MRS. HERIOT had quite failed to make a conquest of Miss Chester,for the old lady considered that every woman who used paint andpowder was a hussy. There was a very formal tea progressing in thedrawing-room when Marie entered.
Mrs. Heriot was genuinely glad to see her as she had foundconversation uphill work with Miss Chester. She kissed Marieeffusively.
"I suppose Chris forgot to tell you I was calling," she said. "Menare so forgetful."
"He did tell me," Marie answered, "and I am afraid it was I whoforgot. I am so sorry. Won't you have some more tea?"
Dorothy came in, and she and Mrs. Heriot started a passage-at-armsimmediately. They were too much alike ever to agree, and Marie wasrelieved when Mrs. Heriot said she must go.
"Come and see me off," she whispered to Marie as she took herdeparture. "I want to tell you something."
Marie went reluctantly. She did not wish for any confidences fromMrs. Heriot, but apparently she was to be given no choice in thematter, for as soon as the drawing-room door had closed behind themMrs. Heriot said in a mysterious voice: "Is there a room where wecan be undisturbed for a moment? I have something very important totell you."
Marie smiled nervously.
"Nobody will hear us here," she said "I think---" But Mrs. Heriotinsisted, and Marie led the way into the library, which had beenturned into a sort of smoking-room for Chris since their marriage.
Mrs. Heriot shut the door carefully, then, turning, she asked withdramatic intensity:
"Mrs. Lawless, who is this Miss Webber?"
Marie stared at her.
"Dorothy Webber? She is my friend; we were at school together."
"My poor child! If you think she is your friend you are beingdreadfully deceived--dreadfully."
"I don't know what you mean."
Mrs. Heriot dabbed her eyes to wipe away imaginary tears.
"I hate to see people deceived," she said. "I hate people who makescandal and mischief. I am only telling you for your own sake andbecause you and I have always been friends; but yesterday--down onthe golf links."
Marie broke in with pale lips:
"Mrs. Heriot, I would much rather you said no more. It is of nointerest to me--I beg of you, please . . ."
But Mrs. Heriot was enjoying herself too much to stop. She hadalways disliked Marie, and she hated Dorothy because she hadappeared to be on more friendly terms with Chris than she herself.She went on, refusing to be silenced.
"You ought to turn her out of the house! She is a false friend!Why, I saw her--and my sister saw her--with your husband's armsround her! Crying--in his arms! I hate having to tell you, but Ithought, and my sister thought, that it was only right you shouldknow." She broke off, looking at Mane's stony face with faintlymalicious eyes. "Men are so weak, poor dears; how can one blamethem!" she went on. "It's the women, with their subtle cleverness."She did not add that she had tried all her own wiles on Chris withhumiliating failure.
"I am so sorry for you," she pursued softly, "but you should reallyinsist that she leave the house."
Marie walked past her and opened the door.
"Please go," she said.
"But, Mrs. Lawless---"
"Please go." Marie said again.
"Oh, well, of course, if you wish it!" Mrs. Heriot passed herjauntily and went out into the hall, just as Chris opened the frontdoor and came in.
Mrs. Heriot smiled and held out her hand.
"I was so afraid I should have to run away without seeing you," shesaid. "We have had such a delightful afternoon. Where have youbeen, you bad man!"
Chris made some vague answer. His eyes had gone past her to wherehis wife stood at the study door. She was very pale but quiteself-possessed, and she even smiled faintly as she met his eyes.
"Mrs. Heriot is just going," she said clearly. "Perhaps you willsee her out, Chris."
She went back to the library, and stood staring before her with blankeyes. She had always hated Mrs. Heriot and distrusted her, butsomething told her that this time, at all events, the widow hadspoken the truth. The facts seemed to fit so completely into thechain of last night's events--Dorothy's tears, Chris' pre-occupation,and her own instinctive feeling that all was not right.
She heard Chris close the front door and come into the room behindher, and she forced herself to turn.
"Dorothy and Aunt Madge are in the drawing-room," she said stiffly.He barred the way when she would have passed him.
"Well, there is no hurry to join them, is there? How did you get onat the bazaar this afternoon?"
"We only stayed a little while. We had our fortunes told."
