Feathers had a healthy scorn for all things sentimental, but hefound himself listening till the boat had passed on and the songvanished again into silence.
He looked at his watch then--it was four o'clock. If they startedat once they could not possibly get home before half-past seven oreight, he knew, and recklessness closed down upon him.
It was his last day! Why not snatch all the hours possible? Whatcould it matter to Chris if he lost a little of his wife's company?
So he let Marie sleep on, and sat there without moving, torturinghimself with thoughts of the future, till presently she roused andopened her eyes.
She lay for a moment looking at him unrecognizingly, then shestarted up, rubbing her eyes in confusion.
"Have I been asleep? Why didn't you wake me? What is the time?"
"I am afraid I dozed off myself. It's the heat, I expect." He madea great business of yawning and stretching his arms, though he hadnot once closed his eyes. "It's nearly six--I am afraid we shallnot have time to go on to Henley."
"It doesn't matter," she said quickly. "We can go another day."
"Yes, we can go another day," he echoed, with the full knowledgethat for him there would never be another day.
The sun was sinking down behind the trees and pastureland and acool breeze had risen.
Marie shivered, and Feathers picked up her coat and gave it to hersilently.
"I'm not really cold," she said, but she put it on.
"Have we got to go back now?" she asked, as he began to untie therope that held them to the bank.
"Yes, I think we ought. We have to get to London, you know."
"Yes."
It was getting quite dark in the backwater. One punt which passedthem carried Chinese lanterns that glowed like magic eyes throughthe September evening.
"Mr. Dakers," Marie said suddenly.
"Yes." He was intent on the paddle and did not look up.
"There is something I want to ask you before--be-fore we go home."
"Yes." His voice sounded a little jerky.
"It's only . . . you will still come and see me, won't you?--I meaneven--even if Chris has come home?"
"Of course. Why shouldn't I?"
"I don't know--I only thought perhaps . . ." Her voice faltered,only to break out again passionately: "Oh, if you knew how I hatethe thought of the future," and then, with shamed realization ofwhat her words might convey, she tried to laugh as she went on: "Idon't exactly mean that, but--but, oh, you know I'm not the sort ofwife Chris ought to have married! It's kind of you to try andpretend that you think I am, but I'm not so blind as I used to be,and I know now! And I can't even make myself different--I supposebecause I'm too stupid . . . If only I were more like Mrs. Heriotor Dorothy Webber . . ."
Feathers broke in harshly: "For God's sake, don't compare yourselfwith them."
"But it's true--you know it's true," she insisted. "I don't wantyou to think I'm blaming Chris; I've never blamed him in all mylife, and I want him to be happy, but . . ." Her voice trailedhopelessly way, only to recover again with a pathetic effort.
"I'm not the sort of girl ever to make him happy. At first I hoped--oh, I hoped so hard that things would come right, but lately--justduring the last few days, I think, I seem to have seen that it cannever be. I suppose I ought not to say all this to you--you're hisfriend, and I am glad you are."
"I am your friend, too," said Feathers, quietly.
"I know; that's why I'm telling you. It's--it's dreadful to have noone I can talk to--no one to understand and help me."
"I am afraid it's beyond me to help you," Feathers said hoarsely."I can only tell you to be patient and try and stick it out.Pluck's everything you know, Mrs. Lawless---"
As if she had not been plucky! He gritted his teeth at his temerityin daring to preach such a doctrine to her, and yet it was the besthe could do. To offer her the sympathy and tenderness that wastearing his heart with longing would be to ruin their friendshiponce and for all.
He looked back at her with hot eyes. He could only see her facedimly through the dusk, but he heard the little despondent sigh shegave as she answered him: "Yes; I suppose you are right. I will tryagain--thank you."
"There's nothing to thank me for."
She laughed with soft scorn.
"How can you say that! Why, you've been kinder to me than anyone inthe world."
"My selfishness probably." He was making a desperate effort to getback to platitudes, but it was difficult on such a perfect nightand in the company of the one woman in the world who had evertouched his heart.
"I haven't drowned you, you see," Feathers said, as they reachedthe boathouse again.
"No--and it's been such a lovely day."
He went off to get the car ready. Every moment was precious now,and there were so few left. He thought jealously of the short driveback to London, and wished that its end lay on the other side ofinfinity.
"It's been such a lovely day!" Marie said again, as they started."I have enjoyed it--tremendously!"
The last word was a sigh.
"So have I."
There were so many things he wanted to say to her, but his tonguewas awkward and unable to find the words. He wanted to tell herthat always, whatever happened, he was her devoted friend, that hisone desire in life was for her happiness, but mile after mileslipped by and the tender thoughts could get no further than hissad heart.
