THEY took Marie back to the Yellow Sheaf Inn, on the Oxford road,carrying her on a rough stretcher made of a broken gate, coveredwith coats, and Chris walked beside her, holding her hand in his.
A doctor had come from Somerton, and they took her away from himupstairs, and shut the door.
The woman who kept the inn came up to him as he stood on thelanding outside her room and tried to persuade him to come away andchange his wet clothes.
"You'll take your death of cold," she said in kindly anger."There's a suit of my husband's that you're welcome to, sir, I'msure."
Chris thanked her absently, but hardly heard what she was saying.In his heart he was sure that Marie was dead, though as yet theshock of the tragedy kept him from feeling anything acutely.
It was a nightmare as yet--that was all! And he had the childishfeeling that if he were patient, he would wake up and be able tolaugh at it all.
Presently the woman climbed the stairs again with a cup of steamingcoffee, into which she had put a strong dose of brandy. She stoodover him as if she had been his mother while he drank it.
"It's no use everyone getting ill," she scolded. "If the poor dearin there wants you, you won't be in a fit state to go to her."
She had struck the right note, and Chris went off obediently tochange his clothes.
The mist seemed to have quite cleared away as he looked towards thewindow for a moment, and there was bright moonlight--as bright asit had been that night when he went out on to the sea with Mrs.Heriot and the skiff broke away--so long ago it seemed!
He shivered, and went back to the door of Marie's room.
Feathers was dead--he knew that now--but as yet had not been ableto realize it. He knew that down on the river bank men were stillsearching for him--unsuccessfully. It was a horrible thought. Heknew he would never be able to rid himself of the feeling of thoseslimy reeds and rushes that had tried to drag him down with them.
Feathers was dead! Chris knew that it must have been his arm aboutwhich his groping fingers had first closed. He shut his eyes with asense of physical sickness.
Where was this tragedy, which had begun with his own selfishness,going to end?
Supposing Marie died, too! He gripped his arms above his heart asif to still the terrible pain that was rending him. He did notdeserve that she should live, he knew. His face was ashen whenpresently her door opened and the doctor came out.
He was a young man and sympathetic. He put a kindly hand on Chris'shoulder.
"It's all right," he said. "She'll be all right--thanks to you.Shock to the system, of course, but"--he gave an exclamation ofconcern as Chris swayed--"you'd better come downstairs and let meprescribe for you," he said bluntly. "No, you can't see your wifeyet. That face of yours would only make her worse."
He would not allow Chris to see her that night
"She must be kept perfectly quiet. My dear chap, listen to reason,"he urged, when Chris objected. "Do you want to kill her outright?No? Very well, then, do as I say."
He hesitated, then asked: "Were you with her--in the car?"
"No"--Chris' voice shook--"my friend was with her," he added,turning his face away.
"I see. Terrible thing--terrible!"
Chris followed him to the door.
"And--my wife? You are sure--quite sure?" he asked in agony.
"Quite sure . . . She wants rest, of course, but it's been a mostwonderful escape." He hesitated. "They haven't found the other poorfellow yet?" he asked.
"No."
He saw the grief in Chris' face, and held out his hand.
"You did your best; it was a gallant thing--going into the riverlike that--in the darkness. They would both have gone but for you."
"You'd best go to bed, sir," the innkeeper's wife said to Chris, ashe went back upstairs. "Lie down and try to sleep: I'll call youthe very minute if she asks for you."
But he would not, and in the end she brought an armchair to thedoor of Marie's room, and, worn out with exhaustion and emotion,Chris fell asleep in it.
He woke to daylight and the tramp of feet on the road outside. Hestared up and stood listening and shaking in every limb.
He knew what it meant--they were bringing Feathers in . . .
The awfulness of it seemed to come home to him with overwhelmingforce as he stood there and listened.
He had lost his best friend--the man who for years had been more tohim than a brother, and they had parted in anger. He had refused toshake hands with him--he would have given five years of his lifenow to live that moment again.
The innkeeper's wife came tiptoeing to him across the littlelanding as he stood looking out of the window on to the road. Shehad been up with Marie all night, and whispered to him now that shehad fallen asleep.
"Such a lovely sleep, bless her!" she said, with pride. "And if youwas to be very quiet . . ."
No more words were needed. Chris went past her and into the roomwhere Marie lay.
She was fast asleep, her hair spread out over the pillow like adark wing, and Chris went down on his knees beside her and hid hisface. She had nobody now in the world but him--Miss Chester hadgone, and Feathers. . . Oh, he would make it up to her! He wouldspend his whole life trying to make up to her all she had suffered.
"I love you, I love you," he said aloud, as if she could hear, butshe did not move or stir, and presently he went away again.
