"When two friends meet in adverse hour,'Tis like a sunbeam through a shower,A watery ray an instant seenAnd darkly closing clouds between."
"When two friends meet in adverse hour,'Tis like a sunbeam through a shower,A watery ray an instant seenAnd darkly closing clouds between."
"When two friends meet in adverse hour,
'Tis like a sunbeam through a shower,
A watery ray an instant seen
And darkly closing clouds between."
MARIE was alone at home one afternoon when young Atkins called.
It was Sunday, and Miss Chester had motored out into the country to see a friend who was sick.
Perhaps young Atkins knew this, for, at any rate there was a look of determination about him as he walked into the drawing-room, where Marie was pretending to read and trying to prevent herself from writing to Chris.
A moment ago she had been feeling desperately lonely, and longing for someone to come in, but a queer sort of fear came to her as she looked into young Atkins' eyes.
He was rather pale, and this afternoon the boyishness seemed to have been wiped out of his face by an older, graver look.
"Won't you have some tea?" she asked him. "I've had mine, but we will soon get some more for you."
No, he would not have tea. He sat down only to get up again immediately and walk restlessly about the room.
Marie watched him nervously.
"Shall we go for a walk?" she asked with sudden inspiration. "I have not been out all day. Do let us go for a walk."
He hardly seemed to hear. He had taken up a cigarette case belonging to Chris, and was opening and shutting it with nervous aimlessness.
Suddenly he asked abruptly:
"When is Chris coming home?"
Marie caught her breath sharply.
133"I was never good at riddles," she said in a hard voice.
There was a moment's silence, then he flung the cigarette case down, and, turning, came over to where she stood and caught her in his arms—such strong young arms they were, which there was no resisting.
"I love you," he said desperately. "I think I've always loved you, and I can't bear it any longer. If Chris doesn't care for you, what did he want to marry you for? It was cheating some other poor devil out of Paradise . . . Marie—I know you think I'm only a boy, but I'd die for you this minute if it would make you happy; I'd . . . oh, my darling, don't cry."
Marie had made no attempt to free herself from his clasp. She was standing in the circle of his arms, her head averted, and the big tears running slowly down her cheeks.
She put up her hand to brush them away when she heard the distress in his voice.
"I'm all right—oh, please, if you wouldn't!" for he had caught her hand and was kissing it passionately.
He went on pleading, praying, imploring, in his boy's voice; for he was very sincere, and he had suffered more for her sake and the neglect which he knew she was receiving from Chris than from the hopelessness of his own cause.
He would make her so happy, he said; they would go away together abroad somewhere. He hadn't got any money—at least, only a little— but he'd work like the very deuce if he had her to work for.
She put her hand over his lips then to silence him.
"Tommy, dear, don't!"
His name was not Tommy, but everybody had called him Tommy for so long because it seemed to go naturally with his surname that now he had almost forgotten what he had really been christened, but it sounded sweet from Marie's lips, and he kissed passionately the little hand that would have silenced his pleading.
"I love you—I love you!" he said again.
She shook her head. She knew that she ought to have been angry with134him, but there was something very comforting to her sore heart in this boy's love.
"It's no good. Tommy," she said gently, "and you know it isn't. Even if I cared for you—and I don't, not in that way—you're so young, and . . . and I'm married . . ." And then, with a very real burst of emotion, she added: "We were such good friends, and now you've gone and spoilt it all."
"I couldn't help it—it had to come—and I'm glad. I've never felt like a friend to you. I thought you knew it, but if you want me to I'll go on being your friend all my life," he added inconsequently.
Her tears came again at that, and Tommy got out his handkerchief—a nice, soft silk one which he had faintly scented for the occasion— and wiped her eyes for her, and reproached himself, and comforted her all in a breath, till she looked up and smiled again.
"And now we've been thoroughly foolish," she said with a little sob, "please be a dear, and take me for a walk."
"It hasn't been foolishness," he answered, with a new manliness that surprised her and made her feel a little ashamed. "I love you, and I shall always love you, but if you only want me for a friend— well, that's all there is to be said."
