  "When two friends meet in adverse hour, 'Tis like a sunbeam through a shower, A watery ray an instant seen And darkly closing clouds between." MARIE was alone at home one afternoon when young Atkins called. It was Sunday, and Miss Chester had motored out into the country to see a friend who was sick. Perhaps young Atkins knew this, for, at any rate there was a look of determination about him as he walked into the drawing-room, where Marie was pretending to read and trying to prevent herself from writing to Chris. A moment ago she had been feeling desperately lonely, and longing for someone to come in, but a queer sort of fear came to her as she looked into young Atkins' eyes. He was rather pale, and this afternoon the boyishness seemed to have been wiped out of his face by an older, graver look. "Won't you have some tea?" she asked him. "I've had mine, but we will soon get some more for you." No, he would not have tea. He sat down only to get up again immediately and walk restlessly about the room. Marie watched him nervously. "Shall we go for a walk?" she asked with sudden inspiration. "I have not been out all day. Do let us go for a walk." He hardly seemed to hear. He had taken up a cigarette case belonging to Chris, and was opening and shutting it with nervous aimlessness. Suddenly he asked abruptly: "When is Chris coming home?" Marie caught her breath sharply. There was a moment's silence, then he flung the cigarette case down, and, turning, came over to where she stood and caught her in his arms—such strong young arms they were, which there was no resisting. "I love you," he said desperately. "I think I've always loved you, and I can't bear it any longer. If Chris doesn't care for you, what did he want to marry you for? It was cheating some other poor devil out of Paradise . . . Marie—I know you think I'm only a boy, but I'd die for you this minute if it would make you happy; I'd . . . oh, my darling, don't cry." Marie had made no attempt to free herself from his clasp. She was standing in the circle of his arms, her head averted, and the big tears running slowly down her cheeks. She put up her hand to brush them away when she heard the distress in his voice. "I'm all right—oh, please, if you wouldn't!" for he had caught her hand and was kissing it passionately. He went on pleading, praying, imploring, in his boy's voice; for he was very sincere, and he had suffered more for her sake and the neglect which he knew she was receiving from Chris than from the hopelessness of his own cause. He would make her so happy, he said; they would go away together abroad somewhere. He hadn't got any money—at least, only a little— but he'd work like the very deuce if he had her to work for. She put her hand over his lips then to silence him. "Tommy, dear, don't!" His name was not Tommy, but everybody had called him Tommy for so long because it seemed to go naturally with his surname that now he had almost forgotten what he had really been christened, but it sounded sweet from Marie's lips, and he kissed passionately the little hand that would have silenced his pleading. "I love you—I love you!" he said again. She shook her head. She knew that she ought to have been angry with "It's no good. Tommy," she said gently, "and you know it isn't. Even if I cared for you—and I don't, not in that way—you're so young, and . . . and I'm married . . ." And then, with a very real burst of emotion, she added: "We were such good friends, and now you've gone and spoilt it all." "I couldn't help it—it had to come—and I'm glad. I've never felt like a friend to you. I thought you knew it, but if you want me to I'll go on being your friend all my life," he added inconsequently. Her tears came again at that, and Tommy got out his handkerchief—a nice, soft silk one which he had faintly scented for the occasion— and wiped her eyes for her, and reproached himself, and comforted her all in a breath, till she looked up and smiled again. "And now we've been thoroughly foolish," she said with a little sob, "please be a dear, and take me for a walk." "It hasn't been foolishness," he answered, with a new manliness that surprised her and made her feel a little ashamed. "I love you, and I shall always love you, but if you only want me for a friend— well, that's all there is to be said." She took his hand and held it hard for a moment. "You're a kind boy, Tommy." He looked away from her because he was afraid to trust himself. "What about that walk?" he asked gruffly. They went for the walk—a very silent walk it was, for neither of them felt inclined to talk, and later, when they parted outside the house, young Atkins asked anxiously: "It's all right, isn't it? I mean—everything is just the same as it was before . . . before I told you?" "Yes—of course." But she knew that it was not, that it never could be, though during the next day or two they both struggled valiantly to get back to the old happy plane of friendship. "Marie—I'm not coming any more," and then, as she did not answer, he went