IT was impossible to be ungracious. Marie took Dorothy Webber intothe drawing-room while Chris sent the car away. He stood lookingafter it with a frown above his eyes. It was rotten luck, Dorothyturning up like this just as everything had been going soswimmingly and he was conscious of a vague apprehension.
He joined the girls in the drawing-room for tea, and Miss Chestercame down, bringing her eternal knitting.
She was pleased to see Dorothy, for she thought she would be a nicecompanion for Marie. She said that she hoped she would stay a longtime. She could not understand why Chris was so silent or why hekept looking at his wife with a queer sort of chagrin in his face.
"I'm looking forward to another round with you," Dorothy said,turning to him. "Of course, there are lots of links round about?"
"I'm going to teach Marie to play," Chris said. He had made up hismind that if they went away he would teach her and had been lookingforward to it. He felt decidedly annoyed with Dorothy for havingwhat he chose to call "butted in."
He sulked about the house till dinner-time, then went to Marie'sroom as she was changing her frock. His eyes were rueful as helooked at her. "It's the devil's own luck, isn't it?" he saidboyishly.
"What do you mean--about Dorothy?"
"Yes. Why the dickens she wanted to come here I'm hanged if Iknow!"
Marie smiled faintly.
"Well, we both said we should be pleased to see her at any time,didn't we?"
"I know--but coming just now!" He took up one of her silver brushesand fingered it nervously. "I was looking forward to taking youaway, Marie Celeste."
"Perhaps she won't stay long," Marie said, with an effort.
She did not know if she were glad or sorry that Dorothy had sounexpectedly intervened. She had rather dreaded going away withChris, and yet it had been a relief to know that at last there wassome sort of an understanding between them.
Dorothy monopolized most of the conversation at dinner time, andaddressed herself chiefly to Chris. She was a pleasant-lookinggirl, very brown-skinned and healthy, with straightforward grayeyes and fair hair, which she wore brushed back and screwed intorather a business-like and unbecoming knob.
She talked a great deal about golf, and seemed rather surprised atChris' lack of enthusiasm. She kept looking at Marie in a puzzledsort of way.
During those weeks in Scotland she had formed her own opinion ofthis marriage, and therefore had not had the least hesitation inthrowing herself on Marie's hospitality. A man who had been marriedso short a time and who could leave his wife at home while he spenta month in Scotland playing golf would certainly not object to athird person in the house. So she argued, with some reason, as sheunpacked her boxes and settled down comfortably in the best spareroom.
"It's ages since I was in London for any time," she said. "I'mgoing to enjoy myself thoroughly. Marie, where do you buy yourfrocks? They make mine look as if they came out of the ark, don'tthey?"
Marie laughed. She had been very fond of this girl at school, butlately all her old affections seemed somehow to have shifted. Thefault was in herself, she knew, so she tried her best to be nice toDorothy to make up for the old feeling that was no longer in herheart.
"I'll take you to all the shops." she said. "We'll have a long dayto-morrow."
"And where do I come in?" Chris asked quickly. His eyes werepleading as they looked at his wife.
"Men always hate shopping, don't they?" Dorothy chimed in. "Theyalways look dreadfully out of place, anyway, poor dears."
"Well, I'll be the happy exception to prove the rule," Chrisdeclared, and he kept his word. He trudged round the West End withhis wife and Dorothy the following morning, and did his best not toappear bored. He took them to lunch at the Savoy, and escorted themto more shops afterwards.
"I think you've got a model husband," Dorothy said, when at lastthey drove home. "I never would have believed he was capable of itwhen we were up in Scotland. It only shows how one can bedeceived."
But Chris gave a deep sigh of relief when they reached home. Hewent off to the dining-room and mixed himself a strong whiskey. Hefelt irritable, though he tried manfully to suppress hisirritation. What waste of time it all was, he thought--trudginground on hot pavements, in and out stuffy, uninteresting shops,when one might be out in the country or up on the Scotch moors.
For three days he did his duty nobly. He was always in to meals--hetook Marie and Dorothy to a matinee, and to dinner at the Carlton.