She took his hand and held it hard for a moment.
"You're a kind boy, Tommy."
He looked away from her because he was afraid to trust himself. "What about that walk?" he asked gruffly.
They went for the walk—a very silent walk it was, for neither of them felt inclined to talk, and later, when they parted outside the house, young Atkins asked anxiously:
"It's all right, isn't it? I mean—everything is just the same as it was before . . . before I told you?"
"Yes—of course." But she knew that it was not, that it never could be, though during the next day or two they both struggled valiantly to get back to the old happy plane of friendship.
135And one evening Tommy said abruptly as they were driving home together from a theater:
"Marie—I'm not coming any more," and then, as she did not answer, he went on desperately: "I just—can't!"
Marie sat quite still, her hands clasped in her lap, her brown eyes fixed on a little pale moon that was climbing the dark sky outside.
She had thought a great deal of this boy's friendship and now she knew that she was to lose it.
She tried to think of Chris, but somehow it seemed difficult; it was so long since she had seen him, and he was so far away.
If only she did not still love him! If only she could fill the place he had occupied all these years of her life with something else—even someone else.
Then she looked at young Atkins. He was only a boy! Young as she was herself, she felt years and years older than he, and there was something motherly in her voice as she said gently:
"Very well. Tommy—I understand."
He laughed hoarsely.
"Do you? I don't think you do," he said.
They parted with just an ordinary handshake, and with no more words, but Marie stood for a long time at the door after it had been opened to her, watching young Atkins walk away down the street.
He was going out of her life, she knew, and for a moment she was cruelly tempted to recall him.
Why not? Chris had his own friends, and did not trouble about her. She wondered what he was doing now, and if he, too, was somewhere out in the moonlight with . . . with somebody who was more to him than she was.
The thought brought a tide of jealousy rushing to her heart. She ran down the steps again to the path below. She would call Tommy back. Why should she have no happiness? Boy as he was, he loved her, and his love would be something snatched from the ruins of her life.
But after the first impulsive step she stood still with a sense of136utter futility. What was the good? What was the use of trying to deceive herself?
There was only one man in the world for her—nothing could ever change that; she turned and went back into the house.
"Tommy isn't coming any more." she told Miss Chester the next morning.
She smiled as her eyes met the old lady's.
"No, I didn't send him away, dear," she added. "He just said he shouldn't come any more."
Miss Chester paused for a moment in her knitting. She was always knitting—a shawl that never seemed to be finished.
"I always said he was a thorough gentleman," was her only comment.
But Marie missed him during the days that followed. She had no scrap of love for him, but his friendship had meant a great deal to her, and left to herself she drifted back once again to restless depression.
Then at last a letter came from Chris.
"Knight is going back to London, so I may come with him. I hope you are all right, Marie Celeste. The time has simply flown up here; I was horrified yesterday to discover that I've been away a month."
There was no mention of Dorothy Webber or of Feathers.
Marie's spirits rose like mercury. She was so excited she could hardly sleep or eat, but all the time she tried to check her joy with the warning that he might not come, that he might change his mind at the last moment. She bought herself some new frocks and went to bed early to try and drive the shadows from her eyes and bring back the color to her pale cheeks.
Then came a postcard—a picture postcard of mountains in the background and a very modern-looking clubhouse in the foreground, with a scribbled message from Chris at the corner.
"Shall be home Thursday night to dinner."
The day after to-morrow! Marie's heart fluttered into her throat as she read the words; she was afraid to go and tell Miss Chester137because she knew the wild happiness and excitement in her eyes. The day after to-morrow! What an eternity it would seem. She did not know how she could live through the hours.
She forgave him all his neglect and indifference; he was coming home—she would see him again and hear his voice. Nothing else mattered.
And then, just an hour later, came a telegram. She opened it with trembling hands. She was sure it was to say that he was coming sooner. For a moment the scribbled message danced before her eyes:
"Plans altered; don't expect me. Letter follows."
She dismissed the waiting maid mechanically, and read the message again. She was glad that she had not told Aunt Madge after all—it would have been such a disappointment. She screwed the telegram up and threw it into the grate.
