* * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * *
"If you two are going to the bazaar this afternoon," Chris said at lunch next day, "I'll go and look Feathers up. He asked me last night if I would, but I didn't promise," He looked at Marie, "I'll come with you if you like," he said quickly.
She laughed.
238"Of course not! We shan't stay long, shall we, Dorothy?"
"We won't go at all if you'd rather not," Dorothy said.
"But I promised the vicar," Miss Chester broke in, in distress. "I think you really must go, my dears."
"Of course we will," Marie said. "If there's a fortune-teller we'll have our palms read; shall we, Dorothy?"
The elder girl shrugged her shoulders.
"You don't believe in that rubbish, surely?"
"I think it's fun," Marie answered.
She was childishly pleased when, during the afternoon, they found a palmist's tent in a corner of the big hall where the bazaar was being held.
"Do let's go in," she urged on Dorothy. "Of course, we shan't believe it, but it will be fun!"
She lifted the flap of the tent, and Dorothy reluctantly followed her.
A woman sat at a small round table in the half light of the tent. She was not at all like the usual fortune teller, and she was dressed plainly in a white frock, instead of in the usual gaudy trappings which such people affect.
She was small and dark, with rather a plaintive face and large eyes, and Marie was struck by the extreme slenderness and whiteness of her hands as they rested on a little velvet cushion on the table before her.
"We want to have our palms read," Marie said. She was conscious of an eerie feeling, and she looked back at the closed flap of the tent nervously. "Dorothy—you go first . . ."
"I don't believe in it," Dorothy said, hardily, but she sat down at the table, and laid her hands, palms upwards, on the cushion.
The palmist spoke then, for the first time, to Marie.
"If you will kindly wait outside, mademoiselle," she said. She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, but her voice was soft and musical.
Marie went reluctantly. She would like to have heard what Dorothy was told.
239It was only a few minutes before Dorothy was out again, her face flushed and her eyes bright as if with unshed tears.
"It's all rubbish," she said harshly, when Marie eagerly questioned her. "As if anybody believes in it! Are you going in? Very well, be quick. I'll tell you afterwards what she said to me."
Marie went back into the tent. She had taken off her gloves and slipped her wedding ring into her pocket. The palmist had addressed her as mademoiselle, and she was curious to know if she would still believe her to be unmarried when she had examined her hands.
She laid them palm upwards on the velvet cushion, and the woman opposite took them in her soft clasp, smoothing the palms with her forefingers and peering into the little lines and creases for a moment without speaking. Marie watched her curiously. Her first nervousness had lost itself in interest She almost started when, quite suddenly, the woman began to speak in a low, clear voice.
"You are very young, but you are already a wife. You have married a man whom you love devotedly, but he is blind! And because he is blind he has let your love waver from him to the keeping of another. You are proud! You have wrapped your heart about with pride, until you have stifled its best affections, and persuaded yourself that you do not care."
She ran her slender fingers along a faint line at the base of Marie's fingers.
"You started with dreams—alas! so many dreams—and they have forsaken you one by one. But they will come back." And she raised her dark eyes suddenly to Marie's pale face. "A little patience and they will come back—dreams no longer, but reality. You were meant to be a happy wife and mother, my little lady, but something has intervened—something has fallen across your life like a big shadow, and for a little the sunshine will be blotted out. . ."
She broke off, and for a moment there was silence. Then she went on again, more slowly: "If you will allow your heart to govern your240head you can never go far astray—it is only now, when you are trying to stifle all that your heart would say, that the shadows deepen. . . ."
She smoothed Marie's hands with her soft fingers.
"You have money—much money," she said "But your friends are few. You are shy, and you do not make friends easily . . . There has been one great moment of danger in your life—I cannot tell you what it was, but I can see the sea in your hand—and again in the future I can see much water . . . It will come again in your life, and it carries on its bosom trouble and many tears, and . . ." She looked again into Marie's face.
"You are trembling, Mademoiselle," she said in her soft voice.
Marie smiled faintly.
"I was nearly drowned once," she said. "I can never forget it."
She drew her hands away. "I don't think I want to hear any more," she said.
She paid double the fee and went to join Dorothy.
"Well?" Dorothy questioned hardily.
Marie shivered.
"It was rather eerie," she said. "But I don't believe in it. Shall we go home?"
"What did she say to you?" Dorothy asked as they drove away together. "She told me that I had had one disappointment in my life which I should never get over . . ." She laughed. "She was right, too! Not that I believe in fortune telling."
Marie hardly listened. She was thinking of the palmist's soft voice and the touch of her hands as she had said: "I can see the sea in your hand—and again in the future I can see much water. It will come again in your life, and it carries on its bosom trouble and many tears . . ."
She was not superstitious, but the words haunted her.
Troubles and tears. Surely she had had enough of them.
241She wished she had not gone to the bazaar; she wished with all her heart she had not gone to the palmist.
. . . "You started with dreams—alas! so many dreams—and they have forsaken you one by one. But they will come back ... A little patience and they will come back; dreams no longer, but reality."
