CHAPTER XXVII

"But ah! the little things for which I sigh, As each day passes by, The open book, the flower upon the floor. The dainty disarray. The sound of passing feet. Alas, the little things of every day! The silent eve, my sweet, The lonely waking. Alas! alas! for little things My heart is breaking."

CHRIS woke up on the morning of his birthday with the very real hope in his heart that the post might bring him some message from Marie Celeste. She had never before forgotten his birthday. Even when he saw that there was no letter from her he could hardly believe that there would be none later.

He hung about his rooms all the morning, till young Atkins dragged him out by main force.

"What's file matter with you that you're so fond of the house all at once?" he demanded disgustedly. He had previously had a heart-to-heart talk with their landlady and given her many instructions with regard to flowers and a lavish dinner that night.

"For only you two gentlemen, sir?" she had asked amazed, and Tommy had said: "No--I shan't be there--there's a lady coming." Then seeing the faint disapproval of her eyes, he added, chuckling: "Cheer up! It's all right! She's his wife!" He had told her enough of the truth to enlist her sympathy, packed his bag, and promptly proceded to lose Chris as soon as he had got him out of the house.

"I'll call for you at the club at six," were his last words. "And mind you're there."

Chris was there an hour before, chiefly because he had nothing else to do. He was irritated and annoyed, therefore, when the door porter informed him that Mr. Atkins had left a message to the effect that he could not get to the club, but would be at the rooms at seven.

"And would you be sure to be there, sir," he added.

Chris frowned as he turned away. He had a great mind not to go home at all, but to leave Atkins in the lurch. He thought it very shabby of him, all things considered, but it came on to rain and the streets looked dull and uninviting, so he took a taxi and went home.

Home! He echoed the word in his heart wretchedly. What a home for a man to go to when he might have everything in the world he wanted, and a wife to smile at him from the other side of his own table! He missed Marie a hundred times a day--her step about the house--her voice--even the sight of her slippers and small personal belongings.

He took off his coat and hat in the hall, and went upstairs. There was a light in his room, and he could catch a glimpse of the table laid for dinner, and flowers . . . so many flowers there seemed.

"I don't know why you chucked money away on all this tomfoolery," he said shortly, as he pushed open the door. "If you think because it's my bally birthday . . . Marie Celeste!" The last words were a great cry as his wife rose from his big chair by the fire.

For a moment he stood staring at her with disbelieving eyes. He had longed for her so much all day; had been so hurt because she had forgotten his birthday, and now--here she was!

She was very pale, but she was smiling. She had taken off her hat and coat and looked very young and sweet in her little black frock, the dark hair curling softly about her face.

Chris could not find his voice, could hardly breathe. He was so sure that if he spoke the spell would be broken and that she would vanish from his longing eyes.

Then quite suddenly, she said:

"I've come back, Chris--if you want me."

"If I want you!" He fell on his knees beside her, and his shaking arms closed fast about her.

He had meant to try and explain so many had planned so often in his mind what he would say to her, how he would humble himself and ask her forgiveness, but now that the time had come, there seem no need for any of it.

Kisses and broken words, and the clasp of arms that had ached with loneliness and emptiness were more eloquent than the finest speech could have been. It was only when the landlady had knocked three times to ask if she should bring dinner that Chris thought about appearances, and then he kept his wife's hand in his all the time the choice dishes which young Atkins had chosen so carefully were put upon the table.

They pretended to eat a great deal, but it was only a pretense, and when the landlady had removed the last dish in offended silence Chris drew Marie Celeste down into his arms in the big chair.

He passed his hand over her face and hair and soft neck.

"I can't believe you're real," he said huskily. "How long are you going to keep me in my fool's paradise before you disappear again, Marie Celeste?" She raised herself and looked at him with mournful eyes.

"I couldn't come before," she answered "I had to be sure first."

"Sure--of me?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"No; of myself."

The dark flush of pain swept across his face.

"You mean--that you had to be sure whether you . . . you still cared for me at all."

She looked away from him.

"I loved you when you were a little boy--years ago," she said in a tremulous whisper. "I loved you when you went to Cambridge, and snubbed me so dreadfully when you came home . . . Chris--I loved you when I married you."

He raised her hand to his lips silently. The words were sweet, but it was not all that he wished to hear, and she went on disconnectedly.

"Chris--you know . . . I thought you had only married me for--for the money . . . I never knew till--till that last night---"

He interrupted.

"I don't want to hear--it was all my fault,"

"But I must tell you," she urged. "There is something I must tell you. It was my fault--everything that happened . . . about . . . about Feathers. You made me half mad, I think, and--and it was I who asked him to take me away. It was I who asked him--he was much too honorable . . . I--I can't bear that--that you should blame him."