For the moment she hated him—she wished passionately that she could make him suffer. She had sacrificed everything by her marriage with him—all hope of real happiness and a man's genuine love—even her friendship with young Atkins; while he—what difference had that mock ceremony made to Chris?
And the old despair came leaping back.
"I wish I could die! I wish they had let me drown."
Someone tapped at the door, and with an effort she pulled herself together to answer.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Mr. Dakers has called, if you please, ma'am."
"Feathers!" In her delight at seeing Dakers again Marie never knew that she had called him by his nickname. She ran across the room, her cheeks like roses and both hands outstretched.
"Oh, how nice! When did you come? Oh, I am glad to see you!"
He was just as ugly as she had remembered him—just as ungainly— and his skin more deeply tanned and more rugged than ever, but the grip of his hand was wonderful in its strength, and his gruff voice when he spoke sent her heart fluttering into her throat with sheer138delight.
"Oh, I am so glad to see you again!" she said once more.
Feathers laughed.
"It's the best welcome I've ever had in my life," he said.
He let her hands go and stood back a pace. "Have you grown?" he asked, in a puzzled sort of way.
She shook her head.
"No; but I've got thin—at least, Aunt Madge says I have."
They looked at one another silently for a moment, and the thought of Chris was in both their minds, though it was Feathers who spoke of him.
"So Chris will be home on Thursday?"
She shook her head; for a moment she could not trust her voice. Then she said lightly:
"He's not coming after all. I've just this minute had a wire." She went over to the grate, picked up the crumpled telegram and handed it to him. "It's just come," she said again faintly.
Feathers read it without comment, and Marie rushed on:
"I suppose you've all had such a good time you don't want to come back to smoky old London—is that it?"
"We did have a good time, certainly, but I came back on Monday, and I understood that Knight and Chris were following on Thursday."
"Yes."
Feathers dragged up a chair and sat down.
"And what have you been doing?" he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know; nothing very much. I went to one or two theaters with Mr. Atkins."
"Atkins!"
"Yes. Why not? I like him; he's such a nice boy."
"Nice enough," Feathers admitted grudgingly.
"I shall expect you to take me now you've come home," Marie went on, hardly knowing what she was saying. "I'm so tired of being a139grass widow." she added desperately.
She was longing to ask about Chris, what he was doing and who was up there with him, but she was afraid.
"I'm not keen on theaters," Feathers said slowly. "But I shall be delighted to take you if you would care for it."
"Of course!" There was a burning flush in her cheeks that made her look as if she were feverish, and her voice was shrill and excited as she went on: "I think this must be one of the occasions when I want a big brother, and—oh, you did offer, you know!" she added forlornly.
Feathers looked up quickly and smiled.
"Well, here I am," he said.
Miss Chester came into the room at that moment. She knew Feathers well; Chris had brought him to the house several times before, it appeared, when Marie was still at school in France and she was not slow in demanding news.
"When is Chris coming home? Why didn't you bring him with you, Mr. Dakers? He has been away quite long enough; he ought to come home and look after his wife——"
"Oh, Auntie!" Marie cried, distressed.
"So he ought to, my dear," the old lady insisted. "You want a change of air yourself. Isn't she pale, Mr. Dakers?"
Feathers glanced quickly at Marie and away again.
"I think Chris will be home soon," he said quietly. "I am afraid golf is a very selfish game, Miss Chester."
"And Dorothy Webber—is she still up there?" Miss Chester asked presently.
Marie held her breath; it was the question she had longed and dreaded to ask.
"She was there when I left," Feathers said reluctantly. "She is a very fine golfer."
Marie broke in in a high-pitched voice:
"I asked her to come and stay with me, you know, but she had140already accepted this invitation to Scotland. Wasn't it queer the way Chris met her?"
"Very queer."
"I was at school with her; she was my best friend."
"Yes, so she told me, but I knew already—from you."
Marie's too-bright eyes met his.
"And do you like her?" she asked. "I said I thought you would, if you remember, and you were not sure."