And then they were home . . .
Feathers' face was grim as he stopped the car at Miss Chester'sgate and looked down at Marie.
"I hope you are not very tired, Mrs. Lawless," he said, and smiledgrimly to himself in the gray night at the contrast of the banalinquiry and the passionate words that were almost choking him.
"No, I am not very tired," she said, and she gave him a little palesmile as they went up the steps together. "You will--will wait andsee if Chris has come?"
"Yes."
She asked the maid who admitted them, "Has Mr. Lawless come home?"but she knew before the girl answered, for Chris' big travelingcoat hung in the hall and there was a smell of cigarette smoke inthe house which had been absent during the past weeks.
She felt a little giddy, and her heart was beating wildly. Howcould she bear to meet him and hear his casual "Hullo, MarieCeleste?"
"Mr. Lawless came home this afternoon quite early," the maidanswered. "He had dinner with Miss Chester and went out: he said heshould not be in till late."
There was a little silence.
"I won't stay then, Mrs. Lawless," Feathers said quietly."Good-night."
"Good-night." Her fingers fluttered in his big grasp for a moment,then he turned away and the front door shut heavily behind him.
Marie went into the drawing-room to Miss Chester. She felt verytired, and her footsteps dragged.
"We've got back," she said.
"Yes." Miss Chester looked up. "I thought I heard Mr. Dakers'voice," she added.
"So you did, but he would not stay when he heard that Chris hadgone out."
Miss Chester's kindly gaze wavered a little.
"Chris seemed very disappointed not to find you at home," she said."He could not understand it. He said that he wired he should behome this afternoon."
"So he did, and I got the wire, but as he is always so uncertain Idid not think it worth while to stay at home."
There was a little silence. The distressed color rushed to MissChester's thin face, and she laid down her knitting.
"Marie!" she said, aghast.
Marie smiled.
"Well, dear, he has wired before, and written before, and notcome," she said. "And I did so want to go on the river."
She took off her hat and ran her fingers through her hair. Hernerves felt all on edge. She was afraid that at any moment the doorwould open and Chris walk in. She wondered desperately what sheshould say to him. It frightened her, because there was none of theecstasy in her heart, which had once been such a joy and a torment.
"Chris was hungry, so we
did not wait dinner. Have you had yours?"Miss Chester asked.
"Yes; no, I mean. I am not hungry; we had such a big lunch."
Marie wandered restlessly down the room. A sporting paper lay onone of the tables amongst the silver trinkets and queer littleVictorian boxes which had belonged to her mother. Chris had thrownit down there, she knew--and there was cigarette ash in one of thefern pots.
"He looks splendidly well." Miss Chester went on, attacking hershawl once more. "So brown! I never saw anyone with such a brownskin."
Marie could picture him quite well--knew how startlingly blue hiseyes would look against that weather-tanned face. She stopped infront of a photograph of him, and stared at it with a curiousexpression in her eyes.
It had been taken when he was at Cambridge and showed him on theriver in boating flannels. She remembered so well when he had sentthat photograph home--it had been during the one short period ofher life when for a little while she had almost forgotten him.
She had not seen him for weeks, and a fresh school had made newinterests for her that had pushed him into the background of herthoughts. Then that photograph came, and she could remember asplainly as though it had been yesterday the sudden revulsion offeeling that had flooded her heart, bringing back all the oldlonging ache and worshipful love, even causing her to despiseherself because just for a little she had forgotten her idol.
As she stood staring at it now, she was conscious of a wish thatwas almost a prayer for some such metamorphosis to happen again.She would have welcomed the old biting jealousy and disappointmentif she could have driven this new feeling of cold indifference fromher heart.
"He brought me some lovely lace," Miss Chester went on. "There isone thing about Chris, he never forgets to bring us presents whenhe has been away. He is always most generous."
Marie echoed the words flatly.
"Yes, he is always most generous." And, for the first time sinceshe had overheard what Feathers had said in the hotel on the nightof her wedding, the bitter thought awoke in her heart that, afterall, it was only her money with which Chris was being generous--theprice he had paid for his freedom.
"If Chris is going to be late home," she said restlessly, "I willgo to bed. I really am tired. It's the river, I suppose. Mr. Dakerssays it is supposed to make people sleepy."
She had crossed to Miss Chester to kiss her good-night, when thedoor opened and Chris walked into the room.
CHAPTER XVI
"It is the little rift within the lute. Which, widening ever, make the music mute."
A Bachelor Husband Page 17
