"And so you and Jimmy were children together," said Arthur Sangster.
The curtain had just fallen on the first act, and the lights turned up suddenly in the theatre had revealed Christine's face to him a little flushed and dreamy.
Sangster looked at her smilingly. Jimmy had called her a child; but he had not said how sweet a child she was, he thought, as his eyes rested on her dainty profile and parted lips.
She seemed to wake from dreaming at the sound of his voice. She gave a little sigh, and leaned back in her chair.
"Yes," she said. "We used to play together when we were children."
"Such a long, long time ago," said Sangster, half mockingly, half in earnest.
She nodded seriously.
"It seems ages and ages," she said. She looked past him to where Jimmy sat talking to her mother. He might have sat next to her, she thought wistfully. Mr. Sangster was very nice, but—she caught a little sigh between her lips.
"Jimmy has told me so much about you," Sangster said. "I almost feel as if I have known you for years."
"Has he?" That pleased her, at all events. Her brown eyes shone as she looked at him. "What did he tell you?" she asked, interestedly.
Sangster laughed.
"Oh, all about Upton House, and the fine time you used to have there; all about the dogs, and an old horse named Judas."
She laughed too, now.
"Judas—he died last year. He was so old, and nearly blind; but he always knew my step and came to the gate." Her voice sounded wistful. "Jimmy used to ride him round the field, standing up on his back," she went on eagerly. "Jimmy could ride anything."
"Jimmy is a very wonderful person," said Sangster gravely.
She looked rather puzzled.
"Do you mean that?" she asked. "Or are you—are you joking?"
He felt suddenly ashamed.
"I mean it, of course," he said gently. "I am very fond of Jimmy, though I haven't known him as long as you have."
"How long?" she asked.
He made a little calculation.
"Well, it must be five years," he said at length. "Or perhaps it is six; the time goes so quickly, I lose count."
"And do you live in London too?"
"Yes; I live in an unfashionable part of Bloomsbury."
"Near Jimmy?"
"No; Jimmy lives in the Temple."
"Oh."
It evidently conveyed nothing to her.
"And do you know his brother—the great Horatio?" she asked laughingly.
"I had the honour of meeting him once," he answered with mock gravity.
"So did I—years ago. Isn't he funny?"
"Very." Sangster agreed. He thought it a very mild word with which to describe Horatio Ferdinand; he pitied Jimmy supremely for having to own such a relative. The stage bell rang through the theatre, the curtain began to swing slowly up.
"We went to see Cynthia Farrow the other night," Christine said."Isn't she lovely?"
"I suppose she is!"
"Suppose! I think she's the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," Christine declared vehemently. "Jimmy knows her, he says." She turned her head. "Do you know her too?"
"Yes—slightly."
"You don't sound as if you like her," she said quickly.
He laughed in spite of himself.
"Perhaps because she doesn't like me," he answered.
"Doesn't she?" Christine's grave eyes searched his face. "I like you, anyway," she said.
Sangster did not look at her, but a little flush rose to his brow.
"Thank you," he said, and his voice sounded, somehow, quite changed.
As the curtain fell on the second act, he rose quietly from his seat and went round to where Jimmy stood.
"Take my place," he said in an undertone. Jimmy looked up. He had not been following the play; he had been thinking—thinking always of the same thing, always of the past few weeks, and the shock of their ending.
He rose to his feet rather reluctantly. Sangster sat down beside Mrs.Wyatt.
Once or twice he looked across to Christine. She and Jimmy were not talking very much, but there was a little smile on Christine's face, and she looked at Jimmy very often.
Jimmy sat with his chin in the palm of his hand, staring before him with moody eyes. Sangster felt a sort of impatience. What the deuce could the fellow ever have seen in Cynthia Farrow? he asked himself. Was he blind, that he could not penetrate her shallowness, and see the small selfishness of her nature?
A pretty face and laugh, and an undoubted knowledge of men—they were all the assets she possessed; and Sangster knew it. But to Jimmy—Sangster metaphorically shrugged his shoulders as he looked at his friend's moody face.
How could he sit there next to that child and not realise that in his longing he was only grasping at a shadow? What was he made of that he saw more beauty in Cynthia Farrow's blue eyes than in the sweet face of his boyhood's love?
Sangster was glad when the play was over; theatres always bored him. He did not quite know why he had invited himself to Jimmy's box to-night. When they rose to leave he smiled indulgently at Christine's rapt face.
