MARIE had stopped dead, the blood rushing to her face, her hands nervously clutching the brim of the hat she had taken off when she entered. Chris was almost as embarrassed as she. He colored to the roots of his hair and laughed awkwardly. "So you've got back, Marie Celeste." "Yes." And the dreadful pause fell again. They both knew quite well that Miss Chester was watching them, but for the life of her Marie could not have moved a step towards him. Then, at last, Chris said, "Well, aren't you going to give me a kiss?" He was terribly nervous, which partially accounted for the lightness of the words, but Marie read no meaning into them, except the old dreaded indifference, and she turned her face away when he bent towards her, so that his kiss fell on her cheek. "You look very well," he said, because it was the exact opposite to what he was thinking, and Marie said, "So do you," as she moved over to Miss Chester as if for protection, and sat down on the arm of her chair. Chris lounged against the mantelshelf and stared up at the ceiling. "Did you have a good time with Feathers?" he asked, bringing his eyes down to his wife's pale face. "Yes—I'd never been before. We went up to Wargrave. It was lovely!" She answered mechanically, in little jerky sentences. "We had some good times camping out years ago," Chris said. "It's all right if the weather holds." "Yes," said Marie. She looked at him with brown eyes that were "It was queer, you meeting Dorothy," she said, with an effort, and Chris said, "Yes, the world is a small place." "I told her that I was sure you would be pleased to have her to stay any time she liked to write and fix it up," he added. "She plays a fine game of golf, but I beat her in the end." "She was always good at sports," Marie said mechanically. Miss Chester gathered up her knitting and said it was time she went to bed. It was infinitely pathetic to her, because both Chris and Marie immediately protested that it was still quite early, and that surely there was no hurry. But she persisted, and went off to her room. There was an awkward silence when she had gone. Chris lit a cigarette and forgot to keep it alight. "I've brought you a bracelet," he said abruptly. "I hope you'll like it." He took a little box from his pocket, "I got it in Edinburgh coming down—I thought it was rather pretty." He held the case to her. "Well, don't you want it?" "Thank you, Chris; of course, I do! Thank you, very much." She opened the snap and gave a little exclamation of pleasure; the bracelet was designed like a wreath of small water lilies, the petals made of platinum, with a diamond in the heart of each flower. "It's very pretty," she said. "Thank you so much." But she made no attempt to take it from the case or slip it on her wrist, and with a little impatient movement he took it from her. "Come here," he said. "Hold out your hand." She did so, and he snapped the bracelet on to her arm. "It's very pretty," said Marie, but she did not dare to raise her eyes to her husband's face. The touch of his hand on her arm had communicated to her something of his old magnetism, and she knew Then, suddenly, before she could guess at his intention, Chris had caught her in his arms, and was kissing her passionately, bringing stinging patches of crimson to her white face, and almost robbing her of breath. Then he held her at arm's length, his handsome face flushed, and his eyes very bright and triumphant. "You little iceberg! How dare you give me such a cold reception! I've been looking forward to seeing you and you calmly go out as if I didn't exist . . . Why, what's the matter, Marie Celeste?" He seemed suddenly aware of the strange expression of her eyes. His hands relaxed their grip, and she twisted herself free. She had felt his kisses to be an outrage. She knew that he did not love her, and that this sudden burst of passion was worth nothing at all. There was something akin to hatred in her eyes as she raised them to his abashed face. "Please never dare to do that again," she said in a voice that was all the more intense for its quietness. "I have never bothered you, or asked anything of you—you have gone where you liked and stayed away as long as you pleased—you always can—but in exchange I expect you to allow me the same freedom." Chris flushed scarlet, but more with surprise than any other emotion. That she should dare so to speak to him was the biggest shock of his life. For a moment he could find no words, then he broke out savagely: "Someone has been talking! Someone has been setting you against me. I felt that you had changed directly I came into the room. Who is it? Tell me who it is?" She smiled contemptuously. "I have hardly seen anyone, except Aunt Madge's friends and your own, and if you think they have any reason to speak against you it is no fault of mine." He broke in passionately: "It's that young devil, Atkins. I knew he was keen on you; I—Marie——" He caught her by the arm, swinging her She looked up. "If I have, it isn't for you to be surprised, seeing that you have never once troubled to remember it." "Marie—what do you mean? I thought . . . I mean—it was your wish . . ." He stammered and broke off; then all at once he turned away with a little harsh laugh. "What a nice home-coming! I wish to