A Bachelor Husband

by Ruby M. Ayres

  MARIE was alone at home one afternoon when young Atkins called.

  It was Sunday, and Miss Chester had motored out into the country tosee a friend who was sick.

  Perhaps young Atkins knew this, for, at any rate there was a lookof determination about him as he walked into the drawing-room,where Marie was pretending to read and trying to prevent herselffrom writing to Chris.

  A moment ago she had been feeling desperately lonely, and longingfor someone to come in, but a queer sort of fear came to her as shelooked into young Atkins' eyes.

  He was rather pale, and this afternoon the boyishness seemed tohave been wiped out of his face by an older, graver look.

  "Won't you have some tea?" she asked him. "I've had mine, but wewill soon get some more for you."

  No, he would not have tea. He sat down only to get up againimmediately and walk restlessly about the room.

  Marie watched him nervously.

  "Shall we go for a walk?" she asked with sudden inspiration. "Ihave not been out all day. Do let us go for a walk."

  He hardly seemed to hear. He had taken up a cigarette casebelonging to Chris, and was opening and shutting it with nervousaimlessness.

  Suddenly he asked abruptly:

  "When is Chris coming home?"

  Marie caught her breath sharply.

  "I was never good at riddles," she said in a hard voice.

  There was a moment's silence, then he flung the cigarette casedown, and, turning, came over to where she stood and caught her inhis arms--such strong young arms they were, which there was noresisting.

  "I love you," he said desperately. "I think I've always loved you,and I can't bear it any longer. If Chris doesn't care for you, whatdid he want to marry you for? It was cheating some other poor devilout of Paradise . . . Marie--I know you think I'm only a boy, butI'd die for you this minute if it would make you happy; I'd . . .oh, my darling, don't cry."

  Marie had made no attempt to free herself from his clasp. She wasstanding in the circle of his arms, her head averted, and the bigtears running slowly down her cheeks.

  She put up her hand to brush them away when she heard the distressin his voice.

  "I'm all right--oh, please, if you wouldn't!" for he had caught herhand and was kissing it passionately.

  He went on pleading, praying, imploring, in his boy's voice; for hewas very sincere, and he had suffered more for her sake and theneglect which he knew she was receiving from Chris than from thehopelessness of his own cause.

  He would make her so happy, he said; they would go away togetherabroad somewhere. He hadn't got any money--at least, only a little--but he'd work like the very deuce if he had her to work for.

  She put her hand over his lips then to silence him.

  "Tommy, dear, don't!"

  His name was not Tommy, but everybody had called him Tommy for solong because it seemed to go naturally with his surname that now hehad almost forgotten what he had really been christened, but itsounded sweet from Marie's lips, and he kissed passionately thelittle hand that would have silenced his pleading.

  "I love you--I love you!" he said again.

  She shook her head. She knew that she ought to have been angry withhim, but there was something very comforting to her sore heart inthis boy's love.

  "It's no good. Tommy," she said gently, "and you know it isn't.Even if I cared for you--and I don't, not in that way--you're soyoung, and . . . and I'm married . . ." And then, with a very realburst of emotion, she added: "We were such good friends, and nowyou've gone and spoilt it all."

  "I couldn't help it--it had to come--and I'm glad. I've never feltlike a friend to you. I thought you knew it, but if you want me toI'll go on being your friend all my life," he added inconsequently.

  Her tears came again at that, and Tommy got out his handkerchief--anice, soft silk one which he had faintly scented for the occasion--and wiped her eyes for her, and reproached himself, and comfortedher all in a breath, till she looked up and smiled again.

  "And now we've been thoroughly foolish," she said with a littlesob, "please be a dear, and take me for a walk."

  "It hasn't been foolishness," he answered, with a new manlinessthat surprised her and made her feel a little ashamed. "I love you,and I shall always love you, but if you only want me for a friend--well, that's all there is to be said."

  She took his hand and held it hard for a moment.

  "You're a kind boy, Tommy."

  He looked away from her because he was afraid to trust himself."What about that walk?" he asked gruffly.

  They went for the walk--a very silent walk it was, for neither ofthem felt inclined to talk, and later, when they parted outside thehouse, young Atkins asked anxiously:

  "It's all right, isn't it? I mean--everything is just the same asit was before . . . before I told you?"

  "Yes--of course." But she knew that it was not, that it never couldbe, though during the next day or two they both struggled valiantlyto get back to the old happy plane of friendship.

  And one evening Tommy said abruptly as they were driving hometogether from a theater:

  "Marie--I'm not coming any more," and then, as she did not answer,he went on desperately: "I just--can't!"

  Marie sat quite still, her hands clasped in her lap, her brown eyesfixed on a little pale moon that was climbing the dark sky outside.

  She had thought a great deal of this boy's friendship and now sheknew that she was to lose it.