She sat up with a little determined laugh.
"It's all rubbish—I don't believe a word of it," she told herself. "She only said it because she thought it would please me."
"We're just dying for some tea, Greyson," she told the maid who admitted them. "I hope you've got some for us."
"Miss Chester is having tea now," the girl answered. "There is a lady with her in the drawing-room—a Mrs. Heriot."
Marie stood still with a little shock. She had quite forgotten that Chris had said Mrs. Heriot would probably call.
242
"I love him, and I love him, and I love!Oh heart, my love goes welling o'er the brim;He makes my light more than the sun above.And what am I! save what I am to him?"
"I love him, and I love him, and I love!Oh heart, my love goes welling o'er the brim;He makes my light more than the sun above.And what am I! save what I am to him?"
"I love him, and I love him, and I love!
Oh heart, my love goes welling o'er the brim;
He makes my light more than the sun above.
And what am I! save what I am to him?"
MRS. HERIOT had quite failed to make a conquest of Miss Chester, for the old lady considered that every woman who used paint and powder was a hussy. There was a very formal tea progressing in the drawing-room when Marie entered.
Mrs. Heriot was genuinely glad to see her as she had found conversation uphill work with Miss Chester. She kissed Marie effusively.
"I suppose Chris forgot to tell you I was calling," she said. "Men are so forgetful."
"He did tell me," Marie answered, "and I am afraid it was I who forgot. I am so sorry. Won't you have some more tea?"
Dorothy came in, and she and Mrs. Heriot started a passage-at-arms immediately. They were too much alike ever to agree, and Marie was relieved when Mrs. Heriot said she must go.
"Come and see me off," she whispered to Marie as she took her departure. "I want to tell you something."
Marie went reluctantly. She did not wish for any confidences from Mrs. Heriot, but apparently she was to be given no choice in the matter, for as soon as the drawing-room door had closed behind them Mrs. Heriot said in a mysterious voice: "Is there a room where we can be undisturbed for a moment? I have something very important to tell you."
Marie smiled nervously.
"Nobody will hear us here," she said "I think——" But Mrs. Heriot insisted, and Marie led the way into the library, which had been243turned into a sort of smoking-room for Chris since their marriage.
Mrs. Heriot shut the door carefully, then, turning, she asked with dramatic intensity:
"Mrs. Lawless, who is this Miss Webber?"
Marie stared at her.
"Dorothy Webber? She is my friend; we were at school together."
"My poor child! If you think she is your friend you are being dreadfully deceived—dreadfully."
"I don't know what you mean."
Mrs. Heriot dabbed her eyes to wipe away imaginary tears.
"I hate to see people deceived," she said. "I hate people who make scandal and mischief. I am only telling you for your own sake and because you and I have always been friends; but yesterday—down on the golf links."
Marie broke in with pale lips:
"Mrs. Heriot, I would much rather you said no more. It is of no interest to me—I beg of you, please . . ."
But Mrs. Heriot was enjoying herself too much to stop. She had always disliked Marie, and she hated Dorothy because she had appeared to be on more friendly terms with Chris than she herself. She went on, refusing to be silenced.
"You ought to turn her out of the house! She is a false friend! Why, I saw her—and my sister saw her—with your husband's arms round her! Crying—in his arms! I hate having to tell you, but I thought, and my sister thought, that it was only right you should know." She broke off, looking at Mane's stony face with faintly malicious eyes. "Men are so weak, poor dears; how can one blame them!" she went on. "It's the women, with their subtle cleverness." She did not add that she had tried all her own wiles on Chris with humiliating failure.
"I am so sorry for you," she pursued softly, "but you should really insist that she leave the house."
Marie walked past her and opened the door.
244"Please go," she said.
"But, Mrs. Lawless——"
"Please go." Marie said again.
"Oh, well, of course, if you wish it!" Mrs. Heriot passed her jauntily and went out into the hall, just as Chris opened the front door and came in.
Mrs. Heriot smiled and held out her hand.
"I was so afraid I should have to run away without seeing you," she said. "We have had such a delightful afternoon. Where have you been, you bad man!"
Chris made some vague answer. His eyes had gone past her to where his wife stood at the study door. She was very pale but quite self- possessed, and she even smiled faintly as she met his eyes.
"Mrs. Heriot is just going," she said clearly. "Perhaps you will see her out, Chris."
She went back to the library, and stood staring before her with blank eyes. She had always hated Mrs. Heriot and distrusted her, but something told her that this time, at all events, the widow had spoken the truth. The facts seemed to fit so completely into the chain of last night's events—Dorothy's tears, Chris' pre- occupation, and her own instinctive feeling that all was not right.
She heard Chris close the front door and come into the room behind her, and she forced herself to turn.
"Dorothy and Aunt Madge are in the drawing-room," she said stiffly. He barred the way when she would have passed him.
"Well, there is no hurry to join them, is there? How did you get on at the bazaar this afternoon?"
