"It is the little rift within the lute.Which, widening ever, make the music mute."
"It is the little rift within the lute.Which, widening ever, make the music mute."
"It is the little rift within the lute.
Which, widening ever, make the music mute."
MARIE had stopped dead, the blood rushing to her face, her hands nervously clutching the brim of the hat she had taken off when she entered.
Chris was almost as embarrassed as she. He colored to the roots of his hair and laughed awkwardly.
"So you've got back, Marie Celeste."
"Yes." And the dreadful pause fell again.
They both knew quite well that Miss Chester was watching them, but for the life of her Marie could not have moved a step towards him.
Then, at last, Chris said, "Well, aren't you going to give me a kiss?"
He was terribly nervous, which partially accounted for the lightness of the words, but Marie read no meaning into them, except the old dreaded indifference, and she turned her face away when he bent towards her, so that his kiss fell on her cheek.
"You look very well," he said, because it was the exact opposite to what he was thinking, and Marie said, "So do you," as she moved over to Miss Chester as if for protection, and sat down on the arm of her chair.
Chris lounged against the mantelshelf and stared up at the ceiling.
"Did you have a good time with Feathers?" he asked, bringing his eyes down to his wife's pale face.
"Yes—I'd never been before. We went up to Wargrave. It was lovely!"
She answered mechanically, in little jerky sentences.
"We had some good times camping out years ago," Chris said. "It's all right if the weather holds."
"Yes," said Marie. She looked at him with brown eyes that were183merely critical and no longer slavishly adoring. He was handsomer than ever, she thought, but the wonderful feeling of pride in him had gone. She could admire him almost with indifference.
"It was queer, you meeting Dorothy," she said, with an effort, and Chris said, "Yes, the world is a small place."
"I told her that I was sure you would be pleased to have her to stay any time she liked to write and fix it up," he added. "She plays a fine game of golf, but I beat her in the end."
"She was always good at sports," Marie said mechanically.
Miss Chester gathered up her knitting and said it was time she went to bed. It was infinitely pathetic to her, because both Chris and Marie immediately protested that it was still quite early, and that surely there was no hurry.
But she persisted, and went off to her room.
There was an awkward silence when she had gone. Chris lit a cigarette and forgot to keep it alight.
"I've brought you a bracelet," he said abruptly. "I hope you'll like it." He took a little box from his pocket, "I got it in Edinburgh coming down—I thought it was rather pretty."
He held the case to her. "Well, don't you want it?"
"Thank you, Chris; of course, I do! Thank you, very much." She opened the snap and gave a little exclamation of pleasure; the bracelet was designed like a wreath of small water lilies, the petals made of platinum, with a diamond in the heart of each flower.
"It's very pretty," she said. "Thank you so much."
But she made no attempt to take it from the case or slip it on her wrist, and with a little impatient movement he took it from her.
"Come here," he said. "Hold out your hand."
She did so, and he snapped the bracelet on to her arm.
"It's very pretty," said Marie, but she did not dare to raise her eyes to her husband's face. The touch of his hand on her arm had communicated to her something of his old magnetism, and she knew184that she was trembling in every limb.
Then, suddenly, before she could guess at his intention, Chris had caught her in his arms, and was kissing her passionately, bringing stinging patches of crimson to her white face, and almost robbing her of breath.
Then he held her at arm's length, his handsome face flushed, and his eyes very bright and triumphant.
"You little iceberg! How dare you give me such a cold reception! I've been looking forward to seeing you and you calmly go out as if I didn't exist . . . Why, what's the matter, Marie Celeste?"
He seemed suddenly aware of the strange expression of her eyes. His hands relaxed their grip, and she twisted herself free.
She had felt his kisses to be an outrage. She knew that he did not love her, and that this sudden burst of passion was worth nothing at all. There was something akin to hatred in her eyes as she raised them to his abashed face.
"Please never dare to do that again," she said in a voice that was all the more intense for its quietness. "I have never bothered you, or asked anything of you—you have gone where you liked and stayed away as long as you pleased—you always can—but in exchange I expect you to allow me the same freedom."
Chris flushed scarlet, but more with surprise than any other emotion. That she should dare so to speak to him was the biggest shock of his life.
For a moment he could find no words, then he broke out savagely: "Someone has been talking! Someone has been setting you against me. I felt that you had changed directly I came into the room. Who is it? Tell me who it is?"
She smiled contemptuously.
"I have hardly seen anyone, except Aunt Madge's friends and your own, and if you think they have any reason to speak against you it is no fault of mine."
He broke in passionately: "It's that young devil, Atkins. I knew he was keen on you; I—Marie——" He caught her by the arm, swinging her185round to him as she would have turned away, his eyes searching her face with bitter suspicion. "I suppose you've forgotten that you are my wife?" he demanded.
She looked up.
"If I have, it isn't for you to be surprised, seeing that you have never once troubled to remember it."
"Marie—what do you mean? I thought . . . I mean—it was your wish . . ." He stammered and broke off; then all at once he turned away with a little harsh laugh.
"What a nice home-coming! I wish to God I'd stayed away."
"You would have done so if you'd wanted to," Marie said quietly. She waited a moment, but Chris did not speak, and she moved towards the door. "I am tired—and I dare say you are. Good-night."
He did not answer, and she went silently away.
Chris stood with his elbow on the mantelshelf, staring down into the empty grate. His pride, if nothing more serious, had received a nasty blow.
He had come home quite happily—having had the time of his life— had looked forward to seeing Marie Celeste—had planned all sorts of things for her amusement—and, incidentally, his own—in the future, and this was the reception he got!
He bit his lip savagely. What was the explanation of it all? She had always been so docile and devoted. It turned his blood to white heat to think of the apathy with which she had received his kisses— kisses that had been meant, too! His face darkened—it was the first time in his life he had ever known the slightest desire to kiss any woman, but she had looked so provokingly pretty in her white frock . . .
Chris swore and lit another cigarette. It would be a very long time before he troubled about her again, he promised himself.
He would have been furiously indignant had anyone told him that it was Marie's indifference that had fired his imagination, and186wakened the desire to rouse in her some show of affection.
It was not exactly pleasant to remember the years that were gone, through which she had so faithfully adored him, and contrast them with the steely feeling of her lips beneath his and the resistance of her slim body in his arms.
Who was responsible for the change? He sought for it in everyone but himself. He was the most suspicious of young Atkins—he was near Marie's age, and had from the first shown a ridiculous interest in her.
It was odd that he never seriously considered Feathers. Feathers was his friend and disliked all women; any attention he had shown to Marie had been out of ordinary courtesy, nothing more.
Well, if this was the attitude she meant to adopt, he would soon let her see that he was quite indifferent. He would go his own way and leave her severely alone. Hang it all, he had brought her home a bracelet, and written whenever there had been anything to write about. He would not have believed it possible for her to be so unreasonable.
He comforted himself with the reflection that in a few days she would come to her senses. All their lives there had been little ups and downs of this kind, and she had never failed in the end to say she was sorry.
She needed a firm hand—he supposed that all women did.
Having argued himself back into a more complacent state of mind, Chris turned out the light and went, up to bed.
His room was next to Marie's, and as he moved about it in his stockinged feet, once or twice he was sure that he heard the sound of stifled sobbing, though whenever he stood still to listen all was quiet again.
Once he even softly tried the handle of the communicating door, but it was locked, and he frowned as he turned away.
She had been so different that Sunday afternoon when he asked her to marry him. It gave him an unpleasant twinge to remember the shy187radiance of her face. He was very sure that she would not have repulsed him then had he taken her in his arms and kissed her.
And his mind went back again to young Atkins with angry persistence. Young cub! If he had been making love to Marie Celeste, he would break his neck for him.
With singular blindness, he believed that the surest way to put things right between himself and Marie, was to ignore the fact that anything was wrong.
When they met he was always smiling and cheerful, but he never asked her to go out with him, never showed the slightest interest in what she did, or how she spent her time.
Miss Chester looked on in troubled perplexity. She loved them both, and did not know with which of them the real fault lay.
She was afraid to ask questions, so matters were just allowed to drift, and whatever battles Marie had to fight, she alone knew of them.
She spent a great deal of her time with Miss Chester; she drove with her and walked with her, and patiently wound wool for the knitting of that interminable shawl.
She had not seen Feathers since the day on the river, though she knew that he was often with Chris, and her heart was sore at the loss of her friend.
She missed him terribly, though their companionship had only lasted a little more than a week, and it hurt her inexpressibly to hear the casual way in which Chris spoke of him—Feathers had been on the ran-dan! Feathers had lost sixty pounds at poker! Feathers had had to be taken home from his club in a taxi.
Miss Chester looked up from her work.
"Chris, what is the ran-dan?" she asked.
Chris laughed, and it was Marie who explained.
"It's a slang word for dissipation. Aunt Madge."
Miss Chester said "Oh!" in a rather shocked voice, adding slowly, "I should not have thought Mr. Dakers a dissipated man."
"Nor I," said Marie.
"You don't know him as well as I do." Chris said. "And, by the way,188I'm golfing with him on Sunday."
Marie looked up.
"To lunch at the Load of Hay?" she asked quietly.
Chris raised amazed eyebrows.
"How ever did you know?"
"I went there with him once. We motored out, and Mrs. Costin gave us lunch."
"You never told me."
"I forgot. We met Mrs. Heriot there."
"Yes; so Feathers said. We're going to fix up a foursome with her."
"Why don't you go, too, Marie?" Miss Chester said. "The drive would do you good. You haven't been out in the car since that day Mr. Dakers took you on the river."
"Yes; why not come along, Marie Celeste?" Chris said.
"I don't think I care about it," Marie answered.
Later on Chris tried again to persuade her.
He had followed her into the dining-room, where she was arranging flowers for the dinner table.
"Why won't you come on Sunday?" he demanded.
"Because I should not find it very amusing. I don't play golf, you know."
Chris fidgeted round the room, jingling some loose coins in his pocket.
"I suppose you'd go if Feathers asked you," he said suddenly—so suddenly that the hot color flew to Marie's face.
"I don't know what you mean," she said steadily.
"I mean that from all accounts you were with him every day before I came home."
"Every day! When he was in Scotland with you for a month!"
"You split straws," he answered irritably. "You know quite well what I mean."
"He took me motoring two or three times. I was glad to go; I had not had a very exciting time."
"You could have had friends to stay with you."
"I asked Dorothy Webber, and she refused."
189Chris colored a little.
"I should not imagine that she is your sort, anyway," he said offhandedly.
"She was my best friend at school."
Chris took up a book and threw it down again.
"Well, will you come on Sunday?"
"No, thank you."
He caught her hand as she passed him, and his voice was hoarse as he asked:
"Marie Celeste, what the devil have I done to make you hate me like this?"
He had not meant to say it. He had intended to maintain his dignity and indifference until it conquered her, but instead she had conquered him, and now there was a passionate desire in his heart to see the old shy look of adoration in her eyes and set the blood fluttering in her pale cheeks.
She gave a little, nervous laugh.
"I don't hate you; don't be absurd, Chris. Let me go; I want to finish these flowers."
"You can go if you will promise to come with me on Sunday."
She looked up.
"Why are you so anxious for my company all at once?"
He frowned.
"It looks so—so rotten, our never being together. Feathers is always getting sly digs in at me about it, and it isn't as if there is any real reason; we have always been good friends, Marie Celeste, until lately."
So it was not that he wanted her. It was just that Feathers had commented on the fact that they were so seldom together, and she knew how Chris hated to be talked about.
She thought of Feathers with a little heartache. It seemed an eternity since she had seen him or felt the strong clasp of his hand, and quite suddenly she made up her mind.
"Very well, I will come."
Chris brightened immediately.
190"Thank you, Marie Celeste. I shan't tell Feathers, it will be a pleasant surprise for him." There was a little sneer in his voice, but Marie took no notice, as she went on arranging the flowers with hands that were not quite steady.
She did not expect to enjoy herself by accompanying Chris. She hated Mrs. Heriot, and she knew she would feel out of everything and unwanted, but—and she knew this had been the determining factor—she would see Feathers.