He had not kissed her--not even her hands. Something seemed to holdhim back from doing so, until she herself should say that he might.
The news of the accident had spread like wildfire, and all themorning people were walking out from the villages round about tostare with morbid interest at the spot on the river bank where thecar had plunged into the water, or to crowd outside the inn in thehope of catching a glimpse of Chris.
The doctor came again, and was very pleased with Marie's progress.
"I think she could be taken home to-day," he told Chris. "It willbe just as well to get her from this place."
Chris said he would make all arrangements.
"I can see her, of course?" he asked.
"Yes." But the doctor looked away from his anxious eyes. "I shouldnot worry her or question her at all," he said diffidently, andthen he added uncomfortably: "She seems somehow afraid at thethought of seeing you."
"Afraid!" The color rushed to Chris' face.
"Yes. Perhaps it is only my fancy, but she seemed nervous, Ithought, when I mentioned you." He looked at the young man kindly."Be gentle with her," he said, "I think she has suffered verymuch."
Chris did not answer, and the doctor went away.
Afraid! Afraid of him, when he loved her so! It was another hardblow to Chris to feel that Marie did not wish to see him. He triedto make allowances for her. He knew what she had suffered. Withsudden impulse he ran downstairs, overtaking the doctor in the hallbelow.
"My wife--does she know--that . . . that Feathers was drowned?" heasked jaggedly.
"Feathers?" the other man echoed, not understanding. "Oh you meanthat poor fellow. Yes--I told her---"
"What--what did she say?"
"Nothing--she just turned her face away."
"I see. Thank you." Chris went upstairs slowly. He stood for a longtime at his wife's door, not daring to knock, but at last hesummoned his courage.
He heard her say "Come in" in a little quiet voice, and he openedthe door.
She was dressed and sitting up in a big chair. She did not look soill as he had expected, was his first relieved thought, and yet insome strange way she seemed to have changed. Was it that she lookedolder? He could not determine, but her eyes met his steadily,almost as if she did not recognize him, and her voice was quiteeven as she answered his broken question.
"I am--much better, thank you," and then: "The doctor says I may gohome."
"Yes--I will take you this afternoon."
She twisted her fingers together restlessly, her eyes downcast,then quite suddenly she raised them to his face.
"I wish you
had let me drown," she said, with passionate intensity.
"Marie--Marie," said Chris, in anguish.
She seemed heedless of his pain and went on talking as if toherself. "I'm no use to anybody. I bring nothing but trouble withme! That fortune-teller was right, you see, when she told me thatshe could see water in my life again--that would bring trouble . . .and tears!" Her voice fell almost to a whisper.
Chris stood looking at her helplessly. She seemed in some strangeway to be a great distance from him and yet by putting out his handhe could have touched her.
"Feathers gave his life for me" she went on, in that curioussing-song tone. "He could have saved himself, but he would notleave me--and we were . . . oh, hours in that dreadful darkness!"
"Don't think of it, Marie! Oh, my dear, try and forget it all."
She raised her haunted brown eyes to his face.
"I can't! I can't hear anything any more but the sound of thatdreadful river! It was like a voice, mocking us. And he was sobrave!" She caught her breath with a long, shuddering sob, but notears came.
"I am glad that he loved me," she said again presently. "It issomething to be proud of--always--that Feathers loved me."
Chris could not bear to look at her tragic face She had no thoughtfor him, he knew, but she had never been so inexpressibly dear tohim as she was now.
He was at his wits' end to know what to do with her. It wasimpossible to take her home with Miss Chester lying dead in thehouse, and there seemed nobody to whom he could turn for help.
Presently, he said gently:
"I shall have to run up to Town this afternoon--only for an hour ortwo. I shall come back as soon as possible. You don't mind, Marie?"
"Oh, no!" She seemed surprised at the question. "I shall be quiteall right."
But still he lingered. He longed to put his arms round her andspeak the many wild, passionate words of remorse and grief thattrembled on his lips, but the new inexplicable aloofness of thatgirlish figure held him back.
"You are quite sure you don't mind being left?" he asked again. Helonged for her to say that she wanted him to stay, but Marie onlyshook her head.
"I shall be quite all right," she said, apathetically.
He left her then, and presently from the window Marie saw himdriving away down the road.
She gave a little sigh of relief, and for a moment covered her facewith her hands.
She was free for a little while at last--free from the possibilityof interruption. She crossed the room and opened the door. Thelittle inn was very quiet, and nobody seemed to hear her step asshe crept down the stairs and across the narrow, uneven hall to aclosed door. She knew what lay behind that door, and for a momentshe caught at the banisters with a sick feeling of anguish beforeshe 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 sunshine weaves?" C. D. Rossetti
A Bachelor Husband Page 26