MARIE sat lost in thought for a long time after the others had goneon. It was very peaceful out there on the links, and to-day therewas hardly anybody about.
She wondered why it was that, no matter how hard she tried, shealways seemed to find herself left alone and out of everything.
Did the fault lie in her own temperament, or was it merely that shewas not physically strong enough to enter into things as otherwomen 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; whythings so often seemed to happen like that in life, without anyapparent 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 avoidthese things, and she found herself wondering if Feathers wouldhave been kinder and less selfish had he found himself in similarcircumstances.
She looked down at his rough tweed coat lying across her lap. Itwas well worn and very shabby, much more shabby than any coat ofher husband's. She smoothed the rough fabric with gentle fingers.
It was odd how blind women were, she thought; odd that an ugly faceshould so repel them that they never troubled to look beyond it anddiscover that it is possible for a heart of gold to lie hiddenbehind blunt features and an ungainly figure.
She had made the same mistake herself. She had adored her husband'shandsome face and proved to her bitter cost that alone it wasunsatisfying and offered nothing in exchange for all her love.
What was to become of her? The bond of marriage which she had atfirst believed she could tolerate because she loved her fellowprisoner was now growing into a fetter, and she felt that she wouldgive 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, whenhis presence in the house was a constant worry to her, and left herwith an eternal sense of captivity.
She had tried hard to get used to it, and failed. Surely there mustbe some other way of escape for them both.
Across the hills she thought she heard somebody calling to her, andshe scrambled to her feet with a sense of guilt. Time had passed soquickly--she supposed they had got back to the clubhouse and werelooking for her.
Feather's coat had fallen to the grass, and as she stooped torecover it a litter of papers and odds and ends tumbled out of oneof the pockets.
Marie went down on her knees to gather them up, smiling at themotley collection. There was a bundle of pipe-cleaners and ahalf-empty packet of cigarettes, a bone pocket knife, some papersthat looked like bills and a sheet torn from a bridge scorer withsomething folded between it--something that fluttered down to thegrass--a dead flower!
The color flew to Marie cheeks as she stooped to pick it up. It wasa faded blossom of love-in-a-mist--the flower she herself had givento Feathers the last time they drove this way.
She held it in her band for a moment, her eyes a little misty, thenshe unfolded the page from the bridge scorer and put it back in itsplace, and on the inside of the paper, scrawled in Feather'swriting, were the words "Marie Celeste," and the date of the dayshe had given it to him.
Marie sat down on the grass with a little feeling of unreality. Whyhad he kept it? She shut her eyes and conjured up his kind, uglyface, and all at once it was as if a burning ray of lightpenetrated her mind, showing her the thing he had never meant herto see.
He loved her! She could not have explained how it was that she knewor why she was so sure, but it came home to her with a convictionthat would not be denied. He loved her.
How blind she had been not to have known all along! A hundred andone 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 thatwould make a woman perfectly contented and happy, that would allowof no room for jealous doubts or bitterness, that would be like theclasp of his hand, strong and all enfolding.
She had often thought with faint envy of the unknown woman whomsome day he might love, and all the time she was that woman!
The little dried flower had betrayed his secret, and the knowledgeof it sent a wave of such happiness through her heart that for aninstant she felt as if she were floating on clouds far above allthe bitter disappointments and disillusionments that marriage hadbrought her.
For the first time in her life Chris no longer had a place in herthoughts. She gave herself up to the sweetness of a dream thatcould never be realized--the wonder of complete happiness.
"Marie," said a voice behind her, and she looked up with dazed eyesto her husband's face.
She had not heard his step over the soft grass, and he was closebeside her as with trembling fingers she thrust the papers and oddsand ends back into Feathers' coat.
"I was just coming back," she said. She tried desperately tocontrol her voice, but her agitated heartbeats seemed somehow tohave 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 themall."
She scrambled up.
"Let me take it," Chris said. She made a little involuntarymovement as if to refuse, then gave it to him silently.
That old tweed coat had suddenly grown dear to her--more dear thananything else in the world. She averted her eyes, so she should notsee the careless way in which Chris slung it over his arm.
She walked along beside him without speaking, hardly conscious ofhis presence. Her thoughts were all in the clouds, her pulses werestill 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 shewas not merely a tie and a nuisance.
Then Chris said abruptly: "It's a pity you came if you're so easilytired."
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 happierthoughts.
He laughed grimly.
"Feathers told me that you were tired and had stayed behind torest."
He searched her face with vague suspicion.
Marie answered rather sharply:
"There seemed no object in my trudging round behind you all; I wasnot playing and I did not understand the game."
She quickened her pace a little as the clubhouse came in sight. Shedid not desire his company. She hardly considered him.
They had tea outside in the shade of a tree. Mrs. Heriot was veryquiet. She looked rather sullen.
"Have you got a headache?" Marie asked sympathetically. She feltthat to-day she could even be nice to this woman.