She wore her prettiest frock on Sunday, and turned a deaf ear to Mrs. Chester's lamentations that it would be ruined.
"The roads are so dusty—wear something that can't be spoilt, my dear child."
"I'll take a cloak," Marie said.
She was conscious of a little feeling of nervousness as she drove away with Chris.
"I'm going to pick Feathers up at his rooms," he said. "He's got rooms in Albany Street, you know."
"Yes, he told me."
Her heart was beating fast as they drew up at the house, and she kept her eyes steadily before her as Chris left the car and rang the door bell violently.
It was opened by Feathers himself, ready to start and with his golf bag slung over his shoulder.
"Ten minutes late, you miserable blighter," he began, then stopped, and his face seemed to tighten as he looked at Marie. "How do you do, Mrs. Lawless?" He went forward and shook hands with her formally. "This is a pleasant surprise," he said quietly.
"Well, don't waste time—get in," Chris struck in bluntly. He took his seat again beside his wife and drove on.
Marie felt strained and nervous. She tried hard to think of something to say. She knew it would be the most natural thing in the world for her to turn and speak to Feathers, but she could not force herself to meet his eyes.
"You're very talkative," Chris said with faint sarcasm, looking191down at her. He glanced over his shoulder at Feathers.
"Was she was quiet as this when you took her out, Feathers?"
Feathers laughed, and made some evasive answer. He tried not to look at Marie, but his eyes turned to her again and again. It seemed a lifetime since they had met, and it filled him with unreasonable jealousy to see her sitting by his friend's side as once she had sat by his, and to know that she belonged to Chris— irrevocably.
It had cost him a tremendous effort to keep away from her. Chris had asked him to the house a dozen times since his return, but he had always managed to avoid going. What was the use? He had had his little hour of life. There was nothing more to hope for.
Mrs. Heriot was out in the road looking for them when they drew up at the inn. A faint shadow crossed her face when she saw Marie, though she was effusive in her welcome.
"And Mrs. Lawless too! How delightful—and how perfectly splendid you are looking, Chris!"
Chris walked on with her to the inn, and for a moment Marie and Feathers were left together.
They both tried to think of something to say, but even ordinary conversation seemed difficult.
It was only when Marie's coat slipped from her arm and they both stooped to recover it, that for an instant their eyes met, and she broke out, as if the words were formed without her will or knowledge, "It is nice to see you again, Mr. Dakers."
Poor Feathers! He flushed to the roots of his rough hair as he answered gruffly:
"You are very kind, Mrs. Lawless," and then, with a desperate attempt to change the subject, "Chris looks well, doesn't he?"
"Yes." She looked at him resentfully, but something in his face soothed the soreness of her heart, for there was a hard unhappiness in his eyes, and a bitter fold to his lips.
192"He is not happy, any more than I am," she thought, and wondered why. She sat next to him at lunch, and Mrs. Heriot and her sister took the whole of the conversation between them. They talked of golf till Marie's head reeled, and Feathers interrupted at last.
"This is not very interesting to you, I am afraid, Mrs. Lawless."
Mrs. Heriot laughed.
"Mrs. Lawless ought to learn to play! Why don't you teach her, Mr. Dakers? She really ought to play."
"I'm afraid I should never be any good at it," Marie answered. "I never could walk far, and it seems to me that you spend all the time walking round and round."
Mrs. Heriot looked at Chris.
"Your wife is a vandal," she told him. "I am surprised that you have not made her into more of a sportswoman."
He would have spoken, but she rattled on. "Did they tell you how they ran into us down here ten days ago? Wasn't it queer? And what do you think that silly Mrs. Costin thought?—why, that Mrs. Lawless was Mr. Dakers' wife! We had such a laugh over it, didn't we?" she appealed to her sister.
Marie had flushed crimson. She looked appealingly across at her husband, and was stunned by the look of anger in his eyes—anger with her, she knew. With a desperate effort she pulled herself together.
"I wonder if people thought any of the women Chris played golf with in Scotland were his wife?" she said.
Mrs. Heriot screamed with laughter.
"That's the first time I've ever seen you hit back," she cried, clapping her hands. "You dear, delightful child."
Feathers pushed back his chair and rose.
"Are we obliged to waste all the day here?" he asked. "I thought the main object was to play golf."
Mrs. Heriot followed him with alacrity, and her sister glanced at Marie.
"What are you going to do?" she asked. "You'll find it very tiring193walking round with us, I'm afraid; the sun is so hot."
"I should like to come." Marie said. "You would like me to, wouldn't you, Chris?"
"My dear child, please yourself, and you will please me."
He tried to make his voice pleasant, but to Marie, who knew him so well, there was an underlying current of angry bitterness.
Was he jealous because of that remark about Feathers, she wondered, and laughed at herself. Chris had never been jealous of anyone or anything in his life.
"I shall come then," she said, and walked out of the room.
But before they had got half-way round the course she was tired out, and had to admit it. There were hardly any trees for shelter, and the sun blazed down relentlessly on the dry grass.
Mrs. Heriot and Chris were playing together and a little ahead, and Marie said to Feathers:
"I'm going to stay here and rest. Please go on, and I will walk back to the clubhouse directly."
They were passing a little group of trees.
"It will be cool in the shade here," she added.
Mrs. Heriot's sister called to them.
"Now then, you two! What are you waiting for?"
"You'd better have my coat to sit on," Feathers said. "Yes, I know it's hot, but there are heavy dews at night and the grass may be damp, and you don't want to take any risks."
He had been playing without his coat, and he handed it to her before he went on to join his partner.
Marie sat down in the shade. Her head ached and she was glad of the rest. She let Feathers' coat lie on her lap listlessly. What did it matter if she caught cold or not? Certainly nobody cared what became of her.
The others had gone on over a rise in the ground and out of sight before Chris noticed that Marie was not with them.
194He called out to Feathers, "Where is Marie?"
"She was tired—she is going back to the clubhouse when she has rested."
Mrs. Heriot laughed as she walked on by Chris' side. "Mr. Dakers is very devoted," she said softly.
"Devoted!" Chris echoed the word blankly. "Devoted to what?" he asked.
She raised her eyes and lowered them again immediately.