"You have enjoyed it," he said.
"Yes—ever so much. But I liked Miss Farrow and the play she was in better."
Jimmy turned sharply away; nobody answered.
"We're going on to Marnio's to supper," Jimmy said as they crossed the foyer. "Christine has never been there."
She looked up instantly.
"No, I haven't."
"It's the place to see stage favourites," Sangster told her.
In his heart he was surprised that Jimmy should choose to go there. He thought it extremely probable that Cynthia Farrow and some of her numerous admirers would put in an appearance; but it was not his business, and he raised no objection.
When they entered the long room he cast a swift glance round. She was not here yet, at all events; one could only hope that she would not come at all.
Everything was new and wonderful to Christine. She was like a child in her delight. She sat in a corner of one of the great, softly cushioned sofas, and looked about her with wide eyes.
Jimmy sat beside her. Sangster had manoeuvred that he should. He andMrs. Wyatt were opposite.
The orchestra was playing a dreamy waltz. The long room was brilliantly lit, and decorated with pink flowers.
Christine leaned across and squeezed her mother's hand.
"Oh, isn't it just too lovely?" she said.
Mrs. Wyatt laughed.
"You will turn Christine's head, Jimmy," she said to Challoner. "She will find Upton House dull after all this gaiety."
Jimmy was slightly bored. It was no novelty to him. He had spent so many nights dining and supping in similar places to Marnio's. All the waiters knew him. He wondered if they were surprised to see him without Cynthia Farrow. For weeks past he and she had been everywhere together. He met Sangster's quizzical eyes; he roused himself with an effort; he turned to Christine and began to talk.
He told her who some of the people were at the other tables. He pointed out a famous conductor, and London's most popular comedian. Christine was interested in everyone and everything. Her eyes sparkled, and her usually pale face was flushed. She was pretty to-night, if she had never been pretty before.
"I suppose you come here often?" she said. She looked up into Jimmy's bored young face. "I suppose it's not at all new or wonderful to you?"
He smiled.
"Well, I'm afraid it isn't; you see——" He broke off; he sat staring across the room with a sudden fire in his eyes.
A man and woman had just entered. The woman was in evening dress, with a beautiful sable coat. Her hand was resting on the man's arm. She was looking up at him with smiling eyes.
Jimmy caught his breath hard in his throat. For a moment the gaily lit room swam before him—for the woman was Cynthia Farrow, and the man at her side was Henson Mortlake.
Sangster had been sitting with his back to the door by which Cynthia and her escort had entered. When he saw the sudden change in Jimmy Challoner's face, he turned in his chair quickly.
Cynthia was seated now. She was languidly drawing off her long white gloves. A waiter had taken her sable coat; without it the elaborate frock she wore looked too showy; it was cut too low in the neck. A diamond necklace glittered on her white throat.
Sangster turned back again. Under cover of the table he gave Jimmy a kick. He saw that Christine had noticed the sudden change in his face. To hide his friend's discomfort he rushed into speech. He tried to distract the girl's attention; presently Jimmy recovered himself.
Mrs. Wyatt alone had not been conscious of any disturbing element.
She had lived all her life in the country, and her few visits to London had been exceedingly brief, and always conducted on the most severe of lines—a dull, highly respectable hotel to stay in, stalls for plays against which no single newspaper had raised a dissentient voice, and perhaps a visit to a museum or picture gallery.
It had only been under protest that she had consented to visit the suburban theatre at which Cynthia Farrow was playing.
Under the guidance of Jimmy Challoner, London had suddenly been presented to her in an entirely fresh light. Secretly she was thoroughly enjoying herself, though once or twice she looked at Christine with rather wistful eyes.
Christine was so wrapped up in Jimmy . . . and Jimmy!—of course, he must know many, many other women far more attractive and beautiful than this little daughter of hers. She half sighed as she caught the expression of Christine's eyes as they rested on him.
Suddenly Jimmy rose.
"Will you excuse me a moment? . . . There is a friend of mine over there. . . . Please excuse me."
Sangster scowled. He thought Jimmy was behaving like a weak fool. He would have stopped him had it been at all possible; but Jimmy had already left the table and crossed to where Cynthia was sitting.
The sight of her in Mortlake's company for the second time that day had scattered his fine resolutions to the winds. There was a raging fire of jealousy in his heart as he went up to her.