"We only stayed a little while. We had our fortunes told."
"Silly child! What did they tell you?"
"Oh . . . lots of things! Nothing that I believe, though."
She stood apathetically with his arm round her. She longed to tear herself from him, but she was afraid that once she gave way to the storm of passionate anger that was rending her she would never be245able to control herself.
"I was sorry afterwards that I did not come with you," Chris said. "Feathers wouldn't come out. He's packing—he's off the day after to-morrow."
"The day after to-morrow?"
"Yes—something has happened to make him change his mind, I suppose. He's going, anyway."
Marie's heart felt like a stone, though every nerve in her body was throbbing and burning at fever point.
Feathers was going! After to-morrow she would not be able to get to him, no matter how passionately she longed to do so.
This man whose arms were about her now cared nothing for her. He had lied to her, and pretended and deceived her. She felt that she hated him.
"What's the matter, Marie Celeste?" Chris asked, abruptly. "Aren't you well? You look so white."
"Do I? It's nothing; I'm quite well." She moved past him, and he made no effort to stop her, but she knew that his eyes were following her as she went upstairs.
What did she mean to do? She did not know. Possible and impossible plans flitted through her mind. First she thought she would tell Chris that she had found out about Dorothy—then that she would not tell him, would not stoop to let him think she cared.
Did she care? She did not know. Her whole being was in the throes of some new, strange passion.
Perhaps even up in Scotland he had made love to Dorothy, and that was why he had stayed so long. Perhaps he had known that she was coming to London, and had even asked her to the house! Marie hid her face.
She would not stay with him. She would go away—she would go away with Feathers, if he would take her.
She longed for him as a homesick child longs for its father. He would be kind to her, he would understand.
Dorothy came tapping at the door. She held an open telegram in her hand.
246"Marie, I've got to go home." She gave her the message to read without another word.
Marie took it mechanically, but the words danced meaninglessly before her eyes:
"Ronnie died this morning. Come at once."
Ronnie was Dorothy's brother, she knew. She looked at the girl's white face and quivering lips, but she felt no pity for her.
"I'm sorry—so sorry," she said, but the words were meaningless.
She went with Dorothy to her room and helped her pack. She telephoned for the car and told Miss Chester.
"Someone must go with her; she ought not to travel alone," the old lady said, in distress. "Surely Chris will go. It is only kind."
Marie's face burned. Oh, yes, there was no doubt Chris would go— would be glad to go. She heard Miss Chester make the suggestion to him, and held her breath while she waited for him to answer.
If he agreed she would know that he was guilty. If he refused there would be just a hope that Mrs. Heriot had lied.
But Chris turned to her.
"Would you like me to go, Marie?"
She hated him, because he left it for her to settle. She could not trust herself to look at him.
"Aunt Madge thinks someone should go, and I can't," she said. He agreed hastily.
"Of course, you can't; I will go, if you wish it. I shan't be able to get back till to-morrow," he said. "It will be too late to catch a train back to-night."
Marie did not answer, and he went away. She gave him no chance to say good-bye to her. He kissed her cheek hurriedly before he followed Dorothy to the waiting car, and he looked back anxiously as he closed the door.
"I'll be back as soon as possible to-morrow," he said.
Marie went back to Miss Chester without answering.
"That poor child," the old lady said sadly. "What a trouble for her! Did you know the brother, Marie?"
247"I saw him once. He was a nice boy," Marie said apathetically. She could remember Ronnie Webber well. He had had a snub, freckled nose and twinkly eyes.
It seemed impossible that he could be dead. She wished she could feel more sorry.
The evening seemed interminable.
"Sit down and read a book, child," Miss Chester said once. "Don't wander about the house like that! I know you must be upset, but it's no use taking trouble too much to heart."
Marie looked at her, hardly listening.
"I think I'll ring Mr. Dakers up," she said.
Miss Chester's eyes grew anxious.
"I should not, my dear," she said. "Chris told me that he was very busy packing. He is going away the day after to-morrow."
"I know; but I should like to see him before he goes."
She rang Feathers up, but he was out and not expected in till late. Fate seemed against her at every turn.
"I must see him again; I must!" she told herself feverishly as she went to bed. She sat at the open window for a long time looking into the darkness. Another forty-eight hours and he would be miles away. She thought of all the pictures she had seen of Florence and Venice, and wondered what it would be like to visit them with the man one loved.
Chris had offered to take her there, but she did not want to go with Chris—he did not care for her! He had lied to her and deceived her. She lay awake for hours, staring through the open window at a single star that shone like a diamond in the dark sky.
Where was Chris now, and what was he doing! She tried to believe that she did not care; tried to keep her thoughts focussed on Feathers, but they strayed back again and again to her husband.