"Silly child! What did they tell you?"
"Oh . . . lots of things! Nothing that I believe, though."
She stood apathetically with his arm round her. She longed to tearherself from him, but she was afraid that once she gave way to thestorm of passionate anger that was rending her she would never beable to control herself.
"I was sorry afterwards that I did not come with you," Chris said."Feathers wouldn't come out. He's packing--he's off the day afterto-morrow."
"The day after to-morrow?"
"Yes--something has happened to make him change his mind, Isuppose. He's going, anyway."
Marie's heart felt like a stone, though every nerve in her body wasthrobbing and burning at fever point.
Feathers was going! After to-morrow she would not be able to get tohim, no matter how passionately she longed to do so.
This man whose arms were about her now cared nothing for her. Hehad lied to her, and pretended and deceived her. She felt that shehated him.
"What's the matter, Marie Celeste?" Chris asked, abruptly. "Aren'tyou well? You look so white."
"Do I? It's nothing; I'm quite well." She moved past him, and hemade no effort to stop her, but she knew that his eyes werefollowing her as she went upstairs.
What did she mean to do? She did not know. Possible and impossibleplans flitted through her mind. First she thought she would tellChris that she had found out about Dorothy--then that she would nottell him, would not stoop to let him think she cared.
Did she care? She did not know. Her whole being was in the throesof some new, strange passion.
Perhaps even up in Scotland he had made love to Dorothy, and thatwas why he had stayed so long. Perhaps he had known that she wascoming to London, and had even asked her to the house! Marie hidher face.
She would not stay with him. She would go away--she would go awaywith Feathers, if he would take her.
She longed for him as a homesick child longs for its father. Hewould be kind to her, he would understand.
Dorothy came tapping at the door. She held an open telegram in herhand.
"Marie, I've got to go home." She gave her the message to readwithout another word.
Marie took it mechanically, but the words danced meaninglesslybefore her eyes:
"Ronnie died this morning. Come at once."
Ronnie was Dorothy's brother, she knew. She looked at the girl'swhite face and quivering lips, but she felt no pity for her.
"I'm sorry--so sorry," she said, but the words were meaningless.
She went with Dorothy to her room and helped her pack. Shetelephoned for the car and told Miss Chester.
"Someone must go with her; she ought not to travel alone," the oldlady said, in distress. "Surely Chris will go. It is only kind."
Marie's face burned. Oh, yes, there was no doubt Chris would go--would be glad to go. She heard Miss Chester make the suggestion tohim, and held her breath while she waited for him to answer.
If he agreed she would know that he was guilty. If he refused therewould be just a hope that Mrs. Heriot had lied.
But Chris turned to her.
"Would you like me to go, Marie?"
She hated him, because he left it for her to settle. She could nottrust herself to look at him.
"Aunt Madge thinks someone should go, and I can't," she said. Heagreed hastily.
"Of course, you can't; I w
ill go, if you wish it. I shan't be ableto get back till to-morrow," he said. "It will be too late to catcha train back to-night."
Marie did not answer, and he went away. She gave him no chance tosay good-bye to her. He kissed her cheek hurriedly before hefollowed Dorothy to the waiting car, and he looked back anxiouslyas he closed the door.
"I'll be back as soon as possible to-morrow," he said.
Marie went back to Miss Chester without answering.
"That poor child," the old lady said sadly. "What a trouble forher! Did you know the brother, Marie?"
"I saw him once. He was a nice boy," Marie said apathetically. Shecould remember Ronnie Webber well. He had had a snub, freckled noseand twinkly eyes.
It seemed impossible that he could be dead. She wished she couldfeel more sorry.
The evening seemed interminable.
"Sit down and read a book, child," Miss Chester said once. "Don'twander about the house like that! I know you must be upset, butit's no use taking trouble too much to heart."
Marie looked at her, hardly listening.
"I think I'll ring Mr. Dakers up," she said.
Miss Chester's eyes grew anxious.
"I should not, my dear," she said. "Chris told me that he was verybusy packing. He is going away the day after to-morrow."
"I know; but I should like to see him before he goes."
She rang Feathers up, but he was out and not expected in till late.Fate seemed against her at every turn.
"I must see him again; I must!" she told herself feverishly as shewent to bed. She sat at the open window for a long time lookinginto the darkness. Another forty-eight hours and he would be milesaway. She thought of all the pictures she had seen of Florence andVenice, and wondered what it would be like to visit them with theman one loved.
Chris had offered to take her there, but she did not want to gowith Chris--he did not care for her! He had lied to her anddeceived her. She lay awake for hours, staring through the openwindow at a single star that shone like a diamond in the dark sky.
Where was Chris now, and what was he doing! She tried to believethat she did not care; tried to keep her thoughts focussed onFeathers, but they strayed back again and again to her husband.
Little forgotten incidents of the past danced before her eyestorturingly--Chris in his first Eton suit; Chris when he wascaptain of the school eleven, swaggering about on the green; Chriscoming home for Christmas, a little shy and superior; Chrisbullying her, and teasing her, and finally buying his completeforgiveness by a kiss snatched under the mistletoe. She had lovedhim so much--had always been so ready to forgive and forget. Tearslay on her cheeks because she knew she was no longer ready to doso; tears of self-pity--shed in mourning over the days that weregone. She was a child no longer; she was a grown woman looking backon her childhood.
It was getting light when she fell asleep, and it was late when themaid roused her.
"I came before, but you were sleeping so sweetly I did not like towake you," she apologized. Marie got up and dressed with a curiousfeeling of finality. Everything was at an end now; she would bearno more.
In the middle of the morning a wire came from Chris to say he wouldbe at home to dinner that evening.
Miss Chester was dining out, and Marie knew she would have to meethim alone, but she did not care. She welcomed anything that hurriedthe ending towards which she was drifting. Each moment seemed likethe snapping of another link in the chain of her bondage.
Chris arrived earlier than he expected. It was only five o'clockwhen she heard his key in the door and his step in the hall.
She was in her room and heard him call to her, but she did notanswer, and she heard him question the maid, before he came runningup the stairs.
Her door was open and he saw her at once, standing by the window,but she did not look round, even when he shut the door and wentover to her.
"Marie Celeste." There was an eager note in his voice, and he wouldhave taken her in his arms, but she turned, holding him away.
"No--please, we don't want to pretend any more."
He fell back a step, the eagerness dying from his face.
"What do you mean? What has happened?"
"Nothing--except that I know--about you and Dorothy." She put herhands behind her, gripping the window sill to steady herself as shewent on: "I'm not going to make a scene. I know how you hate them,and I don't blame you. I don't think either of us is to blame; but--I've finished, and that's all . . . If you won't go away from thehouse, I will, and I don't ever want to see you again."
She felt as if she were listening to the words of someone else--listening with cool criticism, but she went on steadily:
"We've tried, as you wished, and it's failed. I can go awayquietly, and nobody need know much about it."
She raised her eyes to his stunned face for the first time.
"It's no use arguing about it. My mind is made up. Oh, if only youwould go away and leave me!"
For a moment there was profound silence, then Chris' tall figureswayed a little towards her, and he caught her arms in a grip thathurt.
"Who told you? And what do you know?" She hardly recognized hisvoice in its choked passion. "It's damned lies, whatever it is! Iswear to you if I never speak again . . ."
She turned her face away with a little disdainful gesture.
"I don't want to hear--it's all so useless. I've said that I don'tblame you--and I mean it. You're quite free to love whom you like."
He broke into rough laughter.
"Love! You're talking like a child! Who's been telling you suchinfernal lies? . . . Was it Dorothy herself?" She did not answer,and he shook her in his rage and despair. She answered then,breathlessly:
"No."
"Who then?" He waited. "Mrs. Heriot?" he demanded.
She looked at him scornfully.
"Yes, if you must know."
He almost flung her from him.
"And you believe what that woman says! She's a liar, and always hasbeen! She tried the same lowdown game on me--only yesterday. Shetold me that there was something between you and Dakers, and Ithreatened to wring her neck if she ever dared to repeat the lieagain . . ." Marie raised her head, and her cheeks were fiery red.It gave her a fierce delight to feel that perhaps at last she hadthe power to hurt him.
"It isn't a lie!" she said, clearly. "I love him."
A cruel shaft of light fell through the window, on the deathlywhiteness of Chris' face as he stood helplessly staring at hiswife. Marie had never seen agony in a man's face before, but shesaw it now, and she averted her eyes with a little shiver.
"It's better you should know the truth," she said at last in awhisper. "I wanted to tell you before, but I was afraid."
"And--Dakers?" She hardly recognized her husband's voice as heasked the hoarse question, and it hurt her to hear that he nolonger spoke of his friend by the well-known nickname.
She shook her head.
"He doesn't know; he's never said one word to me that you, oranyone else, could not hear . . ." She clasped her hands togetherpassionately. "I wish he had!" she said chokingly. "I tried to makehim, but it was no use . . ." She looked at Chris with feverisheyes. "It sounds dreadful, doesn't it?" she said piteously. "Ishould think it did if I heard anyone else say it. But it's thetruth. I would go to Italy with him to-morrow if he would take me."
Chris stood like a man turned to stone. Then suddenly he fell onhis knees beside her, clasping her in his shakings arms.
"No, no, my dear! my dear! You don't know what you are saying. I'llforget it all and take you away. You're ill, Marie Celeste. I'vebeen a brute to you, I know, but I don't deserve this." He took herhands, such cold little hands they were, and pressed them to hisface. "I love you, too," he said brokenly. "I think I must alwayshave loved you, only I'm such a selfish swine . . . Marie Celeste,for God's sake say you didn't mean it? I love you! I'll give mylife to make you happy. Say it isn't true--that you've just done itto torture me--to punish me?"
She
tried to disengage her hands from his, but he held them fast.He went on pleading, praying, begging her, but she listenedapathetically, her eyes averted from his bowed head.
She did not believe a word he was saying. The wall of her pridedeafened her to the sincerity of his broken words. Her one emotionwas the fierce, triumphant gladness that at last she could make himsuffer as once he had made her.
Perhaps somewhere in a corner of that room the ghost of the childMarie Celeste stood weeping for the tragedy of it all--weepingbecause the woman Marie Celeste could so harden her heart to thegrief of the man who had once been her idol.
Then suddenly Chris released her and stood up. His face was likegray marble as he took hers between his hands and looked down intoher brown eyes.
"Is it--the truth, Marie Celeste?" he asked hoarsely. "Tell me thetruth--that's all."
And Marie gave a little choking sound like a sob, and the lids fellover here eyes as she whispered:
"I have--told you."
That was all. Chris let her go. He fell back a step, his armshanging limply at his sides. He was beaten and he knew it. Noexplanation he could make would be of any avail. She had shut himout of her heart for ever, and--for such is the tragedy of life--itwas only when it was too late that he knew how much he loved her.
It seemed a long time before he asked:
"Well--what do you want me to do?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know," she said in a frightened whisper.
She had burned her boats, and her whole being was shaken by theirrevocable act.
She kept the thought of Feathers before her eyes. She clung to thethought of the happiness he could give her. She never heard thewarning voice that whispered to her of its impossible madness.
"Does--Aunt Madge know?" Chris asked again, and she shook her head,tears welling to her eyes for the first time.
"No--how could I tell her?"
He turned to the door. He was like a man walking in his sleep as hereached it, and for a moment stood fingering the handle aimlessly,then all at once the passionate blood came surging back to hiswhite face. He strode back to Marie as e stood by the window, andcaught her in his arms.
"I'll never give you up," he said hoarsely. "There's no law inEngland that can make me give you up. Kiss me, Marie Celeste, andsay you didn't mean it . . ." His voice was broken; he hardly knewwhat he was saying. "You're my wife, and I'll keep you. Feathersdoesn't want you--he has no use for women. You're my wife, and Ilove you! I love you with all my heart and soul, Marie Celeste!I've been a blind fool, but I'm awake now . . ." He kissed heragain and again despairingly.
Marie struggled against his arms. She flung her head far back toescape his lips, but he was stronger than she, and it was only whenhe felt her almost fainting in his arms that he released her.
"You're my wife," he said again, meeting her eyes. "I haven'tforgotten it if you have."
Her lips were shaking so that she could hardly speak, but shemanaged to form a few words.
