Ruby M. Ayres

"For all the world to my fond heart means you,

And there is nothing left when you are gone."

MARIE'S narrow escape from death did her one good turn—it sealed her friendship with Feathers, and in the days that followed she owed almost everything to him.

Chris did his best. He really thought he was playing the part of a model husband; he loaded her with sweets which she could not eat and presents which she did not want. He was in and out of her room ceaselessly—a little too ceaselessly, thought the doctor, who soon discovered that her husband's presence did not have a very soothing effect upon his patient.

She always seemed nervous and restless when Chris was around, and after a little hesitation the doctor told Chris frankly that it would be better if Marie was not allowed so many visitors.

Chris opened his handsome eyes wide.

"Visitors! Why, she doesn't have any except me, and occasionally Atkins and Feathers—Dakers, I mean."

"I know—but I think she should not be disturbed during the afternoon at all—not even by you," he added with a deprecating smile. "She is not at all strong, and this unfortunate accident has been a severe shock to her system. It will be months before she properly recovers."

Chris was not in the least offended, but it worried him to think that possibly Marie was going to be more or less of an invalid. He had never had a day's sickness himself, and, like most men, he was impatient and over-anxious when it overtook anybody immediately connected with himself.

"Do you think I ought to take her back to London?" he asked. 48 "Perhaps she would be better looked after at home."

"She is far better here than in London," was the emphatic reply. "This East Coast air is just what is needed to brace her up. No; if she is allowed to rest she will be all right."

Chris told Marie what the doctor had said.

"I am not to worry you—I am in and out of your room too often." He looked at her anxiously. "What do you think, Marie Celeste?"

She smiled faintly. "I suppose the doctor knows best."

"Yes, I suppose he does," Chris agreed, but he felt slightly irritated. If she wanted him to stay with her, why on earth didn't she say so? It never occurred to him that since her accident Marie had suffered agonies because she feared that he was wearied by her helplessness and unutterably bored because he was more or less chained to her side.

She had a vivid recollection of a day, years ago, when, as a child, she had fallen from the stable loft, and Chris had come to see her when she was in bed.

He had stood in the doorway, red-faced and awkward, hands thrust into his pockets, staring at her with half-angry, half-sympathetic eyes.

She had thanked him profusely for condescending to come at all, and he had asked gruffly by way of graceful acknowledgment, "How long have you got to stick in bed? When will they let you get up and come out again?"

Tears had filled her eyes as she answered him, "I don't know— weeks, I suppose!"

Chris said "Humph!" and stared at his boots. "It's topping out of doors!" he said unkindly. "I'm going blackberrying this afternoon."

That was the one and only visit he had paid her during the weeks of her illness, and afterwards he had told her that he hated sick rooms, and that he supposed women were always more or less ailing.

49 So now she made every effort to get well and strong. She made too much effort, the doctor told her.

"There's plenty of time." he said. "Why be in such a hurry?"

And at last, in desperation, she told him. "Doctor, it must be awful for Chris—having to wait about here just because of me. It can't be much of a holiday for him."

He looked at her with kindly eyes. "Well, and what about you?" he asked. "It's worse for you, I suppose?"

Marie shook her head. "I—oh, no! He's a man, you see, and he's different."

Dr. Carey said: "Oh, I see," rather drily. He walked away from her and came back, "You've been married—how long?" he asked.

"Only a week."

"Well, it's not long enough for that husband of yours to have got tired of dancing attendance on you, anyway," he answered. "No, you will not be allowed downstairs till Saturday."

"It must be awfully dull for Chris," she sighed.

She said the same thing to Feathers when he looked in that evening for a few seconds.

Feathers never brought her flowers or sweets, or presents, for which she was thankful, and he never stayed more than about five minutes, but he always managed to bring a cheeriness into the room with him and leave her with a smile in her brown eyes.

"Dull! Chris!" he said, echoing her words bluntly. "Not he. Don't you worry, Mrs. Lawless. Chris knows how to look after himself."