A waiter was filling her glass with champagne, Mortlake was whispering to her confidentially across the corner of the table.
"Good evening," said Jimmy Challoner.
He did his best to control his voice, but in spite of himself a little thrill of rage vibrated through it.
Mortlake raised himself and half frowned.
"Evening," he said shortly.
Cynthia extended her hand; she was rather pleased than otherwise to see him. She liked having two strings to her bow; it gave her worldly heart an odd little pang as she met the fierceness of Jimmy's eyes. . . . He was such a dear, she thought.
Marnio's was not a place where he could make a scene either, even supposing . . . she shot a quick glance at Mortlake. After all, it was rather unfortunate Jimmy should have seen them together—just at present, at any rate; it would not have mattered in a week or two's time. She wondered if he had heard anything, if already he had discovered by some unforeseen means how she had lied to him? . . . She gave him one of the sweetest smiles.
"Are you having supper here, Jimmy? I didn't see you."
It was not the truth. She had seen him the moment she entered, but she thought it more effective to pretend otherwise.
"I am over there with friends," said Jimmy curtly. He glanced across to the table he had just left, and met Christine's eyes.
Somehow he felt uncomfortable. He looked sharply away again, and down at the beautiful smiling face raised to his.
"When may I come and see you?" he asked bluntly.
He spoke quite distinctly; Mortlake must have heard every word.
Cynthia looked nonplussed for a moment; then she laughed.
"Come any time you like, my dear boy. . . . I am always pleased to see you—any afternoon, you know."
She smiled and nodded. Jimmy felt that he had been dismissed. After a moment he walked away.
His heart was a dead weight in his breast. He sat down again besideChristine. She turned to him eagerly.
"Wasn't that Miss Farrow? . . . . Oh, Jimmy, why didn't you tell me?"
Jimmy drained his wineglass before answering.
"I forgot you were interested; I'm sorry. . . . She isn't alone, you see, or—or I would introduce her—if you cared for me to, that is."
"I don't think Miss Wyatt would care for Miss Farrow," said ArthurSangster quietly.
Jimmy looked furious. Angry words rushed to his lips, but he choked them with an effort.
"Narrow-minded old owl!" he said, half jokingly, half in earnest.
Later, when the two men had left Mrs. Wyatt and Christine at their hotel, and were walking away together, Jimmy burst out savagely:
"What the devil do you mean about Christine not liking Cynthia? . . .It's a gross piece of impertinence to say such a thing."
"It's the truth, all the same," said Sangster imperturbably. "The two girls are as different as chalk from cheese. Miss Wyatt would soon dislike Cynthia—they live in different worlds."
"Fortunately for Cynthia perhaps," said Jimmy savagely. "For pure, ghastly dullness, recommend me to what is called the 'best society' . . . . Christine is only a child—she always will be as long as she is tied to her mother's apron-strings. I like Mrs. Wyatt awfully, but you must admit that we've had a distinctly dull evening."
There was a moment's silence.
"If you really think that," said Sangster quietly, "I should keep away from them, and I should most certainly give up paying attention to Miss Wyatt."
Jimmy Challoner stopped dead. He turned and stared at his friend.
"What the devil are you talking about?" he demanded. His face looked furious in the yellow light of a street lamp they were passing. "I pay attention to Christine! Why"—he laughed suddenly—"She's only a child."
"Very well, you know your own business best, of course; and Jimmy——"
"Well?"—ungraciously.
Sangster hesitated; finally:
"Did—did Cynthia say anything to you to-night?—anything special, I mean?"
Jimmy laughed drearily.
"She said it was cold, or something equally interesting. She also said that I might call upon her any afternoon, and that she was always pleased to see her 'friends.'" He accented the last word bitterly. "What did you expect her to say to me?" he inquired.
"Nothing; at least . . . you know what they are saying in the clubs?"
"What are they saying?"
"That she is engaged to Mortlake."
Through the darkness he heard Jimmy catch his breath hard in his throat.
"Of course, that may be only club talk," he hastened to add kindly.
"I never thought it could be anything else," said Jimmy with a rush. "I know it's a lie, anyway. How can she be engaged to Mortlake, or any other man—if her husband is living?"
"No," Sangster agreed quietly. "She certainly cannot be engaged to any other man if her husband is still living."
There was an underlying meaning in his voice. Jimmy swung round savagely.