"Don't you ever--touch me again--like that. How dare you--insultme! You say you don't care for women, and it seems to me as if--anywoman--will do! First Mrs. Heriot--then . . . then Dorothy, and now. . . now me! Oh, if you knew how I hate you!"
She had gone too far. She knew it as soon as she had spoken, andshe shrank away from him in fear when she saw his eyes.
He caught her roughly by the wrist, dragging her towards him.
"And you dare . . . you dare say a thing like that to me!" hepanted. "It's not what you believe--you know it's not the truth!It's just a damnable excuse to get rid of me--to leave you free togo to Dakers. My God, I could almost kill you . . ."
He was beside himself with rage and thwarted passion. He let her goso violently that she staggered and fell backwards, striking herhead against the wooden window-sill; but Chris was blind and deafto everything. He went downstairs and out into the street, hatlessas he was, slamming the front door after him.
It was still light, and people stared at him curiously as he strodeby, his eyes fixed unseeingly before him.
He was incapable of thought or action. He only felt that he mustkeep on walking, walking, to outstrip this terrible thing thatwalked gibbering beside him.
He had never suffered in all his life until now, and he did notknow how to bear it.
He loved his wife and she hated him. He saw the world red as hewalked along, careless of which way he went.
She loved Dakers! Feathers, ugly Feathers, who had never looked ata woman in his life! He laughed aloud at the thought.
And Feathers was his friend! They had been more than brothers, andnow this tragic thing had occurred.
Presently he found himself outside Feathers' rooms in AlbanyStreet, standing on the path, staring aimlessly at the door.
Why had he come there? He did not know. But he went up the stepsand rang the bell.
Mr. Dakers was out, the maid told him, but he passed her and wentup to his friend's room.
There was a packed portmanteau in one corner and the hearth wasstrewn with torn-up papers. Some whiskey and soda stood on thetable, and Chris helped himself to a stiff dose.
He felt better after that, though there was a stabbing pain in histemples, and he sat down and leaned his head in his hands.
What should he say when Feathers came in? What should he do?
He tried to think, but he could grip nothing definitely. All thoughtmelted away from him as soon as he thought he had got it.
The only thing he could see distinctly against his closed lids wasthe face of Marie Celeste as she had said, "Oh, if you knew how Ihate you!"
He would always hear her voice to his dying day. He would carry thememory of it with him to the grave.
Imagination came to add to his torture. What had happened betweenher and his friend during all those days they had been together?
Was it true what Marie had told him, that Feathers had never spokenone word of love to her? He tried to disbelieve it, but he knew hisfriend to be an honorable man.
Feathers was no wife-stealer; Feathers was the straightest chap inthe world.
Then came a revulsion of feeling. He hated him! He would kill himif he came in now! Chris started up and began pacing the room.
What was to be the end of it all? He was helpless--powerless! Andhe loved her so . . .
Fool that he had been never to know it before--to need thehysterical outburst of a woman for whom he cared less than nothing,to show him how much he loved his wife.
He thought of the scene on the golf links with Dorothy, and ashiver of distaste shook him. He had never dreamed that she caredfor him, that he was any more to her than she was to him--and atfirst he had been sorry for her, and ashamed of his ownshortsightedness. Then he had grown angry and disgusted.
And that hell-cat, Mrs. Heriot, had seen it all! Chris struck hisclenched fist against his forehead. He had never met a woman whowas fit to hold a candle to Marie Celeste. And then, with thatthought, the agony began all over again.
He had lost her! She would never look at him any more with shyadoration in her brown eyes. They might have been so happy, but itwas too late now.
And the memory came to torture him of how Feathers had saved herlife! Perhaps she had begun to love him then! If so, how could heblame her for caring! Feathers was one in a thousand, with a heartof gold. Feathers would make her happy where he had failed somiserably.
The room seemed suddenly unbearably suffocating, and he went outagain into the street.
He walked about all night, until wearied out, he turned back homeand flung himself, dressed as he was, on the bed.
CHAPTER XX
"First will I pray, do Thou Who ownest the Soul Yet wilt grant control To another, nor disallow For a time, restrain me now."
A Bachelor Husband Page 21
