday for everybody, isn't it?"
128"Yes—till Saturday, then."
He wrung her hand so hard at parting that her fingers felt quite dead for some seconds afterwards, but she had really enjoyed herself, and looked after young Atkins gratefully as he strode off down the street.
"There's a letter from Chris," Miss Chester said, as Marie entered the room. Her quick eyes noticed the color that rushed to her niece's cheeks. "Over there on the mantelshelf."
Marie took the treasure upstairs to read. She sat down on the side of the bed and broke open the envelope with trembling hands. She had not heard from him now for three days; she wondered if this was to say that he was coming home.
"Dear Marie Celeste,—Hope you are well—I have had no letter from you since the end of last week. The weather has changed a bit up here, and we have had some rain. Feathers sent you a box of heather this morning; I don't suppose you'll care much for it, but he insisted on sending it. By the way, a curious thing happened yesterday. We were at the third hole, and there were some girls on the green in front of us. One of them had lost a ball and I found it, so we talked, and who do you think she turned out to be? Why, your friend, Dorothy Webber! It's a coincidence, isn't it? You never told me she was such a fine player. I've got a match with her this afternoon. She sent her love to you. I hope you are having a good time. I've got as brown as coffee since I came up here—being out-of-doors all day, I suppose. By the way, if you look in my room you'll find a box of new golf balls. You might send them up to me. I will write again soon.—Yours affectionately, Chris."
So he had met Dorothy Webber after all. Marie Celeste's heart felt as cold as a stone as she sat there with Chris' scrappy letter in her hand.
He was up there in Scotland, amongst the heather and the mountains, quite happy and contented, whilst she . . . Her eyes fell again to his hurried scribble.
129". . . Feathers sent you a box of heather this morning . . ."
Kind, ugly Feathers! He, at least, had not forgotten her.
During the days that followed Marie suffered tortures of jealousy. Her overstrained imagination exaggerated things cruelly. She began to sleep badly, and a defiant look grew in her brown eyes. She encouraged young Atkins so openly that at last even Miss Chester was moved to remonstrate gently.
"My dear, I am afraid that nice boy is getting a little too fond of you?"
"Is he?" Marie laughed. "He's only a boy," she said carelessly.
Miss Chester looked pained.
"Boys have hearts as well as grown men," she said gently.
"More, sometimes," Marie answered flippantly.
But she knew that Miss Chester was right. She knew that lately there was a different light in young Atkins' eyes and a strange quality in his voice whenever he spoke to her.
Sometimes she was sorry—sometimes she told herself that she did not care! Why should she be the only one to suffer?
"He can't love me—really," she told herself fretfully, when conscience spoke more loudly than usual, reproaching her. "He has always known I am married—he would never be so silly as to fall in love with a married woman." Then she would shed bitter tears as she thought of the farce her marriage had been, and long with all her soul for someone to love her—not a boy, as young Atkins was, but a man to whom she could look up, a man who would see that the pathways ran as smoothly as possible for her tired feet.
Often the temptation came to her to write and ask Chris to come home. He had been away three weeks now, and she knew that Miss Chester was wondering about it all and worrying silently.
After all, she was his wife, and it was his duty to be with her! So130Marie argued sometimes, knowing all the time that she would rather die than ask anything of him which he would only grant unwillingly.
The big box of heather had arrived from Feathers, and as Marie buried her face in it and closed her eyes she seemed to breathe the keen mountain air that had swept it on the Scotch moors and feel the soft, springy turf beneath her feet.
Oh, to be there with Chris!—to pass the long hours of the fading summer days with him and be happy!
She wrote a little note to Feathers and thanked him.
"It was kind of you to think of me. I have never been to Scotland, but the smell of the heather seemed to show it to me as plainly as if I could really see it all. You have never found any white heather, I suppose? If you do, please send me a little piece for luck."
She had no real belief in luck—it had long since passed her by, she was sure—but a day or so later a tiny parcel arrived containing a little bunch of white heather, smelling strongly of cigarettes—for a cigarette box had been the only one Feathers could find in which to pack it.
He had got up with the dawn the day after her note reached him and searched the country for miles to find the thing for which she had asked him.
Marie slept with it under her pillow and carried it in her frock by day; a sort of shyness prevented her from showing it to Miss Chester, though once she asked her about it.
"Aunt Madge, are you superstitious?"
Miss Chester looked up and smiled.
"I used to be years ago," she admitted. "I used to bow to every sweep I met and refuse to sit down thirteen at a table."
"Is that all?" Marie asked.
Miss Chester stifled a little sigh.
"Well, I once wore a piece of white heather round my neck night and day for two years," she said after a moment. "It was given to me by the man I should have married if he had lived. But the white heather brought me no luck, for he was drowned at sea when he was131on his way home for our wedding."
Marie's face hardened a little.
"There is no such thing as luck." she said.
"I know a better word for it." Miss Chester answered gently. "I mean Fate. I think each one of us has his or her fate mapped out, and that it always happens for the best, though we may not think so."
There was a little silence.
"I wonder!" Marie said sadly.
But she still wore the white heather.
132