"To your wife, I mean," she said.
"To—my—wife!"
She gave a little affected laugh.
"My dear Chris, don't pretend to be surprised when everyone down at the hotel noticed it, even on your honeymoon. Why, Mrs. Lister even asked me which of you was her husband—you or Mr. Dakers. So silly of her, of course, but it shows how people notice things. You know I always think that when a man dislikes women, as Mr. Dakers has always professed to do, in the long run he is bound to be badly caught."
Chris turned on her furiously.
"I think you forget you are speaking of my wife," he said.
She flushed scarlet.
"My dear boy, I meant nothing against her. I know as well as you do that there is nothing in it, on her side at all. I only meant that Mr. Dakers . . ."
"Dakers is my friend. I would rather not discuss him, if you have no objection."
She saw that she had gone too far, and relapsed into silence. They both played badly for the remainder of the game, and lost the match.
They were rather a silent party as they walked back to the clubhouse.
Feathers looked round quickly.
"Mrs. Lawless is not here," he said to Chris.
Chris threw his clubs into a corner.
"No; I'll go and find her," he said, and walked out again into the sunshine.
195
"Better for both that the word should be spoken;Fetters, than heart, if one must be broken."
"Better for both that the word should be spoken;Fetters, than heart, if one must be broken."
"Better for both that the word should be spoken;
Fetters, than heart, if one must be broken."
MARIE sat lost in thought for a long time after the others had gone on. It was very peaceful out there on the links, and to-day there was hardly anybody about.
She wondered why it was that, no matter how hard she tried, she always seemed to find herself left alone and out of everything.
Did the fault lie in her own temperament, or was it merely that she was not physically strong enough to enter into things as other women did?
She knew that she was totally unsuited to be Chris' wife, and, knowing it, wondered why it was she had ever loved him so much; why things so often seemed to happen like that in life, without any apparent reason.
In spite of the subtle change in her feelings towards her husband, she never for a moment blamed him. It was Fate—one could not avoid these things, and she found herself wondering if Feathers would have been kinder and less selfish had he found himself in similar circumstances.
She looked down at his rough tweed coat lying across her lap. It was well worn and very shabby, much more shabby than any coat of her husband's. She smoothed the rough fabric with gentle fingers.
It was odd how blind women were, she thought; odd that an ugly face should so repel them that they never troubled to look beyond it and discover that it is possible for a heart of gold to lie hidden behind blunt features and an ungainly figure.
She had made the same mistake herself. She had adored her husband's196handsome face and proved to her bitter cost that alone it was unsatisfying and offered nothing in exchange for all her love.
What was to become of her? The bond of marriage which she had at first believed she could tolerate because she loved her fellow prisoner was now growing into a fetter, and she felt that she would give anything to be free of it.
She had thought herself miserable when Chris was away in Scotland, and yet she knew she had been happier then than she was now, when his presence in the house was a constant worry to her, and left her with an eternal sense of captivity.
She had tried hard to get used to it, and failed. Surely there must be some other way of escape for them both.
Across the hills she thought she heard somebody calling to her, and she scrambled to her feet with a sense of guilt. Time had passed so quickly—she supposed they had got back to the clubhouse and were looking for her.
Feather's coat had fallen to the grass, and as she stooped to recover it a litter of papers and odds and ends tumbled out of one of the pockets.
Marie went down on her knees to gather them up, smiling at the motley collection. There was a bundle of pipe-cleaners and a half- empty packet of cigarettes, a bone pocket knife, some papers that looked like bills and a sheet torn from a bridge scorer with something folded between it—something that fluttered down to the grass—a dead flower!
The color flew to Marie cheeks as she stooped to pick it up. It was a faded blossom of love-in-a-mist—the flower she herself had given to Feathers the last time they drove this way.
She held it in her band for a moment, her eyes a little misty, then she unfolded the page from the bridge scorer and put it back in its place, and on the inside of the paper, scrawled in Feather's writing, were the words "Marie Celeste," and the date of the day she had given it to him.
Marie sat down on the grass with a little feeling of unreality. Why had he kept it? She shut her eyes and conjured up his kind, ugly197face, and all at once it was as if a burning ray of light penetrated her mind, showing her the thing he had never meant her to see.
He loved her! She could not have explained how it was that she knew or why she was so sure, but it came home to her with a conviction that would not be denied. He loved her.
How blind she had been not to have known all along! A hundred and one little incidents of their friendship came crowding back to her, fraught with a new meaning and significance.
He loved her, and his was a love so well worth having; a love that would make a woman perfectly contented and happy, that would allow of no room for jealous doubts or bitterness, that would be like the clasp of his hand, strong and all enfolding.
She had often thought with faint envy of the unknown woman whom some day he might love, and all the time she was that woman!
The little dried flower had betrayed his secret, and the knowledge of it sent a wave of such happiness through her heart that for an instant she felt as if she were floating on clouds far above all the bitter disappointments and disillusionments that marriage had brought her.
For the first time in her life Chris no longer had a place in her thoughts. She gave herself up to the sweetness of a dream that could never be realized—the wonder of complete happiness.
"Marie," said a voice behind her, and she looked up with dazed eyes to her husband's face.
She had not heard his step over the soft grass, and he was close beside her as with trembling fingers she thrust the papers and odds and ends back into Feathers' coat.
"I was just coming back," she said. She tried desperately to control her voice, but her agitated heartbeats seemed somehow to have got hopelessly mixed up with it. "Mr. Dakers left me his coat, and the things all fell out of the pocket—I hope I've found them all."
She scrambled up.
"Let me take it," Chris said. She made a little involuntary198movement as if to refuse, then gave it to him silently.
That old tweed coat had suddenly grown dear to her—more dear than anything else in the world. She averted her eyes, so she should not see the careless way in which Chris slung it over his arm.
She walked along beside him without speaking, hardly conscious of his presence. Her thoughts were all in the clouds, her pulses were still throbbing.
Somebody loved her—that was the great joy and wonder of the world. She no longer felt herself unwanted. There was one man to whom she was not merely a tie and a nuisance.
Then Chris said abruptly: "It's a pity you came if you're so easily tired."
She started and looked up at him.
"What do you mean? I'm not tired."
All her weariness had forsaken her, driven away by new and happier thoughts.
He laughed grimly.
"Feathers told me that you were tired and had stayed behind to rest."
He searched her face with vague suspicion.
Marie answered rather sharply:
"There seemed no object in my trudging round behind you all; I was not playing and I did not understand the game."
She quickened her pace a little as the clubhouse came in sight. She did not desire his company. She hardly considered him.
They had tea outside in the shade of a tree. Mrs. Heriot was very quiet. She looked rather sullen.
"Have you got a headache?" Marie asked sympathetically. She felt that to-day she could even be nice to this woman.
Mrs. Heriot's sister broke in spitefully: "Headache! Of course she hasn't. She lost the game, that's all, and it always makes her sulky."
Mrs. Heriot flushed.
"We'll take you on again after tea, and beat you," she said. "We199never should have lost, only Chris slacked off."
She shot him an angry glance.
Feathers took no interest in the conversation. He had had one cup of tea, refusing anything to eat, and sat back in his chair, his hat tilted over his yes, smoking hard.
Marie hardly glanced in his direction, but she was painfully conscious of his every movement. Her thoughts all the time were picking out little incidents of their friendship, translating them anew, hugging their meaning to her heart.
She did not know that Chris was watching her closely—would not have cared if she had known. For once she had been lifted above the level of pain and disappointment to which marriage with him had relegated her.
Presently another man strolled up and joined them. He knew both Chris and Mrs. Heriot, it seemed He asked if there was any chance of a foursome.
Chris indicated Feathers.
"My friend here is going to play. Sorry."
Feathers looked up.
"I'm not keen—I'm quite happy where I am. Mrs. Lawless and I will keep one another company. Shall we?" he asked, glancing at her.
Marie nodded. Her heart was racing, and she was afraid that every one would see her agitation. Chris laughed.
"I dare say you'll be able to amuse one another." he said, and presently Marie was left with Feathers.
He sat up then with some show of energy.
"Nice place here, isn't it?"
"Yes—very."
"I wish you would play golf, Mrs. Lawless."
"Who do you suppose would teach me? I don't know the first thing about it."
"I shall be delighted to offer myself for the post, if Chris has no objection."
Her brown eyes shone. "Why should he? He would not care to teach me himself."
200It seemed as if she saw Feathers now for the first time. He was no longer Chris' friend, the man she had hated for having brought her castle tottering earthwards. He was no longer even the kind friend he had been to her—he was the man who loved her.
Her thoughts seemed to travel so fast ahead, weaving all sorts of impossible day-dreams for the future.
"I'll speak to him about it," Feathers said briefly.
His kind eyes dwelt on her face.
"I thought you said you were tired," he said, suddenly. "I don't think I have ever seen you look better in your life."
She laughed and flushed.
"Haven't you?" She looked away from him across the green slope up which Chris and the others were disappearing.
"You ought to have played," she said irrelevantly. "Why didn't you? I am sure you would have enjoyed it better than sitting here."
She asked the question intentionally, hoping with almost childish eagerness that he would say he preferred to be where he was. She knew it would be only the polite thing to say, although in her heart she would understand that in this instance he was sincere.
But Feathers did not say it. He was filling his pipe with tobacco, ramming it down into the bowl with careful precision.
"I don't care for mixed games," he said. "Mrs. Heriot always loses her temper so shockingly."
"Does she?" She leaned her chin in her hand and looked at him with rather wistful eyes. She wondered what he would say if she told him about that little dead flower.
He broke into her thoughts.
"Has Chris told you that I am leaving England?"
The words gave her a terrible shock; the color drained away from her face, leaving her eyes very piteous against its pallor.
"Leaving—England!" she echoed the words in a whisper.
201"Yes," he went on, ramming tobacco into his pipe, hardly conscious of what he was doing.
"You remember that I told you I always went with the tide. Well, three weeks ago it washed me up in London, and now it's washing me off again. I'm going to Italy."
"Oh—what for?" She asked the question without expression.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know; nothing in particular. I've been before, of course. I'm just going to take a stick and a knapsack, and walk around the country, sleep anywhere—eat anything—and enjoy myself."
"I wish I could come with you." The words broke from her with a little cry, and Feathers raised his eyes at last.
He saw the pallor of her face and the distress in her eyes, and his heart began to race, but he only said very quietly: "You'd soon get tired of living my Bohemian life. When you go to Italy Chris will take you, and you must do the thing properly."
She seemed hardly to hear. She went on passionately: "It seems as if I must lose all my friends. It isn't fair! First there was Mr. Atkins, and now . . ."
"Atkins!" said Feathers sharply.
"Yes." She laughed recklessly. "He went away because . . . oh, I suppose I ought not to tell you, really, but I know you think that nobody cares for me—because I'm so uninteresting, but he did—he was only a boy, but he was really fond of me—and so . . . so I sent him away! And now you are going, too! . . . I wish I could die!" said Marie Celeste, in a tragic whisper.
There was a long silence. Feathers' big hands hung limply between his knees, his fingers still clutching at his pipe, then he said slowly, as if he were carefully choosing his words:
"If young Atkins could be man enough to—go—what would you think of me—if I stayed?"
His voice was quite quiet, though a little hoarse, but its very steadiness seemed both to conceal and reveal more than an outburst202of passion would have done, and Marie gave a little stifled cry.
And Feathers went on, speaking in the same quiet voice:
"You see, Mrs. Lawless, I know the world, and you do not! I know what a mountain of regrets one lays up for the future if—if one forgets other things . . . Chris is a good fellow—until he married you I thought him the best chap in the world—I think so still, except that I cannot forgive him for having failed to make you happy; but . . . but my failure will be worse than his, if I—if I try to deceive myself with the belief that I can . . . can give you what he cannot."
"I have always been happy with you," said Marie in a whisper.
Her cheeks were like fire, and she felt that she could never look him in the face again, and yet her whole desire was to keep him with her—to prevent him from walking out of her life, as she knew he intended doing.
She felt very much as she had done that morning when he saved her from drowning—a terrible feeling of hopelessness and despair, until the moment when the grip of his strong hands caught her.