He did not tell her that between his spasmodic visits to her Chris was thoroughly enjoying himself.

He played bridge with Mrs. Heriot and her little crowd when there was nothing better to do. He played billiards with anybody who would take him on, and that afternoon he had been out golfing.

"What did he do this afternoon?" Marie asked wistfully.

50 "This afternoon! Oh, let me see! Well, I believe he played golf— yes, he did!"

"I'm glad—I'm so glad he doesn't stay indoors all day," said Marie.

Feathers frowned

"Don't you worry about him. I'll look after him," he promised. "You make haste and get well and go and play golf with him."

"I can't play golf!"

"Well, then, you must learn—I'll teach you! Can you play bridge?"

"No, I have tried, but Chris says I'm no good at cards."

"Rubbish! You could play all right with practice!" He looked away from her out of the window where a radiant sunset was spreading rays of gorgeous coloring across the sea.

"Chris is the sort of man who likes a woman to be sporting," he said, after a moment, speaking rather carefully, as if choosing his words. "I mean to say that he is a man who would like his wife to be able to join him in his own sports! Do you understand?"

"Yes." Her eyes were fixed anxiously on his averted face, and then she asked suddenly: "And do you ever think I could be that sort of wife, Mr. Dakers?"

Feathers cleared his throat loudly.

"Do I! Of course, I do!" he said, but his voice sounded as If he were as anxious to convince himself as he was to convince her. "You're the sort of woman who could do anything if you set your mind to it."

She did not speak for a moment, then she said sadly, "It's kind of you to say so, but in your heart, you know it isn't true."

He swung round, his face red with distress. "What do you mean, Mrs. Lawless?"

"I mean that you know I couldn't ever be that sort of wife. I'm not made that way. Dorothy used to say that I should have been an ideal wife for a man in early Victorian days; that I was cut out to stay at home and make jams and bread and jangle keys on my chatelaine, 51 and tie up the linen in lavender bags, and look after the babies . . ." She broke off, laughing and flushing a little.

"And who is 'Dorothy,' may I ask?" Feathers demanded.

"She was my best friend at school, and she was ever such a sport! She could beat all the other girls at games, and she could ride horse-back, and—oh, lots of things like that!"

"She sounds rather a masculine young lady."

"Oh, no, she isn't! Not a bit! I think you would like her!" A faint smile stole into her eyes. "She was another person who was asked to my wedding and did not come," she added teasingly.

Feathers laughed. "And now I suppose if I stay any longer Chris will be on my track and say that I'm tiring you out."

"Does he say that?" she asked, and a little gleam of eagerness crossed her face. She loved to hear that Chris was anxious about her, or that he made it his business to see she was not overtired.

"As a matter of fact, I think it was the doctor who said it," Feathers answered innocently.

"Oh!" said Marie disappointedly. . . .

She persuaded Dr. Carey to allow her downstairs the following day, and Chris carried her out into the garden and propped her up in a deck chair with cushions and rugs.

"I'm not an invalid really, you know," she said, looking up at him shyly. "I could have walked quite well."

She felt bound to say it, and yet not for worlds would she have forgone being carried in his arms. The distance had seemed all too short. Just for a little she had been quite, quite happy.

Young Atkins was fussing around. He had an enormous bunch of roses in one hand and all the newest magazines in the other. He could not do enough for her. As soon as Chris moved away he dragged a 52 chair up and sat down beside her.

"You look heaps better." he declared fervently. He always said the same thing every time he saw her. "You do feel better, don't you?"

She laughed at his eagerness.

"I really feel quite well, but they will persist that I'm an invalid."

She looked around for Chris, but he had strolled away, and she gave a little sigh.

"I've got to go back to town to-morrow," young Atkins said presently. He spoke rather lugubriously.

"Rotten, isn't it? And, I say, Mrs. Lawless, I may come and see you when you get back, mayn't I?"

"If you want to—of course!"

"Of course I want to?" He had never been in love before, but he was fully persuaded that he was in love now, and he never lost an opportunity to scowl at Chris—when his back was turned!

