She closed her eyes, not from any wish to sleep, but to avoid talking. There was a little fear at the back of her mind which she could not capture or recognize.
Why had she cried? Why was it now that when Chris was on his way home—perhaps was already in London—there was no joy in her heart, only dread?
It was very still there in the backwater. Now and then a bird darted down from the trees overhead and skimmed the clear water with a flash of brown wings; or some little creature stirred in the rushes, splashing the water and sending out ever-widening circles to the opposite bank.
Feathers sat motionless, his arms folded, puffing at his pipe, his eyes fixed on Marie's face.
Such a child! Such a child! That was always his compassionate thought of her; and yet—those tears she had shed just now had not been a child's tears, but a woman's.
He was afraid to question himself, afraid to read the answer which he knew was there in his heart, but his eyes searched the soft contours of her face with passionate longing.
Was she asleep? Somehow he did not think she was. And yet he was glad of these moments in which he might look at her without having to hold the mask before his face—for this little time in which she seemed to be his own.
He had long known that he loved her and had accepted the fact as philosophically as he had accepted the many other ironies and disappointments of his life.
It was meant to be! He could not have helped or prevented it, even had he wished. She was his friend's wife, and there was not one disloyal thought in Feathers' heart at he sat there and let his 175 pipe grow cold and dreamed with his eyes on little Marie Celeste.
There was a gramophone playing somewhere in the distance, and the water between lent it a softness and melody that was undeserved. It grew clearer and clearer as the boat carrying it came up stream, and presently Feathers could distinguish the words of the song: