"Oh heart that neither beats nor heaves,In that one darkness lying still.What now for thee my love's great will?Or the fine web the sunshine weaves?"C. D. Rossetti
"Oh heart that neither beats nor heaves,In that one darkness lying still.What now for thee my love's great will?Or the fine web the sunshine weaves?"C. D. Rossetti
"Oh heart that neither beats nor heaves,
In that one darkness lying still.
What now for thee my love's great will?
Or the fine web the sunshine weaves?"
C. D. Rossetti
MARIE had never seen death, but there was no fear in her heart as she softly closed the door behind her, and went forward into the room.
The cotton blind at the window fitted badly, and gleams of sunlight found their way through on either side of it, seeming to concentrate in a strangely deliberate manner about the silent figure of the man who had given his life for her.
A white sheet covered him, but Marie's hand did not tremble as she gently drew it down and looked at the marble whiteness of Feathers' ugly face.
Death had been kind to him. It had wiped out the hard lines, and left him with a peculiarly noble, and boyish look. But even the waters of the treacherous river had been unable to smooth his rough hair, and it stood up over his head with just the same obstinate untidiness that she had always known, and with sudden impulse she laid her hand on it, smoothing it gently, as a mother might smooth the hair of a sleeping child.
Were there two ways of loving, she was asking herself desperately? and was it possible to love two men at the same time, or had she indeed ceased to love Chris?
Feathers had given her her first man's kiss of passion. In his arms she had first known complete happiness, and it seemed a crude impossibility that she would never hear his voice again, that his eyes would never open any more to look at her with their faithful adoration.
And it came home to her with bitter truth as she stood there, that295in her selfishness, and self absorption, she must have caused him great suffering.
Last night, right from the first moment of their meeting at the inn, he had thought only of her, never once of himself—even down to the very end, when wounded to death, he had given his last ounce of strength to save her, spent his last breath on words of cheer and encouragement.
And what had she given him in return?—little enough it seemed now, as she looked at his marble face about which the autumn sunshine flickered.
He had loved her so completely, and now she would never be able to tell him how much she honored him, loved him!
For Marie Celeste knew that she did love him! Not perhaps with romantic passion with which she had once loved Chris; not perhaps as she would some day love Chris again—but with the wonderful, trusting, imperishable love which one must feel for a friend who has never failed.
Her heart ached for the sound of his voice—to hear him say that he understood and forgave. His last kiss on the dark road that night would always be one of her most cherished memories she knew, as she stood there, her eyes fixed on his face, while her heart made its last farewell.
He had told her to go back to Chris—she knew that it had been his earnest wish, and she knew too, that some day she would obey.
But not yet! oh not yet! She must have a little time first to herself to get back her lost courage, and to forget the sweetness of a lost dream.
She took the little sprig of white heather which he had sent her from Scotland—so long ago it seemed—and which she had always worn about her neck, and laid it between his folded hands. Then she kissed him as so short a time ago he had kissed her—his hands, and his closed eyes, his rough coarse hair, and the lips that felt like marble beneath her own.
She was sobbing now—cruel sobbing that brought with it no relief296of tears as she whispered a last good-bye and over and over again "God bless you—God bless you—always—always."
And it seemed to her distraught imagination that now there was a little smile of contentment shadowing Feathers' cold lips, where before no smile had been, and something seemed to snap on her heart and brain as she cried his name in anguish through the silent room.
"Feathers!—Feathers!"
And the woman who kept the inn came running swiftly at the sound of a fall, and found Marie Celeste lying senseless, her arms flung out towards the man who, for the first time in his life, could not hear or answer when she called to him.
297
"And justice stood at the proud man's side,'Whose is the fault? Accuse!' it cried;And the proud man answered in humbled tone,'I cannot accuse—the fault is mine own.'"
"And justice stood at the proud man's side,'Whose is the fault? Accuse!' it cried;And the proud man answered in humbled tone,'I cannot accuse—the fault is mine own.'"
"And justice stood at the proud man's side,
'Whose is the fault? Accuse!' it cried;
And the proud man answered in humbled tone,
'I cannot accuse—the fault is mine own.'"
CHRIS got back to Miss Chester's deserted Town house to find young Atkins on the doorstep, staring with horrified eyes at the drawn blinds.
He had heard of the accident at Somerton it appeared, and had rushed off to assure himself that Marie was safe. He was shocked to hear of Miss Chester's death, and his young face was white and sobered as he followed Chris into the silent house.
He was very boyish and sincere in his sympathy, and though Chris had never particularly cared for him, he was glad of his sympathy.
"I say, it's awful, you know!" young Atkins said aghast. "Miss Chester, and poor old Feathers! I say, what a shocking thing! And what a marvelous escape Mrs. Lawless must have had."
"Feathers saved her," said Chris, and impetuously he began to pour out something of his present difficulties, of how impossible it was to bring Marie to London.
"I've got a sister—" young Atkins made the suggestion eagerly. "She lives close to Somerton, and she's a nurse, but she's not doing anything just now. I'll run down and explain to her. I've got a motor-bike. She'd love to have Mrs. Lawless, if you'd care for her to go."
Chris was only too glad of the suggestion.
"It's most awfully good of you," he said gratefully. "You see how impossible it is for me to bring her here?"
"Of course! Well, this will be all right, you see; I'll run down there straight away." He turned at the door in his impetuous fashion. "I say—" he said again, "Poor old Feathers! Isn't it awful."
298Chris could not answer, and young Atkins went on blunderingly: "I say, is it true what they say in the papers, that when they found him—someone told me—both his legs were broken? It must have been when the car turned over . . . my God, what an awful thing! I can't imagine how he kept up as he did . . . oh, all right, I'm going."
He went off hurriedly, and Chris put his head down on his arms and cried like a child.
He blamed himself mercilessly, and forgave his friend everything, if indeed there had ever been anything to forgive. He felt that he had grown into an old man during those hours of agony last night when he waited outside the closed door of his wife's room.
She was living, but she cared nothing for him, and he could almost find it in his heart to envy Feathers who, although he was dead, had once known the happiness of her love.
He had stood beside his friend that morning, and held the hand he had refused, his heart almost breaking with grief and remorse.
He could trace everything back to his own selfishness and neglect. But for him, this tragedy would never have happened.
No wonder Marie had loved Feathers—the most unselfish, the kindest hearted . . . he felt his own unworthiness keenly.
He made what arrangements he could in Town and hurried back to Somerton, and the woman who kept the inn told him how she had found Marie unconscious in the room downstairs.
"Unconscious for an hour she was," she said distressed. "I put her to bed and sent for the doctor. I don't know how she came down without my hearing her. I wouldn't have had it happen for the world."
Chris' face whitened. Although dead, it seemed to him that in the future Feathers would stand more effectually between him and his happiness than ever he had done in life.
299A fresh punishment upon which he had not yet reckoned.
He was not allowed to see Marie that night, and it was two days before the doctor would consent to her being moved.
She looked so white and frail that Chris' heart sank as he carried her down to the car. She was like a child in his arms, and it hurt him intolerably to see how resolutely her eyes avoided him.
She never spoke during the short drive to the village where young Atkins' sister lived. She asked no questions, seemed not to care what was to become of her.
"If you would rather I stayed with you, of course, I will," Chris said hoarsely, when he bade her good-bye that evening. He longed with all his soul for her to ask him to stay, but she only shook her head.
She seemed quite happy to be left with Millicent Atkins, and Chris felt sure she would be safe with her and well cared for.
"I will come and see you every day, Marie Celeste," Chris said again, and she said: "Yes, thank you," but he had the curious impression all the time that she hardly heard or understood what he was saying.
It was only just as he was going and had impulsively raised her hand to his lips to kiss it that a little look almost of horror crossed her white face.
"No—no—please!" she said.
She tore her hand from him and ran from the room.
"She will be better soon," Millicent assured Chris, seeing the pain in his eyes as he bade her good-bye, "If you take my advice, Mr. Lawless, you will leave her alone for a day or two. She has had a terrible shock, you know." She was a kind-faced girl, with steady, capable eyes that had seen a great deal more than she had been told.
Chris would not listen. He must come down the following day, he said; he could not rest if he stayed away.
He felt desperate as he drove back to London. What was the good of living? There was nothing in the future for him.
300He made up his mind that he would sell the London house and everything in it as soon as possible, and take Marie away and make a fresh start; but . . . would she go with him? Somehow he did not think that she would.
He had left it to Millicent Atkins to break the news of Miss Chester's death to her, and it was with an unhappy heart that he went down to the cottage the following afternoon.
Millicent came to him in the garden, as she saw him drive up. Her eyes were compassionate.
"I am so sorry, Mr. Lawless, but she will not see you. Somehow, I felt sure this would happen, and that was why I asked you to stay away for a little while. Oh, don't look like that," she added, as Chris turned his face away.