Mrs. Heriot's sister broke in spitefully: "Headache! Of course shehasn't. She lost the game, that's all, and it always makes hersulky."
Mrs. Heriot flushed.
"We'll take you on again after tea, and beat you," she said. "Wenever should have lost, only Chris slacked off."
She shot him an angry glance.
Feathers took no interest in the conversation. He had had one cupof tea, refusing anything to eat, and sat back in his chair, hishat tilted over his yes, smoking hard.
Marie hardly glanced in his direction, but she was painfullyconscious of his every movement. Her thoughts all the time werepicking out little incidents of their friendship, translating themanew, hugging their meaning to her heart.
She did not know that Chris was watching her closely--would nothave cared if she had known. For once she had been lifted above thelevel of pain and disappointment to which marriage with him hadrelegated her.
Presently another man strolled up and joined them. He knew bothChris and Mrs. Heriot, it seemed He asked if there was any chanceof 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 willkeep one another company. Shall we?" he asked, glancin
g at her.
Marie nodded. Her heart was racing, and she was afraid that everyone would see her agitation. Chris laughed.
"I dare say you'll be able to amuse one another." he said, andpresently 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 thingabout it."
"I shall be delighted to offer myself for the post, if Chris has noobjection."
Her brown eyes shone. "Why should he? He would not care to teach mehimself."
It seemed as if she saw Feathers now for the first time. He was nolonger Chris' friend, the man she had hated for having brought hercastle tottering earthwards. He was no longer even the kind friendhe had been to her--he was the man who loved her.
Her thoughts seemed to travel so fast ahead, weaving all sorts ofimpossible 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'tthink 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 upwhich 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 childisheagerness that he would say he preferred to be where he was. Sheknew it would be only the polite thing to say, although in herheart 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 losesher temper so shockingly."
"Does she?" She leaned her chin in her hand and looked at him withrather wistful eyes. She wondered what he would say if she told himabout 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 fromher face, leaving her eyes very piteous against its pallor.
"Leaving--England!" she echoed the words in a whisper.
"Yes," he went on, ramming tobacco into his pipe, hardly consciousof 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 meoff 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 thecountry, sleep anywhere--eat anything--and enjoy myself."
"I wish I could come with you." The words broke from her with alittle cry, and Feathers raised his eyes at last.
He saw the pallor of her face and the distress in her eyes, and hisheart began to race, but he only said very quietly: "You'd soon gettired of living my Bohemian life. When you go to Italy Chris willtake you, and you must do the thing properly."
She seemed hardly to hear. She went on passionately: "It seems asif 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, Isuppose I ought not to tell you, really, but I know you think thatnobody cares for me--because I'm so uninteresting, but he did--hewas only a boy, but he was really fond of me--and so . . . so Isent him away! And now you are going, too! . . . I wish I coulddie!" said Marie Celeste, in a tragic whisper.
There was a long silence. Feathers' big hands hung limply betweenhis knees, his fingers still clutching at his pipe, then he saidslowly, as if he were carefully choosing his words:
"If young Atkins could be man enough to--go--what would you thinkof me--if I stayed?"
His voice was quite quiet, though a little hoarse, but its verysteadiness seemed both to conceal and reveal more than an outburstof 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 knowwhat a mountain of regrets one lays up for the future if--if oneforgets other things . . . Chris is a good fellow--until he marriedyou I thought him the best chap in the world--I think so still,except that I cannot forgive him for having failed to make youhappy; but . . . but my failure will be worse than his, if I--if Itry to deceive myself with the belief that I can . . . can give youwhat 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 lookhim in the face again, and yet her whole desire was to keep himwith her--to prevent him from walking out of her life, as she knewhe intended doing.
She felt very much as she had done that morning when he saved herfrom 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 inthe depths of her own misery?
Once he went away it would be the end of everything, she knew. Hewould never come back any more, and for the rest of her life shewould have to go on trying to make the best of things, trying toget used to having a bachelor husband.
She knew that the silence had lasted for a long time beforeFeathers 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 manythings 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 werevery bright as she looked steadily ahead of her down the road.
It was like looking into the future, she thought, as London drewnearer and nearer, and the many lights were symbolical of thehappiness that lay in wait for her.
She refused to believe that Feathers really would go away. Herwhole heart and soul were bent on keeping him near her.
She was very young, or she would have seen the impossibility of thewhole thing as he did. Reaction was the power driving her. She whohad 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 withFeathers; he was a long time gone--and when he came back he wasalone.
Marie peeped over the banisters when she heard his voice in thehall below, and a faint chill touched her heart when she saw thatFeathers had not come in with him. She felt like a disappointedchild as she went back to her room.
She had changed her frock to please Feathers. There was somebody atlast who cared how she looked. Though he would have said nothing,perhaps would hardly have glanced her way, she would have knownthat he liked to see her look pretty.
Now that he was not coming she had lost all interest. Her face waslistless as she crossed the landing to go downstairs.
