Ruby M. Ayres

"And I remember that I sat me down

Upon the slope with her, and thought the world

Must be all over, or had never been,

We seemed there so alone."

MARIE did not answer the letter from Chris, and he wrote again two days later, much to her surprise:

"Dear Marie Celeste,—I hope you are not disappointed because I did not turn up the other night. I really wish I had now, as the weather has broken, and we've been having downpours of rain every day, so the handicap has been postponed. If it was not that there are several good bridge players in the hotel I don't know how the deuce we should pass the time. Have you seen Feathers? He said he should look you up, but I don't expect he has, the old blighter! Let me know how you are. I am sending you a cairngorm brooch with diamonds, and hope you will like it.—Yours affectionately, Chris."

Marie waited till the arrival of the brooch before she wrote:

"Dear Chris,—Thank you for your letter and the brooch, which is very uncommon. I am sorry the weather is so bad for you; it's quite good here. Yes, Mr. Dakers came to see us. I think he looks very well. Don't hurry home on my account. I am quite all right.—Yours affectionately, Marie Celeste."

What a letter, she thought, as she read it through—the sort of letter one might write to an acquaintance, certainly not to a man one loved best in the world!

She showed the brooch to Feathers.

"Yes, it's rather pretty," he agreed. "Everybody seems to wear that 155 stone in Scotland. Does Chris say when he is coming home?"

"No—he says the weather is bad."

"He'll soon be home then."

A flicker of eagerness crossed her eyes,

"Oh, do you think so?"

"He will, if it's really bad! You've no idea what it can be like up there once it starts to be wet."

Marie and Feathers had motored together a great deal since that first day.

"There'll be time enough for theatres when the winter comes," Feathers said. "I don't suppose you've seen much of the country, have you?"

"No."

"Then we'll have a run to the New Forest some day."

Marie looked up hesitatingly.

"Would you mind if Aunt Madge came?"

During the last few days she had been vaguely conscious of Miss Chester's silent disapproval.

"I shall be delighted if Miss Chester will come," Feathers said readily.

But Miss Chester refused. She did not mind a short run, she said, but it was too far into Hampshire, so they must go without her.

She watched them drive away, and then sat down to write to Chris. She marked the letter "Private," and underlined the word twice to draw attention to it. She wrote:

"My dear Chris,—Don't you think it's time you came home? Soon it will be five weeks since you went away, and it is a little hard on Marie, though she has not said one word of complaint to me. Mr. Dakers is very kind, taking her for drives, and looking in to cheer us up, but the child must want her own husband, and you have been married such a little time. She does not know I am writing to you, and she would be very angry if she ever discovered it but take an old woman's advice, my dear boy, and come back."

She felt much happier when the letter had been despatched; she went 156 back to her knitting quite happily to wait events.

But events came sooner than she had anticipated, for the morning post brought a letter, which had evidently crossed hers, to say that Chris was already on his way home, but was breaking the journey at Windermere for a few days to stay with friends.

"So he cannot have had my letter!" Miss Chester thought in dismay. She hoped it would eventually reach him.

If she had been uneasy about young Atkins, she was much more perturbed about Feathers. She fully recognized the strength of the man and the attraction he would undoubtedly have for some women, and she knew that he was already too interested in Marie.

"Chris ought never to have gone away alone," was her distressed thought. "If he had taken Marie with him, it would have been all right."

And down in the Hampshire woods Marie was just then saying to Feathers: "I do wish Aunt Madge had come! Wouldn't she have loved it?"

"I think she would. Perhaps she will come some other time."

They had brought their own lunch and had camped at the foot of a mossy bank on the shady side of the road.

It was very peaceful—the silence was hardly broken save for the occasional flutter of wings in the trees overhead or the distant sound of a motor horn from the main road.

Feathers was lounging on the grass beside Marie, his hat thrown off and his hair rumpled up anyhow.

There was a little silence, then Marie said:

"I don't think I've ever seen anything so lovely. I wonder why Chris didn't came to a place like this, instead of——" She broke off, realizing that she was speaking her thoughts aloud.