"You must just humor her a little," she went on gently. "Things will come all right in the end, I am sure . . ." She hesitated, then: "She asked me to give you this letter," she added.
Chris took it without a word. He drove away again along the dusty, sunny road by which he had come, with here and there a glimpse of the river sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight between its green banks.
There was nothing cruel about it to-day, he thought. It was all smiling and seductive, and he shivered as he remembered the feel of the wet, slimy reeds, and realized what his friend's death must have been in the mist and darkness.
He did not open Marie's letter till he got back home, and he read it in the deserted drawing-room where she and Miss Chester had so often sat together. The house felt like a tomb now, he thought wretchedly. He wished never to see it again.
Marie's letter was very short:
"Please do not try to see me. I can't bear it. I want time to think things over and decide what to do. I will send for you if ever I want you.—Marie Celeste."
That was all; but it was like a death warrant to him.
If ever she wanted him! His heart told him that she would never301want him again! He had had his chance and thrown it away.
During the days that followed, in his distress and loneliness, Chris fell back a great deal upon young Atkins.
After Miss Chester's funeral and the closing of the house it was Chris' suggestion that he and Atkins should go into rooms together. Chris hated the idea of his own company, and he knew that as long as he lived he would never find another friend to take Feathers' place.
He had suffered acutely over his friend's tragic death; he could not bear to speak of him. He even put away his golf sticks because they were such a vivid reminder of the happy days they had spent together.
"I never want to play the beastly game again!" he told a man who questioned him about it in the club one night.
He was at a terribly loose end in those days and young Atkins was just the right sort of companion for him—always cheery and bright and full of the optimism of youth.
He had quarreled badly with his father and had been cut off with the proverbial shilling.
"Not that it matters," he said philosophically. "I've got about two hundred a year the mater left me, and I reckon I can always knock up another two hundred."
He had decided to go to America, but for Chris' sake he put it off indefinitely. He felt that it was doing something for Marie if he helped her husband through the dark days before him. Though he did not know anything like the whole of the story, he was shrewd enough to piece together the few little bits which Chris sometimes let drop.
He was intensely sorry for them both and would have given a great deal to have helped put things right. Once, unknown to Chris, he hired a motor-bike and went down to see Marie and his sister.
He found them in the garden, pacing together up and down the little lawn.
It was autumn then, and the bosom of the river was covered with brown and yellow leaves from the trees on its banks. There was an302acrid smell in the air, too, which always comes with the end of summer.
He thought Marie was pleased to see him—certainly the color deepened a little in her pale face when she first saw him.
But she had changed! Oh, how she had changed, he thought sadly. There was not much left of the little girl who had first of all attracted his boyish fancy.
He talked of everything under the sun, rattling on in his usual haphazard manner, and she listened gravely, sometimes smiling, but hardly speaking.
He did not mention Chris or tell her that they were sharing rooms— much more expensive rooms than he could possibly have afforded alone; but Chris had insisted on paying the difference.
It was just as he was going, and Millicent had left them together for a little while, that Marie said suddenly:
"Tommy—do you know that it's a month to-day since—Mr. Dakers died?"
He started and flushed in confusion.
"Is it? A month! How the time flies, doesn't it?"
"Yes." She was looking out across the open country at the back of the little house, and he thought he had never before seen such sadness in anyone's face.
He laid a hand on hers in clumsy comfort.
"It was a fine sort of death, anyway," he said in desperation. "Just the sort of death a man like Feathers would have chosen . . . Marie—he saved your life twice."
He realized too late that he had spoken tactlessly, but to his surprise she only smiled—a wise little smile which he could not fathom.
"Yes," she said softly, almost happily it seemed.
There was a little silence, then he broke out again.
"It seems a lifetime since we all met for the first time down at that bally old hotel, doesn't it? you and I, and Chris, and poor old Feathers."
"It's only a little more than three months." she told him.
303"Is it?" he cleared his throat nervously. "Jove! how time flies," he said again, reminiscently.
They sat silent for some minutes, then he rose to his feet, and said that he must be going.
"I told Chris I would be in at seven," he said unthinkingly, then stopped, furious with himself for having mentioned the name he had sworn to avoid.
She looked up quickly, her brown eyes dilating.
"Chris! Are you living with him then?"
"Yes." He twisted his cap with agitated fingers. "He went back to his Knightsbridge rooms after—well, after Miss Chester's house was sold, you know, but of course you do know."
