MRS. HERIOT had quite failed to make a conquest of Miss Chester, for the old lady considered that every woman who used paint and powder was a hussy. There was a very formal tea progressing in the drawing-room when Marie entered.

Mrs. Heriot was genuinely glad to see her as she had found conversation uphill work with Miss Chester. She kissed Marie effusively.

"I suppose Chris forgot to tell you I was calling," she said. "Men are so forgetful."

"He did tell me," Marie answered, "and I am afraid it was I who forgot. I am so sorry. Won't you have some more tea?"

Dorothy came in, and she and Mrs. Heriot started a passage-at-arms immediately. They were too much alike ever to agree, and Marie was relieved when Mrs. Heriot said she must go.

"Come and see me off," she whispered to Marie as she took her departure. "I want to tell you something."

Marie went reluctantly. She did not wish for any confidences from Mrs. Heriot, but apparently she was to be given no choice in the matter, for as soon as the drawing-room door had closed behind them Mrs. Heriot said in a mysterious voice: "Is there a room where we can be undisturbed for a moment? I have something very important to tell you."

Marie smiled nervously.

"Nobody will hear us here," she said "I think——" But Mrs. Heriot insisted, and Marie led the way into the library, which had been 243 turned into a sort of smoking-room for Chris since their marriage.

Mrs. Heriot shut the door carefully, then, turning, she asked with dramatic 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 being dreadfully 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 make scandal and mischief. I am only telling you for your own sake and because you and I have always been friends; but yesterday—down on the golf links."

Marie broke in with pale lips:

"Mrs. Heriot, I would much rather you said no more. It is of no interest to me—I beg of you, please . . ."

But Mrs. Heriot was enjoying herself too much to stop. She had always disliked Marie, and she hated Dorothy because she had appeared 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 arms round her! Crying—in his arms! I hate having to tell you, but I thought, and my sister thought, that it was only right you should know." She broke off, looking at Mane's stony face with faintly malicious eyes. "Men are so weak, poor dears; how can one blame them!" 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 with humiliating failure.

"I am so sorry for you," she pursued softly, "but you should really insist that she leave the house."

Marie walked past her and opened the door.

244 "Please go," she said.

"But, Mrs. Lawless——"

"Please go." Marie said again.

"Oh, well, of course, if you wish it!" Mrs. Heriot passed her jauntily and went out into the hall, just as Chris opened the front door and came in.

Mrs. Heriot smiled and held out her hand.

"I was so afraid I should have to run away without seeing you," she said. "We have had such a delightful afternoon. Where have you been, you bad man!"

Chris made some vague answer. His eyes had gone past her to where his wife stood at the study door. She was very pale but quite self- possessed, and she even smiled faintly as she met his eyes.

"Mrs. Heriot is just going," she said clearly. "Perhaps you will see her out, Chris."

She went back to the library, and stood staring before her with blank eyes. She had always hated Mrs. Heriot and distrusted her, but something told her that this time, at all events, the widow had spoken the truth. The facts seemed to fit so completely into the chain 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 behind her, 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 on at 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 tear herself from him, but she was afraid that once she gave way to the storm of passionate anger that was rending her she would never be 245 able 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 after to-morrow."

"The day after to-morrow?"

"Yes—something has happened to make him change his mind, I suppose. He's going, anyway."

Marie's heart felt like a stone, though every nerve in her body was throbbing and burning at fever point.

Feathers was going! After to-morrow she would not be able to get to him, no matter how passionately she longed to do so.

This man whose arms were about her now cared nothing for her. He had lied to her, and pretended and deceived her. She felt that she hated him.

"What's the matter, Marie Celeste?" Chris asked, abruptly. "Aren't you well? You look so white."

"Do I? It's nothing; I'm quite well." She moved past him, and he made no effort to stop her, but she knew that his eyes were following her as she went upstairs.

What did she mean to do? She did not know. Possible and impossible plans flitted through her mind. First she thought she would tell Chris that she had found out about Dorothy—then that she would not tell him, would not stoop to let him think she cared.

Did she care? She did not know. Her whole being was in the throes of some new, strange passion.

Perhaps even up in Scotland he had made love to Dorothy, and that was why he had stayed so long. Perhaps he had known that she was coming to London, and had even asked her to the house! Marie hid her face.

She would not stay with him. She would go away—she would go away with Feathers, if he would take her.

She longed for him as a homesick child longs for its father. He would be kind to her, he would understand.

Dorothy came tapping at the door. She held an open telegram in her hand.

246 "Marie, I've got to go home." She gave her the message to read without another word.

Marie took it mechanically, but the words danced meaninglessly before her eyes:

"Ronnie died this morning. Come at once."

Ronnie was Dorothy's brother, she knew. She looked at the girl's white 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. She telephoned for the car and told Miss Chester.

"Someone must go with her; she ought not to travel alone," the old lady 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 to him, and held her breath while she waited for him to answer.

If he agreed she would know that he was guilty. If he refused there would 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 not trust herself to look at him.

"Aunt Madge thinks someone should go, and I can't," she said. He agreed hastily.

"Of course, you can't; I will go, if you wish it. I shan't be able to get back till to-morrow," he said. "It will be too late to catch a train back to-night."

Marie did not answer, and he went away. She gave him no chance to say good-bye to her. He kissed her cheek hurriedly before he followed Dorothy to the waiting car, and he looked back anxiously as 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 for her! Did you know the brother, Marie?"

247 "I saw him once. He was a nice boy," Marie said apathetically. She could remember Ronnie Webber well. He had had a snub, freckled nose and twinkly eyes.

It seemed impossible that he could be dead. She wished she could feel more sorry.

The evening seemed interminable.

"Sit down and read a book, child," Miss Chester said once. "Don't wander about the house like that! I know you must be upset, but it'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 very busy 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 she went to bed. She sat at the open window for a long time looking into the darkness. Another forty-eight hours and he would be miles away. She thought of all the pictures she had seen of Florence and Venice, and wondered what it would be like to visit them with the man one loved.

Chris had offered to take her there, but she did not want to go with Chris—he did not care for her! He had lied to her and deceived her. She lay awake for hours, staring through the open window 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 believe that she did not care; tried to keep her thoughts focussed on Feathers, but they strayed back again and again to her husband.

Little forgotten incidents of the past danced before her eyes torturingly—Chris in his first Eton suit; Chris when he was captain of the school eleven, swaggering about on the green; Chris coming home for Christmas, a little shy and superior; Chris bullying her, and teasing her, and finally buying his complete 248 forgiveness by a kiss snatched under the mistletoe. She had loved him so much—had always been so ready to forgive and forget. Tears lay on her cheeks because she knew she was no longer ready to do so; tears of self-pity—shed in mourning over the days that were gone. She was a child no longer; she was a grown woman looking back on her childhood.

It was getting light when she fell asleep, and it was late when the maid roused her.

"I came before, but you were sleeping so sweetly I did not like to wake you," she apologized. Marie got up and dressed with a curious feeling of finality. Everything was at an end now; she would bear no more.

In the middle of the morning a wire came from Chris to say he would be at home to dinner that evening.

Miss Chester was dining out, and Marie knew she would have to meet him alone, but she did not care. She welcomed anything that hurried the ending towards which she was drifting. Each moment seemed like the snapping of another link in the chain of her bondage.

Chris arrived earlier than he expected. It was only five o'clock when 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 not answer, and she heard him question the maid, before he came running up 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 went over to her.

"Marie Celeste." There was an eager note in his voice, and he would have 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 her hands behind her, gripping the window sill to steady herself as she went 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— 249 I've finished, and that's all . . . If you won't go away from the house, 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 away quietly, 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 you would go away and leave me!"

For a moment there was profound silence, then Chris' tall figure swayed a little towards her, and he caught her arms in a grip that hurt.

"Who told you? And what do you know?" She hardly recognized his voice in its choked passion. "It's damned lies, whatever it is! I swear 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't blame 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 such infernal 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 has been! She tried the same lowdown game on me—only yesterday. She told me that there was something between you and Dakers, and I threatened to wring her neck if she ever dared to repeat the lie 250 again . . ." Marie raised her head, and her cheeks were fiery red. It gave her a fierce delight to feel that perhaps at last she had the 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 deathly whiteness of Chris' face as he stood helplessly staring at his wife. Marie had never seen agony in a man's face before, but she saw it now, and she averted her eyes with a little shiver.

"It's better you should know the truth," she said at last in a whisper. "I wanted to tell you before, but I was afraid."

"And—Dakers?" She hardly recognized her husband's voice as he asked the hoarse question, and it hurt her to hear that he no longer 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, or anyone else, could not hear . . ." She clasped her hands together passionately. "I wish he had!" she said chokingly. "I tried to make him, but it was no use . . ." She looked at Chris with feverish eyes. "It sounds dreadful, doesn't it?" she said piteously. "I should think it did if I heard anyone else say it. But it's the truth. 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 on his knees beside her, clasping her in his shakings arms.

"No, no, my dear! my dear! You don't know what you are saying. I'll forget it all and take you away. You're ill, Marie Celeste. I've been a brute to you, I know, but I don't deserve this." He took her hands, such cold little hands they were, and pressed them to his face. "I love you, too," he said brokenly. "I think I must always have 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 my life to make you happy. Say it isn't true—that you've just done it to torture me—to punish me?"

251 She tried to disengage her hands from his, but he held them fast. He went on pleading, praying, begging her, but she listened apathetically, her eyes averted from his bowed head.

She did not believe a word he was saying. The wall of her pride deafened her to the sincerity of his broken words. Her one emotion was the fierce, triumphant gladness that at last she could make him suffer as once he had made her.