"Instead of to that Tower of Babel by the sea, eh?" Feathers asked casually.

"Yes, that is what I meant."

157 "I suppose he thought you would find it more amusing."

"Or that he would," said Marie bitterly.

Feathers did not answer. He was clumsily threading bits of grass through the ribbon of Marie's hat, which lay beside him.

"What's become of young Atkins?" he asked abruptly.

The unexpectedness of the question sent the color to Marie's face. "I don't know," she said guiltily. "He hasn't been around lately. I liked him so much," she added wistfully.

She looked down at Feathers with thoughtful eyes. He was a big, clumsy figure lying there, and she smiled as she watched him busily tucking the blades of grass into the ribbon of her hat.

"Do you think you are improving it?" she asked suddenly.

He looked up, and their eyes met.

Feathers did not answer. He was clumsily threading up with sudden energy.

"Shall we go on?" he asked, "or would you prefer to stay here?"

"We might stay a little while, don't you think?"

"For ever, if you like!"

She made a little grimace.

"We should hate it if it began to rain."

He looked up at the thick branches above their heads.

"Rain would not easily get through here. Chris and I camped somewhere near this place a couple of years ago."

"It must have been lovely."

"It wasn't so bad. We slept out in the open air on warm nights."

Marie leaned back against the great trunk of the tree under which they had lunched, and looked away into the avenue of green arches before them.

During the last day or two she had not thought so often of Chris, and to-day the mention of him had not brought that little stab of pain to her heart. Neither did she wish for him so passionately, 158 nor think what happiness it would be to have him beside her instead of Feathers.

She was always glad to be with Feathers. His strong, ugly face had lost all its ugliness for her. She only saw his kindliness and heard the gentleness of his voice.

Her eyes dwelt on him seriously. Some woman was losing a kind husband, she thought, and impulsively she said:

"Mr. Dakers—I should like to see you married."

He turned his head slowly and looked at her, and she wondered if it was just her imagination that his face paled beneath all its tan as he answered:

"That is very kind of you, Mrs. Lawless. I am afraid I shan't be able to oblige you though."

She laughed a little.

"It's just prejudice," she declared. "Some marriages must be very happy, surely?"

"Let us hope so, at any rate," said Feathers dryly, then he smiled. "I don't think there are many women in the world who would care to take me for a husband."

"They would if they knew how kind you can be."

Feathers rolled over, resting his elbows on the grass and his chin in his hands.

"It pleases your ladyship to flatter me," he said.

"I never flatter anyone," Marie answered. "And I wish you would take me seriously sometimes," she added, a trifle offendedly.

Feathers was absently piling up a little heap of tiny twigs and last year's leaves.

"I might be rather a monster if I were serious," he said.

Marie shook her head.

"I don't think so! I think I should like you better! Sometimes now I've got the feeling that you're not really natural with me. No, no, I don't think I quite mean that either! It's so difficult to explain, but sometimes it seems as if—almost as if you were—were trying to keep me at arm's length," she explained haltingly.

"You imagine things," Feathers said.

"I don't think so," she answered quietly. "I know I'm not much of a 159 judge of character or anything like that, but since we've been such friends I've thought about you a good deal, and——"

"I am indeed honored."

She flushed sensitively.

"There! That's what I mean—when you say things like that! It isn't really you that's saying it, is it? I mean—you're not saying what you would really like to say." She laughed nervously. "I explain myself very badly, don't I? But I know in my heart what I mean, really I do."

There was a little silence, then Feathers said gently:

"Don't trouble about me, Mrs. Lawless! I'm not at all a mysterious person, as you seem to be imagining. I'm just an ordinary man—as selfish as most of 'em, and no better than the worst; but . . . but I'm very grateful that you've taken me for a friend."

"Chris asked in his last letter if I'd seen you."

"Did he?"

"Yes, he said you had promised to call, but that he did not think you would. He has told me so often that you don't like women."

"I don't like them."