"I blame myself--for everything," but his eyes searched her face with passionate jealousy.

"You said you hated me once," he reminded her morosely. "Marie Celeste, when did--when did you begin to care again?"

She looked away from him. Somehow she could not meet his eyes. There was a knowledge in her heart which she knew must always be a secret from him--the knowledge of her queer, inexplicable love for Feathers.

It was still there in her heart, and always would be, she knew, but already time had begun to soften and change it, as time subtly changes the outline and coloring of a picture without altering its beauty in the smallest degree--perhaps even adding to it.

"I saw a photograph of you--in . . . in his rooms," she whispered. "And I knew then . . . that whatever happened . . . I could not go."

It was the truth, neither more nor less; the old loyalty and allegiance had called her back--perhaps the old love, who knows?

Chris' arms tightened about her. Three times he had been so near to losing her, twice by death, and once--by something that would have been so infinitely worse!

He drew Marie down to him, and kissed her with passionate thankfulness.

"He saved your life for me--twice!" he said.

It was an all-sufficient answer to any doubt or suspicion that might still linger in his heart.

L'ENVOI

CHRIS took Marie abroad immediately, and for a year they stayed away from England and its many poignant memories.

They wintered in the South of France, and spent the late spring in Switzerland.

"I should like to take you to Italy," Chris said one day, but Marie shook her head.

"No--not Italy--I never want to go there."

He wondered a little at the time, and it was only some days afterwards that he understood, and the old jealousy of his friend that still slumbered deep in his heart stirred.

He knew that Feathers' death had left a mark on Marie's life that neither time nor the greatness of his love could ever quite efface; sometimes still, its memory would rise up like a great black wave and overwhelm her.

And yet she was happy--happier than she had ever been in her life, even though she felt she was looking at life and the beauties of the world through the sad eyes of a bitter experience.

It was a surprise to Chris when one day she told him that she would like to go back to England. It was early June then, and they were at Lucerne, and the snow was beginning to melt on the mountain sides, and little bright colored flowers were springing up everywhere.

The desire to return had often been in Chris' heart, but not for the world would he have said so. Marie was everything in his life now--he could not bear her out of his sight.

"Tired of Lucerne?" he asked.

"No--but I think I would like to go home."

"London in June is appalling," Chris said. "Why not stay on here a month or two longer and then go up to Scotland. You've never been to Scotland, Marie Celeste?"

He watched her with moody eyes as he made the deliberate suggestions. Was she going to shrink from that too, on account of its memories, as she had done from Italy? But to his relief she agreed.

"Yes--I should like that."

He caught her hand and raised it to his lips.

"Scotland be it then," he said happily. "I know a ripping little place, right up in the mountains at a place called . . ." He rubbed his head boyishly. "Dashed if I can remember the name," he said.

Marie laughed.

"I shall be happy enough, whatever its name is," she told him.

But it was October before they finally went back, and the heather was paling, and the sunsets were wonderful when at last they settled down amongst the mountains and the silence.

The little house in the hills was all that Chris had claimed for it, and the windows of Marie's rooms looked right out on to a mountain gorge, and a little noisy stream of water.

"Happy, Marie Celeste?" Chris asked one evening, coming into the room and finding her at the window, her face rather grave in the sunset light.

He put an arm round her waist. "Quite happy?" he asked anxiously.

She turned her face, stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

"I was thinking about Aunt Madge!--I wonder if she knows that--that everything's all right."

"Is it--all right?" he asked, jealously.

She looked away from him to the wonderful sunset.

"Don't you know that it is?" she asked.

There was a little silence, and her thoughts went wistfully to Feathers.

He had always said she would be happy some day--she was happy now.

But it seemed impossible that he was really dead--she could never think of him as dead but always as she had known him, so full of health and vigor, and cheeriness, and with the old faithful look in his eyes. She gave a quick sigh and Chris said anxiously:

"Have you got everything you want in the world, Marie Celeste?"

She laughed and blushed, rubbing her cheek against his coat.

"I think perhaps I shall have--some day," she said.

He held her at arm's length.

"What do you mean, Marie Celeste?"

She disengaged herself gently from him, and turning, opened an old chest that stood at the foot of the bed. She pulled out something white and soft and woolly and held it to him.

"Look, Chris?"

He looked, and the color deepened in his face.

"What is it, Marie Celeste?" he asked very gently.

But he knew quite well that it was Miss Chester's shawl.

THE END