As she did so, the door of Chris' bedroom opened, and he called toher:
"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 appearancesake than anything Marie obeyed.
"Yes." She stood in the doorway waiting.
Chris had made no attempt to change for dinner, though he had beenin some time. He stretched a hand past her as she stood there andshut the door. Then he said abruptly:
"I'm going away to-morrow, Marie. I'm sick of London." He did notlook
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 shesaw the sudden change in his face, but he kept himself underadmirable 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'targue. 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 wouldrather stay here--with Aunt Madge."
She saw the hot blood leap to his face, and quite suddenly he brokeout in blind passion.
"With Feathers, you mean! Speak the truth and admit it! You want tostay here with him and knock about with him, as you did when I wasin Scotland I I'm not such a blind fool as you think! It's Featherswho has changed you so! Do you think I can't see the difference inyou when you're with him and when you're with me? Do you thinkother 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 andshe was as white as a ghost.
"Mrs. Heriot!" she echoed disdainfully.
"And everyone else, too!" he raved on. "It's got to stop, I tellyou. You're coming away with me to-morrow. Do you think I want mywife talked about by a lot of scandalmongering women? . . ." Hebroke off breathlessly, but Marie neither spoke nor raised hereyes, and the coldness of her averted face cut him to the heart. Hecaught 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," shesaid, 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 hisblindness, 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 knowI haven't treated you as well as I might have done--I know I'm aselfish chap--but you knew that when you married me--you've alwaysknown it."
She gave a little weary sigh.
"What does it matter? I'm not complaining; you've always beenfree."
"I don't want to be free; you're my wife. Marie Celeste, for God'ssake . . ." She put up her hand.
"Oh, Chris--please."
It hurt inexpressibly to hear him pleading to her--he who had neverdone such a thing in his life--and yet . . . "I don't care! I don'tcare 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 knowyou're too good for me--you ways have been. I don't deserve thatyou should ever have married me, but it's not too late, MarieCeleste. Come away with me, and I'll show you that I can treat youdecently when I like."
Someone knocked at the door. "Please, sir. Miss Chester sent me tosay that dinner was ready half an hour ago."
Marie drew her hand away quickly. The interruption was verywelcome.
"Let me go--please! Aunt Madge will think it so strange."
"In a moment, Marie. Will you come with me to-morrow? We'll gowhere 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 andstood for a moment with her hands hard pressed over her eyes.
The storm had come so suddenly. She wondered what had beenresponsible for it. Had Mrs. Heriot said anything more--or could ithave been Feathers himself? She could hardly force herself to godown to dinner, as she was shaken to the depths of her soul.
Chris talked ceaselessly during dinner. He drank a good deal ofwine, and his face grew flushed and his eyes excited.
"You're not going out again, surely?" Miss Chester asked him whenafterwards he came to the drawing-room for a moment in hisovercoat.
"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 inthe darkness. A lifetime seemed to have been crowded into this oneday. She felt that she had aged years since they started out in themorning.
Feathers loved her! The knowledge stood out like a beacon light inthe darkness. She knew what her life would be with him--happinessand contentment, and she did so long for happiness.
He was a good man, and a strong man; all her empty heart seemed tostretch out to him in passionate gratitude and longing.
But she was married . . . She felt for her wedding ring in thedarkness 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 anygreat harm if she snapped the frail tie between them?
She sat there for a long, long time, tortured with doubts andindecision. What ought she to do?
Miss Chester came up presently to say good-night. She knew quitewell that there had been some trouble between Chris and Marie, butshe asked no questions.
"Sleep well, dearie," she said as she went away, and Marie smiledbitterly. How could anyone sleep well, torn as she was by suchmiserable indecision?
Did she love Feathers? She could not be sure. That she loved him asa dear friend she knew; that she was always happy with him she alsoknew; but there was none of the romance and wonder in it that hadthrilled 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 beenpartly anger and partly outraged pride. His was a dog-in-the-mangeraffection; he did not want her himself, and yet he would allownobody 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, andsomething of the old tenderness flowed back into her heart.
She had loved him for so long, her life and his were so irrevocablybound up together. How could she take this step that would severthe tie once and for all?
She wandered round the room aimlessly, picking up little things ofhis, looking at them, and putting them down again, and all the timethe same unanswerable questions were going on in her mind.
If she stayed with him what was there for her in the future? Shecould only see more disillusionment and tears and sorrow, and ifshe went with Feathers . . . Marie laughed brokenly, the tearsrunning down her cheeks. How could she go with Feathers when he hadnot asked her? And suddenly she remembered the look in his eyes ashe said good-night to her an hour or two ago.
She had tried to believe that it was not farewell and renunciationthat she had read in them, but she had known that it was. He wasstronger than she--his heart might ache, but he would not dishonorhis friend. He would walk away with a smile on his lips, and nobodywould ever know what he suffered.