Little forgotten incidents of the past danced before her eyes torturingly—Chris in his first Eton suit; Chris when he was captain of the school eleven, swaggering about on the green; Chris coming home for Christmas, a little shy and superior; Chris bullying her, and teasing her, and finally buying his complete248forgiveness by a kiss snatched under the mistletoe. She had loved him so much—had always been so ready to forgive and forget. Tears lay on her cheeks because she knew she was no longer ready to do so; tears of self-pity—shed in mourning over the days that were gone. She was a child no longer; she was a grown woman looking back on her childhood.
It was getting light when she fell asleep, and it was late when the maid roused her.
"I came before, but you were sleeping so sweetly I did not like to wake you," she apologized. Marie got up and dressed with a curious feeling of finality. Everything was at an end now; she would bear no more.
In the middle of the morning a wire came from Chris to say he would be at home to dinner that evening.
Miss Chester was dining out, and Marie knew she would have to meet him alone, but she did not care. She welcomed anything that hurried the ending towards which she was drifting. Each moment seemed like the snapping of another link in the chain of her bondage.
Chris arrived earlier than he expected. It was only five o'clock when she heard his key in the door and his step in the hall.
She was in her room and heard him call to her, but she did not answer, and she heard him question the maid, before he came running up the stairs.
Her door was open and he saw her at once, standing by the window, but she did not look round, even when he shut the door and went over to her.
"Marie Celeste." There was an eager note in his voice, and he would have taken her in his arms, but she turned, holding him away.
"No—please, we don't want to pretend any more."
He fell back a step, the eagerness dying from his face.
"What do you mean? What has happened?"
"Nothing—except that I know—about you and Dorothy." She put her hands behind her, gripping the window sill to steady herself as she went on: "I'm not going to make a scene. I know how you hate them, and I don't blame you. I don't think either of us is to blame; but—249I've finished, and that's all . . . If you won't go away from the house, I will, and I don't ever want to see you again."
She felt as if she were listening to the words of someone else— listening with cool criticism, but she went on steadily:
"We've tried, as you wished, and it's failed. I can go away quietly, and nobody need know much about it."
She raised her eyes to his stunned face for the first time.
"It's no use arguing about it. My mind is made up. Oh, if only you would go away and leave me!"
For a moment there was profound silence, then Chris' tall figure swayed a little towards her, and he caught her arms in a grip that hurt.
"Who told you? And what do you know?" She hardly recognized his voice in its choked passion. "It's damned lies, whatever it is! I swear to you if I never speak again . . ."
She turned her face away with a little disdainful gesture.
"I don't want to hear—it's all so useless. I've said that I don't blame you—and I mean it. You're quite free to love whom you like."
He broke into rough laughter.
"Love! You're talking like a child! Who's been telling you such infernal lies? . . . Was it Dorothy herself?" She did not answer, and he shook her in his rage and despair. She answered then, breathlessly:
"No."
"Who then?" He waited. "Mrs. Heriot?" he demanded.
She looked at him scornfully.
"Yes, if you must know."
He almost flung her from him.
"And you believe what that woman says! She's a liar, and always has been! She tried the same lowdown game on me—only yesterday. She told me that there was something between you and Dakers, and I threatened to wring her neck if she ever dared to repeat the lie250again . . ." Marie raised her head, and her cheeks were fiery red. It gave her a fierce delight to feel that perhaps at last she had the power to hurt him.
"It isn't a lie!" she said, clearly. "I love him."
A cruel shaft of light fell through the window, on the deathly whiteness of Chris' face as he stood helplessly staring at his wife. Marie had never seen agony in a man's face before, but she saw it now, and she averted her eyes with a little shiver.
"It's better you should know the truth," she said at last in a whisper. "I wanted to tell you before, but I was afraid."
"And—Dakers?" She hardly recognized her husband's voice as he asked the hoarse question, and it hurt her to hear that he no longer spoke of his friend by the well-known nickname.
She shook her head.
"He doesn't know; he's never said one word to me that you, or anyone else, could not hear . . ." She clasped her hands together passionately. "I wish he had!" she said chokingly. "I tried to make him, but it was no use . . ." She looked at Chris with feverish eyes. "It sounds dreadful, doesn't it?" she said piteously. "I should think it did if I heard anyone else say it. But it's the truth. I would go to Italy with him to-morrow if he would take me."
Chris stood like a man turned to stone. Then suddenly he fell on his knees beside her, clasping her in his shakings arms.
"No, no, my dear! my dear! You don't know what you are saying. I'll forget it all and take you away. You're ill, Marie Celeste. I've been a brute to you, I know, but I don't deserve this." He took her hands, such cold little hands they were, and pressed them to his face. "I love you, too," he said brokenly. "I think I must always have loved you, only I'm such a selfish swine . . . Marie Celeste, for God's sake say you didn't mean it? I love you! I'll give my life to make you happy. Say it isn't true—that you've just done it to torture me—to punish me?"
251She tried to disengage her hands from his, but he held them fast. He went on pleading, praying, begging her, but she listened apathetically, her eyes averted from his bowed head.
She did not believe a word he was saying. The wall of her pride deafened her to the sincerity of his broken words. Her one emotion was the fierce, triumphant gladness that at last she could make him suffer as once he had made her.
Perhaps somewhere in a corner of that room the ghost of the child Marie Celeste stood weeping for the tragedy of it all—weeping because the woman Marie Celeste could so harden her heart to the grief of the man who had once been her idol.
Then suddenly Chris released her and stood up. His face was like gray marble as he took hers between his hands and looked down into her brown eyes.
"Is it—the truth, Marie Celeste?" he asked hoarsely. "Tell me the truth—that's all."
And Marie gave a little choking sound like a sob, and the lids fell over here eyes as she whispered:
"I have—told you."
That was all. Chris let her go. He fell back a step, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He was beaten and he knew it. No explanation he could make would be of any avail. She had shut him out of her heart for ever, and—for such is the tragedy of life—it was only when it was too late that he knew how much he loved her.
It seemed a long time before he asked:
"Well—what do you want me to do?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know," she said in a frightened whisper.
She had burned her boats, and her whole being was shaken by the irrevocable act.
She kept the thought of Feathers before her eyes. She clung to the thought of the happiness he could give her. She never heard the warning voice that whispered to her of its impossible madness.
"Does—Aunt Madge know?" Chris asked again, and she shook her head,252tears welling to her eyes for the first time.
"No—how could I tell her?"
He turned to the door. He was like a man walking in his sleep as he reached it, and for a moment stood fingering the handle aimlessly, then all at once the passionate blood came surging back to his white face. He strode back to Marie as e stood by the window, and caught her in his arms.
"I'll never give you up," he said hoarsely. "There's no law in England that can make me give you up. Kiss me, Marie Celeste, and say you didn't mean it . . ." His voice was broken; he hardly knew what he was saying. "You're my wife, and I'll keep you. Feathers doesn't want you—he has no use for women. You're my wife, and I love you! I love you with all my heart and soul, Marie Celeste! I've been a blind fool, but I'm awake now . . ." He kissed her again and again despairingly.
Marie struggled against his arms. She flung her head far back to escape his lips, but he was stronger than she, and it was only when he felt her almost fainting in his arms that he released her.
"You're my wife," he said again, meeting her eyes. "I haven't forgotten it if you have."
Her lips were shaking so that she could hardly speak, but she managed to form a few words.
"Don't you ever—touch me again—like that. How dare you—insult me! You say you don't care for women, and it seems to me as if—any woman—will do! First Mrs. Heriot—then . . . then Dorothy, and now . . . now me! Oh, if you knew how I hate you!"
She had gone too far. She knew it as soon as she had spoken, and she shrank away from him in fear when she saw his eyes.
He caught her roughly by the wrist, dragging her towards him.
"And you dare . . . you dare say a thing like that to me!" he panted. "It's not what you believe—you know it's not the truth! It's just a damnable excuse to get rid of me—to leave you free to253go to Dakers. My God, I could almost kill you . . ."
He was beside himself with rage and thwarted passion. He let her go so violently that she staggered and fell backwards, striking her head against the wooden window-sill; but Chris was blind and deaf to everything. He went downstairs and out into the street, hatless as he was, slamming the front door after him.
It was still light, and people stared at him curiously as he strode by, his eyes fixed unseeingly before him.
He was incapable of thought or action. He only felt that he must keep on walking, walking, to outstrip this terrible thing that walked gibbering beside him.
He had never suffered in all his life until now, and he did not know how to bear it.
He loved his wife and she hated him. He saw the world red as he walked along, careless of which way he went.
She loved Dakers! Feathers, ugly Feathers, who had never looked at a woman in his life! He laughed aloud at the thought.
And Feathers was his friend! They had been more than brothers, and now this tragic thing had occurred.
Presently he found himself outside Feathers' rooms in Albany Street, standing on the path, staring aimlessly at the door.
Why had he come there? He did not know. But he went up the steps and rang the bell.
Mr. Dakers was out, the maid told him, but he passed her and went up to his friend's room.
There was a packed portmanteau in one corner and the hearth was strewn with torn-up papers. Some whiskey and soda stood on the table, and Chris helped himself to a stiff dose.
He felt better after that, though there was a stabbing pain in his temples, and he sat down and leaned his head in his hands.
What should he say when Feathers came in? What should he do?
He tried to think, but he could grip nothing definitely. All thought254melted away from him as soon as he thought he had got it.
The only thing he could see distinctly against his closed lids was the face of Marie Celeste as she had said, "Oh, if you knew how I hate you!"
He would always hear her voice to his dying day. He would carry the memory of it with him to the grave.
Imagination came to add to his torture. What had happened between her and his friend during all those days they had been together?
Was it true what Marie had told him, that Feathers had never spoken one word of love to her? He tried to disbelieve it, but he knew his friend to be an honorable man.
Feathers was no wife-stealer; Feathers was the straightest chap in the world.
Then came a revulsion of feeling. He hated him! He would kill him if he came in now! Chris started up and began pacing the room.
What was to be the end of it all? He was helpless—powerless! And he loved her so . . .