He raised his shaggy brows.
"Like her? Well—I hardly know. She's good company."
Good company—the very thing that Marie had dreaded to hear.
"I'm not very fond of sporting women," Feathers went on. "They're so restless. Don't you agree, Miss Chester?"
"They were certainly unheard of when I was a girl," she answered severely. "We never wore short skirts and played strenuous games. I think croquet was the fashion when I was Marie's age! I can remember playing in a private tournament with your mother, Marie."
Marie bent and kissed her, laughing.
"That is where I get my stay-at-home, early Victorian instincts from, perhaps," she said rather bitterly.
She went into the hall with Feathers when he left.
"It was so kind of you to send me that white heather," she told him, shyly. "I always wear a piece of it for luck."
A dull flush deepened the bronze of his ugly face.
"I hope it will live up to its reputation," he said. He held out his hand. "When may I see you again? I am staying in London for a week or so, and I haven't anything particular to do."
"Any time—I shall be so glad to see you. Will tomorrow be too soon?" She made the suggestion diffidently. Chris' indifference had made her apprehensive and uncertain of herself. She was terribly afraid of forcing her company where it was not wanted.
"To-morrow by all means!" he answered readily, "Shall we have a day in the country?"
141"Oh, how lovely!" Her eyes lit up with delight.
"I'll bring my car." he said. "It's a bit of a bone-shaker, not a first-class affair like yours Mrs. Lawless, but it runs well. What time?"
"Any time; as early as you like."
"Ten o'clock then?"
"Yes."
"Good-night."
"Good-night, Mr. Dakers,"
142
"I was a sailor, sailing on sweet seas,Trading in singing birds and humming bees.But now I sail no more before the breeze.You were a pirate met me on the sea;You spoke, with life behind you, suddenly;You stepped upon my ship, and spoke to me:And while you took my hand and kissed my lips,You sank my ships, you sank my sailing ships."
"I was a sailor, sailing on sweet seas,Trading in singing birds and humming bees.But now I sail no more before the breeze.You were a pirate met me on the sea;You spoke, with life behind you, suddenly;You stepped upon my ship, and spoke to me:And while you took my hand and kissed my lips,You sank my ships, you sank my sailing ships."
"I was a sailor, sailing on sweet seas,
Trading in singing birds and humming bees.
But now I sail no more before the breeze.
You were a pirate met me on the sea;
You spoke, with life behind you, suddenly;
You stepped upon my ship, and spoke to me:
And while you took my hand and kissed my lips,
You sank my ships, you sank my sailing ships."
MARIE sang a little snatch of song as she went back to Miss Chester; she had not felt so lighthearted for many a day.
"I'm going into the country with Mr. Dakers to-morrow." she said. "Think of it—a whole day in the country! Won't it be lovely?"
Miss Chester looked up with shrewd eyes.
"You talk as if you have never had the opportunity before," she said. "The car is always here—you might spend all your time in the country if you chose, Marie."
"I know—I suppose it never occurred to me."
Miss Chester knitted a row without speaking, then she said gently:
"Dear child, do you think Chris would be quite pleased if he knew you were running about London with his friends like this?"
Marie swung round as if she had been struck.
"What do you mean. Aunt Madge?" Her voice was defiant, but the old lady went on insistently without raising her eyes:
"I know things have progressed since I was a girl, but if I were a man I should not care for my wife to have men friends, as you seem to have."
"Chris does not care," said Marie, and she laughed.
143"I suppose you are still thinking about Mr. Atkins, Aunt Madge. He was only a boy."
"Do you call Mr. Dakers a boy, too?" Miss Chester asked quietly.
"Of course not." Marie frowned; then all at once she broke into a laugh of sheer amusement. "Aunt Madge, you're not suggesting that Mr. Dakers, too, is fond of me? Why, don't you know that he hates women?"
Miss Chester stooped for her ball of wool, which had fallen to the floor. "As a rule, Marie, men are rather selfish, and I cannot imagine a man going out of his way to take any woman whom he hated for a day in the country."
Marie laughed again.
