A Bachelor Husband Part 84

"I shall have to run up to Town this afternoon--only for an hour or two. I shall come back as soon as possible. You don't mind, Marie?"

"Oh, no!" She seemed surprised at the question. "I shall be quite all right."

But still he lingered. He longed to put his arms round her and speak the many wild, pa.s.sionate words of remorse and grief that trembled on his lips, but the new inexplicable aloofness of that girlish figure held him back.

"You are quite sure you don't mind being left?" he asked again. He longed for her to say that she wanted him to stay, but Marie only shook her head.

"I shall be quite all right," she said, apathetically.

He left her then, and presently from the window Marie saw him driving away down the road.

She gave a little sigh of relief, and for a moment covered her face with her hands.

She was free for a little while at last--free from the possibility of interruption. She crossed the room and opened the door. The little inn was very quiet, and n.o.body seemed to hear her step as she crept down the stairs and across the narrow, uneven hall to a closed door. She knew what lay behind that door, and for a moment she caught at the banisters with a sick feeling of anguish before she went steadily on and turned the handle.

CHAPTER XXV

"Oh heart that neither beats nor heaves, In that one darkness lying still.

What now for thee my love's great will?

Or the fine web the suns.h.i.+ne weaves?"

C. D. Rossetti

MARIE had never seen death, but there was no fear in her heart as she softly closed the door behind her, and went forward into the room.

The cotton blind at the window fitted badly, and gleams of sunlight found their way through on either side of it, seeming to concentrate in a strangely deliberate manner about the silent figure of the man who had given his life for her.

A white sheet covered him, but Marie's hand did not tremble as she gently drew it down and looked at the marble whiteness of Feathers'

ugly face.

Death had been kind to him. It had wiped out the hard lines, and left him with a peculiarly n.o.ble, and boyish look. But even the waters of the treacherous river had been unable to smooth his rough hair, and it stood up over his head with just the same obstinate untidiness that she had always known, and with sudden impulse she laid her hand on it, smoothing it gently, as a mother might smooth the hair of a sleeping child.

Were there two ways of loving, she was asking herself desperately?

and was it possible to love two men at the same time, or had she indeed ceased to love Chris?

Feathers had given her her first man's kiss of pa.s.sion. In his arms she had first known complete happiness, and it seemed a crude impossibility that she would never hear his voice again, that his eyes would never open any more to look at her with their faithful adoration.

And it came home to her with bitter truth as she stood there, that in her selfishness, and self absorption, she must have caused him great suffering.

Last night, right from the first moment of their meeting at the inn, he had thought only of her, never once of himself--even down to the very end, when wounded to death, he had given his last ounce of strength to save her, spent his last breath on words of cheer and encouragement.

And what had she given him in return?--little enough it seemed now, as she looked at his marble face about which the autumn suns.h.i.+ne flickered.

He had loved her so completely, and now she would never be able to tell him how much she honored him, loved him!

For Marie Celeste knew that she did love him! Not perhaps with romantic pa.s.sion with which she had once loved Chris; not perhaps as she would some day love Chris again--but with the wonderful, trusting, imperishable love which one must feel for a friend who has never failed.

Her heart ached for the sound of his voice--to hear him say that he understood and forgave. His last kiss on the dark road that night would always be one of her most cherished memories she knew, as she stood there, her eyes fixed on his face, while her heart made its last farewell.

He had told her to go back to Chris--she knew that it had been his earnest wish, and she knew too, that some day she would obey.

But not yet! oh not yet! She must have a little time first to herself to get back her lost courage, and to forget the sweetness of a lost dream.

She took the little sprig of white heather which he had sent her from Scotland--so long ago it seemed--and which she had always worn about her neck, and laid it between his folded hands. Then she kissed him as so short a time ago he had kissed her--his hands, and his closed eyes, his rough coa.r.s.e hair, and the lips that felt like marble beneath her own.

She was sobbing now--cruel sobbing that brought with it no relief of tears as she whispered a last good-bye and over and over again "G.o.d bless you--G.o.d bless you--always--always."

And it seemed to her distraught imagination that now there was a little smile of contentment shadowing Feathers' cold lips, where before no smile had been, and something seemed to snap on her heart and brain as she cried his name in anguish through the silent room.

"Feathers!--_Feathers!_"

And the woman who kept the inn came running swiftly at the sound of a fall, and found Marie Celeste lying senseless, her arms flung out towards the man who, for the first time in his life, could not hear or answer when she called to him.

CHAPTER XXVI

"And justice stood at the proud man's side, 'Whose is the fault? Accuse!' it cried; And the proud man answered in humbled tone, 'I cannot accuse--the fault is mine own.'"

CHRIS got back to Miss Chester's deserted Town house to find young Atkins on the doorstep, staring with horrified eyes at the drawn blinds.

He had heard of the accident at Somerton it appeared, and had rushed off to a.s.sure himself that Marie was safe. He was shocked to hear of Miss Chester's death, and his young face was white and sobered as he followed Chris into the silent house.

He was very boyish and sincere in his sympathy, and though Chris had never particularly cared for him, he was glad of his sympathy.

"I say, it's awful, you know!" young Atkins said aghast. "Miss Chester, and poor old Feathers! I say, what a shocking thing! And what a marvelous escape Mrs. Lawless must have had."

"Feathers saved her," said Chris, and impetuously he began to pour out something of his present difficulties, of how impossible it was to 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 not doing anything just now. I'll run down and explain to her. I've got a motor-bike. She'd love to have Mrs. Lawless, if you'd care for her to go."

Chris was only too glad of the suggestion.

"It's most awfully good of you," he said gratefully. "You see how impossible it is for me to bring her here?"

"Of course! Well, this will be all right, you see; I'll run down there straight away." He turned at the door in his impetuous fas.h.i.+on. "I say--" he said again, "Poor old Feathers! Isn't it awful."

Chris could not answer, and young Atkins went on blunderingly: "I say, is it true what they say in the papers, that when they found him--someone told me--both his legs were broken? It must have been when the car turned over ... my G.o.d, what an awful thing! I can't imagine how he kept up as he did ... oh, all right, I'm going."