Fool that he had been never to know it before—to need the hysterical outburst of a woman for whom he cared less than nothing, to show him how much he loved his wife.
He thought of the scene on the golf links with Dorothy, and a shiver of distaste shook him. He had never dreamed that she cared for him, that he was any more to her than she was to him—and at first he had been sorry for her, and ashamed of his own shortsightedness. Then he had grown angry and disgusted.
And that hell-cat, Mrs. Heriot, had seen it all! Chris struck his clenched fist against his forehead. He had never met a woman who was fit to hold a candle to Marie Celeste. And then, with that thought, the agony began all over again.
He had lost her! She would never look at him any more with shy adoration in her brown eyes. They might have been so happy, but it was too late now.
And the memory came to torture him of how Feathers had saved her255life! Perhaps she had begun to love him then! If so, how could he blame her for caring! Feathers was one in a thousand, with a heart of gold. Feathers would make her happy where he had failed so miserably.
The room seemed suddenly unbearably suffocating, and he went out again into the street.
He walked about all night, until wearied out, he turned back home and flung himself, dressed as he was, on the bed.
256
"First will I pray, do ThouWho ownest the SoulYet wilt grant controlTo another, nor disallowFor a time, restrain me now."
"First will I pray, do ThouWho ownest the SoulYet wilt grant controlTo another, nor disallowFor a time, restrain me now."
"First will I pray, do Thou
Who ownest the Soul
Yet wilt grant control
To another, nor disallow
For a time, restrain me now."
HE woke with a racking headache and nerves like wire that is stretched to snapping point. He made a pretense of breakfast, not daring to ask after Marie. He was afraid to go out for fear he should return to find her gone. He went into the library and tried to read the newspaper, and fell asleep over it, waking with a start when the gong for lunch rang through the house, to find Miss Chester standing beside him.
"My dear boy! Are you ill that you fall asleep at such an hour?" she asked anxiously.
He managed to laugh.
"I was late last night," he apologized.
"Marie has one of her bad headaches, too," the old lady said. "She is not strong, you know, Chris. I wish you could persuade her to go away for a rest. I've been to her room twice, and she won't let me in. Have you seen her this morning?"
He had to lie to comfort her.
"Yes—she's all right—she'll be better when she's had a rest."
He went up to her door twice during the afternoon, but came away without daring to knock. He could hear her moving about inside, and once the shutting of a drawer.
He went down again and wrote a note to her. Would she see him just for a moment? He would not worry her, but he must see her. He slipped it under the door of her room, but though he waited about all the evening no answer came.
257His head was unbearable then, and, feeling as if the pain would drive him mad, he took his hat and went out after dinner.
From her window Marie saw him go down the street. She had been watching all day for him to leave the house, and she drew a sharp breath as she saw his tall figure turn the corner of the road. She wondered if she would ever see him again. For a moment the thought stabbed her heart with a little pain, but it was gone instantly, and she crossed the room and quietly unlocked the door.
It was very quiet, and she slipped downstairs and out of the house without being seen.
It was almost dark now, and nobody noticed her as she went down the road and hailed a taxicab.
She gave the driver Feathers' address in Albany Street, then sat back in a corner, trembling and shaking in every limb.
There was a queer rapture in her heart, which was yet half fear. She was going to be happy, she told herself, fiercely; she was going to offer herself to a man who loved her and who would make her happy, and yet it terrified her to know that she was deliberately cutting herself off from her old life.
She tried not to think, not to reason. Since yesterday her heart had been like a stone and she dreaded that its hardness should melt.
The door of the house was open when the taxicab stopped, and a woman stood at the entrance looking out into the night.
Marie spoke to her timidly.
"Is Mr. Dakers in, please?"
The woman's eyes scanned her white face interestedly.
"I think he is," she said. "Do you know which are his rooms, or shall I take you up?"
"Thank you; I know." She had never been in the house before, but she had heard a great deal about his rooms from Chris, and she went up the staircase in the darkness, her heart shaken with a wild sort of happiness, and reached the landing above.
The door of Feathers' sitting-room stood open, and he was standing258at the table in his old tweed jacket, packing some papers away in a box.
He had not heard Marie's step, and he did not move or glance up till she was actually in the room and had whispered his name.
"Mr. Dakers!"
He started then as if he had heard a voice from the dead. He had been thinking of her a moment ago, and his face was white as he stared at her across the table. Then he took a swift step forward.
"Mrs. Lawless! Good heavens! Is anything the matter?"
He drew her into the room and closed the door.
"Chris? Where is he?" he asked hoarsely.
"I've told him I can't live with him any more"
She broke down into stifled sobbing. "I've done my best—you know I have—and now it's finished. We had a dreadful scene last night . . . and I can't go back to him again—I can't."
Feathers tried to speak. Twice he moistened his lips and tried to speak, but no words would come. The room was rocking before him. The night was full of tempting voices whispering that she had come to him because she loved him, and because she knew he loved her.
With a desperate effort he found his voice.
"You don't mean what you are saying, I know, Mrs. Lawless; you are tired and upset. Let me see Chris, and if there is any little trouble that can be put right he will listen to me." He held out his hand to her. "Let me take you home."
"It can never be all right again," she said, her voice broken with sobbing. "He never cared for me, you know he never did . . ."
Feathers interrupted gently.
"But you love him. My dear, I know that you have always loved him."
Marie looked up, the tears wet on her cheeks, her sobbing suddenly quiet. "Do you know what I told him?" she asked, and then, as he did not answer, she added in a whisper: "I told him that I loved you."
258It seemed to Feathers as if all the world stood still in that moment—as if he and Marie were alone in a great silence, looking into one another's eyes.
His heart was thumping up in his throat, almost choking him, and his hands were clenched in the pockets of his shabby tweed jacket.
The light in the center of the room fell full on his ugly face, cruelly revealing all its grimness and pallor, and the trembling tenderness of his mouth. He made no attempt to ignore her meaning. It was too great a moment for pretense.
She was so small, such a child, that his passionate love died down into something infinitely gentle as he spoke.
"Do you know what it means, Marie? Do you realize that you will break Miss Chester's heart, and ruin your husband's life? Do you know what everyone will say of you and me?"
She broke in feverishly.
"I don't mind what they say. I've never had any happiness, and I could be happy with you—I am always happy with you . . . Oh, I thought you loved me," she added with a broken little cry.
It seemed a long time before he answered, and then he said in a voice that was slow and labored with emotion:
"I love you as the sweetest and dearest woman I have ever met. I love you for your kind friendship to me, and because you did not shrink from my ugly face. I love you because you're as far above me in goodness and purity as the stars." He stopped with a hard breath before he went on again. "You've been my ideal of everything I hold sacred, and you are asking me to trample it all underfoot and drag it in the mud."
He broke off jaggedly, and Marie said in a whisper:
"If—if you love me like that, don't you know—can't yousee—how happy we could be together?"
Did he know? He had dreamed so often of an impossible future in which she might be his, of long days spent with her, and hours of contentment, of the touch of her lips on his, and the sound of her footsteps pacing beside him for the rest of his life and hers; but260they had only been dreams—dreams that could never come true.
He sought desperately in his mind for words with which to answer her appeal, but what poor things were mere words in comparison with his longing to take her in his arms and kiss the smiles back to her tremulous lips.
And she said again desperately, fighting for her ground inch by inch:
"Chris never loved me. It was only the money he wanted . . . oh, you know it was!"
It was hard to find a reply to such an unanswerable argument.
"Years ago, before I knew you, Marie," Feathers said presently, "Chris saved me from what might have been lifelong disgrace. He was the best friend a man ever had. What would you think of me if I paid my debt to him by taking his wife? Oh, my dear, think what it would mean . . ."
She thought she heard a note of yielding in his voice, and she reached out a trembling hand and put it into his.
"If you go away I shall have nobody left. Oh, I can't bear you to go away!"
He kept the little hand in his very gently. He went on talking to her as if she had been a child. He tried to show her the tragic impossibility of it all—the hopelessness. He spoke to her of the past, of the days when she and Chris has been children together; he pleaded for his friend as eloquently as he might have pleaded for himself, and at last he stopped, struck to the heart by her silence.
She drew her hand away.
"You mean . . . all this means . . . that you don't love me."
Feathers bit his lip till the blood came. Not love her! When every drop of blood in his body was on fire with love for her; when he was holding himself in with a grip of iron from taking her into his arms. He laughed drearily as he answered:
261"If I loved you less I should not try to send you away."
She looked up then, the blood rushing in a crimson wave to her face. He knew he had but to say the word and she would leave everything for him, and the knowledge tore his heart with pride and humility. He knew he had but to hold out his arms and she would come to them as a child might, trusting him, confident of happiness.
And it was because she was such a child that he would not, dare not! She did not understand what she was doing, he kept telling himself. She did not realize into what a pitiful trap she was trying to lead both him and herself. His heart ached with tenderness for her, even while it bled with the wounds of the battle he was fighting.
There were moments when nothing seemed to matter but this girl and her wistful eyes—moments when honor was but a paltry rag, and friendship a thing at which to scoff—moments when he told himself that he had as much right to happiness as anyone in the world, and that it was here for the taking—moments when he would have sold his immortal soul to hold her to his heart and kiss her lips. He felt his resistance breaking down, and in despair he broke out:
"Mrs. Lawless, let me take you home . . . I beg of you—for both our sakes . . ."
She stood quite still, her hands tearing at her gloves, then suddenly she looked up at him with burning eyes.
He could read the thoughts behind those eyes—shame that he was sending her away, and shame because she had come. Feathers stifled a groan as he turned from her.
Then—"I am quite ready," she said, in the faintest whisper.
He stood aside to let her pass, but as she reached him she swayed and would have fallen fainting to the floor but for his arms.
