THEY took Marie back to the Yellow Sheaf Inn, on the Oxford road, carrying her on a rough stretcher made of a broken gate, covered with coats, and Chris walked beside her, holding her hand in his.

A doctor had come from Somerton, and they took her away from him upstairs, and shut the door.

The woman who kept the inn came up to him as he stood on the landing outside her room and tried to persuade him to come away and change his wet clothes.

"You'll take your death of cold," she said in kindly anger. "There's a suit of my husband's that you're welcome to, sir, I'm sure."

Chris thanked her absently, but hardly heard what she was saying. In his heart he was sure that Marie was dead, though as yet the shock of the tragedy kept him from feeling anything acutely.

It was a nightmare as yet—that was all! And he had the childish feeling that if he were patient, he would wake up and be able to laugh at it all.

Presently the woman climbed the stairs again with a cup of steaming coffee, into which she had put a strong dose of brandy. She stood over him as if she had been his mother while he drank it.

"It's no use everyone getting ill," she scolded. "If the poor dear in there wants you, you won't be in a fit state to go to her."

She had struck the right note, and Chris went off obediently to change his clothes.

The mist seemed to have quite cleared away as he looked towards the 288 window for a moment, and there was bright moonlight—as bright as it had been that night when he went out on to the sea with Mrs. Heriot and the skiff broke away—so long ago it seemed!

He shivered, and went back to the door of Marie's room.

Feathers was dead—he knew that now—but as yet had not been able to realize it. He knew that down on the river bank men were still searching for him—unsuccessfully. It was a horrible thought. He knew he would never be able to rid himself of the feeling of those slimy reeds and rushes that had tried to drag him down with them.

Feathers was dead! Chris knew that it must have been his arm about which his groping fingers had first closed. He shut his eyes with a sense of physical sickness.

Where was this tragedy, which had begun with his own selfishness, going to end?

Supposing Marie died, too! He gripped his arms above his heart as if to still the terrible pain that was rending him. He did not deserve that she should live, he knew. His face was ashen when presently her door opened and the doctor came out.

He was a young man and sympathetic. He put a kindly hand on Chris' shoulder.

"It's all right," he said. "She'll be all right—thanks to you. Shock to the system, of course, but"—he gave an exclamation of concern as Chris swayed—"you'd better come downstairs and let me prescribe for you," he said bluntly. "No, you can't see your wife yet. That face of yours would only make her worse."

He would not allow Chris to see her that night

"She must be kept perfectly quiet. My dear chap, listen to reason," he urged, when Chris objected. "Do you want to kill her outright? No? Very well, then, do as I say."

He hesitated, then asked: "Were you with her—in the car?"

289 "No"—Chris' voice shook—"my friend was with her," he added, turning his face away.

"I see. Terrible thing—terrible!"

Chris followed him to the door.

"And—my wife? You are sure—quite sure?" he asked in agony.

"Quite sure . . . She wants rest, of course, but it's been a most wonderful escape." He hesitated. "They haven't found the other poor fellow yet?" he asked.

"No."

He saw the grief in Chris' face, and held out his hand.

"You did your best; it was a gallant thing—going into the river like that—in the darkness. They would both have gone but for you."

"You'd best go to bed, sir," the innkeeper's wife said to Chris, as he went back upstairs. "Lie down and try to sleep: I'll call you the very minute if she asks for you."

But he would not, and in the end she brought an armchair to the door of Marie's room, and, worn out with exhaustion and emotion, Chris fell asleep in it.

He woke to daylight and the tramp of feet on the road outside. He stared up and stood listening and shaking in every limb.

He knew what it meant—they were bringing Feathers in . . .

The awfulness of it seemed to come home to him with overwhelming force as he stood there and listened.

He had lost his best friend—the man who for years had been more to him than a brother, and they had parted in anger. He had refused to shake hands with him—he would have given five years of his life now to live that moment again.

The innkeeper's wife came tiptoeing to him across the little landing as he stood looking out of the window on to the road. She had been up with Marie all night, and whispered to him now that she had fallen asleep.

"Such a lovely sleep, bless her!" she said, with pride. "And if you was to be very quiet . . ."

290 No more words were needed. Chris went past her and into the room where Marie lay.

She was fast asleep, her hair spread out over the pillow like a dark wing, and Chris went down on his knees beside her and hid his face. She had nobody now in the world but him—Miss Chester had gone, and Feathers. . . Oh, he would make it up to her! He would spend his whole life trying to make up to her all she had suffered.

"I love you, I love you," he said aloud, as if she could hear, but she did not move or stir, and presently he went away again.