He had saved her life then. Was he going to let her drown now in the depths of her own misery?
Once he went away it would be the end of everything, she knew. He would never come back any more, and for the rest of her life she would have to go on trying to make the best of things, trying to get used to having a bachelor husband.
She knew that the silence had lasted for a long time before Feathers said gently: "There are some people coming, Mrs. Lawless!"
She looked up then with fiery eyes.
"Well, you haven't gone yet," she said defiantly. "Ever so many things may happen before you do."
The day had been a failure, and the drive home was a silent one. Marie sat beside Chris as she had done before, and her eyes were very bright as she looked steadily ahead of her down the road.
203It was like looking into the future, she thought, as London drew nearer and nearer, and the many lights were symbolical of the happiness that lay in wait for her.
She refused to believe that Feathers really would go away. Her whole heart and soul were bent on keeping him near her.
She was very young, or she would have seen the impossibility of the whole thing as he did. Reaction was the power driving her. She who had hitherto had nothing found herself all at once with full hands, and she clasped her treasure to her desperately.
Chris put her down at the house and drove around to the garage with Feathers; he was a long time gone—and when he came back he was alone.
Marie peeped over the banisters when she heard his voice in the hall below, and a faint chill touched her heart when she saw that Feathers had not come in with him. She felt like a disappointed child as she went back to her room.
She had changed her frock to please Feathers. There was somebody at last who cared how she looked. Though he would have said nothing, perhaps would hardly have glanced her way, she would have known that he liked to see her look pretty.
Now that he was not coming she had lost all interest. Her face was listless as she crossed the landing to go downstairs.
As she did so, the door of Chris' bedroom opened, and he called to her:
"I want you, Marie Celeste."
Marie hesitated.
"It's nearly dinner-time; what do you want?"
"I want to speak to you."
One of the servants was coming upstairs, and more for appearance sake than anything Marie obeyed.
"Yes." She stood in the doorway waiting.
Chris had made no attempt to change for dinner, though he had been in some time. He stretched a hand past her as she stood there and204shut the door. Then he said abruptly:
"I'm going away to-morrow, Marie. I'm sick of London." He did not look at her as he spoke, but he heard the quick breath she drew, and knew it was one of relief.
His voice was hard as he went on, "I want you to come with me."
"No." She was hardly conscious of having spoken the word till she saw the sudden change in his face, but he kept himself under admirable control.
"Why not?" he asked.
She looked away from him.
"I would rather stay here—that is all."
"But I wish you to come."
She looked up.
"You have never wanted me to go anywhere with you before."
"I know—perhaps because I was a damned fool. Anyway, we won't argue. You will come with me tomorrow."
"No, Chris, I shall not."
There was a tragic silence.
"Why not?" Chris asked again hoarsely.
Her lips trembled, but she answered quite gently: "Because I would rather stay here—with Aunt Madge."
She saw the hot blood leap to his face, and quite suddenly he broke out in blind passion.
"With Feathers, you mean! Speak the truth and admit it! You want to stay here with him and knock about with him, as you did when I was in Scotland I I'm not such a blind fool as you think! It's Feathers who has changed you so! Do you think I can't see the difference in you when you're with him and when you're with me? Do you think other people can't see it, too? You heard what that woman, Mrs. Heriot, said at lunch to-day . . ."
Marie's lip curled contemptuously, though her heart was racing and she was as white as a ghost.
"Mrs. Heriot!" she echoed disdainfully.
205"And everyone else, too!" he raved on. "It's got to stop, I tell you. You're coming away with me to-morrow. Do you think I want my wife talked about by a lot of scandalmongering women? . . ." He broke off breathlessly, but Marie neither spoke nor raised her eyes, and the coldness of her averted face cut him to the heart. He caught her by the shoulders roughly.
"You used to love me, Marie Celeste," he said brokenly.
"Did I?" The brown eyes met his now. "You never loved me," she said, very quietly.
He broke out again into fresh anger. He raged up and down the room, hardly knowing what he was doing. He hated himself for his blindness, hated her more because she could stand there so unmoved.
"You'll come away with me to-morrow," he said hoarsely. "I insist— you're my wife!"
"Yes—unfortunately," she said, white-lipped.
He stared at her with hot eyes.
"Is that how you feel about it? You hate me as much as that? I know I haven't treated you as well as I might have done—I know I'm a selfish chap—but you knew that when you married me—you've always known it."
She gave a little weary sigh.
"What does it matter? I'm not complaining; you've always been free."
"I don't want to be free; you're my wife. Marie Celeste, for God's sake . . ." She put up her hand.
"Oh, Chris—please."
It hurt inexpressibly to hear him pleading to her—he who had never done such a thing in his life—and yet . . . "I don't care! I don't care at all!" she was saying over and over again in her heart.
He took her hand.
"Can't we start again? I'll do my very best—I swear I will. I know you're too good for me—you ways have been. I don't deserve that you should ever have married me, but it's not too late, Marie Celeste. Come away with me, and I'll show you that I can treat you206decently when I like."
Someone knocked at the door. "Please, sir. Miss Chester sent me to say that dinner was ready half an hour ago."
Marie drew her hand away quickly. The interruption was very welcome.
"Let me go—please! Aunt Madge will think it so strange."
"In a moment, Marie. Will you come with me to-morrow? We'll go where you like; I'll do anything in the world you wish. . ."
She shook her head.
"I don't know; I can't decide now. Ill think it over."
"When will you tell me?"
"I don't know; to-morrow—yes, to-morrow morning."
She made the terms to escape from him and went to her room and stood for a moment with her hands hard pressed over her eyes.
The storm had come so suddenly. She wondered what had been responsible for it. Had Mrs. Heriot said anything more—or could it have been Feathers himself? She could hardly force herself to go down to dinner, as she was shaken to the depths of her soul.
Chris talked ceaselessly during dinner. He drank a good deal of wine, and his face grew flushed and his eyes excited.
"You're not going out again, surely?" Miss Chester asked him when afterwards he came to the drawing-room for a moment in his overcoat.
"I am—just for a stroll; it's so hot indoors." He looked at Marie. "Will you come?" he asked jerkily.