If she tried to break down his strength she was not worthy of hislove, and suddenly Marie Celeste hid her face in her hands andbroke into bitter crying, which yet brought tears of healing to herheart. She would be worthy of him--she would not be a coward,snatching greedily at the one hope of happiness
offered to her; shewould 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 couldhear when Chris came in. He was very late--she heard the clockstrike twelve, and then half-past, but still he did not come; andthen--at twenty minutes past one she heard a taxi drive up to thedoor and voices on the path outside.
She pulled aside the blind and peered out, but it was too dark todistinguish anything. Then the cab drove away, and she heard thefront door opening below and the sound of steps in the hall.
She crept out oh to the landing and looked over the banisters. Shecould see Chris, his hat pushed to the back of his head and the topof a cigar stuck jauntily into the corner of his mouth, laughingimmoderately, and swaying a little on his heels, as he resisted theother man's attempt to help him off with his coat.
Marie had never seen anyone the worse for drink in her life. MissChester had always brought her up in the belief that no gentlemanever took too much to drink. She would have been horrified ifanyone had told her that most men of her acquaintance had, at onetime or another, been helped home to bed. She stood clutching atthe banisters, her face white with horror.
She did not know the man who was with Chris, so she hardly glancedat him. Her feet seemed glued to the spot and her eyes never lefther husband's face.
And this was the man of whom she had a moment ago cherished suchtender thoughts of forgiveness; this was the man for whose sake shehad made up her mind to forego her happiness.
Her overstrained nerves exaggerated the whole thing painfully. Shefled back to her room and locked and bolted the door.
She heard Chris come upstairs and heard him walking unsteadilyabout the room, and after a long time she heard him click out thelight. Everything was silent then, but Marie Celeste lay awake tilldawn, her brown eyes wide with horror.
She had kept her idol on its pedestal with difficulty for some timenow, but to-night it had fallen . . .
Chris was down late for breakfast the next morning; but he lookedquite fresh and brisk as she met him in the hall.
"You had better ring for more coffee," she said. "I am afraid it iscold; 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 withoutanswering. Presently he sought her out. His blue eyes were anxious,and he looked very boyish and nervous.
"Well, Marie, what is it to be?"
Marie was writing a letter in the drawing-room and she laid the pendown and turned in her chair.
Perhaps he read the answer in her face, for he took a quickprotesting 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 withyou to-day."
Their eyes met steadily for a moment, and she saw his lips quiveras if she had hurt him, but Chris knew how to take a hard blow. Heshrugged 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 awhisper as she said:
"I wanted to ask you--it's . . . it's so hopeless going on likethis. You are not any more happy than I am . . . Couldn't we--isn'tthere 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 beatingfuriously; there was a little hammering pulse in her throat thatalmost choked her. Then Chris covered the distance between them ina single stride and took her roughly by the shoulders.
"How dare you--how dare you say such a thing to me?" he saidhoarsely. "Good God! don't you think I've got any--any feeling? Doyou think I'm such a blackguard as to--to listen to such a thingfor one moment? You must be mad!"
"I'm not--and you know I'm not. I'm tired--sick to death of livinglike this." Her voice rose excitedly. "Why, we may have to betogether for years and years--twenty years, if we don't try and getfree!" 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 everhad in his life, and, coming from Marie Celeste of all people, itleft him stunned and speechless.
Until his return from Scotland he had been quite happy andcontented, but since that first evening when she had so coldlyrepulsed him there had been a restlessness in his heart, amiserable sort of feeling that he could settle to nothing--aconsciousness that things were all wrong and that he had not thepower to put them right.
And the discovery that he had only himself to thank for it all didnot help him in the least. In his blindness he tried every way butthe 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 layimmediately beneath his notice, and it told him that his wife hadgiven 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 allowingher to go free.
He cared nothing for scandal, though he pretended to. He hardlyconsidered Feathers at all in the case. The one thing that rackedhim was the knowledge that he was in danger of losing somethingthat had all at once become very precious.
His lips twitched badly when he tried to speak. He felt as if hewere fighting in the dark--as if there were some unseen foe pittingits strength against him that would not come out into honestdaylight.
Marie stood twisting her handkerchief childishly, her headdownbent, 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 havedisappeared, leaving in her place a woman who looked at him withthe eyes of Marie Celeste, but without the shy admiration to whichhe 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 herthat she was talking nonsense, to kiss the strained look away fromher face and the severe line of her pretty mouth into smiles, totell 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 hadawakened, but his pride and some new dignity about her preventedhim.
This was not the Marie Celeste he had known. She had escaped himwhile 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 eachto 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 myknitting needles."
Marie flew to find it for her. She avoided Chris for the rest ofthe morning for she was afraid of him now. Although she haddeliberately precipitated matters, she awaited the issue withdread.
Chris did not come in to lunch, and, though once during theafternoon Marie heard his voice in the house, he did not seek herout, and at dinner time he was absent again.
