He could trace everything back to his own selfishness and neglect. But for him, this tragedy would never have happened.
No wonder Marie had loved Feathers—the most unselfish, the kindest hearted . . . he felt his own unworthiness keenly.
He made what arrangements he could in Town and hurried back to Somerton, and the woman who kept the inn told him how she had found Marie unconscious in the room downstairs.
"Unconscious for an hour she was," she said distressed. "I put her to bed and sent for the doctor. I don't know how she came down without my hearing her. I wouldn't have had it happen for the world."
Chris' face whitened. Although dead, it seemed to him that in the future Feathers would stand more effectually between him and his happiness than ever he had done in life.
299 A fresh punishment upon which he had not yet reckoned.
He was not allowed to see Marie that night, and it was two days before the doctor would consent to her being moved.
She looked so white and frail that Chris' heart sank as he carried her down to the car. She was like a child in his arms, and it hurt him intolerably to see how resolutely her eyes avoided him.
She never spoke during the short drive to the village where young Atkins' sister lived. She asked no questions, seemed not to care what was to become of her.
"If you would rather I stayed with you, of course, I will," Chris said hoarsely, when he bade her good-bye that evening. He longed with all his soul for her to ask him to stay, but she only shook her head.