God I'd stayed away." "You would have done so if you'd wanted to," Marie said quietly. She waited a moment, but Chris did not speak, and she moved towards the door. "I am tired—and I dare say you are. Good-night." He did not answer, and she went silently away. Chris stood with his elbow on the mantelshelf, staring down into the empty grate. His pride, if nothing more serious, had received a nasty blow. He had come home quite happily—having had the time of his life— had looked forward to seeing Marie Celeste—had planned all sorts of things for her amusement—and, incidentally, his own—in the future, and this was the reception he got! He bit his lip savagely. What was the explanation of it all? She had always been so docile and devoted. It turned his blood to white heat to think of the apathy with which she had received his kisses— kisses that had been meant, too! His face darkened—it was the first time in his life he had ever known the slightest desire to kiss any woman, but she had looked so provokingly pretty in her white frock . . . Chris swore and lit another cigarette. It would be a very long time before he troubled about her again, he promised himself. He would have been furiously indignant had anyone told him that it was Marie's indifference that had fired his imagination, and It was not exactly pleasant to remember the years that were gone, through which she had so faithfully adored him, and contrast them with the steely feeling of her lips beneath his and the resistance of her slim body in his arms. Who was responsible for the change? He sought for it in everyone but himself. He was the most suspicious of young Atkins—he was near Marie's age, and had from the first shown a ridiculous interest in her. It was odd that he never seriously considered Feathers. Feathers was his friend and disliked all women; any attention he had shown to Marie had been out of ordinary courtesy, nothing more. Well, if this was the attitude she meant to adopt, he would soon let her see that he was quite indifferent. He would go his own way and leave her severely alone. Hang it all, he had brought her home a bracelet, and written whenever there had been anything to write about. He would not have believed it possible for her to be so unreasonable. He comforted himself with the reflection that in a few days she would come to her senses. All their lives there had been little ups and downs of this kind, and she had never failed in the end to say she was sorry. She needed a firm hand—he supposed that all women did. Having argued himself back into a more complacent state of mind, Chris turned out the light and went, up to bed. His room was next to Marie's, and as he moved about it in his stockinged feet, once or twice he was sure that he heard the sound of stifled sobbing, though whenever he stood still to listen all was quiet again. Once he even softly tried the handle of the communicating door, but it was locked, and he frowned as he turned away. She had been so different that Sunday afternoon when he asked her to marry him. It gave him an unpleasant twinge to remember the shy And his mind went back again to young Atkins with angry persistence. Young cub! If he had been making love to Marie Celeste, he would break his neck for him. With singular blindness, he believed that the surest way to put things right between himself and Marie, was to ignore the fact that anything was wrong. When they met he was always smiling and cheerful, but he never asked her to go out with him, never showed the slightest interest in what she did, or how she spent her time. Miss Chester looked on in troubled perplexity. She loved them both, and did not know with which of them the real fault lay. She was afraid to ask questions, so matters were just allowed to drift, and whatever battles Marie had to fight, she alone knew of them. She spent a great deal of her time with Miss Chester; she drove with her and walked with her, and patiently wound wool for the knitting of that interminable shawl. She had not seen Feathers since the day on the river, though she knew that he was often with Chris, and her heart was sore at the loss of her friend. She missed him terribly, though their companionship had only lasted a little more than a week, and it hurt her inexpressibly to hear the casual way in which Chris spoke of him—Feathers had been on the ran-dan! Feathers had lost sixty pounds at poker! Feathers had had to be taken home from his club in a taxi. Miss Chester looked up from her work. "Chris, what is the ran-dan?" she asked. Chris laughed, and it was Marie who explained. "It's a slang word for dissipation. Aunt Madge." Miss Chester said "Oh!" in a rather shocked voice, adding slowly, "I should not have thought Mr. Dakers a dissipated man." "Nor I," said Marie. "You don't know him as well as I do." Chris said. "And, by the way, Marie looked up. "To lunch at the Load of Hay?" she asked quietly. Chris raised amazed eyebrows. "How ever did you know?" "I went there with him once. We motored out, and Mrs. Costin gave us lunch." "You never told me." "I forgot. We met Mrs. Heriot there." "Yes; so Feathers said. We're going to fix up a foursome with her." "Why don't you go, too, Marie?" Miss Chester said. "The drive would do you good. You haven't been out in the