"We ought to have had another man to make a fourth," he said to hiswife afterwards. "I'll ask Feathers to come to-morrow."
He did ask him, and Feathers refused. He had an appointment, hesaid, and would come another day.
"What about Italy?" Chris inquired over the 'phone, and Featherssaid that he expected to go in about ten days' time.
Chris told Marie.
"We ought to ask him round before he goes," he said. "You write andask him to dinner, Marie Celeste."
She wanted to refuse, but did not like to.
"Very well." She was looking pale and tired, and Chris' eyeswatched her anxiously.
After a moment he asked:
"How long is Miss Webber going to stay?"
"I don't know. I can't very well ask her to go, can I?" Chrismooned around the room.
"I wish she'd go," he said inhospitably.
Marie smiled.
"I'm afraid you've had rather a dull week," she admitted. "Whydon't you go for a day's golf to-morrow. Take Dorothy--she wouldlove it, I know."
"I'll go if you come."
"Nonsense. You know how tired I got when we went before. I shall bequite all right at home, and I do hate to know you are tied to thehouse all day."
He looked hurt, and she hastened to add kindly: "It's been verygood of you, Chris, and I do thank you."
He laid his hand on her shoulder.
"If you're pleased that's all I care about," he said. . . .
To Marie's surprise. Feathers rang up and accepted her invitation.
She answered the 'phone herself, and the sound of his voice senther pulses racing, and the hot blood rushing to her cheeks.
"Do I have to get into war paint?" he asked, and she laughed as shesaid that he could please himself.
"Why haven't you been to see us before?" she questioned.
"Because I knew you had company, and I haven't any companymanners."
"It's only Dorothy Webber--you met her in Scotland."
"Yes. . . ." There was a little pause, and before she could thinkof anything else to say he said: "Well, I shall see you thisevening, then."
"Yes."
Marie sighed as she hung up the receiver. She wished he had refusedto come, and yet she was longing to see him. She felt painfullynervous as the evening drew nearer.
Chris had driven out into the country with Dorothy to play golf,and for the first time for a week Marie found herself with a littlebreathing space.
Chris' attentions had been rather overwhelming. He had done hisbest, she knew, and was grateful to him for it, but he left herrather breathless. She could never lose sight of the fact that hisaffections were forced and wondered how much longer he would beable to keep up the farce.
She never gave herself a moment in which to think. She never lookedforward, but lived in the present only.
Chris had said he should be home at six, but at seven o'clock, whenFeathers was announced, he had not returned.
Marie went down to the drawing-room with a trembling heart. She hadhoped that her husband would have been home before Feathers came.She knew that her face was white as she crossed the room to him andthat her voice was unsteady as she said:
"Chris hasn't got back yet--I am so sorry. He promised to be in atsix! I am afraid something has gone wrong with the car."
"It's not very late," Feathers said kindly. "I think I am ratherbefore my time. He is sure to be in directly."
Marie walked over to the window and looked into the street. TheSeptember evening was closing in rapidly, w
ith rather depressinggreyness.
"I hope nothing has happened to them," she said faintly. She wasnot at all anxious really, but she felt that she must gain time torecover her composure before she could talk to Feathers.
He watched her across the room with sad eyes. He had not seen hersince that day on the golf links, and he took in every detail ofher graceful little figure hungrily.
She was wearing a white frock of some gauzy material, cut ratherlow, and her soft brown hair curled into little ringlets like achild's on the white nape of her neck.
Was she any happier, he wondered? He knew that Chris had been aboutwith her a great deal during the past week, and he hoped with allhis heart that things were improving between them. He longed to askher, but was afraid. He knew that the only safe thing for them wasto keep to ordinary topics of conversation.
Marie dropped the curtain presently and came back to him.
"What have you been doing with yourself?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, nothing in particular. Yesterday I played golf with youngAtkins. He asked after you."
"Did he?" Her eyes brightened. "I wish I could see him again."
"He tells me he is going to America shortly. He has been in hisfather's office, you know, but they don't get on, and so I thinkit's very wise of him to clear out."