  She tried to think of Chris, but somehow it seemed difficult; itwas so long since she had seen him, and he was so far away.

  If only she did not still love him! If only she could fill theplace he had occupied all these years of her life with somethingelse--even someone else.

  Then she looked at young Atkins. He was only a boy! Young as shewas herself, she felt years and years older than he, and there wassomething motherly in her voice as she said gently:

  "Very well. Tommy--I understand."

  He laughed hoarsely.

  "Do you? I don't think you do," he said.

  They parted with just an ordinary handshake, and with no morewords, but Marie stood for a long time at the door after it hadbeen opened to her, watching young Atkins walk away down thestreet.

  He was going out of her life, she knew, and for a moment she wascruelly tempted to recall him.

  Why not? Chris had his own friends, and did not trouble about her.She wondered what he was doing now, and if he, too, was somewhereout in the moonlight with . . . with somebody who was more to himthan she was.

  The thought brought a tide of jealousy rushing to her heart. Sheran down the steps again to the path below. She would call Tommyback. Why should she have no happiness? Boy as he was, he lovedher, and his love would be something snatched from the ruins of herlife.

  But after the first impulsive step she stood still with a sense ofutter futility. What was the good? What was the use of trying todeceive herself?

  There was only one man in the world for her--nothing could everchange that; she turned and went back into the house.

  "Tommy isn't coming any more." she told Miss Chester the nextmorning.

  She smiled as her eyes met the old lady's.

  "No, I didn't send him away, dear," she added. "He just said heshouldn't come any more."

  Miss Chester paused for a moment in her knitting. She was alwaysknitting--a shawl that never seemed to be finished.

  "I always said he was a thorough gentleman," was her only comment.

  But Marie missed him during the days that followed. She had noscrap of love for him, but his friendship had meant a great deal toher, and left to herself she drifted back once again to restlessdepression.

  Then at last a letter came from Chris.

  "Knight is going back to London, so I may come with him. I hope youare all right, Marie Celeste. The time has simply flown up here; Iwas horrified yesterday to discover that I've been away a month."

  There was no mention of Dorothy Webber or of Feathers.


  Marie's spirits rose like mercury. She was so excited she couldhardly sleep or eat, but all the time she tried to check her joywith the warning that he might not come, that he might change hismind at the last moment. She bought herself some new frocks andwent to bed early to try and drive the shadows from her eyes andbring back the color to her pale cheeks.

  Then came a postcard--a picture postcard of mountains in thebackground and a very modern-looking clubhouse in the foreground,with a scribbled message from Chris at the corner.

  "Shall be home Thursday night to dinner."

  The day after to-morrow! Marie's heart fluttered into her throat asshe read the words; she was afraid to go and tell Miss Chesterbecause she knew the wild happiness and excitement in her eyes. Theday after to-morrow! What an eternity it would seem. She did notknow how she could live through the hours.

  She forgave him all his neglect and indifference; he was cominghome--she would see him again and hear his voice. Nothing elsemattered.

  And then, just an hour later, came a telegram. She opened it withtrembling hands. She was sure it was to say that he was comingsooner. For a moment the scribbled message danced before her eyes:

  "Plans altered; don't expect me. Letter follows."

  She dismissed the waiting maid mechanically, and read the messageagain. She was glad that she had not told Aunt Madge after all--itwould have been such a disappointment. She screwed the telegram upand threw it into the grate.

  For the moment she hated him--she wished passionately that shecould make him suffer. She had sacrificed everything by hermarriage with him--all hope of real happiness and a man's genuinelove--even her friendship with young Atkins; while he--whatdifference had that mock ceremony made to Chris?

  And the old despair came leaping back.

  "I wish I could die! I wish they had let me drown."

  Someone tapped at the door, and with an effort she pulled herselftogether to answer.

  "Yes, what is it?"

  "Mr. Dakers has called, if you please, ma'am."

  "Feathers!" In her delight at seeing Dakers again Marie never knewthat she had called him by his nickname. She ran across the room,her cheeks like roses and both hands outstretched.

  "Oh, how nice! When did you come? Oh, I am glad to see you!"

  He was just as ugly as she had remembered him--just as ungainly--and his skin more deeply tanned and more rugged than ever, but thegrip of his hand was wonderful in its strength, and his gruff voicewhen he spoke sent her heart fluttering into her throat with sheerdelight.

  "Oh, I am so glad to see you again!" she said once more.

  Feathers laughed.

  "It's the best welcome I've ever had in my life," he said.

  He let her hands go and stood back a pace. "Have you grown?" heasked, in a puzzled sort of way.

  She shook her head.

  "No; but I've got thin--at least, Aunt Madge says I have."

  They looked at one another silently for a moment, and the thoughtof Chris was in both their minds, though it was Feathers who spokeof him.

  "So Chris will be home on Thursday?"