on desperately: "I just—can't!" Marie sat quite still, her hands clasped in her lap, her brown eyes fixed on a little pale moon that was climbing the dark sky outside. She had thought a great deal of this boy's friendship and now she knew that she was to lose it. She tried to think of Chris, but somehow it seemed difficult; it was so long since she had seen him, and he was so far away. If only she did not still love him! If only she could fill the place he had occupied all these years of her life with something else—even someone else. Then she looked at young Atkins. He was only a boy! Young as she was herself, she felt years and years older than he, and there was something motherly in her voice as she said gently: "Very well. Tommy—I understand." He laughed hoarsely. "Do you? I don't think you do," he said. They parted with just an ordinary handshake, and with no more words, but Marie stood for a long time at the door after it had been opened to her, watching young Atkins walk away down the street. He was going out of her life, she knew, and for a moment she was cruelly tempted to recall him. Why not? Chris had his own friends, and did not trouble about her. She wondered what he was doing now, and if he, too, was somewhere out in the moonlight with . . . with somebody who was more to him than she was. The thought brought a tide of jealousy rushing to her heart. She ran down the steps again to the path below. She would call Tommy back. Why should she have no happiness? Boy as he was, he loved her, and his love would be something snatched from the ruins of her life. But after the first impulsive step she stood still with a sense of There was only one man in the world for her—nothing could ever change that; she turned and went back into the house. "Tommy isn't coming any more." she told Miss Chester the next morning. She smiled as her eyes met the old lady's. "No, I didn't send him away, dear," she added. "He just said he shouldn't come any more." Miss Chester paused for a moment in her knitting. She was always knitting—a shawl that never seemed to be finished. "I always said he was a thorough gentleman," was her only comment. But Marie missed him during the days that followed. She had no scrap of love for him, but his friendship had meant a great deal to her, and left to herself she drifted back once again to restless depression. Then at last a letter came from Chris. "Knight is going back to London, so I may come with him. I hope you are all right, Marie Celeste. The time has simply flown up here; I was horrified yesterday to discover that I've been away a month." There was no mention of Dorothy Webber or of Feathers. Marie's spirits rose like mercury. She was so excited she could hardly sleep or eat, but all the time she tried to check her joy with the warning that he might not come, that he might change his mind at the last moment. She bought herself some new frocks and went to bed early to try and drive the shadows from her eyes and bring back the color to her pale cheeks. Then came a postcard—a picture postcard of mountains in the background and a very modern-looking clubhouse in the foreground, with a scribbled message from Chris at the corner. "Shall be home Thursday night to dinner." The day after to-morrow! Marie's heart fluttered into her throat as she read the words; she was afraid to go and tell Miss Chester She forgave him all his neglect and indifference; he was coming home—she would see him again and hear his voice. Nothing else mattered. And then, just an hour later, came a telegram. She opened it with trembling hands. She was sure it was to say that he was coming sooner. For a moment the scribbled message danced before her eyes: "Plans altered; don't expect me. Letter follows." She dismissed the waiting maid mechanically, and read the message again. She was glad that she had not told Aunt Madge after all—it would have been such a disappointment. She screwed the telegram up and threw it into the grate. For the moment she hated him—she wished passionately that she could make him suffer. She had sacrificed everything by her marriage with him—all hope of real happiness and a man's genuine love—even her friendship with young Atkins; while he—what difference had that mock ceremony made to Chris? And the old despair came leaping back. "I wish I could die! I wish they had let me drown." Someone tapped at the door, and with an effort she pulled herself together to answer. "Yes, what is it?" "Mr. Dakers has called, if you please, ma'am." "Feathers!" In her delight at seeing Dakers again Marie never knew that she had called him by his nickname. She ran across the room, her cheeks like roses and both hands outstretched. "Oh, how nice! When did you come? Oh, I am glad to see you!" He was just as ugly as she had remembered him—just as ungainly— and his skin more deeply tanned and more rugged than ever, but the grip of his hand was wonderful in its strength, and his gruff voice when he spoke sent her heart fluttering into her throat with sheer "Oh, I am so glad to see you again!" she said once more. Feathers laughed. "It's the best welcome I've ever had in my life," he said. He let her hands go and stood back a pace. "Have you grown?" he asked, in a puzzled sort of way. She shook her head. "No; but I've got thin—at least, Aunt Madge says I have." They looked at one another silently for a moment, and the thought of Chris was in both their minds, though it was Feathers who spoke of him. "So Chris will be home on Thursday?" She shook her head; for a moment she could not trust her voice. Then she said lightly: "He's not coming after all. I've just this minute had a wire." She went over to the grate, picked up the crumpled telegram and handed it to him. "It's just come," she said again faintly. Feathers read it without comment, and Marie rushed on: "I suppose you've all had such a good time you don't want to come back to smoky old London—is that it?" "We did have a good time, certainly, but I came back on Monday, and I understood that Knight and Chris were following on Thursday." "Yes." Feathers dragged up a chair and sat down. "And what have you been doing?" he asked. She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know; nothing very much. I went to one or two theaters with Mr. Atkins." "Atkins!" "Yes. Why not? I like him; he's such a nice boy." "Nice enough," Feathers admitted grudgingly. "I shall expect you to take me now you've come home," Marie went on, hardly knowing what she was saying. "I'm so tired of being a She was longing to ask about Chris, what he was doing and who was up there with him, but she was afraid. "I'm not keen on theaters," Feathers said slowly. "But I shall be delighted to take you if you would care for it." "Of course!" There was a burning flush in her cheeks that made her look as if she were feverish, and her voice was shrill and excited as she went on: "I think this must be one of the occasions when I want a big brother, and—oh, you did offer, you know!" she added forlornly. Feathers looked up quickly and smiled. "Well, here I am," he said. Miss Chester came into the room at that moment. She knew Feathers well; Chris had brought him to the house several times before, it appeared, when Marie was still at school in France and she was not slow in demanding news. "When is Chris coming home? Why didn't you bring him with you, Mr. Dakers? He has been away quite long enough; he ought to come home and look after his wife——" "Oh, Auntie!" Marie cried, distressed. "So he ought to, my dear," the old lady insisted. "You want a change of air yourself. Isn't she pale, Mr. Dakers?" Feathers glanced quickly at Marie and away again. "I think Chris will be home soon," he said quietly. "I am afraid golf is a very selfish game, Miss Chester." "And Dorothy Webber—is she still up there?" Miss Chester asked presently. Marie held her breath; it was the question she had longed and dreaded to ask. "She was there when I left," Feathers said reluctantly. "She is a very fine golfer." Marie broke in in a high-pitched voice: "I asked her to come and stay with me, you know, but she had "Very queer." "I was at school with her; she was my best friend." "Yes, so she told me, but I knew already—from you." Marie's too-bright eyes met his. "And do you like her?" she asked. "I said I thought you would, if you remember, and you were not sure." He raised his shaggy brows. "Like her? Well—I hardly know. She's good company." Good company—the very thing that Marie had dreaded to hear. "I'm not very fond of sporting women," Feathers went on. "They're so restless. Don't you agree, Miss Chester?" "They were certainly unheard of when I was a girl," she answered severely. "We never wore short skirts and played strenuous games. I think croquet was the fashion when I was Marie's age! I can remember playing in a private tournament with your mother, Marie." Marie bent and kissed her, laughing. "That is where I get my stay-at-home, early Victorian instincts from, perhaps," she said rather bitterly. She went into the hall with Feathers when he left. "It was so kind of you to send me that white heather," she told him, shyly. "I always wear a piece of it for luck." A dull flush deepened the bronze of his ugly face. "I hope it will live up to its reputation," he said. He held out his hand. "When may I see you again? I am staying in London for a week or so, and I haven't anything particular to do." "Any time—I shall be so glad to see you. Will tomorrow be too soon?" She made the suggestion diffidently. Chris' indifference had made her apprehensive and uncertain of herself. She was terribly afraid of forcing her company where it was not wanted. "To-morrow by all means!" he answered readily, "Shall we have a day in the country?" "I'll bring my car." he said. "It's a bit of a bone-shaker, not a first-class affair like yours Mrs. Lawless, but it runs well. What time?" "Any time; as early as you like." "Ten o'clock then?" "Yes." "Good-night." "Good-night, Mr. Dakers," |
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