FEATHERS' relief was so great that at first he could not speak, and she went on tremulously: "I've been here ever so long, walking up and down the road." She cast a timid glance behind her. "I saw you"—she went on almost whispering. "But I was afraid. I thought— oh, I thought so many dreadful things." He could see how she was trembling, and he took her hand into a warm clasp. "Oh, I am so glad to be with you," she said passionately.

He drew her into the parlor, closing the door. Though the evening was warm a fire burned in the old-fashioned open grate, its flames throwing fantastic shadows on walls and low ceiling.

Feathers put Marie into a chair, and stood beside her.

"There is nothing to be afraid of," he said gently. "You are quite safe with me"—but he looked away from her as he spoke, and the devil of desire rose again in his heart, turning his blood to fire, and forcing his pulse to racing speed. In that moment he fought the hardest battle of his life, as he stood there, her soft fingers clinging to his, in the intimacy of the firelit room, and with the silent country lying all around them outside.

He was an ugly man, with a hulking, grotesque body, but there was something of the angel in his eyes when presently he looked down at the girl's bowed head.

"Marie—will you answer me one question?"

She nodded, her lips were trembling too much to speak.

276 "Are you sure—can you tell me truthfully, with all your heart and soul, that you wish to come away with me to-night? that you know it is for your complete happiness?—that you have not one single fear, or regret?"

She nodded again, not looking at him.

"When you left me—last night," he insisted gently, "were you still quite happy?—perfectly happy?"

Silence now, then suddenly she looked up.

"Were you?" she whispered.

"No."

He never knew how he forced the word to his lips. The old longing was rending his heart, the old tempting whispers torturing him. Marie hid her face in her shaking hands.

Feathers sat down beside her. He put an arm round her shrinking figure as a big brother might have done, and his voice when he spoke was infinitely gentle.

"Last night was a dream," he said. "Let us forget it. I alone am to blame. No, no—let me go on," as she would have spoken. "No matter how much we might—I might love you, there are other things that count even more in the sum total of happiness—things I should be powerless to give you, and so . . . so we must forget . . . last night . . . and go back . . . . But you know that, Marie—without my telling you."

She looked up at him then, and suddenly she broke out wildly:

"It isn't that I don't love you—that I didn't mean it when I said I loved you. Oh, don't think that—don't think that!"

Feathers rose abruptly. He walked away from her, and his face was white, as Marie went on hopelessly.

"I can't explain myself—I don't understand myself. I only know that I've never been so happy in all my life as—as I was last night when—when you kissed me—I shall always remember it, always— It's too late to hope that I shall ever be happy with . . . with Chris—even if—if I wanted to; but—but he is my husband, and so . . ." She half turned, flinging despairing arms towards him. "Oh, 277 help me, please help me," she said sobbing.

Feathers came back to her, knelt down beside her, and took both her hands in his. The pallor had not left his face, but it was wonderful in its tenderness and his voice was infinitely gentle when he spoke.

"Chris came to my rooms last night—after . . . after you had gone." She looked up with terrified eyes.

"Chris!"

"Yes." Feathers drew a hard breath. "Marie, you know that . . . that he loves you, too?"

"Loves me!" she laughed harshly. "When he married me for my money— when he left me alone all those weeks! If it hadn't been for you . . ." She pushed his arm away and rose to her feet. "Oh, I don't want to talk about him. I never wish to see him any more."

Feathers stood up, so that his big figure was between her and the door.

"He is coming here—this evening—to take you home," he said.

For an instant she stared at him with an ashen face; then she gave a little stifled scream.

"No, no; I can't! I never want to see him again! Let me go! Oh! Let me go! I thought you loved me, and now this is what you have done."

He put her into the chair again, keeping her hands firmly in his. He told her as briefly as possible of his conversation last night with Chris.

"It was never the truth that he married you for your money," he said. He said it over and over again, trying to drive it home to her. She looked so dazed and white, almost like a sleep-walker who had been roughly aroused.

"I alone am to blame," he insisted quietly. "But for me Chris would have found out from the first that he loved you . . . Oh, Marie, try and understand, dear—try and understand."

She looked up at him with vague eyes and nodded vacantly.

She was trying to understand; she wanted to understand, but her brain refused to work.

278 She kept telling herself that she was going back home, that Chris was coming to take her home, that she was not going away with Feathers, after all, that it had just been a sweet, impossible dream, but it all sounded like so much foolishness.

How could Chris possibly love her? How could he possibly wish to take her home after all that had happened? He would hate and despise her when he knew.

She felt so cold! Her hands were like ice, and yet her head was burning hot.

Feathers went on talking to her, and she tried to listen, tried to keep her thoughts concentrated, but they would wander away; then presently—after a long while it seemed—he lifted her to her feet, and she heard him say that Chris could not be coming now after all, that it was too late—that it was past nine o'clock.

She laughed because he seemed so distressed.

"I knew he wouldn't come," she said, but it did not seem to matter.

She let him help her into the car—the same car in which she had ridden with him happily so many times before. She wished she could feel that happiness now, but her heart felt all dead and cold.

"I knew Chris wouldn't come," she said again stupidly. "Not that it matters at all," she added, with an empty little laugh.

Nothing mattered! This second bid for happiness had failed as the first had done and she wished she could die.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, as he folded the rug round her, and he answered "Home."

He looked up and down the road with haggard eyes, his ears strained for the sound of a car that might be bringing Chris. He could not understand why he had not come. He had counted on him with such passionate certainty that it never occurred to him for a moment that his note could have miscarried. His mind was racked with torturing doubts.

And all the time Marie's words were hammering against his brain, adding to his torture.

279 "It isn't that I don't love you—that I didn't mean it when I said I loved you. . . ."

Was that the truth? And if so, was he doing the right thing by sending her back to her husband?

Until to-night he had only tried to cheat himself with the belief that she loved him, but now everything seemed changed, distorted.

It was unusually dark, and a thick mist from the river made it difficult to see more than a yard ahead, in spite of the bright headlamps of the car.

Feathers had been tinkering with the engine in order to gain time, but he closed down the bonnet now, and came to the side of the car where Marie sat.

"Are you ready?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yes—" he had turned to move away, when she caught his arm.

"If—if it's good-bye—" she said, in such a faint whisper that he could hardly hear the words. "I should . . . oh, I should like to kiss you once more."

For an instant he stood like a man turned to stone, then he turned deliberately, and crushed her in his arms.

For a long moment their lips clung together, and it seemed to Marie that in that kiss, Feathers gave her his heart and himself and all that he had—forever. When he released her and she sank back, trembling and faint, she heard his hoarse "God bless you" as if in a dream, and presently he was beside her, driving slowly back through the mist and darkness.

She only spoke to him once to say:

"Supposing—supposing they won't have me at home any more?"

The blood rushed to his face.

"We won't suppose anything so impossible," he said, but a fierce exultation passed through him; for if such a thing were to happen, he knew that she would be his in very truth.

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