"And you are going to Italy?" Marie said constrainedly. "Chrissuggested that we should go, too, but--but I don't think I careto."
"It's the wrong time of year to see Italy to advantage."
"Yes, I know."
She looked at him wistfully. So strong, such a man! Longing to knowthe perfect happiness of his love crept into her heart.
There would be no half measures with him, she knew; no pretences.He would give all or nothing.
In spite of what he had said, Feathers had struggled into eveningclothes. They did not fit him particularly well, but they seemed tomagnify the squareness and strength of his build. Though he was notso tall as Chris, he always looked taller, and, despite his uglyfeatures, there was something very noble in the rough outline ofhis head and shaggy hair.
"Where are they playing to-day?" he asked, breaking a silence thatwas beginning to get unbearable, and Marie said:
"Where we went before--the place where Mrs. Heriot is staying."
"Oh!" There was something dry in the little monosyllable that madeher say impulsively: "I suggested it. Chris has been so unselfishlately, taking us about all over the place, I thought he deserved aholiday--he likes playing with Dorothy, you know."
"Yes." There was the sound of a car driving up outside, andFeathers said, with obvious relief: "Here they are, I expect."
Chris came into the room a moment later. He looked at his wifeanxiously.
"I'm sorry, Marie Celeste," he said. "The wretched car broke down,and it took me half an hour to get it right. I hope you haven'tbeen anxious about us? How are you, old chap?"
The two men shook hands.
"Where is Dorothy?" Marie asked, and Chris looked away from her ashe said, "I believe she went straight upstairs to dress."
"I'll go and tell her not to hurry."
Marie ran up to her friend's room, glad to get away for a moment.She knocked at the door, and, getting no answer, turned the handleand went in. Dorothy was standing in the middle of the room, herhands over her face. She had made no attempt to change her frock,and she still wore her coat and the jaunty velvet cap with a jay'swing at the side in which she had started out that morning.
Marie gave a little stifled cry.
"Dorothy! Oh, what is the matter?"
Dorothy started violently. She dabbed her eyes hurriedly with herhandkerchief and tried to laugh.
"Nothing! Don't look so scared! I'm only rather worried." Sheturned away to hide her face. "I've had a letter with rather badnews. No, I can't tell you now--it's nothing! Please, go down andI'll be ready in a minute. I'm so sorry we're late, Marie. Thesilly car went wrong."
"I know. Chris told me. Dorothy, are you sure there is nothing thematter--nothing I can do for you?"
"Quite sure! Run downstairs, there's a dear; I won't be a minute."She almost turned Marie out of the room.
Chris was coming upstairs as she crossed the landing, and hestopped looking at her in quick concern.
"Anything the matter, Marie Celeste?"
"No, only--Chris, Dorothy is crying so! She won't tell me what isthe matter. She says she's had bad news in a letter."
He went to his room, abruptly.
"It's probably nothing; I shouldn't worry."
His voice sounded rather strange and unnatural, and Marie waspuzzled as she went slowly downstairs.
The postman had just been and one of the servants was sorting theletters at the hall table. Marie went up to her.
"Greyson, were there any letters for Miss Webber by the afternoonpost?"
"No, ma'am--none! Only two for Miss Chester."
Marie's brown eyes dilated.
"There has only been the one post since the early morning, hasn'tthere?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Thank you." She went on to the drawing-room, with a little feelingof apprehension.
Dorothy had lied to her, then. Why? She thought of the strainednote in Chris' voice as he spoke to her on the landing, and anameless fear crept into her heart.
Chris talked incessantly during dinner. Marie had never seen him sogay, and though she tried her best to kill it, the suspicion thathe knew the cause of Dorothy's distress, grew in her heart.
Something had happened between them that afternoon.
"You ladies are very quiet," Feathers said, turning to her, andMarie roused herself with an effort.
Dorothy Webber was almost silent. Her head ached, she said; shethought it must have been the sun that afternoon.
"You played a fine game," Chris told her. "I shall have to look tomy laurels." She did not answer, seemed not to have heard, andMarie asked, "Did you see Mrs. Heriot?"
