CHRIS got back to Miss Chester's deserted Town house to find youngAtkins on the doorstep, staring with horrified eyes at the drawnblinds.
He had heard of the accident at Somerton it appeared, and hadrushed off to assure himself that Marie was safe. He was shocked tohear of Miss Chester's death, and his young face was white andsobered as he followed Chris into the silent house.
He was very boyish and sincere in his sympathy, and though Chrishad never particularly cared for him, he was glad of his sympathy.
"I say, it's awful, you know!" young Atkins said aghast. "MissChester, and poor old Feathers! I say, what a shocking thing! Andwhat a marvelous escape Mrs. Lawless must have had."
"Feathers saved her," said Chris, and impetuously he began to pourout something of his present difficulties, of how impossible it wasto bring Marie to London.
"I've got a sister--" young Atkins made the suggestion eagerly."She lives close to Somerton, and she's a nurse, but she's notdoing anything just now. I'll run down and explain to her. I've gota motor-bike. She'd love to have Mrs. Lawless, if you'd care forher to go."
Chris was only too glad of the suggestion.
"It's most awfully good of you," he said gratefully. "You see howimpossible it is for me to bring her here?"
"Of course! Well, this will be all right, you see; I'll run downthere straight away." He turned at the door in his impetuousfashion. "I say--" he said again, "Poor old Feathers! Isn't itawful."
Chris could not answer, and young Atkins went on blunderingly: "Isay, is it true what they say in the papers, that when they foundhim--someone told me--both his legs were broken? It must have beenwhen the car turned over . . . my God, what an awful thing! I can'timagine how he kept up as he did . . . oh, all right, I'm going."
He went off hurriedly, and Chris put his head down on his arms andcried like a child.
He blamed himself mercilessly, and forgave his friend everything,if indeed there had ever been anything to forgive. He felt that hehad grown into an old man during those hours of agony last nightwhen he waited outside the closed door of his wife's room.
She was living, but she cared nothing for him, and he could almostfind it in his heart to envy Feathers who, although he was dead,had once known the happiness of her love.
He had stood beside his friend that morning, and held the hand hehad refused, his heart almost breaking with grief and remorse.
He could trace everything back to his own selfishness and neglect.But for him, this tragedy would never have happened.
No wonder Marie had loved Feathers--the most unselfish, the kindesthearted . . . he felt his own unworthiness keenly.
He made what arrangements he could in Town and hurried back toSomerton, and the woman who kept the inn told him how she had foundMarie unconscious in the room downstairs.
"Unconscious for an hour she was," she said distressed. "I put herto bed and sent for the doctor. I don't know how she came downwithout my hearing her. I wouldn't have had it happen for theworld."
Chris' face whitened. Although dead, it seemed to him that in thefuture Feathers would stand more effectually between him and hishappiness than ever he had done in life.
A fresh punishment upon which he had not yet reckoned.
He was not allowed to see Marie that night, and it was two daysbefore the doctor would consent to her being moved.
She looked so white and frail that Chris' heart sank as he carriedher down to the car. She was like a child in his arms, and it hurthim intolerably to see how resolutely her eyes avoided him.
She never spoke during the short drive to the village where youngAtkins' sister lived. She asked no questions, seemed not to carewhat was to become of her.
"If you would rather I stayed with you, of course, I will," Chrissaid hoarsely, when he bade her good-bye that evening. He longedwith all his soul for her to ask him to stay, but she only shookher head.
She seemed quite happy to be left with Millicent Atkins, and Chrisfelt sure she would be safe with her and well cared for.
"I will come and see you every day, Marie Celeste," Chris saidagain, and she said: "Yes, thank you," but he had the curiousimpression all the time that she hardly heard or understood what hewas saying.
It was only just as he was going and had impulsively raised herhand to his lips to kiss it that a little look almost of horrorcrossed her white face.
"No--no--please!" she said.
She tore her hand from him and ran from the room.
"She will be better soon," Millicent assured Chris, seeing the painin his eyes as he bade her good-bye, "If you take my advice, Mr.Lawless, you will leave her alone for a day or two. She has had aterrible shock, you know." She was a kind-faced girl, with steady,capable eyes that had seen a great deal more than she had beentold.
Chris would not listen. He must come down the following day, hesaid; he could not rest if he stayed away.
He felt desperate as he drove back to London. What was the good ofliving? There was nothing in the future for him.
He made up his mind that he would sell the London house andeverything in it as soon as possible, and take Marie away and makea fresh start; but . . . would she go with him? Somehow he did notthink that she would.