She shook her head.
"I have not seen him for a month."
Young Atkins looked wretched. He knew from the little Chris had told him that this separation had been her own wish, and therefore he could not understand her attitude now.
He did not know that she had written that last note to her husband more as a test than for any other reason. With her old childish way of reasoning, she had argued to herself that if he really cared for her nothing on earth would keep him away; and once again she had been disappointed. He had apparently agreed without a word of demur—he had never attempted to approach her.
"I know he's jolly miserable, anyway," young Atkins broke out explosively after a moment. "He never goes anywhere—he just sits and smokes and thinks. He's changed so! It's rotten! And he used to be such a cheery soul."
He seemed afraid all at once that he had said too much, for he made another attempt to escape.
Marie went with him to the gate.
"Your sister has been so good to me," she said suddenly. "I don't know what I should have done without her. I shall miss her dreadfully when I go away."
He looked up in swift distress.
"But you're not going! You mustn't! She's ever so pleased to have you with her. Where are you going?"
304She looked away from him down the dusky road, and there was a little eloquent pause before she said slowly:
"I'm going back—to Chris."
"To Chris!" he could hardly believe it. He gripped both her hands. "Hooray! how perfectly splendid! Oh, forty thousand hoorays!"
She disengaged herself from his bearlike grip.
"Oh, Tommy—please!" She sounded more like her old self now, he thought with some emotion. There was a suspicious moisture in his eyes as he looked down at her.
"When?" he asked eagerly.
"When? Oh, I don't know yet." There was a note of nervous shrinking in her voice.
"It's his birthday to-morrow," young Atkins said.
"I know. I've been thinking of that all day."
He caught her round the waist.
"You darling! To-morrow then! I'll make myself scarce. We were going to have an extra dinner by way of celebration—he wasn't keen, but it was my idea! I'll pretend to let him down, and you come instead."
She fell into his mood, and they made their plans like eager children. It was only when young Atkins was just starting away that she caught his arm for a moment, and her face was white in the gray light.
"The summer's quite gone, Tommy," she said sadly. "I often wonder if it doesn't mean that my summer has gone too, and that it's too late now."
He pooh-poohed her words scornfully.
"Nonsense! As if summer doesn't ever come again! Why, next year will be a topper, you'll see! The best in your life."
They were both silent for a moment, listening to the monotonous lap, lap of the river as it flowed swiftly along between its rush- grown banks.
"I hate that sound," young Atkins broke out vehemently. "I wonder you can bear to have been so near to it after . . . there! I didn't mean that! I'm such a blundering ox."
305She smiled through the sudden tears that rushed to her eyes.
"I've never minded it like that, somehow, Tommy. It's never been as terrible to me as—as perhaps it should be. I've often thought that those dreadful minutes when it seemed as if—the end of everything had come for—for both of us—when Feathers was so brave—so wonderful! Washed everything mean, and small, and unforgiving, out of my heart—forever."
She looked up at the dark sky overhead where some little stars were twinkling palely.
Feathers had once told her that she was as far above him as the stars . . . she never looked at them now without thinking of him, and wondering if somewhere—he still thought of her.
It was she who had led him into temptation—she still had that to tell to Chris—if he cared to listen.
"To-morrow then," she said, and young Atkins echoed "To-morrow," as he sprinted off down the road, disappearing in a cloud of dust.
Marie waited at the gate till the last sound of the motor had died away in the distance, then she went slowly back to the house.
The voice of the river was still in her ears with its bitter memories, but there was a new look of contentment in her eyes as she turned for a moment at the door, and looked up at the stars.
"I'm going back, dear," she said in a whisper, as if there was someone very close to her in the dusky evening who could hear. "I'm going back, dear."
306
"But ah! the little things for which I sigh,As each day passes by,The open book, the flower upon the floor.The dainty disarray.The sound of passing feet.Alas, the little things of every day!The silent eve, my sweet,The lonely waking.Alas! alas! for little thingsMy heart is breaking."
"But ah! the little things for which I sigh,As each day passes by,The open book, the flower upon the floor.The dainty disarray.The sound of passing feet.Alas, the little things of every day!The silent eve, my sweet,The lonely waking.Alas! alas! for little thingsMy heart is breaking."
"But ah! the little things for which I sigh,
As each day passes by,
The open book, the flower upon the floor.
The dainty disarray.
The sound of passing feet.
Alas, the little things of every day!
The silent eve, my sweet,
The lonely waking.