"Yes. She and her sister had a foursome with us." It was Chris whoanswered "She told me to give you her love." he added with a twinkle,"and to say that she should be in town to-morrow and would call tosee you."
It was in the tip of Marie's tongue to say that she would not bein, but she checked the words. After all, Mrs. Heriot did notmatter to her. She was no longer actively jealous.
The dinner was hardly a success.
"What's the matter with everyone?" Dorothy asked impatiently as sheand Marie followed Miss Chester to the drawing-room. "Didn't youthink we were all very dull?" she appealed to the old lady.
"I really didn't notice, my dear," Miss Chester answeredcomplacently. "I have just worked it out in my mind, and I believeI shall finish that shawl in another three days."
Marie laughed. "And how long has it taken you to work, dear?"
"Nearly two years, but then I worked slowly, and my sight is not sogood as it used to be," Miss Chester answered.
Marie took up a fold of the shawl. It was exquisitely soft and ofthe finest pattern.
"It would make a lovely shawl for a baby," she said, and thenflushed, meeting her aunt's eyes. She got up and went over to thepiano, and began turning over some music. She knew the thought thathad been in Miss Chester's mind, and her heart ached. Young as shewas herself Marie loved children, and one very tender dream hadgone crashing to earth with the ruins when her castle fell.
Dorothy had flung herself into an armchair, her arms folded behindher head, her eyes fixed moodily on the ceiling.
There was a softened, chastened look about her this evening. Themasculinity which was usually her chief characteristic seemed tohave gone, leaving in its place something of greater attraction.
"Play something, Marie," she said suddenly, but Marie shook herhead. "I don't feel in the mood for music." She dragged up a stooland sat down at Miss Chester's feet. Across the hall she could hearFeathers' voice and Chris' laugh, and she listened to both with aqueer feeling of unreality.
"Wha
t an ugly man Mr. Dakers is!" Dorothy said suddenly. "I don'tthink I ever saw anyone so ugly before."
The color rushed to Marie's face.
"I don't think he is in the very least bit ugly," she saidimpulsively. "There is something in his face when he smiles that isfar better than just ordinary good looks. What do you think, AuntMadge?"
She felt angry with Dorothy. All her heart flew to Feathers'defence.
"I always liked Mr. Dakers," Miss Chester said mildly. "He is agood man and a gentleman." She said the same thing of all Chris'friends. She could never see evil in anyone.
Dorothy laughed.
"Like him, yes! But he's ugly, all the same!" she insisted. "Hedoesn't like me, you know."
Nobody answered.
"We had lots of little tiffs when we were up in Scotland," she wenton defiantly. "I always believe that he left Chris and came homealone because he couldn't stand the sight of me."
"My dear child!" Miss Chester remonstrated.
"So I do," she reiterated. "He told me once that the modern girlwas a horror. I think he thought it was disgraceful because Iplayed golf all day long with Chris and without a chaperon."
"Mr. Dakers isn't a bit narrow-minded," Marie said hotly.
Dorothy shrugged her shoulders.
"And I don't like Mrs. Heriot either," she said irrelevantly. "Younever told me anything about her, Marie."
"She is a friend of Chris', not mine."
"Oh! And his friends are not yours--eh?"
Marie did not answer. She had never seen Dorothy in such aquarrelsome mood.
The men joined them from the dining-room and Chris came to his wifeat once.
"On the stool of repentance?" he asked. "Why don't you have achair?"
"I'm quite comfortable, thank you." She leaned her head againstMiss Chester's knee with a little snuggling movement, and the oldlady stopped in her work for a movement to stroke the girl's darkhair.
"I've just remembered," she said, "that I've got some tickets forthat Westminster bazaar to-morrow, Marie. Some of us really oughtto go. I promised the vicar we would. Couldn't you and Dorothy justrun in for half an hour?"
Marie made a little grimace.
"I hate bazaars," she said.
Dorothy looked across the room at Chris.
"I think I ought to go home to-morrow," she said. "I've been hereover a week. You'll all be sick to death of me."