Though nothing was said. Miss Chester could feel the tension in theair, and late that night she asked hesitatingly: "Is anything thematter, Marie?"
"Nothing--no, auntie, of course not."
But Miss Chester was not deceived, and her mind was racked withanxiety.
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 thebell made her pulses race.
That Chris was deliberately avoiding her she knew, and she wonderedhow long it would be before the breaking point came. She longed toget it over.
Once she caught sight of herself in the glass and was startled byher pallor and the strained look in her eyes. A frightened look itwas, she thought, and she passed her hands across them as if tobrush it out.
She stayed downstairs till Chris came in that night. She stood justoutside the drawing-room door, her heart beating apprehensively.Supposing he was the worse for drink, as he had been last night?But she need not have been afraid. Chris was sober enough. He hadbeen walking the streets for hours, beating against the invisiblebars 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 factdid not do my cause any good."
She did not answer, wondering what he would say if she told himwhat determinating factor against him that glimpse over thebanisters 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 oldthing, I suppose--the desire to be free."
He took a sudden step towards her, tilting her downbent facebackwards 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 thoughtyou 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 neveranything in that Mrs. Heriot affair, though I know you don'tbelieve me."
He stood back from her, his hands thrust into his pockets.
"Supposing we could get a divorce--separation--whatever you like tocall it, how much better off are you going to be?" he asked after amoment "What's the good of washing dirty linen for the amusement ofthe public?"
The burning color rushed to her face. She had lived so much in theclouds since the moment when she found that little dead flower inFeathers' coat pocket that Chris' blunt words sounded horriblybrutal. Chris, watching her narrowly, saw the sudden quivering ofher lips, and his heart smote him.
"Go to bed, Marie Celeste," he said more gently. "It's no useworrying about things to-night."
He cared so little. The thought stung her afresh as she turnedaway. 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 wonderedif the day would ever come when she would cease to belong to him.
He could not imagine his life without Marie Celeste. She had alwaysbeen there, a willing little figure in the background of things.
All his boyhood and early manhood were studded with pictures inwhich she had played a part.
She had seemed happy enough when they were first married, or so ithad appeared to his blindness. What had happened since to bringabout such a change?
He could not believe it was altogether Feathers. He did not believethat 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 Sundayevening, and with sudden impulse he took his hat and went off toAlbany Street.
There was a light in one of the windows of Feathers' rooms, andChris threw up a stone.
The window was open, and almost immediately Feathers' rough headappeared against the light.
"Hullo! That you, Chris?"
"Yes; can I come up?"
"Of course."
They met on the stairs.
"Atkins is here," Feathers said; "but he's just off. Come in."
Chris did not care for Atkins, and greeted him rather curtly.
"Mrs. Lawless is well, I hope?" young Atkins asked awkwardly, andChris grunted out that she was quite well.
"I haven't seen her for some time," Atkins said rather wistfully.
Nobody answered, and he took up his hat.
"Well, I'll be off." He said good-night and clattered away down thestairs.
"Young idiot!" Chris said, flinging himself into a chair. "Phew!It's warm, isn't it?"
"It's abnormal weather for September," Feathers agreed.
There was a little silence, then Feathers knocked the ashes fromhis pipe and stood up.
"Well, out with it! What's the matter?"
"What do you mean?"
"That I know you've come here with something on your mind. Get itoff and you'll feel better."
He half-expected an outburst of rage from his friend, but nonecame, and there was a painful note in Chris' voice as he said:
"It's--my wife!"
"Yes." It gave Feathers a little shock to hear Chris speak of Mariein those words. He could not remember ever having heard him usethem before. It was usually "Marie" or "Marie Celeste." It broughthome to him with sharp reality how far removed she was from him,how much she belonged to the man whose name she bore.
Chris looked up, his eyes hot and faintly suspicious.
"Damn it! You know as well as I do that things are all wrongbetween us," he said roughly. "And now the climax has come and shewants to be free of me--separation, divorce--whatever it is you getwhen your wife hates you like poison."
Feathers did not move. His ugly face was a little pale, but hiseyes betrayed nothing. Chris started up and began pacing the room.
"I'm to blame, I suppose," he said hoarsely. "I ought not to havemarried her, but it seemed the best thing to do at the time."
A little contemptuous flash crossed his friend's eyes, but he madeno comment.
Chris swung round with startling suddenness.
"What would you do if you were me?" he demanded.
"My dear chap! What an impossible question to answer! I knownothing about women--you know that. You should be the best judge ashow to settle your own affairs."
Chris crumped his hair agitatedly.
"I'm hanged if I am! I never was so up against it in my life.Perhaps if I cleared off abroad somewhere for a year . . ."
Feathers interrupted quietly:
"Don't you think you've been away long enough already?"
"You mean Scotland! Pooh! That was nothing. She wouldn't have caredabout that." But his voice was uncertain, and after a moment heasked suspiciously:
"What are you driving at?"
