"He doesn't know; he's never said one word to me that you, or anyone else, could not hear ..." She clasped her hands together pa.s.sionately. "I wish he had!" she said chokingly. "I tried to make him, but it was no use ..." She looked at Chris with feverish eyes. "It sounds dreadful, doesn't it?" she said piteously. "I should think it did if I heard anyone else say it. But it's the truth. I would go to Italy with him to-morrow if he would take me."

Chris stood like a man turned to stone. Then suddenly he fell on his knees beside her, clasping her in his shakings arms.

"No, no, my dear! my dear! You don't know what you are saying. I'll forget it all and take you away. You're ill, Marie Celeste. I've been a brute to you, I know, but I don't deserve this." He took her hands, such cold little hands they were, and pressed them to his face. "I love you, too," he said brokenly. "I think I must always have loved you, only I'm such a selfish swine ... Marie Celeste, for G.o.d's sake say you didn't mean it? I love you! I'll give my life to make you happy. Say it isn't true--that you've just done it to torture me--to punish me?"

She tried to disengage her hands from his, but he held them fast.

He went on pleading, praying, begging her, but she listened apathetically, her eyes averted from his bowed head.

She did not believe a word he was saying. The wall of her pride deafened her to the sincerity of his broken words. Her one emotion was the fierce, triumphant gladness that at last she could make him suffer as once he had made her.

Perhaps somewhere in a corner of that room the ghost of the child Marie Celeste stood weeping for the tragedy of it all--weeping because the woman Marie Celeste could so harden her heart to the grief of the man who had once been her idol.

Then suddenly Chris released her and stood up. His face was like gray marble as he took hers between his hands and looked down into her brown eyes.

"Is it--the truth, Marie Celeste?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely. "Tell me the truth--that's all."

And Marie gave a little choking sound like a sob, and the lids fell over here eyes as she whispered:

"I have--told you."

That was all. Chris let her go. He fell back a step, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He was beaten and he knew it. No explanation he could make would be of any avail. She had shut him out of her heart for ever, and--for such is the tragedy of life--it was only when it was too late that he knew how much he loved her.

It seemed a long time before he asked:

"Well--what do you want me to do?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know," she said in a frightened whisper.

She had burned her boats, and her whole being was shaken by the irrevocable act.

She kept the thought of Feathers before her eyes. She clung to the thought of the happiness he could give her. She never heard the warning voice that whispered to her of its impossible madness.

"Does--Aunt Madge know?" Chris asked again, and she shook her head, tears welling to her eyes for the first time.

"No--how could I tell her?"

He turned to the door. He was like a man walking in his sleep as he reached it, and for a moment stood fingering the handle aimlessly, then all at once the pa.s.sionate blood came surging back to his white face. He strode back to Marie as e stood by the window, and caught her in his arms.

"I'll never give you up," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "There's no law in England that can make me give you up. Kiss me, Marie Celeste, and say you didn't mean it ..." His voice was broken; he hardly knew what he was saying. "You're my wife, and I'll keep you. Feathers doesn't want you--he has no use for women. You're my wife, and I love you! I love you with all my heart and soul, Marie Celeste!

I've been a blind fool, but I'm awake now ..." He kissed her again and again despairingly.

Marie struggled against his arms. She flung her head far back to escape his lips, but he was stronger than she, and it was only when he felt her almost fainting in his arms that he released her.

"You're my wife," he said again, meeting her eyes. "I haven't forgotten it if you have."

Her lips were shaking so that she could hardly speak, but she managed to form a few words.

"Don't you ever--touch me again--like that. How dare you--insult me! You say you don't care for women, and it seems to me as if--any woman--will do! First Mrs. Heriot--then ... then Dorothy, and now ... now me! Oh, if you knew how I hate you!"

She had gone too far. She knew it as soon as she had spoken, and she shrank away from him in fear when she saw his eyes.

He caught her roughly by the wrist, dragging her towards him.

"And you dare ... you dare say a thing like that to me!" he panted. "It's not what you believe--you know it's not the truth!

It's just a d.a.m.nable excuse to get rid of me--to leave you free to go to Dakers. My G.o.d, I could almost kill you ..."

He was beside himself with rage and thwarted pa.s.sion. He let her go so violently that she staggered and fell backwards, striking her head against the wooden window-sill; but Chris was blind and deaf to everything. He went downstairs and out into the street, hatless as he was, slamming the front door after him.

It was still light, and people stared at him curiously as he strode by, his eyes fixed unseeingly before him.

He was incapable of thought or action. He only felt that he must keep on walking, walking, to outstrip this terrible thing that walked gibbering beside him.

He had never suffered in all his life until now, and he did not know how to bear it.

He loved his wife and she hated him. He saw the world red as he walked along, careless of which way he went.

She loved Dakers! Feathers, ugly Feathers, who had never looked at a woman in his life! He laughed aloud at the thought.

And Feathers was his friend! They had been more than brothers, and now this tragic thing had occurred.

Presently he found himself outside Feathers' rooms in Albany Street, standing on the path, staring aimlessly at the door.

Why had he come there? He did not know. But he went up the steps and rang the bell.

Mr. Dakers was out, the maid told him, but he pa.s.sed her and went up to his friend's room.

There was a packed portmanteau in one corner and the hearth was strewn with torn-up papers. Some whiskey and soda stood on the table, and Chris helped himself to a stiff dose.

He felt better after that, though there was a stabbing pain in his temples, and he sat down and leaned his head in his hands.

What should he say when Feathers came in? What should he do?

He tried to think, but he could grip nothing definitely. All thought melted away from him as soon as he thought he had got it.

The only thing he could see distinctly against his closed lids was the face of Marie Celeste as she had said, "Oh, if you knew how I hate you!"

He would always hear her voice to his dying day. He would carry the memory of it with him to the grave.

Imagination came to add to his torture. What had happened between her and his friend during all those days they had been together?

Was it true what Marie had told him, that Feathers had never spoken one word of love to her? He tried to disbelieve it, but he knew his friend to be an honorable man.

Feathers was no wife-stealer; Feathers was the straightest chap in the world.

Then came a revulsion of feeling. He hated him! He would kill him if he came in now! Chris started up and began pacing the room.

What was to be the end of it all? He was helpless--powerless! And he loved her so ...