Chapter 85
He went off hurriedly, and Chris put his head down on his arms and cried like a child.
He blamed himself mercilessly, and forgave his friend everything, if indeed there had ever been anything to forgive. He felt that he had grown into an old man during those hours of agony last night when he waited outside the closed door of his wife's room.
She was living, but she cared nothing for him, and he could almost find 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 he had 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 kindest hearted... he felt his own unworthiness keenly.
He made what arrangements he could in Town and hurried back to Somerton, and the woman who kept the inn told him how she had found Marie unconscious in the room downstairs.
"Unconscious for an hour she was," she said distressed. "I put her to bed and sent for the doctor. I don't know how she came down without my hearing her. I wouldn't have had it happen for the world."
Chris' face whitened. Although dead, it seemed to him that in the future Feathers would stand more effectually between him and his happiness 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 days before the doctor would consent to her being moved.
She looked so white and frail that Chris' heart sank as he carried her down to the car. She was like a child in his arms, and it hurt him intolerably to see how resolutely her eyes avoided him.
She never spoke during the short drive to the village where young Atkins' sister lived. She asked no questions, seemed not to care what was to become of her.
"If you would rather I stayed with you, of course, I will," Chris said hoa.r.s.ely, when he bade her good-bye that evening. He longed with all his soul for her to ask him to stay, but she only shook her head.
She seemed quite happy to be left with Millicent Atkins, and Chris felt sure she would be safe with her and well cared for.
"I will come and see you every day, Marie Celeste," Chris said again, and she said: "Yes, thank you," but he had the curious impression all the time that she hardly heard or understood what he was saying.
It was only just as he was going and had impulsively raised her hand to his lips to kiss it that a little look almost of horror crossed 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 a.s.sured Chris, seeing the pain in his eyes as he bade her good-bye, "If
Lawless, you will leave her alone for a day or two. She has had a terrible shock, you know." She was a kind-faced girl, with steady, capable eyes that had seen a great deal more than she had been told.
Chris would not listen. He must come down the following day, he said; he could not rest if he stayed away.
He felt desperate as he drove back to London. What was the good of living? There was nothing in the future for him.
He made up his mind that he would sell the London house and everything in it as soon as possible, and take Marie away and make a fresh start; but... would she go with him? Somehow he did not think that she would.
He had left it to Millicent Atkins to break the news of Miss Chester's death to her, and it was with an unhappy heart that he went down to the cottage the following afternoon.
Millicent came to him in the garden, as she saw him drive up. Her eyes were compa.s.sionate.
"I am so sorry, Mr. Lawless, but she will not see you. Somehow, I felt sure this would happen, and that was why I asked you to stay away for a little while. Oh, don't look like that," she added, as Chris turned his face away.
"You must just humor her a little," she went on gently. "Things will 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 of the river sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight between its green banks.
There was nothing cruel about it to-day, he thought. It was all smiling and seductive, and he s.h.i.+vered as he remembered the feel of the wet, slimy reeds, and realized what his friend's death must have been in the mist and darkness.
He did not open Marie's letter till he got back home, and he read it in the deserted drawing-room where she and Miss Chester had so often sat together. The house felt like a tomb now, he thought wretchedly. 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 think things over and decide what to do. I will send for you if ever I want 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 never want 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 was Chris' suggestion that he and Atkins should go into rooms together.
Chris hated the idea of his own company, and he knew that as long as he lived he would never find another friend to take Feathers'
place.
He had suffered acutely over his friend's tragic death; he could not bear to speak of him. He even put away his golf sticks because they were such a vivid reminder of the happy days they had spent together.
"I never want to play the beastly game again!" he told a man who questioned him about it in the club one night.
He was at a terribly loose end in those days and young Atkins was just the right sort of companion for him--always cheery and bright and full of the optimism of youth.
He had quarreled badly with his father and had been cut off with the proverbial s.h.i.+lling.
"Not that it matters," he said philosophically. "I've got about two hundred 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 off indefinitely. He felt that it was doing something for Marie if he helped her husband through the dark days before him. Though he did not know anything like the whole of the story, he was shrewd enough to piece together the few little bits which Chris sometimes let drop.
He was intensely sorry for them both and would have given a great deal to have helped put things right. Once, unknown to Chris, he hired a motor-bike and went down to see Marie and his sister.
He found them in the garden, pacing together up and down the little lawn.
It was autumn then, and the bosom of the river was covered with brown and yellow leaves from the trees on its banks. There was an acrid smell in the air, too, which always comes with the end of summer.
He thought Marie was pleased to see him--certainly the color deepened 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 all attracted his boyish fancy.