Alas! alas! for little things
My heart is breaking."
CHRIS woke up on the morning of his birthday with the very real hope in his heart that the post might bring him some message from Marie Celeste. She had never before forgotten his birthday. Even when he saw that there was no letter from her he could hardly believe that there would be none later.
He hung about his rooms all the morning, till young Atkins dragged him out by main force.
"What's file matter with you that you're so fond of the house all at once?" he demanded disgustedly. He had previously had a heart- to-heart talk with their landlady and given her many instructions with regard to flowers and a lavish dinner that night.
"For only you two gentlemen, sir?" she had asked amazed, and Tommy had said: "No—I shan't be there—there's a lady coming." Then seeing the faint disapproval of her eyes, he added, chuckling: "Cheer up! It's all right! She's his wife!" He had told her enough of the truth to enlist her sympathy, packed his bag, and promptly proceded to lose Chris as soon as he had got him out of the house.
"I'll call for you at the club at six," were his last words. "And mind you're there."
Chris was there an hour before, chiefly because he had nothing else to do. He was irritated and annoyed, therefore, when the door307porter informed him that Mr. Atkins had left a message to the effect that he could not get to the club, but would be at the rooms at seven.
"And would you be sure to be there, sir," he added.
Chris frowned as he turned away. He had a great mind not to go home at all, but to leave Atkins in the lurch. He thought it very shabby of him, all things considered, but it came on to rain and the streets looked dull and uninviting, so he took a taxi and went home.
Home! He echoed the word in his heart wretchedly. What a home for a man to go to when he might have everything in the world he wanted, and a wife to smile at him from the other side of his own table! He missed Marie a hundred times a day—her step about the house—her voice—even the sight of her slippers and small personal belongings.
He took off his coat and hat in the hall, and went upstairs. There was a light in his room, and he could catch a glimpse of the table laid for dinner, and flowers . . . so many flowers there seemed.
"I don't know why you chucked money away on all this tomfoolery," he said shortly, as he pushed open the door. "If you think because it's my bally birthday . . . Marie Celeste!" The last words were a great cry as his wife rose from his big chair by the fire.
For a moment he stood staring at her with disbelieving eyes. He had longed for her so much all day; had been so hurt because she had forgotten his birthday, and now—here she was!
She was very pale, but she was smiling. She had taken off her hat and coat and looked very young and sweet in her little black frock, the dark hair curling softly about her face.
Chris could not find his voice, could hardly breathe. He was so sure that if he spoke the spell would be broken and that she would vanish from his longing eyes.
Then quite suddenly, she said:
"I've come back, Chris—if you want me."
"If I want you!" He fell on his knees beside her, and his shaking arms closed fast about her.
308He had meant to try and explain so many had planned so often in his mind what he would say to her, how he would humble himself and ask her forgiveness, but now that the time had come, there seem no need for any of it.
Kisses and broken words, and the clasp of arms that had ached with loneliness and emptiness were more eloquent than the finest speech could have been. It was only when the landlady had knocked three times to ask if she should bring dinner that Chris thought about appearances, and then he kept his wife's hand in his all the time the choice dishes which young Atkins had chosen so carefully were put upon the table.
They pretended to eat a great deal, but it was only a pretense, and when the landlady had removed the last dish in offended silence Chris drew Marie Celeste down into his arms in the big chair.
He passed his hand over her face and hair and soft neck.
"I can't believe you're real," he said huskily. "How long are you going to keep me in my fool's paradise before you disappear again, Marie Celeste?" She raised herself and looked at him with mournful eyes.
"I couldn't come before," she answered "I had to be sure first."
"Sure—of me?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"No; of myself."
The dark flush of pain swept across his face.
"You mean—that you had to be sure whether you . . . you still cared for me at all."
She looked away from him.
"I loved you when you were a little boy—years ago," she said in a tremulous whisper. "I loved you when you went to Cambridge, and snubbed me so dreadfully when you came home . . . Chris—I loved you when I married you."
He raised her hand to his lips silently. The words were sweet, but it was not all that he wished to hear, and she went on disconnectedly.
309"Chris—you know . . . I thought you had only married me for—for the money . . . I never knew till—till that last night——"
He interrupted.
"I don't want to hear—it was all my fault,"
"But I must tell you," she urged. "There is something I must tell you. It was my fault—everything that happened . . . about . . . about Feathers. You made me half mad, I think, and—and it was I who asked him to take me away. It was I who asked him—he was much too honorable . . . I—I can't bear that—that you should blame him."