"Nothing. But I think, as I thought at the time, that it would havesaved a lot of trouble if you had taken her with you. You werenewly married. It would have been a most natural thing to do."
Chris colored, but he did not feel at all resentful. He wasgrateful to Feathers for his interest. It was a relief to be ableto tell his troubles to somebody.
"I don't think it made any difference," he said after a moment."It's not as if ours was an ordinary sort of marriage. I mean---"He broke off in confusion, to blunder on again: "Marie doesn't carefor me, and that's the whole truth. I thought she did once upon atime. It shows my darned conceit, I suppose."
Feathers said nothing, and, struck by his silence, Chris said withslow deliberation: "Sometimes, now and again, I've wondered ifthere isn't some other fellow she cares for--some chap she wouldmarry if I wasn't in the way."
He was looking hard at Feathers all the time he spoke, and hisfriend's ugly face was at the moment mercilessly exposed to theglare of the electric light, but there was no change in its quietindifference, and Chris gave a sharp sigh of relief.
He had not realized till now how great had been that vague dread inhis heart. Marie might care for Feathers, but at that moment Chriswas sure that Fe
athers cared nothing for her--perhaps because hewished to be sure. Feathers was scraping out the bowl of his pipewith an irritating little sound and finished it carefully before hespoke:
"I'm not much of a judge of that sort of thing, but I should notthink it at all likely. Mrs. Lawless does not know many people,does she?"
"If you mean men--as far as I know there is only Atkins and--you."
Feathers looked up. There was a little wry smile in his eyes.
"You are hardly flattering to your wife," he said quietly, "if youthink that either Atkins or myself could make an impression whereyou have failed."
Chris laughed awkwardly.
"I never was a suspicious chap," he said. "I hate suspiciouspeople, but since I came home, well . . ." He turned and lookedFeathers squarely in the eyes. "I've thought all sorts of queerthings--things I would even hesitate to tell you," he addeddeliberately.
Feathers laughed casually.
"I don't want your confidences, my son," he said. "You started thisconversation, you know, and I didn't offer my advice, but as we'reon the subject I should just like to remind you that Mrs. Lawlessis very young, little more than a child, and--children likeattention and amusement."
Chris colored.
"You mean that she hasn't had either from me." he said. "I knowyou're right, but what the deuce can I do?"
"As you insist on my mounting the pulpit," Feathers said, ratherwearily, "I'll repeat an old chestnut of a proverb which says thatit's never too late to be what one might have been, or words tothat effect. Have a Scotch?"
"No, thanks. I went home too merry and bright the night beforelast, and Marie was waiting up for me." Chris avoided his friend'seyes. "It's not a thing I often indulge in, you know that," he wenton, gruffly, "but I felt like the devil that night."
Feathers made no comment, but he thought of Marie with passionatepity. He could understand so well what a shock it had been to herto see Chris the worse for drink--realize just how she would shrinkfrom him.
The clock struck twelve, and Chris rose reluctantly.
"Well, I'll be off." He hesitated, then added, with a touch ofembarrassment: "Thanks awfully for what you've said. I'll remember;I'll speak to her in the morning, and see if we can't patch thingsup." He went to the door and came back. "You--er, don't tell her Isaid anything about it to you."
"Of course not."
Chris went home full of good resolutions. He lay awake half thenight, plotting and planning what he could do in the future to makeamends. Though he did not love Marie, it seemed a dreadful thing tohim that they were in such mortal danger of drifting finally apart.He fell asleep, meaning to have a good, long talk with her in themorning and try and straighten out the tangle.
But Marie did not appear at breakfast, and in reply to hisinquiries the maid told him that Mrs. Lawless had a bad headacheand was going to stay in her room.
"To avoid me, I'll be bound," Chris told himself savagely, and hisgood resolutions began to waver.
What was the use of trying to turn over a new leaf when she refusedto help him? What was the use of throwing an insufficient bridgeacross the gap between them which would only collapse and let himdown again sooner or later?
It was a lovely morning, and he thought longingly of the golflinks. Twice he went to the 'phone to ring up a friend to join him,but each time he wavered, and at last in desperation he wentupstairs to his wife's room.
She was lying by the window on a couch, her dark hair fallingchildishly over her dressing-gown, and she started up in confusionwhen she saw Chris.
"I did not think it was you; I thought you had gone out."
"No." He saw the marks of tears on her face, and his heart gave alittle throb of remorse. She was only a child, after all, asFeathers had said.
"I am sorry your head is so bad," he said gently.
She turned her face away.
"It's better; I am coming down to lunch. I haven't been sleepingvery well lately."
Chris sat down beside her. There were so many things he wanted tosay, but he had never been eloquent, and this morning his tongueseemed more stupid than usual.
It was only after some minutes' silence that he blurted out: "Lookhere, Marie! Can't we start again? I'm most awfully sorry thingshave gone wrong like this, and I know it's my fault. Last night Ithought it would be the best thing if I cleared off and left youfor a year or so. I thought perhaps it might be all right later onif I came back, but I've changed my mind, and . . . look here--willyou forgive me and let us start again?"
He laid his hand clumsily on hers, the hand that wore his ring.
"There's no earthly reason why we can't be happy and get alongsplendidly," he urged. "I know I'm a selfish devil, but I've alwaysbeen the same. But I'll try--I'll try all I know if you'll give mea sporting chance."
He waited, but she did not speak, and he went on: "We've seen solittle of each other lately--my fault, too, I know--I wish I'dtaken you to Scotland with me."
"I wish you had, too." The words broke from her lips bitterly. Somuch might have been averted, she knew, if only Chris had taken herwith him.
The color mounted to his cheeks. Even her voice had changed lately,he thought. There was something hard in its soft tone that vaguelyreminded him of Mrs. Heriot.
"It's not too late now," he urged. "There's lots of places you'venever seen that I'll take you to! Heaps of shows in London thatyou'd thoroughly enjoy. . . ." He waited eagerly. "What do you say,Marie Celeste?"
She did not know how to answer. If he had made this offer a monthago she would have accepted it gladly, but now it did not seem sovery attractive.
"We might give a few little parties," Chris went on vaguely. "AuntMadge won't mind, or if she does--we'll set up a show forourselves. You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like potteringabout in a house of your own."
She nodded. She could not trust her voice.
"Is that a bargain, then?" he asked happily. He had so often gothis own way with her that it never entered his head that he mightnot be going to get it this time. His fingers tightened over herhand. "Say it's a bargain, Marie Celeste, and be friends with meagain."
She turned her head slowly and looked at him.
His eyes were very eager and anxious, but for the first time in herlife Marie's heart was not at his feet, and she was not consciousof any desperate longing to drive away his anxiety and agree towhat he wanted.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked sharply.
He was beginning to realize that it was not only her voice that hadchanged and the expression of her eyes when she looked at him, butthe girl herself; that she could no longer be coaxed and bullied byhim--that she was a woman with a will of her own in her soft frame.
"I was thinking." she said slowly, "that I will agree to try whatyou suggest, on one condition . . ."
His face brightened.
"Anything, of course! Anything you like." He was sure that shecould not be going to impose anything very hard.
It came, therefore, as something of a shock when she said: "I willdo as you suggest, if--at the end of a month, we find we can't geton any better, and--and be happy . . . you will let me go."
He echoed her words blankly.
"Let you go! What do you mean?"
The sensitive color flew to her face, but she answered quitequietly and steadily:
"We could get a divorce--I don't think it is called that--but Iknow we could get a divorce--I--I've found out all about it."
Chris sat staring down at the floor. There was a dreadful feelingsomewhere in the region of his heart, for he had never believedthat she could be so hard and implacable.
She was not yet twenty, but she was calmly proposing to annul theirmarriage, if, at the end of a month, it still proved to be afailure.
He put her hand roughly from him and rose to his feet.
"You don't know what you're talking about, and I refuse to agree--Iabsolutely refuse." He began to pace the room agitatedly.
Marie watched him with hard
eyes, then suddenly she said:
"If it's the money you're thinking about . . . I don't want any. Idon't mind not having any. Aunt Madge would let me live with her;we could live quite quietly; it wouldn't cost much."
He turned scarlet.
"The money--good lord! I've never given it a thought." He swunground and looked at her with passionate eyes, and it slowly dawnedupon him that there was something very sweet and desirable aboutMarie Celeste as she sat there in her blue gown, her soft dark hairtumbled about her shoulders, and her brown eyes very bright in thepallor of her face.
With sudden impulse he went down on his knees beside her and puthis arms round her, holding her fast.
"Don't be so cruel, Marie Celeste," he said hoarsely. "I know I'venot played the game, but I can if you'll give me a chance--I swearI can, and I will! It's the whole of our lives that you're socalmly proposing to smash up. Do you realize that? Have youforgotten all the good times we used to have together--I haven't--and what a little sport you were?"
He saw her wince as if he had hurt her, and he went on eagerly,pushing his advantage.
"Do you remember years ago that you used to say you would nevermarry anyone but me when we grew up?"
He laughed rather shakily.
"You never thought it would come true, did you, Marie Celeste? Ididn't anyway. But it has, and we're going to be ever so happy . . .I swear I've never given a thought to any woman but you. If I'vetreated you badly, there's no woman in the world I've treatedbetter. I know it's a rotten argument, but . . ."
He stopped, choked by a sudden emotion, for Marie had broken downinto bitter crying.
Chris drew her down to his shoulder and kissed her hair. It feltvery soft against his lips. He was sure he had conquered, as hethought her tears were tenderness for the past and joy for thefuture. He did not understand that they were only tears of sorrowfor the dream that had gone so sadly awry.