He caught her and held her as if she had been a child Her eyes were closed, and her face and lips quite colorless.
262Feathers put her down in the shabby armchair in which Chris had so often sat and grumble and tried to force water between her lips.
Her hat had fallen off, and there was an ugly bruise on her forehead where last night she had fallen against the window sill. It stood out painfully against the whiteness of her skin.
And suddenly Feathers' strength gave way. He gathered her into his arms as if he could never let her go. He kissed her hair and the ugly bruise that had broken him down. He kissed her hands and the unconscious face that rested against his shabby coat.
For a moment at least she was his—even if in all his life he never saw her again.
Even Samson was robbed of his strength by a woman.
And even as he held her Feathers felt her stir in his arms, and the fluttering of her breath, and he released her a little, watching the color creep back to her face with passionate eyes.
Then her lids lifted, and she saw him bending over her.
She struggled free of him and sat up, pushing the dark hair from her forehead. She tried to remember what had happened, but it only came back to her slowly and with difficulty; then she made a movement to rise to her feet.
"I forgot . . . you asked me to go . . ."
"Marie!" said Feathers brokenly.
She looked up, a wild hope in her eyes, then she fell forward into his arms.
"Oh, do you love me?—say you love me . . ."
"My darling—my beloved . . ."
Everything was forgotten. The world was at a standstill. In his arms she felt that she had come home at last to rest and perfect happiness.
They talked in broken whispers. He would take her away, he said; they would find their happiness together. Between kisses they made their plans.
"And you will never be sorry—and hate me?" she asked painfully.
He turned her face to his.
"Am I to answer that question?" he asked hoarsely, and she shook263her head. "No—I know you never will."
Her head was on his shoulder, his cheek pressed to hers. Presently she raised herself, and put her arms round his neck.
"Are you quite—quite happy?" she whispered. The grip of his arms left her breathless as he answered:
"I never believed in heaven—till now." She rubbed her soft face against the rough tweed of his coat.
"I love your coat," she said. "I love all of you."
Feathers turned his face sharply away, and she put up her hand, forcing him to look at her again.
"Do you really love me?" she asked. She had had so little of love in her life, it was hard to believe that at last she was everything in the world to this man.
He answered her with broken words and kisses. She could feel the passionate beating of his heart beneath her cheek, and she looked up at him with shy eyes. "You always will—always!" she insisted.
"Always—always . . . all my life—and after."
He put his lips to hers in a long kiss; he kissed her hands and slender wrists.
"My love—my love," he said brokenly, and could say no more.
Presently he drew her to her feet
"I must take you home." He looked at her with eyes that were hot and passionate. "Marie, do you despise me? I tried to send you away, but I love you so, I love you so."
"I love you, too," she said.
"My beloved."
She looked up at him.
"It's good-night then?" She lifted her face like a child to kiss him. "Good-night till to-morrow," she said. "And then . . ."
He kissed the words from her lips.
She tidied her hair by the little glass over the mantel-shelf.
"My cheeks burn so," she said shyly. She had never before been kissed as Feathers had kissed her.
Her eyes fell on a photograph of Chris as she turned away. Chris at264his handsomest and happiest, his eyes meeting hers with the old smiling carelessness, and she felt as if a cold hand had clutched her heart.
Until now she had forgotten Chris! She had forgotten everything.
She turned quickly to the man behind her.
"I am quite ready." She was only anxious now to go.
He kissed her again on the dark stairs, very humbly and reverently, and he kept her hand in his as they walked together along the street.
"Is it very late?" she asked once, and he said: "No—only ten; do you think they will have missed you?"
"I locked my door; they will think I am asleep. Greyson will let me in."
He clenched his teeth in the darkness. Already the lying and subterfuge had begun. Where was it going to end? He could feel shame like a mantle on his broad shoulders.
He said good-night to her at the end of the street, following her slowly till she was safe indoors. Then he turned and walked back to his rooms. His head was burning, and he took off his hat to bare it to the cool night air. He did not know if he was more happy than he had ever been in his life before, or unutterably wretched.
The thought of her kisses made his head reel, but the shame of his own pitiable weakness was like a searing flame.
265He had said that he would take her away to-morrow. He was going to cut her off from everything she had held dear, and make her a nameless outcast! He was prepared to bring his idol down to the dust at his feet.
Looking back on the last hour, it seemed impossible he had yielded to such delirium. He had arranged every detail for her, had written them down so she could not forget, and at this time to-morrow . . .
He could not pass that thought. He stood still in the cool night and looked up at the stars.
"God, it can never be!" he told himself despairingly.
He had said that she was as far above him as the stars, and here he was in his madness trying to bring a star down to earth.
It was not of himself he thought at all. He would have gloried in a shame shared with her; but for Marie, little Marie Celeste . . .
He went up to his rooms with dragging steps. There was a light shining through the half-closed door, and he supposed vaguely that he must have left it burning when he went out.
He pushed open the door, and saw Chris sitting in the chair where so short a time ago he had held Marie in his arms.
266