"Oh, don't be silly, dear!" she protested.
She went behind Miss Chester's chair and clasped her arms loosely round the old lady's neck, standing so that she could not be seen.
"I've only ever loved one man," she said in a hard voice. "And you know who that is, don't you?"
Miss Chester put her wrinkled hand over Marie's.
"My old eyes see a great many things I am supposed to be unable to see," she said sadly.
There was a little silence; then Marie whispered:
"Yes—I knew that."
"And so that is why I say be careful, dear child," the old lady went on. "But I know you will."
Marie bent and kissed her.
"Poor Mr. Dakers!" she said, with a little grimace. "He would run away forever and ever if he could hear what we have been saying."
Miss Chester did not answer.
Marie slept dreamlessly that night, and for the first time since her marriage woke with the feeling that there was something pleasant to look forward to.
The sun was shining and there was not a cloud in the sky as she flung the window wide.
Across the rows of houses and crowded chimney-pots she seemed to hear the voice of the country calling to her—seemed to hear the144wind in the trees and smell the magic of the hay.
"And they will be making the hay." she told herself delightedly, as she waited for Feathers to come. "I wonder if they will let us help!"
She had almost forgotten that there might be a letter from Chris that morning. It gave her a little shock to see it lying on the breakfast-table. It was as if for a space she had forgotten how to suffer and grieve, and now the sight of his handwriting had dragged her back to it once again.
Chris had written in a tearing hurry—or so he said. He had packed up to come home, and then a friend of his had asked him to play in a golf tournament, and after a lot of persuasion he had given in, and he was going to play with Dorothy Webber for a partner, so he thought they stood a good chance of carrying off a prize.
Marie read it apathetically. Her heart felt as hard as a stone. The letter told her nothing she had not already guessed. She crushed it into her coat pocket and tried to forget it.
He had put the importance of a stupid golf handicap before her! Well, if she cried herself blind it would not alter things or change him.
"I suppose Mrs. Heriot didn't turn up in Scotland," she said cynically to Feathers as they drove away.
He kept his eyes steadily before him as he answered:
"If she did I did not see her."
Marie laughed hysterically.
"I thought you might have done so."
There was a little silence, then Feathers said quietly:
"Mrs. Lawless, why do you talk like that? You know quite well you never thought anything of the sort."
She flushed hotly at the rebuke in his words and answered sharply:
"I forgot that you were Chris' friend. Of course, you are bound to defend him. I wonder why men always defend one another?"
Feathers smiled rather grimly.
145"Perhaps it's a case of thieves hanging together," he said. "But you do him an injustice if you think that women have the least attraction for him—you do, indeed! And, as to being his friend . . ." he hesitated, "I think, perhaps, I am more your friend than his."
"And yet you hated it when he married me," she said impulsively.
"Perhaps I am still unreconciled to that," he said.
"What do you mean?"
He looked down at her from beneath his shaggy brows. "I am going to answer that question by asking another. Why did you take such a violent dislike to me the first night we met?"
The color rushed to her face. The memory of that night was still bitter and unforgettable. Her first impulse was to refuse to tell him. Then suddenly she changed her mind.
Why should she spare Chris, or try any longer to defend him when he was undefendable?
"You said that you would tell me some day," Feathers reminded her.
"I know." But it was some minutes before she told him.
"I was sitting in the lounge that night after dinner, and heard you telling someone that Chris had only married me for my money."
The driving-wheel jerked furiously beneath Feathers' hand, and for an instant the car swerved dangerously. Then he jammed the brakes home and brought it to a standstill at the roadside.
They were in the country now, with hedge-topped banks on either side, and it was all so still and silent that they might have been the only two in the world.
Feathers half-turned in his seat. His face was white and horrified, and for a moment he stared at her, his lips twitching as if he were trying to speak and could find no words.
Marie looked at him with misty eyes, and, seeing the pain and shame in his face, laid her hand gently on his arm.
146"Please don't look like that. It hurt at first, but afterwards I was glad that I knew—really glad!"
"No wonder you hated me."