He moved a little closer to Marie, and looked down at her earnestly.

"If ever there's anything you want done, never be afraid to ask me to do it!" he said. "You'll remember that, won't you?"

Marie did not take him seriously. She was not used to being made love to. She just looked upon him as a boy.

"Why, of course I will! And there's something you can do for me now, if you will—see if there are any letters."

"Of course!" He was off in an instant, and Marie looked across the garden, hoping desperately that Chris would see she was alone and return.

But he was laughing and talking with Mrs. Heriot and an elderly man and a little chill feeling of unwantedness stole into her heart.

Would life always be like this? she asked herself, and closed her eyes with a sudden feeling of dread.

Supposing she had been drowned! Supposing Feathers had not been in time after all!

53 She tried to believe that Chris would have been brokenhearted, but she knew the folly of such a belief. He would have been sorry, of course, for they had known one another so long—been such pals, in the past, at any rate!

"A penny for your thoughts," said Feathers beside her, and she looked up with a little half-sigh.

"You will be angry with me if I tell you."

"I shall not! Am I ever angry with you?"

"I think you could be," she answered, seriously.

He sat down in the chair young Atkins had left. "Tell me, and see," he suggested, half in fun.

Marie looked across at her husband, and then back at the man beside her.

"I was wondering," she said, "what would have happened if you had not pulled me out of the sea?"

"What would have happened?" He echoed her words with mock seriousness. "Well, you would have been drowned, of course."

"I know I—I don't mean that I—I mean, what would have happened to—to Chris—and everyone else."

Feathers did not answer. He vaguely felt that there was some serious question at the back of her words, but his experience of women was so small that he was unable to understand.

"We don't want to think of such things," he said briskly after a moment, "You are alive and well. Isn't that all that matters?"

She did not answer, and looking at her curiously, he was struck by the sadness of her face, by the downward curves of her pretty mouth and the wistfulness of her eyes, and suddenly he realized that he had inadvertently stumbled across a secret which he had never suspected, and it was—that this girl was unhappy!

Whose fault? The question clamored at his brain. Chris' fault or her own? He was conscious of anger against his friend.

Chris was sauntering back to them through the sunshine. He looked very careless and debonair, and was whistling as he came.

54 Feathers rose. "Take this chair." he said curtly.

"No, don't you get up." But Feathers insisted, and as soon as Chris was seated he walked off to the hotel.

He went into the lounge and aimlessly took up a paper, but he did not read a word.

Fond as he was of Chris, he knew all his faults and limitations, knew just how selfish he could be, and a vague fear for Marie grew in his heart.

A little distance from him Mrs. Heriot and another woman were talking. It was quiet in the lounge, and Feathers could hear what they were saying, without the smallest effort on his part to listen.

The newspaper screened his face, and he could only suppose afterwards that they were unconscious of his presence, for Mrs. Heriot said with a rather cynical laugh:

"Did you see our heroine on the lawn, with her cavaliers? Very amusing, isn't it? I don't suppose she has ever had so much attention in her life? They say that he married her straight from the schoolroom."

"Really! She looks only a child!" the other woman answered interestedly. "By the way, which is her husband? The big, ugly man, or the good-looking one?"

Mrs. Heriot laughed. "My dear! Do you mean to say you don't know! Why, the good-looking one, of course!"

"Perhaps it was stupid of me, but I thought—I really quite thought that it was the other one. There is something in the way he looks at her . . . I can't explain! But if you hadn't told me, I should certainly have said that he was the one who was in love with her."

Feathers' big hands gripped the paper with sudden tension.

What cackling, sentimental fools women were! In love! He! Why, he had never looked at a woman in his life.

He flung the paper down, and, rising, stalked out of the lounge.

The two women looked after him in blank dismay.

55 "My dear, do you think he heard?" the younger one whispered.

Mrs. Heriot laughed spitefully.

"I hope he did! It will do him good! He's never even commonly civil to a woman." she said. "But it's really rather droll, you thinking he was the husband! How he will hate it!"

56