"Perhaps you haven't met the right sort," she hazarded.

"Or perhaps I have," he answered grimly. He laughed, meeting her sympathetic eyes. "No! I'm not one of those romantic chaps with a love story in the past done up with blue ribbons and lavender. If you're trying to pity me on that score I'm sorry—but I don't deserve it."

She looked at him steadily.

"Are you laughing at me, Mr. Dakers?" she asked, in a hurt voice.

Feathers' hand fell over hers as it lay half-buried in the soft grass, and for a moment his fingers closed about it in a grip that hurt; then he got to his feet.

"Laughing at you! Don't you know me better than that?"

He went over to the car and busied himself at the engine for a 160 moment, and Marie watched him, with chagrined eyes.

She liked him so much, but she understood him so little. She rose reluctantly when presently he called to her that it was time to make a start. She went over and stood beside him.

"You're not angry with me, are you?" she asked hesitatingly.

She thought at first he had not heard, until he said brusquely:

"I'm never angry with you—only with myself."

He picked up her coat from the grass. "Put this on—you mustn't take cold."

But he made no attempt to help her into it, and there was a little hurt look on her face as she turned away.

She was sure that she had somehow annoyed him, but could not understand in what way. She supposed it must be just her stupidity!

"And where shall we go next time?" she asked, as they neared London on the way home. "Can't we go out again to-morrow, if you are not engaged?"

Feathers did not answer at once; then he said rather stiffly: "Chris may be home."

Marie laughed cynically.

"I don't think that is very likely to happen."

There was a moment's silence, then Feathers said, almost fiercely:

"He ought to come home! It is his duty to come home!"

She did not answer—did not know how to answer. She was conscious of a little feeling of perplexity, but she asked no more questions, and when they were home again she held out her hand.

"Good-bye, Mr. Dakers, and thank you so much."

His deep eyes met hers rather defiantly.

"And what about to-morrow?" he asked.

She flushed sensitively.

"I thought you did not care about it," she stammered. "I thought perhaps you did not want to take me out any more—that there were other things you would rather do. Oh, I don't want to take up all 161 your time."

He answered flintily:

"There is nothing else I would rather do. What time may I call?"

"I promised to go shopping with Aunt Madge in the morning, but after lunch——" She looked at him hesitatingly.

"I will call at half-past two." he said. "Good-bye, Mrs. Lawless."

He raised his hat and drove away without a backward look, and Marie went slowly into the house.

Miss Chester was in the drawing-room, patiently knitting as usual. She looked up with an anxious little smile as the girl entered.

As a rule Marie's first question was, "Any letters for me?" but to- day she did not ask. She looked a little flushed and preoccupied, and answered absently when Miss Chester spoke to her.

"Did you have a nice run, dear?"

"Lovely. I think the New Forest is the most beautiful place I have ever seen."

There was a little silence only broken by the click of the old lady's knitting needles, then she said quietly:

"I have had a letter from Chris. He is on his way home."

Marie did not answer—her lips had fallen a little apart incredulously.

"He is staying a few days at Windermere with some friends," Miss Chester went on. "But he is on his way home, and will be here in a few days."

She looked up at her niece.

"I thought you would be so pleased," she said rather piteously.

"So I am, dear, of course! But—well, he has been coming home several times before, hasn't he? And we've always been disappointed."

She went upstairs to her room. Chris was coming home! She looked at herself in the glass and wondered why there was no radiance in her eyes. A week ago she had been nearly wild with delight at the 162 thought of seeing him, but this time somehow it was different.

"I've been disappointed so often, that is it," she thought. "I am not going to think about it at all."

But she could think of nothing else. Would he have changed? What would he be like? Had she got to go back to the old weariness and jealousy when once again she saw him every day? Lately she seemed to have freed herself a little from the shackles of pain and she dreaded feeling their merciless grip upon her afresh.

"Perhaps he won't come," was her last thought, as she fell asleep that night, and for the first time since her marriage she felt that in a way it would be a relief if something happened again to postpone his return.

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