"Of course, we shan't," Marie cried. She was touched by the hardnote of unhappiness in her friend's voice, and stretched out herhand to her. "Don't go, Dorothy. They can't have finished with thescarlet fever yet."
"I shall have to see. I dare say I shall hear from home in themorning."
She excused herself presently on the plea of headache and went tobed. She shook hands with Feathers and kissed Marie and MissChester, but Marie noticed with a queer little shrinking at herheart that she seemed to avoid Chris altogether, and her thoughtswent back with unwilling suspicion to the moment when she had foundDorothy crying.
"Dorothy doesn't look well," Miss Chester said, as the door closedbehind the elder girl. "I really think all this golf is too muchfor her. She ought to take a rest and do something less strenuous."
"Knitting shawls, for instance, eh, dear?" Marie asked tenderly.The old lady looked over her glasses.
"It would do her no harm," she said severely.
It was only ten o'clock when Feathers left, and Chris said he wouldwalk part of the way with him.
"I shan't be long," he said to Marie. "But it's so hot indoors, andI must get a breath of air."
She said good-night to them both in the hall, and after they hadgone she stood for a moment looking at the closed door with afeeling of desolation. She had counted so much on this evening, andon seeing Feathers, and now he had gone--and nothing had happened,nothing been said!
She did not know what she had expected to happen or what she hadhoped he would say, but she was conscious of bitter disappointmentas she went up to bed.
It seemed as if she must have dreamed about those moments on Sundaywhen he had let her know that he loved her--that they could neverhave been real, and in her heart she knew that she was notsatisfied. She wanted more than the little he had given.
She heard Chris come in just after she had gone to bed, and herheart thudded nervously as his step crossed the landing and stoppedoutside her door; but he went on again, and presently silence fellon the house.
And Marie fell asleep, to dream the old, terrible dream that sheonce more was drowning--that she was sinking down, down intobottomless depths of clear green water, and she woke, shivering andfighting for breath. Her face and the palms of her hands were wetwith perspiration.
She sat up in bed and turned on the light. Only a Dream! She lookedround the room with thankful eyes and yet . . . it would have beensuch a simple answer to all her troubles if Feathers had only lether drown that summer's morning.
* * * * *
"If you two are going to the bazaar this afternoon," Chris said atlunch next day, "I'll go and look Feathers up. He asked me lastnight if I would, but I didn't promise," He looked at Marie, "I'llcome with you if you like," he said quickly.
She laughed.
"Of course not! We shan't stay long, shall we, Dorothy?"
"We won't go at all if you'd rather not," Dorothy said.
"But I promised the vicar," Miss Chester broke in, in distress. "Ithink you really must go, my dears."
"Of course we will," Marie said. "If there's a fortune-teller we'llhave our palms read; shall we, Dorothy?"
The elder girl shrugged her shoulders.
"You don't believe in that rubbish, surely?"
"I think it's fun," Marie answered.
She was childishly pleased when, during the afternoon, they found apalmist's tent in a corner of the big hall where the bazaar wasbeing held.
"Do let's go in," she urged on Dorothy. "Of course, we shan'tbelieve it, but it will be fun!"
She lifted the flap of the tent, and Dorothy reluctantly followedher.
A woman sat at a small round table in the half light of the tent.She was not at all like the usual fortune teller, and she wasdressed plainly in a white frock, instead of in the usual gaudytrappings which such people affect.
She was small and dark, with rather a plaintive face and largeeyes, and Marie was struck by the extreme slenderness and whitenessof her hands as they rested on a little velvet cushion on the tablebefore her.
"We want to have our palms read," Marie said. She was conscious ofan eerie feeling, and she looked back at the closed flap of thetent nervously. "Dorothy--you go first . . ."
"I don't believe in it," Dorothy said, hardily, but she sat down atthe table, and laid her hands, palms upwards, on the cushion.
The palmist spoke then, for the first time, to Marie.
"If you will kindly wait outside, mademoiselle," she said. Shespoke with a slightly foreign accent, but her voice was soft andmusical.