"I blame myself—for everything," but his eyes searched her face with passionate jealousy.
"You said you hated me once," he reminded her morosely. "Marie Celeste, when did—when did you begin to care again?"
She looked away from him. Somehow she could not meet his eyes. There was a knowledge in her heart which she knew must always be a secret from him—the knowledge of her queer, inexplicable love for Feathers.
It was still there in her heart, and always would be, she knew, but already time had begun to soften and change it, as time subtly changes the outline and coloring of a picture without altering its beauty in the smallest degree—perhaps even adding to it.
"I saw a photograph of you—in . . . in his rooms," she whispered. "And I knew then . . . that whatever happened . . . I could not go."
It was the truth, neither more nor less; the old loyalty and allegiance had called her back—perhaps the old love, who knows?
Chris' arms tightened about her. Three times he had been so near to losing her, twice by death, and once—by something that would have been so infinitely worse!
He drew Marie down to him, and kissed her with passionate thankfulness.
"He saved your life for me—twice!" he said.
It was an all-sufficient answer to any doubt or suspicion that might still linger in his heart.
310
CHRIS took Marie abroad immediately, and for a year they stayed away from England and its many poignant memories.
They wintered in the South of France, and spent the late spring in Switzerland.
"I should like to take you to Italy," Chris said one day, but Marie shook her head.
"No—not Italy—I never want to go there."
He wondered a little at the time, and it was only some days afterwards that he understood, and the old jealousy of his friend that still slumbered deep in his heart stirred.
He knew that Feathers' death had left a mark on Marie's life that neither time nor the greatness of his love could ever quite efface; sometimes still, its memory would rise up like a great black wave and overwhelm her.
And yet she was happy—happier than she had ever been in her life, even though she felt she was looking at life and the beauties of the world through the sad eyes of a bitter experience.
It was a surprise to Chris when one day she told him that she would like to go back to England. It was early June then, and they were at Lucerne, and the snow was beginning to melt on the mountain sides, and little bright colored flowers were springing up everywhere.
The desire to return had often been in Chris' heart, but not for the world would he have said so. Marie was everything in his life now—he could not bear her out of his sight.
"Tired of Lucerne?" he asked.
"No—but I think I would like to go home."
"London in June is appalling," Chris said. "Why not stay on here a month or two longer and then go up to Scotland. You've never been311to Scotland, Marie Celeste?"
He watched her with moody eyes as he made the deliberate suggestions. Was she going to shrink from that too, on account of its memories, as she had done from Italy? But to his relief she agreed.
"Yes—I should like that."
He caught her hand and raised it to his lips.
"Scotland be it then," he said happily. "I know a ripping little place, right up in the mountains at a place called . . ." He rubbed his head boyishly. "Dashed if I can remember the name," he said.
Marie laughed.
"I shall be happy enough, whatever its name is," she told him.
But it was October before they finally went back, and the heather was paling, and the sunsets were wonderful when at last they settled down amongst the mountains and the silence.
The little house in the hills was all that Chris had claimed for it, and the windows of Marie's rooms looked right out on to a mountain gorge, and a little noisy stream of water.
"Happy, Marie Celeste?" Chris asked one evening, coming into the room and finding her at the window, her face rather grave in the sunset light.
He put an arm round her waist. "Quite happy?" he asked anxiously.
She turned her face, stood on tiptoe and kissed him.
"I was thinking about Aunt Madge!—I wonder if she knows that—that everything's all right."
"Is it—all right?" he asked, jealously.
She looked away from him to the wonderful sunset.
"Don't you know that it is?" she asked.
There was a little silence, and her thoughts went wistfully to Feathers.
He had always said she would be happy some day—she was happy now.
But it seemed impossible that he was really dead—she could never think of him as dead but always as she had known him, so full of312health and vigor, and cheeriness, and with the old faithful look in his eyes. She gave a quick sigh and Chris said anxiously:
"Have you got everything you want in the world, Marie Celeste?"
She laughed and blushed, rubbing her cheek against his coat.
"I think perhaps I shall have—some day," she said.
He held her at arm's length.
"What do you mean, Marie Celeste?"
She disengaged herself gently from him, and turning, opened an old chest that stood at the foot of the bed. She pulled out something white and soft and woolly and held it to him.
"Look, Chris?"
He looked, and the color deepened in his face.
"What is it, Marie Celeste?" he asked very gently.
But he knew quite well that it was Miss Chester's shawl.
THE END