"That was because I did not know you," she said quickly. "I don't hate you now, do I?"
He looked away from her.
"So it's all my fault," he said harshly.
She echoed his words:
"All your fault? What do you mean?"
"That you and Chris are not happy . . ."
Her face quivered sensitively, then she said very gently:
"You mustn't think that—please! All you did was to let me know a little sooner than I should have done if I hadn't overheard what you said. And I'm glad, really glad, about it now! It would have hurt much more if I'd not found out for some time afterwards. You see"—she paused a moment to steady her voice—"you see, Chris never really loved me, and that's all about it."
"No wonder you hate me," he said again heavily.
"I don't hate you—in fact, I should like to tell you something, Mr. Dakers, then perhaps you won't feel so badly about it. May I?"
"Well?" The monosyllable came gruffly.
"It's just that the one good thing that has happened to me since— since I married Chris—is having met you! I shall always be glad of that, no matter what happens, for you've been such a kind friend. Please believe me."
Dakers looked down at the hand resting on his arm.
"Do you believe in friendship between a man and woman, Mrs. Lawless?" he asked, in a queer voice.
"Oh, yes!" said Marie, fervently. "Don't you?"
"I am not sure."
She looked up in dismay.
"But you said—I thought you said . . ."
He broke in abruptly.
"Look at the view on your left." She turned her head obediently and gave a little exclamation of delight. The high hedge had suddenly ended, leaving only a wide expanse of meadows that sloped down to a147river flowing at the bottom of a high wooded hill.
Some women in picturesque cotton frocks were tossing the hay in one of the meadows, and the scent of it was wafted through the sunshine.
Marie clasped her hands like a delighted child.
"I did so hope we should see them making hay," she said. "Oh, do you think we might go and help?"
She had forgotten their previous serious conversation, to Feathers' infinite relief. He laughed as he answered that he did not think they could very well suggest giving any assistance.
"I want to take you much further, too," he said. "I know an inn where we can get a lunch fit for a king, and any amount of cream and things like that."
"I love cream," said Marie.
She leaned back beside him contentedly, and fell into a day dream. The easy droning of the engine was very soothing, and the soft air on her face seemed to blow away all the cobwebs and perplexities that had worried her during the past two months. For a little time she gave herself up to the restfulness of it all and the simple enjoyment.
Feathers let her alone. He was not a talkative man, and he only spoke now and again to point out some exquisite bit of scenery or tell her something of the surrounding country.
"You know it well, then?" she asked, and he said that he and Chris had often motored that way together.
Her husband's name gave Marie a stab of pain. For a little while she had resolutely pushed him into the background of her thoughts. She sat up when Feathers spoke of him, and the look of quiet contentment faded from her eyes.
What was Chris doing now? And why was he not here beside her instead of this man? Then she looked at Feathers' kind, ugly face and remorse smote her.
He was such a good friend. She knew she ought to be grateful to him for the unobtrusive help he had tried to give her.
148But she could not resist one question: "You and Chris used to go about together a great deal?"
"Yes; nearly always."
"And now—I suppose I have spoilt it all. Have I?"
Feathers' face hardened. "I wish I could be sure that you had," was the answer that rose to his lips, but he checked it, and only said:
"I have told you you must not talk nonsense." He pointed ahead.
"That is the inn. I hope you are hungry."
He ran the car into a queer, cobble-stoned yard, and drew up at the door of the inn.
It was a very old house, with sloping roofs, on which lichen grew in short, thick clumps, and a straggly vine covered its weather- beaten face.
"I wired we were coming," Feathers said. "The people here know me."
He led the way into the parlor. It was bare-boarded with a trestle table running its full length, and wooden benches on either side, but everything was spotlessly clean, and Marie was delighted.
She had never seen an old fireplace with chimney corners like the one in this room. She had never seen such wonderful copper as the old shining pots and pans that hung on the walls.
The landlady was stout and smiling, with a face that shone with a generous application of soap, and she wore long amber earrings.
She seemed very pleased to see Feathers.
"It's a long time since you came to visit us, sir! And the other gentleman—Mr. Lawless—I hope he is well."