Perhaps somewhere in a corner of that room the ghost of the child Marie Celeste stood weeping for the tragedy of it all—weeping because the woman Marie Celeste could so harden her heart to the grief of the man who had once been her idol.

Then suddenly Chris released her and stood up. His face was like gray marble as he took hers between his hands and looked down into her brown eyes.

"Is it—the truth, Marie Celeste?" he asked hoarsely. "Tell me the truth—that's all."

And Marie gave a little choking sound like a sob, and the lids fell over here eyes as she whispered:

"I have—told you."

That was all. Chris let her go. He fell back a step, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He was beaten and he knew it. No explanation he could make would be of any avail. She had shut him out of her heart for ever, and—for such is the tragedy of life—it was 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 the irrevocable act.

She kept the thought of Feathers before her eyes. She clung to the thought of the happiness he could give her. She never heard the warning voice that whispered to her of its impossible madness.

"Does—Aunt Madge know?" Chris asked again, and she shook her head, 252 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 he reached it, and for a moment stood fingering the handle aimlessly, then all at once the passionate blood came surging back to his white face. He strode back to Marie as e stood by the window, and caught her in his arms.

"I'll never give you up," he said hoarsely. "There's no law in England that can make me give you up. Kiss me, Marie Celeste, and say you didn't mean it . . ." His voice was broken; he hardly knew what he was saying. "You're my wife, and I'll keep you. Feathers doesn't want you—he has no use for women. You're my wife, and I love 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 her again and again despairingly.

Marie struggled against his arms. She flung her head far back to escape his lips, but he was stronger than she, and it was only when he felt her almost fainting in his arms that he released her.

"You're my wife," he said again, meeting her eyes. "I haven't forgotten it if you have."

Her lips were shaking so that she could hardly speak, but she managed to form a few words.

"Don't you ever—touch me again—like that. How dare you—insult me! You say you don't care for women, and it seems to me as if—any woman—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, and she 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!" he panted. "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 to 253 go to Dakers. My God, I could almost kill you . . ."

He was beside himself with rage and thwarted passion. He let her go so violently that she staggered and fell backwards, striking her head against the wooden window-sill; but Chris was blind and deaf to everything. He went downstairs and out into the street, hatless as he was, slamming the front door after him.

It was still light, and people stared at him curiously as he strode by, his eyes fixed unseeingly before him.

He was incapable of thought or action. He only felt that he must keep on walking, walking, to outstrip this terrible thing that walked gibbering beside him.

He had never suffered in all his life until now, and he did not know how to bear it.

He loved his wife and she hated him. He saw the world red as he walked along, careless of which way he went.

She loved Dakers! Feathers, ugly Feathers, who had never looked at a woman in his life! He laughed aloud at the thought.

And Feathers was his friend! They had been more than brothers, and now this tragic thing had occurred.

Presently he found himself outside Feathers' rooms in Albany Street, standing on the path, staring aimlessly at the door.

Why had he come there? He did not know. But he went up the steps and rang the bell.

Mr. Dakers was out, the maid told him, but he passed her and went up to his friend's room.

There was a packed portmanteau in one corner and the hearth was strewn with torn-up papers. Some whiskey and soda stood on the table, and Chris helped himself to a stiff dose.

He felt better after that, though there was a stabbing pain in his temples, 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 thought 254 melted away from him as soon as he thought he had got it.

The only thing he could see distinctly against his closed lids was the face of Marie Celeste as she had said, "Oh, if you knew how I hate you!"

He would always hear her voice to his dying day. He would carry the memory of it with him to the grave.

Imagination came to add to his torture. What had happened between her and his friend during all those days they had been together?

Was it true what Marie had told him, that Feathers had never spoken one word of love to her? He tried to disbelieve it, but he knew his friend to be an honorable man.

Feathers was no wife-stealer; Feathers was the straightest chap in the world.

Then came a revulsion of feeling. He hated him! He would kill him if 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! And he loved her so . . .

Fool that he had been never to know it before—to need the hysterical 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 a shiver of distaste shook him. He had never dreamed that she cared for him, that he was any more to her than she was to him—and at first he had been sorry for her, and ashamed of his own shortsightedness. Then he had grown angry and disgusted.

And that hell-cat, Mrs. Heriot, had seen it all! Chris struck his clenched fist against his forehead. He had never met a woman who was fit to hold a candle to Marie Celeste. And then, with that thought, the agony began all over again.

He had lost her! She would never look at him any more with shy adoration in her brown eyes. They might have been so happy, but it was too late now.

And the memory came to torture him of how Feathers had saved her 255 life! Perhaps she had begun to love him then! If so, how could he blame her for caring! Feathers was one in a thousand, with a heart of gold. Feathers would make her happy where he had failed so miserably.

The room seemed suddenly unbearably suffocating, and he went out again into the street.

He walked about all night, until wearied out, he turned back home and flung himself, dressed as he was, on the bed.

256