Fool that he had been never to know it before--to need the hysterical outburst of a woman for whom he cared less than nothing, to show him how much he loved his wife.

He thought of the scene on the golf links with Dorothy, and a shiver of distaste shook him. He had never dreamed that she cared for him, that he was any more to her than she was to him--and at first he had been sorry for her, and ashamed of his own shortsightedness. Then he had grown angry and disgusted.

And that h.e.l.l-cat, Mrs. Heriot, had seen it all! Chris struck his clenched fist against his forehead. He had never met a woman who was fit to hold a candle to Marie Celeste. And then, with that thought, the agony began all over again.

He had lost her! She would never look at him any more with shy adoration in her brown eyes. They might have been so happy, but it was too late now.

And the memory came to torture him of how Feathers had saved her life! Perhaps she had begun to love him then! If so, how could he blame her for caring! Feathers was one in a thousand, with a heart of gold. Feathers would make her happy where he had failed so miserably.

The room seemed suddenly unbearably suffocating, and he went out again into the street.

He walked about all night, until wearied out, he turned back home and flung himself, dressed as he was, on the bed.

CHAPTER XX

"First will I pray, do Thou Who ownest the Soul Yet wilt grant control To another, nor disallow For a time, restrain me now."

HE woke with a racking headache and nerves like wire that is stretched to snapping point. He made a pretense of breakfast, not daring to ask after Marie. He was afraid to go out for fear he should return to find her gone. He went into the library and tried to read the newspaper, and fell asleep over it, waking with a start when the gong for lunch rang through the house, to find Miss Chester standing beside him.

"My dear boy! Are you ill that you fall asleep at such an hour?"

she asked anxiously.

He managed to laugh.

"I was late last night," he apologized.

"Marie has one of her bad headaches, too," the old lady said. "She is not strong, you know, Chris. I wish you could persuade her to go away for a rest. I've been to her room twice, and she won't let me in. Have you seen her this morning?"

He had to lie to comfort her.

"Yes--she's all right--she'll be better when she's had a rest."

He went up to her door twice during the afternoon, but came away without daring to knock. He could hear her moving about inside, and once the shutting of a drawer.

He went down again and wrote a note to her. Would she see him just for a moment? He would not worry her, but he must see her. He slipped it under the door of her room, but though he waited about all the evening no answer came.

His head was unbearable then, and, feeling as if the pain would drive him mad, he took his hat and went out after dinner.

From her window Marie saw him go down the street. She had been watching all day for him to leave the house, and she drew a sharp breath as she saw his tall figure turn the corner of the road. She wondered if she would ever see him again. For a moment the thought stabbed her heart with a little pain, but it was gone instantly, and she crossed the room and quietly unlocked the door.

It was very quiet, and she slipped downstairs and out of the house without being seen.

It was almost dark now, and n.o.body noticed her as she went down the road and hailed a taxicab.

She gave the driver Feathers' address in Albany Street, then sat back in a corner, trembling and shaking in every limb.

There was a queer rapture in her heart, which was yet half fear.

She was going to be happy, she told herself, fiercely; she was going to offer herself to a man who loved her and who would make her happy, and yet it terrified her to know that she was deliberately cutting herself off from her old life.

She tried not to think, not to reason. Since yesterday her heart had been like a stone and she dreaded that its hardness should melt.

The door of the house was open when the taxicab stopped, and a woman stood at the entrance looking out into the night.

Marie spoke to her timidly.

"Is Mr. Dakers in, please?"

The woman's eyes scanned her white face interestedly.

"I think he is," she said. "Do you know which are his rooms, or shall I take you up?"

"Thank you; I know." She had never been in the house before, but she had heard a great deal about his rooms from Chris, and she went up the staircase in the darkness, her heart shaken with a wild sort of happiness, and reached the landing above.

The door of Feathers' sitting-room stood open, and he was standing at the table in his old tweed jacket, packing some papers away in a box.

He had not heard Marie's step, and he did not move or glance up till she was actually in the room and had whispered his name.

"Mr. Dakers!"

He started then as if he had heard a voice from the dead. He had been thinking of her a moment ago, and his face was white as he stared at her across the table. Then he took a swift step forward.

"Mrs. Lawless! Good heavens! Is anything the matter?"

He drew her into the room and closed the door.

"Chris? Where is he?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely.

"I've told him I can't live with him any more"

She broke down into stifled sobbing. "I've done my best--you know I have--and now it's finished. We had a dreadful scene last night ...

and I can't go back to him again--I can't."

Feathers tried to speak. Twice he moistened his lips and tried to speak, but no words would come. The room was rocking before him.

The night was full of tempting voices whispering that she had come to him because she loved him, and because she knew he loved her.

With a desperate effort he found his voice.

"You don't mean what you are saying, I know, Mrs. Lawless; you are tired and upset. Let me see Chris, and if there is any little trouble that can be put right he will listen to me." He held out his hand to her. "Let me take you home."

"It can never be all right again," she said, her voice broken with sobbing. "He never cared for me, you know he never did ..."

Feathers interrupted gently.