290 No more words were needed. Chris went past her and into the room where Marie lay.
She was fast asleep, her hair spread out over the pillow like a dark wing, and Chris went down on his knees beside her and hid his face. She had nobody now in the world but him—Miss Chester had gone, and Feathers. . . Oh, he would make it up to her! He would spend 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, but she did not move or stir, and presently he went away again.
He had not kissed her—not even her hands. Something seemed to hold him back from doing so, until she herself should say that he might.
The news of the accident had spread like wildfire, and all the morning people were walking out from the villages round about to stare with morbid interest at the spot on the river bank where the car had plunged into the water, or to crowd outside the inn in the hope 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 will be 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 should not worry her or question her at all," he said diffidently, and then he added uncomfortably: "She seems somehow afraid at the thought of seeing you."