He had not kissed her—not even her hands. Something seemed to hold him back from doing so, until she herself should say that he might.

The news of the accident had spread like wildfire, and all the morning people were walking out from the villages round about to stare with morbid interest at the spot on the river bank where the car had plunged into the water, or to crowd outside the inn in the hope of catching a glimpse of Chris.

The doctor came again, and was very pleased with Marie's progress.

"I think she could be taken home to-day," he told Chris. "It will be just as well to get her from this place."

Chris said he would make all arrangements.

"I can see her, of course?" he asked.

"Yes." But the doctor looked away from his anxious eyes. "I should not worry her or question her at all," he said diffidently, and then he added uncomfortably: "She seems somehow afraid at the thought of seeing you."

"Afraid!" The color rushed to Chris' face.

"Yes. Perhaps it is only my fancy, but she seemed nervous, I thought, when I mentioned you." He looked at the young man kindly. "Be gentle with her," he said, "I think she has suffered very much."

Chris did not answer, and the doctor went away.

Afraid! Afraid of him, when he loved her so! It was another hard blow to Chris to feel that Marie did not wish to see him. He tried 291 to make allowances for her. He knew what she had suffered. With sudden impulse he ran downstairs, overtaking the doctor in the hall below.

"My wife—does she know—that . . . that Feathers was drowned?" he asked jaggedly.

"Feathers?" the other man echoed, not understanding. "Oh you mean that poor fellow. Yes—I told her——"

"What—what did she say?"

"Nothing—she just turned her face away."

"I see. Thank you." Chris went upstairs slowly. He stood for a long time at his wife's door, not daring to knock, but at last he summoned his courage.

He heard her say "Come in" in a little quiet voice, and he opened the door.

She was dressed and sitting up in a big chair. She did not look so ill as he had expected, was his first relieved thought, and yet in some strange way she seemed to have changed. Was it that she looked older? He could not determine, but her eyes met his steadily, almost as if she did not recognize him, and her voice was quite even as she answered his broken question.

"I am—much better, thank you," and then: "The doctor says I may go home."

"Yes—I will take you this afternoon."

She twisted her fingers together restlessly, her eyes downcast, then quite suddenly she raised them to his face.

"I wish you had let me drown," she said, with passionate intensity.

"Marie—Marie," said Chris, in anguish.

She seemed heedless of his pain and went on talking as if to herself. "I'm no use to anybody. I bring nothing but trouble with me! That fortune-teller was right, you see, when she told me that she could see water in my life again—that would bring trouble . . . and tears!" Her voice fell almost to a whisper.

Chris stood looking at her helplessly. She seemed in some strange 292 way to be a great distance from him and yet by putting out his hand he could have touched her.

"Feathers gave his life for me" she went on, in that curious sing- song tone. "He could have saved himself, but he would not leave me— and we were . . . oh, hours in that dreadful darkness!"

"Don't think of it, Marie! Oh, my dear, try and forget it all."

She raised her haunted brown eyes to his face.

"I can't! I can't hear anything any more but the sound of that dreadful river! It was like a voice, mocking us. And he was so brave!" She caught her breath with a long, shuddering sob, but no tears came.

"I am glad that he loved me," she said again presently. "It is something to be proud of—always—that Feathers loved me."

Chris could not bear to look at her tragic face She had no thought for him, he knew, but she had never been so inexpressibly dear to him as she was now.

He was at his wits' end to know what to do with her. It was impossible to take her home with Miss Chester lying dead in the house, and there seemed nobody to whom he could turn for help.

Presently, he said gently:

"I shall have to run up to Town this afternoon—only for an hour or two. I shall come back as soon as possible. You don't mind, Marie?"

"Oh, no!" She seemed surprised at the question. "I shall be quite all right."

But still he lingered. He longed to put his arms round her and speak the many wild, passionate words of remorse and grief that trembled on his lips, but the new inexplicable aloofness of that girlish figure held him back.

"You are quite sure you don't mind being left?" he asked again. He longed for her to say that she wanted him to stay, but Marie only shook her head.

"I shall be quite all right," she said, apathetically.

He left her then, and presently from the window Marie saw him driving away down the road.

293 She gave a little sigh of relief, and for a moment covered her face with her hands.

She was free for a little while at last—free from the possibility of interruption. She crossed the room and opened the door. The little inn was very quiet, and nobody seemed to hear her step as she crept down the stairs and across the narrow, uneven hall to a closed door. She knew what lay behind that door, and for a moment she caught at the banisters with a sick feeling of anguish before she went steadily on and turned the handle.

294