"I've just left him in Scotland," Feathers explained. "I dare say you will see him before long. He's been getting married, you know."
"Indeed, sir! I'm sure I wish him luck." She looked at Marie, and Feathers said hastily: "This is Mrs. Lawless."
He had a vivid recollection of another occasion when somebody had149asked if he were Marie's husband, and he was not risking a repetition of it.
"Many people staying here, Mrs. Costin?" he asked.
"No, sir—only two ladies at present, but we expect to be full for the week-end." She looked at Marie. "There are fine golf links close to us," she explained.
"I seem to be hopelessly out of fashion because I don't play golf," Marie said when she and Feathers were alone again. "I think I am beginning to hate the very name of it."
"You must let me teach you to play."
Marie sighed and looked out of the window to the narrow country road. "I think I'm too tired to learn anything," she said despondently.
Feathers frowned; he thought she looked very frail, and in spite of his words he could not picture her swinging a club and ploughing through all weathers as Dorothy Webber had done in Scotland.
"You've no right to be tired," he said angrily. "A child like you!"
She looked up, the ready tears coming to her eyes.
"Do you think I'm such a child?" she asked. "That's what Chris always says—a kid, he calls me! And yet I don't feel so very young, you know."
"I should like to be as young," Feathers said.
She leaned her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Thirty-eight next birthday—as you insist."
She did not seem surprised.
"I wonder what I shall be like when I'm thirty-eight?" she hazarded.
Feathers did not answer; he was doing a rapid calculation in his mind; he knew that she, nineteen now, was nineteen years his junior. That meant that when she was thirty-six he would be fifty- five!
His mouth twisted into a grim smile. Life was a queer thing. He wondered what he would have said had anyone told him three months ago that he would be lunching here with Christopher's wife—quite contentedly.
150There were voices in the cobble-stoned yard outside, and Marie looked towards the window.
"Two people coming in," she said. "I suppose that's who the other places are laid for." She indicated the further end of the table.
"The two people Mrs. Costin mentioned, I suppose," Feathers said. "Won't you have some more cream? I always think . . ." he broke off as the door opened and Mrs. Heriot walked into the room.
There was a moment of blank surprise, then he rose to his feet.
"The world is a small place; how do you do?" he said calmly.
Mrs. Heriot found her voice, of which sheer astonishment had robbed her; she broke out volubly.
"Mr. Dakers, of all people! And Mrs. Lawless too! Who on earth would have dreamed of meeting you here? That must be your car in the yard!"
She shook hands with Marie. "The world is a small place, isn't it?"
"Are you staying here?" Marie asked. She did not care in the least, but it was something to say.
"Yes—with my sister. It's dull, but at week-ends we have quite a good time. You must come down," she added, turning to Feathers. "And how is Chris?"
"I left him in Scotland—golfing," Feathers said. "He is coming up to town this week."
"Really! How delightful! Bring him down, and we'll have a foursome. You don't play, do you, Mrs. Lawless? What a pity! Don't you care for the game?"
"I've never played."
"Well, you must begin. Get Mr. Dakers to teach you." She turned as her sister entered. "Lena, I've just run into two friends. Isn't it queer? May I introduce my sister, Mrs. Rendle—Mrs. Lawless, and Mr. Dakers."
Mrs. Rendle looked Marie up and down critically and nodded. She was very like her sister, only older and less smart.
"You've just finished lunch, I see," Mrs. Heriot said. "What a151pity! We might have all had it together."
"We're not staying—we're going on," Feathers said hurriedly. "I'm taking Mrs. Lawless down to see some friends at Wendover."
"Really! How perfectly delightful!" She drew Feathers a little away from her sister and Marie. "Has she been ill again?" she asked, with assumed concern. "I never saw anyone age as she has."
"Really!" Feathers looked at her stonily. "Mrs. Lawless looks just the same to me." He had always hated Mrs. Heriot and he hated her now more than ever. He made some pretext and went out to the car.
"Be sure to tell Chris that we are here," Mrs. Heriot said to Marie. "It's a nine hole course, but quite good! Send him down for a week-end."