"I'd rather not; I'm tired—I think I'll stay with Aunt Madge."
But as soon as he had gone she went up to her room and sat down in the darkness. A lifetime seemed to have been crowded into this one day. She felt that she had aged years since they started out in the morning.
207Feathers loved her! The knowledge stood out like a beacon light in the darkness. She knew what her life would be with him—happiness and contentment, and she did so long for happiness.
He was a good man, and a strong man; all her empty heart seemed to stretch out to him in passionate gratitude and longing.
But she was married . . . She felt for her wedding ring in the darkness and held it fast.
She had married the man she loved, believing that he loved her. Well, he did not! She was his wife in name only! Would there be any great harm if she snapped the frail tie between them?
She sat there for a long, long time, tortured with doubts and indecision. What ought she to do?
Miss Chester came up presently to say good-night. She knew quite well that there had been some trouble between Chris and Marie, but she asked no questions.
"Sleep well, dearie," she said as she went away, and Marie smiled bitterly. How could anyone sleep well, torn as she was by such miserable indecision?
Did she love Feathers? She could not be sure. That she loved him as a dear friend she knew; that she was always happy with him she also knew; but there was none of the romance and wonder in it that had thrilled her when Chris asked her to marry him.
She wrung her hands in the darkness.
"I don't know—oh, I don't know!"
Chris cared nothing for her. His outburst this evening had been partly anger and partly outraged pride. His was a dog-in-the-manger affection; he did not want her himself, and yet he would allow nobody else to have her.
She got up presently and unlocked the door between their rooms, groping along the wall for the switch.
She looked round her husband's room with unhappy eyes, and something of the old tenderness flowed back into her heart.
She had loved him for so long, her life and his were so irrevocably208bound up together. How could she take this step that would sever the tie once and for all?
She wandered round the room aimlessly, picking up little things of his, looking at them, and putting them down again, and all the time the same unanswerable questions were going on in her mind.
If she stayed with him what was there for her in the future? She could only see more disillusionment and tears and sorrow, and if she went with Feathers . . . Marie laughed brokenly, the tears running down her cheeks. How could she go with Feathers when he had not asked her? And suddenly she remembered the look in his eyes as he said good-night to her an hour or two ago.
She had tried to believe that it was not farewell and renunciation that she had read in them, but she had known that it was. He was stronger than she—his heart might ache, but he would not dishonor his friend. He would walk away with a smile on his lips, and nobody would ever know what he suffered.
If she tried to break down his strength she was not worthy of his love, and suddenly Marie Celeste hid her face in her hands and broke into bitter crying, which yet brought tears of healing to her heart. She would be worthy of him—she would not be a coward, snatching greedily at the one hope of happiness offered to her; she would go on, trying to be brave, trying to make the best of things.
She went back to her room, leaving the door ajar so that she could hear when Chris came in. He was very late—she heard the clock strike twelve, and then half-past, but still he did not come; and then—at twenty minutes past one she heard a taxi drive up to the door and voices on the path outside.
She pulled aside the blind and peered out, but it was too dark to distinguish anything. Then the cab drove away, and she heard the front door opening below and the sound of steps in the hall.
She crept out oh to the landing and looked over the banisters. She could see Chris, his hat pushed to the back of his head and the top209of a cigar stuck jauntily into the corner of his mouth, laughing immoderately, and swaying a little on his heels, as he resisted the other man's attempt to help him off with his coat.
Marie had never seen anyone the worse for drink in her life. Miss Chester had always brought her up in the belief that no gentleman ever took too much to drink. She would have been horrified if anyone had told her that most men of her acquaintance had, at one time or another, been helped home to bed. She stood clutching at the banisters, her face white with horror.
She did not know the man who was with Chris, so she hardly glanced at him. Her feet seemed glued to the spot and her eyes never left her husband's face.
And this was the man of whom she had a moment ago cherished such tender thoughts of forgiveness; this was the man for whose sake she had made up her mind to forego her happiness.
Her overstrained nerves exaggerated the whole thing painfully. She fled back to her room and locked and bolted the door.
She heard Chris come upstairs and heard him walking unsteadily about the room, and after a long time she heard him click out the light. Everything was silent then, but Marie Celeste lay awake till dawn, her brown eyes wide with horror.
She had kept her idol on its pedestal with difficulty for some time now, but to-night it had fallen . . .
Chris was down late for breakfast the next morning; but he looked quite fresh and brisk as she met him in the hall.
"You had better ring for more coffee," she said. "I am afraid it is cold; you are late."
"I know; I was late home last night."
She did not say that she had heard and seen him and went on without answering. Presently he sought her out. His blue eyes were anxious, and he looked very boyish and nervous.
"Well, Marie, what is it to be?"
210Marie was writing a letter in the drawing-room and she laid the pen down and turned in her chair.
Perhaps he read the answer in her face, for he took a quick protesting step forward. "Marie—you're not . . ."
She stood up, her hand on the chair between them.
"I've been thinking it over, Chris, and—and I can't go away with you to-day."
Their eyes met steadily for a moment, and she saw his lips quiver as if she had hurt him, but Chris knew how to take a hard blow. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Very well—I know I've only myself to blame."
He turned to the door, but she called him back.
"There's something else, Chris."
"Well?"
But now she could not meet his eyes, and her voice was almost a whisper as she said:
"I wanted to ask you—it's . . . it's so hopeless going on like this. You are not any more happy than I am . . . Couldn't we—isn't there some way of . . . of both of us getting our freedom again?"
She did not dare to look at him as she spoke. Her heart was beating furiously; there was a little hammering pulse in her throat that almost choked her. Then Chris covered the distance between them in a single stride and took her roughly by the shoulders.
"How dare you—how dare you say such a thing to me?" he said hoarsely. "Good God! don't you think I've got any—any feeling? Do you think I'm such a blackguard as to—to listen to such a thing for one moment? You must be mad!"
"I'm not—and you know I'm not. I'm tired—sick to death of living like this." Her voice rose excitedly. "Why, we may have to be together for years and years—twenty years, if we don't try and get free!" Her brown eyes were feverish. "You hate it as much as I do. Oh, surely it can be arranged if we try very hard!"