car since that day Mr. Dakers took you on the river." "Yes; why not come along, Marie Celeste?" Chris said. "I don't think I care about it," Marie answered. Later on Chris tried again to persuade her. He had followed her into the dining-room, where she was arranging flowers for the dinner table. "Why won't you come on Sunday?" he demanded. "Because I should not find it very amusing. I don't play golf, you know." Chris fidgeted round the room, jingling some loose coins in his pocket. "I suppose you'd go if Feathers asked you," he said suddenly—so suddenly that the hot color flew to Marie's face. "I don't know what you mean," she said steadily. "I mean that from all accounts you were with him every day before I came home." "Every day! When he was in Scotland with you for a month!" "You split straws," he answered irritably. "You know quite well what I mean." "He took me motoring two or three times. I was glad to go; I had not had a very exciting time." "You could have had friends to stay with you." "I asked Dorothy Webber, and she refused." "I should not imagine that she is your sort, anyway," he said offhandedly. "She was my best friend at school." Chris took up a book and threw it down again. "Well, will you come on Sunday?" "No, thank you." He caught her hand as she passed him, and his voice was hoarse as he asked: "Marie Celeste, what the devil have I done to make you hate me like this?" He had not meant to say it. He had intended to maintain his dignity and indifference until it conquered her, but instead she had conquered him, and now there was a passionate desire in his heart to see the old shy look of adoration in her eyes and set the blood fluttering in her pale cheeks. She gave a little, nervous laugh. "I don't hate you; don't be absurd, Chris. Let me go; I want to finish these flowers." "You can go if you will promise to come with me on Sunday." She looked up. "Why are you so anxious for my company all at once?" He frowned. "It looks so—so rotten, our never being together. Feathers is always getting sly digs in at me about it, and it isn't as if there is any real reason; we have always been good friends, Marie Celeste, until lately." So it was not that he wanted her. It was just that Feathers had commented on the fact that they were so seldom together, and she knew how Chris hated to be talked about. She thought of Feathers with a little heartache. It seemed an eternity since she had seen him or felt the strong clasp of his hand, and quite suddenly she made up her mind. "Very well, I will come." Chris brightened immediately. She did not expect to enjoy herself by accompanying Chris. She hated Mrs. Heriot, and she knew she would feel out of everything and unwanted, but—and she knew this had been the determining factor—she would see Feathers. She wore her prettiest frock on Sunday, and turned a deaf ear to Mrs. Chester's lamentations that it would be ruined. "The roads are so dusty—wear something that can't be spoilt, my dear child." "I'll take a cloak," Marie said. She was conscious of a little feeling of nervousness as she drove away with Chris. "I'm going to pick Feathers up at his rooms," he said. "He's got rooms in Albany Street, you know." "Yes, he told me." Her heart was beating fast as they drew up at the house, and she kept her eyes steadily before her as Chris left the car and rang the door bell violently. It was opened by Feathers himself, ready to start and with his golf bag slung over his shoulder. "Ten minutes late, you miserable blighter," he began, then stopped, and his face seemed to tighten as he looked at Marie. "How do you do, Mrs. Lawless?" He went forward and shook hands with her formally. "This is a pleasant surprise," he said quietly. "Well, don't waste time—get in," Chris struck in bluntly. He took his seat again beside his wife and drove on. Marie felt strained and nervous. She tried hard to think of something to say. She knew it would be the most natural thing in the world for her to turn and speak to Feathers, but she could not force herself to meet his eyes. "You're very talkative," Chris said with faint sarcasm, looking "Was she was quiet as this when you took her out, Feathers?" Feathers laughed, and made some evasive answer. He tried not to look at Marie, but his eyes turned to her again and again. It seemed a lifetime since they had met, and it filled him with unreasonable jealousy to see her sitting by his friend's side as once she had sat by his, and to know that she belonged to Chris— irrevocably. It had cost him a tremendous effort to keep away from her. Chris had asked him to the house a dozen times since his return, but he had always managed to avoid going. What was the use? He had had his little hour of life. There was nothing more to hope for. Mrs. Heriot was out in the road looking for them when they drew up at the inn. A faint shadow crossed her face when she saw Marie, though she was effusive in her welcome. "And Mrs. Lawless too! How delightful—and how perfectly splendid you are looking, Chris!" Chris walked on with her to the inn, and for a moment Marie and Feathers were left together. They both tried to think of something to say, but even ordinary conversation seemed difficult. It was only when Marie's coat slipped from her arm and they both stooped