When presently she turned her face away he drew it back again andkissed her lips--he had never kissed them before. The only kisseshe had given Marie Celeste in his life had been casual pecks on hercheek when he came from school or went back, and the few awkwardkisses he had bestowed upon her since their marriage.
She lay limply against his shoulder, too emotionally wearied toresist him, but her lips were unresponsive.
"Is it all right, Marie Celeste?" he asked presently, and she said:"Yes--yes, I suppose so."
He echoed her words with a frown.
"You suppose so?"
This vague acquiescence was not what he had wanted or expected.
"I'll try my best--if you will."
He kissed her hand.
"I give you my word of honor." He twisted the wedding ring on herfinger. "It's much too big," he said.
He smiled faintly.
"I've got thinner--that's why."
"You've no right to get thinner," he said hurriedly. "I shall haveto look after you and feed you up. Marie Celeste, we're going tohave no end of a good time!"
He was his light-hearted self once more. He felt quite happy again.It was surprising how fond he had discovered he really was of MarieCeleste since he had kissed her lips. He could not understand whyhe had never realized before how pretty she was.
"We'll go away somewhere together," he said impulsively. "Wherewould you like to go? It will be a fine autumn. Shall we go to themoors--or Ireland? Would you like Ireland?"
She smiled faintly at his impulsiveness.
"I don't mind where it is."
"I'd take you to Italy, only it's not the right time of year," hesaid. "The spring's the time to go to Italy." He laughed. "Feathersis off there soon, you know! He doesn't care a hang about theproper seasons and all that sort of stuff. He just goes where hefeels inclined and when."
"Yes." Her face was averted. "I don't think I should care to go toItaly, anyway," she said. How would it be possible to try and turnover this new leaf, if Feathers was to be anywhere about? A littlefeeling, that was something like homesickness, touched her heart asshe thought of him. Chris was very dear, very boyish in his newhumility and enthusiasm, but in her weariness she longed forsomething more stable, something more real and sincere.
She turned to Chris with wet eyes.
"But you can't make yourself love me." she said sorrowfully.
His face flushed and his eyes grew distressed. He drew her back tolean against him so that her eyes were hidden.
"Perhaps I've always loved you--I don't know," he said with suddenearnestness. "I can't expect you to believe me yet, but . . .perhaps some day, Marie Celeste."
He was doing his best, she knew, but his halting words fell vaguelyon her empty heart. She had been right when she said that he couldnot make himself love her.
But the wings of the past were wrapping them around, and withsudden regret fulness for all she had dreamed and lost, she put herarms round his neck and kissed him.
"Well, we'll try, shall we?" she whispered. He returned the kisseagerly. She would see what a model he could be, he promised. Hehad not been so happy for a long time. He held her at arm's length,his fingers lost in her soft hair.
"You're such a child to be anybody's wife!" he said laughingly.
She shook her head.
"I think I've grown up very quickly." she answered with a sigh.
"Very well, then, I shall have to teach you how to be a childagain," he declared. "How's the head? Do you think you could getdressed and come out? I'm going to buy you a present--lots ofpresents, frocks and all manner of things."
"I'll go out after lunch, but I don't want lots of presents,really, Chris."
"Well, we'll see." He stood up, still holding her hand. He felt asif a load of care had fallen from his shoulders. He wished he hadtried this way of managing her before. He supposed he ought to haveknown that women liked to be kissed and made a fuss of. He reallythought that she was as happy and contented as he was. He drew herto her feet and kissed her gain.
"I'm glad I married you, and nobody else, Marie Celeste," he said.
He went out and bought the largest bunch of roses he could find andcarried them up to her room. He was desperately anxious to pleaseher. She thanked him with a little empty smile. It was not rosesthat she wanted, or pearl necklaces, or pretty clothes. She wantedsomeone really to love her, in all circumstances and for ever andever.
But she meant to do her best to keep the compact between them; soshe took great pains with her toilet to go out with him, and Chrisdutifully admired her frock.
"It's a new one, isn't it?" he asked. She had not the heart to tellhim that she had worn it half a dozen times on her honeymoon, andthat he had not noticed it. The car was at the door ready for themto start, when a taxi, laden with luggage, came swinging up theroad and stopped at the curb.
Chris frowned.
"Who the dickens?" he ejaculated, then broke off as the door of thetaxi opened and a girl came running up the steps towards them.
She gave a little cry when she saw Marie.
"You dear thing! Then you are in town! I was so afraid you might beaway, but I had to chance it! I was on my way home, and then motherwired to me not to come, as one of the boys has scarlet fever! So Itook the bull by the horns and dashed to you on the chance that youwould be an angel and take me in for a time!"
She kissed Marie and held a hand to Chris. "You dears! How lovelyto see you both!"
It was Dorothy Webber.
CHAPTER XVIII
"Trifles light as air, are to the jealous, Confirmation sure, as proof of holy writ"
A Bachelor Husband Page 19