"I won't forget," Marie promised.
She was thankful when Feathers came to say it was time to start. She gave a little sigh of relief as they drove away.
Feathers glanced down at her sympathetically.
"Cat!" he said eloquently.
"I am afraid I do rather hate her," Marie faltered.
"The sister is a give-away," Feathers said. "One can see now what Mrs. Heriot will be like in another ten years."
Marie could not help laughing.
"Oh, but how unkind!" she said. A little mischievous sparkle lit her brown eyes. "And we're not really going to see any friends at Wendover, are we?"
"No," he laughed with her. "I'd tell that woman anything," he said, with a sort of savagery.
They stopped again for tea at a cottage, and the woman who owned it gave Marie a big bunch of flowers to carry away.
"Now I really took as if I've been for a day in the country," she said laughingly to Feathers. "People always trail home with bunches of flowers, don't they?"
"I suppose they do." He touched the bunch lying in her lap. "May I have one?"
152"Of course!" She picked them up quickly. "Which one?"
He indicated a blue flower.
"Don't you think that would rather suit my style of beauty?" he asked grimly.
She drew it from the bunch.
"It's called 'love-in-a-mist,'" she said. "Shall I put it in your coat?"
"Please."
He had been starting the engine, and he came to the door of the car and stooped for her to fasten the flower in his button-hole.
"Will that do?" she asked.
"Thank you." He got in beside her and they drove on.
"Which way shall we go home?" he asked.
"Any way—I don't mind. I don't know the roads, but I should like to pass those hayfields again."
"Very well. You're not cold, are you?"
"Oh, no."
"If you are, there is my coat."
It was getting dusk rapidly, the moon stood out like a golden sickle against the darkening sky, and there was a faint breath of autumn in the air.
Marie drew the rug more closely about her. She felt gloriously sleepy, and the scent of the big bunch of flowers on her lap was almost like an anaesthetic with its intoxicating mixture of perfume.
When they came to the hayfields which they had passed early in the morning Feathers stopped the car and spoke:
"Are you asleep? You are so quiet."
"No; I was just thinking."
She sat up and looked at the view, more beautiful now in the subdued light and shadow of evening.
The world seemed filled with the scent of the warm hay, and once again, with a swift pang, her thoughts flew to Chris.
Where was he? Oh, where was he? Her heart seemed to stretch out to him with a great cry of longing, but her little face was quiet enough when presently she looked up at Feathers.
153"Shall we go on now?"
He drove on silently.
"It's been such a lovely day," Marie said. "I have enjoyed it. Thank you so much for bringing me."
"That's like a little girl coming home from a party," Feathers said. "We can have another run out any time you like."
"It's been perfectly lovely! I was so tired when we started, but it's been a beautiful rest, and I'm not tired any more."
But, all the same, when next he spoke to her she did not answer, and, looking v quickly down at her, he saw that she was asleep.
Her head had drooped forward uncomfortably, and he could see the dark lashes down-pointed on her cheek.
He slowed down a little, and slipping an arm behind her, and drew her gently back until her head rested against his shoulder.
Mrs. Heriot had said that Marie looked years older, and in his heart Feathers knew she was right, but the kindly hand of sleep seemed to have wiped the lines and shadows from her face, and it was just a child who rested there against his shoulder.
What was to become of her, he asked himself wretchedly, and what was to be the end of this mistaken marriage?
He could almost find it in his heart to hate Chris as he drove grimly on through the gathering night, with the slight pressure of Marie's head on his shoulder.
Only nineteen! Only a child still! And a passionate longing to shield her and secure her happiness rose in his heart. He had led a queer life, a selfish life, he supposed, pleasing himself and going his own way in very much the same fashion as Chris Lawless had always done and was still doing, but then he had had no woman to love him or to love—until now, and now . . . Feathers looked down at the delicate little face that lay like a white flower against his rough coat in the moonlight, and he knew with a grim pain that yet was almost welcome to his queer nature that he would give everything in the world if only her happiness could be assured.
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