He had left it to Millicent Atkins to break the news of MissChester's death to her, and it was with an unhappy heart that hewent down to the cottage the following afternoon.
Millicent came to him in the garden, as she saw him drive up. Hereyes were compassionate.
"I am so sorry, Mr. Lawless, but she will not see you. Somehow, Ifelt sure this would happen, and that was why I asked you to stayaway for a little while. Oh, don't look like that," she added, asChris turned his face away.
"You must just humor her a little," she went on gently. "Thingswill come all right in the end, I am sure . . ." She hesitated,then: "She asked me to give you this letter," she added.
Chris took it without a word. He drove away again along the dusty,sunny road by which he had come, with here and there a glimpse ofthe river sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight between its greenbanks.
There was nothing cruel about it to-day, he thought. It was allsmiling and seductive, and he shivered as he remembered the feel ofthe wet, slimy reeds, and realized what his friend's death musthave been in the mist and darkness.
He did not open Marie's letter till he got back home, and he readit in the deserted drawing-room where she and Miss Chester had sooften sat together. The house felt like a tomb now, he thoughtwretchedly. He wished never to see it again.
Marie's letter was very short:
"Please do not try to see me. I can't bear it. I want time to thinkthings over and decide what to do. I will send for you if ever Iwant you.--Marie Celeste."
That was all; but it was like a death warrant to him.
If ever she wanted him! His heart told him that she would neverwant him again! He had had his chance and thrown it away.
During the days that followed, in his distress and loneliness,Chris fell back a great deal upon young Atkins.
After Miss Chester's funeral and the closing of the house it wasChris' suggestion that he and Atkins should go into rooms together.Chris hated the idea of his own company, and he knew that as longas he lived he would never find another friend to take Feathers'place.
He had suffered acutely over his friend's tragic death; he couldnot bear to speak of him. He even put away his golf sticks becausethey were such a vivid reminder of the happy days they had spenttogether.
"I never want to play the beastly game again!" he told a man whoquestioned him about it in the club one night.
He was at a terribly loose end in those days and young Atkins wasjust the right sort of companion for him--always cheery and brightand full of the optimism of youth.
He had quarreled badly with his father and had been cut off withthe proverbial shilling.
"Not that it matters," he said philosophically. "I've got about twohundred a year the mater left me, and I reckon I can always knock
up another two hundred."
He had decided to go to America, but for Chris' sake he put it offindefinitely. He felt that it was doing something for Marie if hehelped her husband through the dark days before him. Though he didnot know anything like the whole of the story, he was shrewd enoughto piece together the few little bits which Chris sometimes letdrop.
He was intensely sorry for them both and would have given a greatdeal to have helped put things right. Once, unknown to Chris, hehired a motor-bike and went down to see Marie and his sister.
He found them in the garden, pacing together up and down the littlelawn.
It was autumn then, and the bosom of the river was covered withbrown and yellow leaves from the trees on its banks. There was anacrid smell in the air, too, which always comes with the end ofsummer.
He thought Marie was pleased to see him--certainly the colordeepened a little in her pale face when she first saw him.
But she had changed! Oh, how she had changed, he thought sadly.There was not much left of the little girl who had first of allattracted his boyish fancy.
He talked of everything under the sun, rattling on in his usualhaphazard manner, and she listened gravely, sometimes smiling, buthardly speaking.
He did not mention Chris or tell her that they were sharing rooms--much more expensive rooms than he could possibly have affordedalone; but Chris had insisted on paying the difference.
It was just as he was going, and Millicent had left them togetherfor a little while, that Marie said suddenly:
"Tommy--do you know that it's a month to-day since--Mr. Dakersdied?"
He started and flushed in confusion.
"Is it? A month! How the time flies, doesn't it?"
"Yes." She was looking out across the open country at the back ofthe little house, and he thought he had never before seen suchsadness in anyone's face.
He laid a hand on hers in clumsy comfort.
"It was a fine sort of death, anyway," he said in desperation."Just the sort of death a man like Feathers would have chosen . . .Marie--he saved your life twice."
He realized too late that he had spoken tactlessly, but to hissurprise she only smiled--a wise little smile which he could notfathom.
"Yes," she said softly, almost happily it seemed.
There was a little silence, then he broke out again.
"It seems a lifetime since we all met for the first time down atthat bally old hotel, doesn't it? you and I, and Chris, and poorold Feathers."
"It's only a little more than three months." she told him.
"Is it?" he cleared his throat nervously. "Jove! how time flies,"he said again, reminiscently.
