Chapter 51
He held his hand to her, but she avoided it, and stood watching silently as he made a great business of plumping up the cus.h.i.+ons and spreading his coat for her to lie on.
"There you are! Isn't that great? Mind, you'll upset the whole show!"
He tightened the moorings a little and looked down at her with a strained smile.
Marie had gone back to the punt and dragged a cus.h.i.+on beneath her dark head.
Feathers sat down on the gra.s.s, his back to a tree, and produced a pipe which he gravely lit.
"I've had this pipe four years," he said. "Chris says it's a disgrace to civilization, but I like it! You don't mind if I smoke?"
"No, please do."
She closed her eyes, not from any wish to sleep, but to avoid talking. There was a little fear at the back of her mind which she could not capture or recognize.
Why had she cried? Why was it now that when Chris was on his way home--perhaps was already in London--there was no joy in her heart, only dread?
It was very still there in the backwater. Now and then a bird darted down from the trees overhead and skimmed the clear water with a flash of brown wings; or some little creature stirred in the rushes, splas.h.i.+ng the water and sending out ever-widening circles to the opposite bank.
Feathers sat motionless, his arms folded, puffing at his pipe, his eyes fixed on Marie's face.
Such a child! Such a child! That was always his compa.s.sionate thought of her; and yet--those tears she had shed just now had not been a child's tears, but a woman's.
He was afraid to question himself, afraid to read the answer which he knew was there in his heart, but his eyes searched the soft contours of her face with pa.s.sionate longing.
Was she asleep? Somehow he did not think she was. And yet he was glad of these moments in which he might look at her without having to hold the mask before his face--for this little time in which she seemed to be his own.
He had long known that he loved her and had accepted the fact as philosophically as he had accepted the many other ironies and disappointments of his life.
It was meant to be! He could not have helped or prevented it, even had he
There was a gramophone playing somewhere in the distance, and the water between lent it a softness and melody that was undeserved. It grew clearer and clearer as the boat carrying it came up stream, and presently Feathers could distinguish the words of the song:
I dream of the day I met you;
I dream of the light divine
That shone in your tender eyes, love.
When first they looked in mine,
I dream of the rose you gave me,
I dream of our last farewell,
I dream of the silent longing
That only the heart can tell...
Feathers had a healthy scorn for all things sentimental, but he found himself listening till the boat had pa.s.sed on and the song vanished again into silence.
He looked at his watch then--it was four o'clock. If they started at once they could not possibly get home before half-past seven or eight, he knew, and recklessness closed down upon him.
It was his last day! Why not s.n.a.t.c.h all the hours possible? What could it matter to Chris if he lost a little of his wife's company?
So he let Marie sleep on, and sat there without moving, torturing himself with thoughts of the future, till presently she roused and opened her eyes.
She lay for a moment looking at him unrecognizingly, then she started up, rubbing her eyes in confusion.
"Have I been asleep? Why didn't you wake me? What is the time?"
"I am afraid I dozed off myself. It's the heat, I expect." He made a great business of yawning and stretching his arms, though he had not once closed his eyes. "It's nearly six--I am afraid we shall not have time to go on to Henley."
"It doesn't matter," she said quickly. "We can go another day."
"Yes, we can go another day," he echoed, with the full knowledge that for him there would never be another day.
The sun was sinking down behind the trees and pastureland and a cool breeze had risen.
Marie s.h.i.+vered, and Feathers picked up her coat and gave it to her silently.
"I'm not really cold," she said, but she put it on.
"Have we got to go back now?" she asked, as he began to untie the rope that held them to the bank.
"Yes, I think we ought. We have to get to London, you know."
"Yes."
It was getting quite dark in the backwater. One punt which pa.s.sed them carried Chinese lanterns that glowed like magic eyes through the September evening.
"Mr. Dakers," Marie said suddenly.
"Yes." He was intent on the paddle and did not look up.
"There is something I want to ask you before--be-fore we go home."
"Yes." His voice sounded a little jerky.
"It's only... you will still come and see me, won't you?--I mean even--even if Chris has come home?"
"Of course. Why shouldn't I?"
"I don't know--I only thought perhaps..." Her voice faltered, only to break out again pa.s.sionately: "Oh, if you knew how I hate the thought of the future," and then, with shamed realization of what her words might convey, she tried to laugh as she went on: "I don't exactly mean that, but--but, oh, you know I'm not the sort of wife Chris ought to have married! It's kind of you to try and pretend that you think I am, but I'm not so blind as I used to be, and I know now! And I can't even make myself different--I suppose because I'm too stupid... If only I were more like Mrs. Heriot or Dorothy Webber..."