to recover it, that for an instant their eyes met, and she broke out, as if the words were formed without her will or knowledge, "It is nice to see you again, Mr. Dakers." Poor Feathers! He flushed to the roots of his rough hair as he answered gruffly: "You are very kind, Mrs. Lawless," and then, with a desperate attempt to change the subject, "Chris looks well, doesn't he?" "Yes." She looked at him resentfully, but something in his face soothed the soreness of her heart, for there was a hard unhappiness in his eyes, and a bitter fold to his lips. "This is not very interesting to you, I am afraid, Mrs. Lawless." Mrs. Heriot laughed. "Mrs. Lawless ought to learn to play! Why don't you teach her, Mr. Dakers? She really ought to play." "I'm afraid I should never be any good at it," Marie answered. "I never could walk far, and it seems to me that you spend all the time walking round and round." Mrs. Heriot looked at Chris. "Your wife is a vandal," she told him. "I am surprised that you have not made her into more of a sportswoman." He would have spoken, but she rattled on. "Did they tell you how they ran into us down here ten days ago? Wasn't it queer? And what do you think that silly Mrs. Costin thought?—why, that Mrs. Lawless was Mr. Dakers' wife! We had such a laugh over it, didn't we?" she appealed to her sister. Marie had flushed crimson. She looked appealingly across at her husband, and was stunned by the look of anger in his eyes—anger with her, she knew. With a desperate effort she pulled herself together. "I wonder if people thought any of the women Chris played golf with in Scotland were his wife?" she said. Mrs. Heriot screamed with laughter. "That's the first time I've ever seen you hit back," she cried, clapping her hands. "You dear, delightful child." Feathers pushed back his chair and rose. "Are we obliged to waste all the day here?" he asked. "I thought the main object was to play golf." Mrs. Heriot followed him with alacrity, and her sister glanced at Marie. "What are you going to do?" she asked. "You'll find it very tiring "I should like to come." Marie said. "You would like me to, wouldn't you, Chris?" "My dear child, please yourself, and you will please me." He tried to make his voice pleasant, but to Marie, who knew him so well, there was an underlying current of angry bitterness. Was he jealous because of that remark about Feathers, she wondered, and laughed at herself. Chris had never been jealous of anyone or anything in his life. "I shall come then," she said, and walked out of the room. But before they had got half-way round the course she was tired out, and had to admit it. There were hardly any trees for shelter, and the sun blazed down relentlessly on the dry grass. Mrs. Heriot and Chris were playing together and a little ahead, and Marie said to Feathers: "I'm going to stay here and rest. Please go on, and I will walk back to the clubhouse directly." They were passing a little group of trees. "It will be cool in the shade here," she added. Mrs. Heriot's sister called to them. "Now then, you two! What are you waiting for?" "You'd better have my coat to sit on," Feathers said. "Yes, I know it's hot, but there are heavy dews at night and the grass may be damp, and you don't want to take any risks." He had been playing without his coat, and he handed it to her before he went on to join his partner. Marie sat down in the shade. Her head ached and she was glad of the rest. She let Feathers' coat lie on her lap listlessly. What did it matter if she caught cold or not? Certainly nobody cared what became of her. The others had gone on over a rise in the ground and out of sight before Chris noticed that Marie was not with them. "She was tired—she is going back to the clubhouse when she has rested." Mrs. Heriot laughed as she walked on by Chris' side. "Mr. Dakers is very devoted," she said softly. "Devoted!" Chris echoed the word blankly. "Devoted to what?" he asked. She raised her eyes and lowered them again immediately. "To your wife, I mean," she said. "To—my—wife!" She gave a little affected laugh. "My dear Chris, don't pretend to be surprised when everyone down at the hotel noticed it, even on your honeymoon. Why, Mrs. Lister even asked me which of you was her husband—you or Mr. Dakers. So silly of her, of course, but it shows how people notice things. You know I always think that when a man dislikes women, as Mr. Dakers has always professed to do, in the long run he is bound to be badly caught." Chris turned on her furiously. "I think you forget you are speaking of my wife," he said. She flushed scarlet. "My dear boy, I meant nothing against her. I know as well as you do that there is nothing in it, on her side at all. I only meant that Mr. Dakers . . ." "Dakers is my friend. I would rather not discuss him, if you have no objection." She saw that she had gone too far, and relapsed into silence. They both played badly for the remainder of the game, and lost the match. They were rather a silent party as they walked back to the clubhouse. Feathers looked round quickly. "Mrs. Lawless is not here," he said to Chris. Chris threw his clubs into a corner. "No; I'll go and find her," he said, and walked out again into the sunshine. |
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