They sat silent for some minutes, then he rose to his feet, andsaid that he must be going.
"I told Chris I would be in at seven," he said unthinkingly, thenstopped, furious with himself for having mentioned the name he hadsworn to avoid.
She looked up quickly, her brown eyes dilating.
"Chris! Are you living with him then?"
"Yes." He twisted his cap with agitated fingers. "He went back tohis Knightsbridge rooms after--well, after Miss Chester's house wassold, you know, but of course you do know."
She shook her head.
"I have not seen him for a month."
Young Atkins looked wretched. He knew from the little Chris hadtold him that this separation had been her own wish, and thereforehe could not understand her attitude now.
He did not know that she had written that last note to her husbandmore as a test than for any other reason. With her old childish wayof reasoning, she had argued to herself that if he really cared forher nothing on earth would keep him away; and once again she hadbeen disappointed. He had apparently agreed without a word ofdemur--he had never attempted to approach her.
"I know he's jolly miserable, anyway," young Atkins broke outexplosively after a moment. "He never goes anywhere--he just sitsand smokes and thinks. He's changed so! It's rotten! And he used tobe such a cheery soul."
He seemed afraid all at once that he had said too much, for he madeanother attempt to escape.
Marie went with him to the gate.
"Your sister has been so good to me," she said suddenly. "I don'tknow what I should have done without her. I shall miss herdreadfully when I go away."
He looked up in swift distress.
"But you're not going! You mustn't! She's ever so pleased to haveyou with her. Where are you going?"
She looked away from him down the dusky road, and there was alittle eloquent pause before she said slowly:
"I'm going back--to Chris."
"To Chris!" he could hardly believe it. He gripped both her hands."Hooray! how perfectly splendid! Oh, forty thousand hoorays!"
She disengaged herself from his bearlike grip.
"Oh, Tommy--please!" She sounded more like her old self now, hethought with some emotion. There was a suspicious moisture in hiseyes as he looked down at her.
"When?" he asked eagerly.
"When? Oh, I don't know yet." There was a note of nervous shrinkingin her voice.
"It's his birthday to-morrow," young Atkins said.
"I know. I've been thinking of that all day."
He caught her round the waist.
"You darling! To-morrow then! I'll make myself scarce. We weregoing to have an extra dinner by way of celebration--he wasn'tkeen, but it was my idea! I'll pretend to let him down, and youcome instead."
She fell into his mood, and they made their plans like eagerchildren. It was only when young Atkins was just starting away thatshe caught his arm for a moment, and her face was white in the graylight.
"The summer's quite gone, Tommy," she said sadly. "I often wonderif it doesn't mean that my summer has gone too, and that it's toolate now."
He pooh-poohed her words scornfully.
"Nonsense! As if summer doesn't ever come again! Why, next yearwill be a topper, you'll see! The best in your life."
They were both silent for a moment, listening to the monotonous lap,lap of the river as it flowed swiftly along between its rush-grownbanks.
"I hate that sound," young Atkins broke out vehemently. "I wonderyou can bear to have been so near to it after . . . there! I didn'tmean that! I'm such a blundering ox."
She smiled through the sudden tears that rushed to her eyes.
"I've never minded it like that, somehow, Tommy. It's never been asterrible to me as--as perhaps it should be. I've often thought thatthose dreadful minutes when it seemed as if--the end of everythinghad come for--for both of us--when Feathers was so brave--sowonderful! Washed everything mean, and small, and unforgiving, outof my heart--forever."
She looked up at the dark sky overhead where some little stars weretwinkling palely.
Feathers had once told her that she was as far above him as thestars . . . she never looked at them now without thinking of him,and wondering if somewhere--he still thought of her.
It was she who had led him into temptation--she still had that totell to Chris--if he cared to listen.
"To-morrow then," she said, and young Atkins echoed "To-morrow," ashe sprinted off down the road, disappearing in a cloud of dust.
Marie waited at the gate till the last sound of the motor had diedaway in the distance, then she went slowly back to the house.
The voice of the river was still in her ears with its bittermemories, but there was a new look of contentment in her eyes asshe turned for a moment at the door, and looked up at the stars.
"I'm going back, dear," she said in a whisper, as if there wassomeone very close to her in the dusky evening who could hear. "I'mgoing back, dear."
CHAPTER XXVII
"But ah! the little things for which I sigh, As each day passes by, The open book, the flower upon the floor. The dainty disarray. The sound of passing feet. Alas, the little things of every day! The silent eve, my sweet, The lonely waking. Alas! alas! for little things My heart is breaking."