Chapter 12
She always seemed nervous and restless when Chris was around, and after a little hesitation the doctor told Chris frankly that it would be better if Marie was not allowed so many visitors.
Chris opened his handsome eyes wide.
"Visitors! Why, she doesn't have any except me, and occasionally Atkins and Feathers--Dakers, I mean."
"I know--but I think she should not be disturbed during the afternoon at all--not even by you," he added with a deprecating smile. "She is not at all strong, and this unfortunate accident has been a severe shock to her system. It will be months before she properly recovers."
Chris was not in the least offended, but it worried him to think that possibly Marie was going to be more or less of an invalid. He had never had a day's sickness himself, and, like most men, he was impatient and over-anxious when it overtook anybody immediately connected with himself.
"Do you think I ought to take her back to London?" he asked.
"Perhaps she would be better looked after at home."
"She is far better here than in London," was the emphatic reply.
"This East Coast air is just what is needed to brace her up. No; if she is allowed to rest she will be all right."
Chris told Marie what the doctor had said.
"I am not to worry you--I am in and out of your room too often." He looked at her anxiously. "What do you think, Marie Celeste?"
She smiled faintly. "I suppose the doctor knows best."
"Yes, I suppose he does," Chris agreed, but he felt slightly irritated. If she wanted him to stay with her, why on earth didn't she say so? It never occurred to him that since her accident Marie had suffered agonies because she feared that he was wearied by her helplessness and unutterably bored because he was more or less chained to her side.
She had a vivid recollection of a day, years ago, when, as a child, she had fallen from the stable loft, and Chris had come to see her when she was in bed.
He had stood in the doorway, red-faced and awkward, hands thrust into his pockets, staring at her with half-angry, half-sympathetic eyes.
She had thanked him profusely for condescending to come at all, and he had asked gruffly by way of graceful acknowledgment, "How long have you got to stick in bed? When will they let you get up and come out again?"
Tears had filled her eyes as she answered him, "I don't know-- weeks, I suppose!"
Chris said "Humph!" and stared at his boots. "It's topping out of doors!" he
That was the one and only visit he had paid her during the weeks of her illness, and afterwards he had told her that he hated sick rooms, and that he supposed women were always more or less ailing.
So now she made every effort to get well and strong. She made too much effort, the doctor told her.
"There's plenty of time." he said. "Why be in such a hurry?"
And at last, in desperation, she told him. "Doctor, it must be awful for Chris--having to wait about here just because of me. It can't be much of a holiday for him."
He looked at her with kindly eyes. "Well, and what about you?" he asked. "It's worse for you, I suppose?"
Marie shook her head. "I--oh, no! He's a man, you see, and he's different."
Dr. Carey said: "Oh, I see," rather drily. He walked away from her and came back, "You've been married--how long?" he asked.
"Only a week."
"Well, it's not long enough for that husband of yours to have got tired of dancing attendance on you, anyway," he answered. "No, you will not be allowed downstairs till Sat.u.r.day."
"It must be awfully dull for Chris," she sighed.
She said the same thing to Feathers when he looked in that evening for a few seconds.
Feathers never brought her flowers or sweets, or presents, for which she was thankful, and he never stayed more than about five minutes, but he always managed to bring a cheeriness into the room with him and leave her with a smile in her brown eyes.
"Dull! Chris!" he said, echoing her words bluntly. "Not he. Don't you worry, Mrs. Lawless. Chris knows how to look after himself."
He did not tell her that between his spasmodic visits to her Chris was thoroughly enjoying himself.
He played bridge with Mrs. Heriot and her little crowd when there was nothing better to do. He played billiards with anybody who would take him on, and that afternoon he had been out golfing.
"What did he do this afternoon?" Marie asked wistfully.
"This afternoon! Oh, let me see! Well, I believe he played golf-- yes, he did!"
"I'm glad--I'm so glad he doesn't stay indoors all day," said Marie.
Feathers frowned
"Don't you worry about him. I'll look after him," he promised. "You make haste and get well and go and play golf with him."
"I can't play golf!"
"Well, then, you must learn--I'll teach you! Can you play bridge?"
"No, I have tried, but Chris says I'm no good at cards."
"Rubbis.h.!.+ You could play all right with practice!" He looked away from her out of the window where a radiant sunset was spreading rays of gorgeous coloring across the sea.
"Chris is the sort of man who likes a woman to be sporting," he said, after a moment, speaking rather carefully, as if choosing his words. "I mean to say that he is a man who would like his wife to be able to join him in his own sports! Do you understand?"
"Yes." Her eyes were fixed anxiously on his averted face, and then she asked suddenly: "And do you ever think I could be that sort of wife, Mr. Dakers?"
Feathers cleared his throat loudly.
"Do I! Of course, I do!" he said, but his voice sounded as If he were as anxious to convince himself as he was to convince her.
"You're the sort of woman who could do anything if you set your mind to it."
She did not speak for a moment, then she said sadly, "It's kind of you to say so, but in your heart, you know it isn't true."
He swung round, his face red with distress. "What do you mean, Mrs.
Lawless?"
"I mean that you know I couldn't ever be that sort of wife. I'm not made that way. Dorothy used to say that I should have been an ideal wife for a man in early Victorian days; that I was cut out to stay at home and make jams and bread and jangle keys on my chatelaine, and tie up the linen in lavender bags, and look after the babies..." She broke off, laughing and flus.h.i.+ng a little.
"And who is 'Dorothy,' may I ask?" Feathers demanded.