Chris was as white as death. This was the worst shock he had ever had in his life, and, coming from Marie Celeste of all people, it left him stunned and speechless.
Until his return from Scotland he had been quite happy and211contented, but since that first evening when she had so coldly repulsed him there had been a restlessness in his heart, a miserable sort of feeling that he could settle to nothing—a consciousness that things were all wrong and that he had not the power to put them right.
And the discovery that he had only himself to thank for it all did not help him in the least. In his blindness he tried every way but the right way to get back to his old contentment.
Marie was in love with love, not with Feathers, but, being a man, Chris could not tell this. He only saw the thing that lay immediately beneath his notice, and it told him that his wife had given her love to his friend.
He had no more idea than the dead what was going to happen, but, with his bulldog obstinacy, he knew he had no intention of allowing her to go free.
He cared nothing for scandal, though he pretended to. He hardly considered Feathers at all in the case. The one thing that racked him was the knowledge that he was in danger of losing something that had all at once become very precious.
His lips twitched badly when he tried to speak. He felt as if he were fighting in the dark—as if there were some unseen foe pitting its strength against him that would not come out into honest daylight.
Marie stood twisting her handkerchief childishly, her head downbent, and yet she had never looked less of a child in his eyes.
The little girl he had known all his life seemed suddenly to have disappeared, leaving in her place a woman who looked at him with the eyes of Marie Celeste, but without the shy admiration to which he had grown so accustomed that he never thought about it at all.
A great longing came to him to take her into his arms and tell her that she was talking nonsense, to kiss the strained look away from her face and the severe line of her pretty mouth into smiles, to tell her that they were going to begin all over again and be happy— that the last weeks had been just a bad dream from which he had212awakened, but his pride and some new dignity about her prevented him.
This was not the Marie Celeste he had known. She had escaped him while he had been looking away from her for his happiness.
After a moment he asked stiffly:
"Supposing—supposing it were possible—to do as you say—for each to get our freedom again . . . what would you do?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know!"
Miss Chester came to the door.
"Marie, I've been looking everywhere for you—I've lost one of my knitting needles."
Marie flew to find it for her. She avoided Chris for the rest of the morning for she was afraid of him now. Although she had deliberately precipitated matters, she awaited the issue with dread.
Chris did not come in to lunch, and, though once during the afternoon Marie heard his voice in the house, he did not seek her out, and at dinner time he was absent again.
Though nothing was said. Miss Chester could feel the tension in the air, and late that night she asked hesitatingly: "Is anything the matter, Marie?"
"Nothing—no, auntie, of course not."
But Miss Chester was not deceived, and her mind was racked with anxiety.
Marie felt as if she were waiting for something great to happen, though what it was she did not know. Every knock or ring of the bell made her pulses race.
That Chris was deliberately avoiding her she knew, and she wondered how long it would be before the breaking point came. She longed to get it over.
Once she caught sight of herself in the glass and was startled by her pallor and the strained look in her eyes. A frightened look it was, she thought, and she passed her hands across them as if to brush it out.
She stayed downstairs till Chris came in that night. She stood just outside the drawing-room door, her heart beating apprehensively.213Supposing he was the worse for drink, as he had been last night? But she need not have been afraid. Chris was sober enough. He had been walking the streets for hours, beating against the invisible bars that had so suddenly appeared in his life.
When he saw his wife his face hardened.
"You ought to have gone to bed hours ago," he said.
"I waited for you; I want to speak to you; I waited last night, too," she added deliberately.
He did not look at all ashamed, only laughed rather defiantly.
"And I was the worse for drink, eh? I suppose the elevating fact did not do my cause any good."
She did not answer, wondering what he would say if she told him what determinating factor against him that glimpse over the banisters had been.
He leaned against the mantelpiece and looked at her.
"Well, I'm stone sober to-night, anyway," he said morosely.
There was a little silence.
"What do you want to see me about?" he asked. "Only the same old thing, I suppose—the desire to be free."
He took a sudden step towards her, tilting her downbent face backwards by her chin.
"Why did you marry me, if you hate me so?"
She closed her eyes to hide their pain.
"I was—was fond of you—I thought it would be all right—I thought you were fond of me."
"I have always been fond of you."
She looked up quickly.
"You would never have married me if it hadn't been for the money."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"It's not in me to love any woman a great deal," he said evasively. "I've never been a woman's man, you know that. There was never anything in that Mrs. Heriot affair, though I know you don't believe me."
He stood back from her, his hands thrust into his pockets.
214"Supposing we could get a divorce—separation—whatever you like to call it, how much better off are you going to be?" he asked after a moment "What's the good of washing dirty linen for the amusement of the public?"
The burning color rushed to her face. She had lived so much in the clouds since the moment when she found that little dead flower in Feathers' coat pocket that Chris' blunt words sounded horribly brutal. Chris, watching her narrowly, saw the sudden quivering of her lips, and his heart smote him.
"Go to bed, Marie Celeste," he said more gently. "It's no use worrying about things to-night."
He cared so little. The thought stung her afresh as she turned away. He would have been quite content to go on in the old, semi- detached fashion, with not a thought for her.
Chris listened to her dragging steps as she went up the stairs. They sounded as if they were already walking away out of his life, he thought, with a little feeling of superstition, and he wondered if the day would ever come when she would cease to belong to him.
He could not imagine his life without Marie Celeste. She had always been there, a willing little figure in the background of things.
All his boyhood and early manhood were studded with pictures in which she had played a part.
She had seemed happy enough when they were first married, or so it had appeared to his blindness. What had happened since to bring about such a change?
He could not believe it was altogether Feathers. He did not believe that his friend was the type of man to seriously interest Marie. Feathers never took women seriously.
He looked at his watch—not yet half-past eleven.
He had not seen Feathers since they parted at the door on Sunday evening, and with sudden impulse he took his hat and went off to Albany Street.
There was a light in one of the windows of Feathers' rooms, and Chris threw up a stone.
215The window was open, and almost immediately Feathers' rough head appeared against the light.
"Hullo! That you, Chris?"
"Yes; can I come up?"
"Of course."
They met on the stairs.