  She shook her head; for a moment she could not trust her voice.Then she said lightly:

  "He's not coming after all. I've just this minute had a wire." Shewent over to the grate, picked up the crumpled telegram and handedit to him. "It's just come," she said again faintly.

  Feathers read it without comment, and Marie rushed on:

  "I suppose you've all had such a good time you don't want to comeback to smoky old London--is that it?"

  "We did have a good time, certainly, but I came back on Monday, andI understood that Knight and Chris were following on Thursday."

  "Yes."

  Feathers dragged up a chair and sat down.

  "And what have you been doing?" he asked.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  "I don't know; nothing very much. I went to one or two theaterswith Mr. Atkins."

  "Atkins!"

  "Yes. Why not? I like him; he's such a nice boy."

  "Nice enough," Feathers admitted grudgingly.

  "I shall expect you to take me now you've come home," Marie wenton, hardly knowing what she was saying. "I'm so tired of being agrass widow." she added desperately.

  She was longing to ask about Chris, what he was doing and who wasup there with him, but she was afraid.

  "I'm not keen on theaters," Feathers said slowly. "But I shall bedelighted to take you if you would care for it."

  "Of course!" There was a burning flush in her cheeks that made herlook as if she were feverish, and her voice was shrill and excitedas she went on: "I think this must be one of the occasions when Iwant a big brother, and--oh, you did offer, you know!" she addedforlornly.

  Feathers looked up quickly and smiled.

  "Well, here I am," he said.

  Miss Chester came into the room at that moment. She knew Featherswell; Chris had brought him to the house several times before, itappeared, when Marie was still at school in France and she was notslow in demanding news.

  "When is Chris coming home? Why didn't you bring him with you, Mr.Dakers? He has been away quite long enough; he ought to come homeand look after his wife---"

  "Oh, Auntie!" Marie cried, distressed.

  "So he ought to, my dear," the old lady insisted. "You want achange of air yourself. Isn't she pale, Mr. Dakers?"

  Feathers glanced quickly at Marie and away again.

  "I think Chris will be home soon," he said quietly. "I am afraidgolf is a very selfish game, Miss Chester."

  "And Dorothy Webber--is she still up there?" Miss Chester askedpresently.

  Marie held her breath; it was the question she had longed anddreaded to ask.

  "She was there when I left," Feathers said reluctantly. "She is avery fine golfer."

  Marie broke in in a high-pitched voice:

  "I asked her to come and stay with me, you know, but she hadalready accepted this invitation to Scotland. Wasn't it queer theway Chris met her?"

  "Very queer."

  "I was at school with her; she was my best friend."

  "Yes, so she told me, but I knew already--from you."

  Marie's too-bright eyes met his.

  "And do you like her?" she asked. "I said I thought you would, ifyou remember, and you were not sure."

  He raised his shaggy brows.

  "Like her? Well--I hardly know. She's good company."

  Good company--the very thing that Marie had dreaded to hear.

  "I'm not very fond of sporting women," Feathers went on. "They'reso restless. Don't you agree, Miss Chester?"

  "They were certainly unheard of when I was a girl," she answeredseverely. "We never wore short skirts and played strenuous games. Ithink croquet was the fashion when I was Marie's age! I canremember playing in a private tournament with your mother, Marie."

  Marie bent and kissed her, laughing.

  "That is where I get my stay-at-home, early Victorian instinctsfrom, perhaps," she said rather bitterly.

  She went into the hall with Feathers when he left.

  "It was so kind of you to send me that white heather," she toldhim, shyly. "I always wear a piece of it for luck."

  A dull flush deepened the bronze of his ugly face.

  "I hope it will live up to its reputation," he said. He held outhis hand. "When may I see you again? I am staying in London for aweek or so, and I haven't anything particular to do."

  "Any time--I shall be so glad to see you. Will tomorrow be toosoon?" She made the suggestion diffidently. Chris' indifference hadmade her apprehensive and uncertain of herself. She was terriblyafraid of forcing her company where it was not wanted.

  "To-morrow by all means!" he answered readily, "Shall we have a dayin the country?"

  "Oh, how lovely!" Her eyes lit up with delight.

  "I'll bring my car." he said. "It's a bit of a bone-shaker, not afirst-class affair like yours Mrs. Lawless, but it runs well. Whattime?"

  "Any time; as early as
you like."

  "Ten o'clock then?"

  "Yes."

  "Good-night."

  "Good-night, Mr. Dakers,"

  CHAPTER XIII

  "I was a sailor, sailing on sweet seas, Trading in singing birds and humming bees. But now I sail no more before the breeze. You were a pirate met me on the sea; You spoke, with life behind you, suddenly; You stepped upon my ship, and spoke to me: And while you took my hand and kissed my lips, You sank my ships, you sank my sailing ships."