Marie went reluctantly. She would like to have heard what Dorothywas told.
It was only a few minutes before Dorothy was out again, her faceflushed and her eyes bright as if with unshed tears.
"It's all rubbish," she said harshly, when Marie eagerly questionedher. "As if anybody believes in it! Are you going in? Very well, bequick. I'll tell you afterwards what she said to me."
Marie went back into the tent. She had taken off her gloves andslipped her wedding ring into her pocket. The palmist had addressedher as mademoiselle, and she was curious to know if she would stillbelieve her to be unmarried when she had examined her hands.
She laid them palm upwards on the velvet cushion, and the womanopposite took them in her soft clasp, smoothing the palms with herforefingers and peering into the little lines and creases for amoment without speaking. Marie watched her curiously. Her firstnervousness had lost itself in interest She almost started when,quite suddenly, the woman began to speak in a low, clear voice.
"You are very young, bu
t you are already a wife. You have married aman whom you love devotedly, but he is blind! And because he isblind he has let your love waver from him to the keeping ofanother. You are proud! You have wrapped your heart about withpride, until you have stifled its best affections, and persuadedyourself that you do not care."
She ran her slender fingers along a faint line at the base ofMarie's fingers.
"You started with dreams--alas! so many dreams--and they haveforsaken you one by one. But they will come back." And she raisedher dark eyes suddenly to Marie's pale face. "A little patience andthey will come back--dreams no longer, but reality. You were meantto be a happy wife and mother, my little lady, but something hasintervened--something has fallen across your life like a bigshadow, and for a little the sunshine will be blotted out. . ."
She broke off, and for a moment there was silence. Then she went onagain, more slowly: "If you will allow your heart to govern yourhead you can never go far astray--it is only now, when you aretrying to stifle all that your heart would say, that the shadowsdeepen. . . ."
She smoothed Marie's hands with her soft fingers.
"You have money--much money," she said "But your friends are few.You are shy, and you do not make friends easily . . . There hasbeen one great moment of danger in your life--I cannot tell youwhat it was, but I can see the sea in your hand--and again in thefuture I can see much water . . . It will come again in your life,and it carries on its bosom trouble and many tears, and . . ." Shelooked again into Marie's face.
"You are trembling, Mademoiselle," she said in her soft voice.
Marie smiled faintly.
"I was nearly drowned once," she said. "I can never forget it."
She drew her hands away. "I don't think I want to hear any more,"she said.
She paid double the fee and went to join Dorothy.
"Well?" Dorothy questioned hardily.
Marie shivered.
"It was rather eerie," she said. "But I don't believe in it. Shallwe go home?"
"What did she say to you?" Dorothy asked as they drove awaytogether. "She told me that I had had one disappointment in my lifewhich I should never get over . . ." She laughed. "She was right,too! Not that I believe in fortune telling."
Marie hardly listened. She was thinking of the palmist's soft voiceand the touch of her hands as she had said: "I can see the sea inyour hand--and again in the future I can see much water. It willcome again in your life, and it carries on its bosom trouble andmany tears . . ."
She was not superstitious, but the words haunted her.
Troubles and tears. Surely she had had enough of them.
She wished she had not gone to the bazaar; she wished with all herheart she had not gone to the palmist.
. . . "You started with dreams--alas! so many dreams--and they haveforsaken you one by one. But they will come back ... A littlepatience and they will come back; dreams no longer, but reality."
She sat up with a little determined laugh.
"It's all rubbish--I don't believe a word of it," she told herself."She only said it because she thought it would please me."
"We're just dying for some tea, Greyson," she told the maid whoadmitted them. "I hope you've got some for us."
"Miss Chester is having tea now," the girl answered. "There is alady with her in the drawing-room--a Mrs. Heriot."
Marie stood still with a little shock. She had quite forgotten thatChris had said Mrs. Heriot would probably call.
CHAPTER XIX
"I love him, and I love him, and I love! Oh heart, my love goes welling o'er the brim; He makes my light more than the sun above. And what am I! save what I am to him?"