"What are you trying to get at?" he asked. "If you know anything, tell me and have done with it."
"I don't know anything; I am only repeating what I have heard."
"A pack of gossiping old women"—savagely.
They walked a few steps silently.
"Why not forget her, Jimmy?" said Sangster presently. "She isn't the only woman in the world. Put her out of your life once and for all."
"It's all very fine for you to talk . . . things are not forgotten so quickly. She's done with me—I told you so—and . . . oh, why the devil can't you mind your own business?"
But in spite of his fine sounding words, Jimmy had not done with her, and the next afternoon—having shaken off Sangster, who looked in to suggest a stroll—he went round to Cynthia Farrow's flat.
She was not alone; half a dozen theatrical people, most of whom Jimmy knew personally, were lounging about her luxuriously furnished boudoir. They were all cheery people, whom Jimmy liked well enough as a general thing, but to-day their chatter bored him; he hardly knew how to contain himself for impatience. He made up his mind that he would stay as long, and longer than they did—that wild horses should not drag him away till he had spoken with Cynthia alone.
She was very kind to him. It might have struck a disinterested observer that she was a little afraid of him—a little anxious to propitiate him; but none of these things crossed Jimmy's mind.
He adored her, and she knew it; he would do anything in the world for her, and she must know that too. Why, then, should she be in the very least afraid of him?
He found himself talking to an elderly woman with dyed hair, who had once been a famous dancer. She was pleasant enough company, but she had not yet realised that her youth was a thing of the past. She ogled Jimmy as if she had been eighteen, and simpered and giggled like a girl.
She was the last of them all to leave. It struck Jimmy that Cynthia had purposely asked her to stay, but he could not be sure. Anyway, it did not matter to him. He meant to stay there all night or until he had spoken with her alone.
As soon as the door had closed on the rustling skirts of the dancer's juvenile frock, Jimmy rushed over to where Cynthia was sitting.
She was smoking a cigarette. She threw it pettishly into the fire as he dropped on his knees beside her.
"Cynthia," said Jimmy Challoner hoarsely, "aren't you—aren't you just a little bit pleased to see me?" It was a very boyish appeal; Cynthia's face softened before it. She laid a hand for a moment on his shoulder.
"I am always pleased to see you, Jimmy; you know that. I hope we shall always be friends, even though—even though——"
Jimmy caught her hand and covered it with kisses.
"Darling!"
She moved restlessly.
"Jimmy, you're such a boy." There was a hint of impatience now in her voice. "Aren't you ever going to grow up?"
He rose to his feet and moved away from her, The momentary flash of happiness had fallen from him; he felt very old and miserable as he stood leaning his elbow on the mantelshelf staring down at the fire. She no longer cared for him; something in her voice told him that as no actual words would have done. She had not wanted him to come here to-day. Even now she wished that he would go away and leave her. He suddenly remembered what Sangster had said last night. He turned abruptly, looking down at Cynthia.
She was sitting up now, looking before her with puckered brows. One small foot tapped the floor impatiently.
Jimmy moved nearer to her.
"Do you know what they are saying in the clubs?" he demanded.
She raised her eyes, she shrugged her slim shoulders.
"They are always saying something! What is it now?"
But her voice was not so indifferent as she would have had it; her eyes were anxious.
"They are saying that you are engaged to Mortlake."
Jimmy's eyes never left her face; it was a tragic moment for him.Cynthia's white hands clasped each other nervously.
"Are they?" she said. "How—how very amusing."
Her eyes had fallen now; he could only see the outline of darkened lashes against her cheek.
He waited a moment, then he strode forward—he covered the space between them in a stride; he put a hand beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him.
"Is it true?" he asked. "Is it true?"
His voice was strangled; his breath came tearing from between clenched teeth.
Cynthia shivered away from him, back against the pile of silken cushions behind her.
"Don't hurt me, Jimmy; don't hurt me," she whimpered.
He took her by the shoulders and shook her. "Is it true—is it true?"
For a moment he thought she was going to refuse to answer; then suddenly she dragged herself free. She started up, and stood facing him pantingly.
"Yes," she said defiantly. "Yes, it is true."
And then the silence fell again, long and unbroken.
It seemed an eternity to Jimmy Challoner; an eternity during which he stood there like a man in a dream, staring at her flushed face.
The world had surely come crashing about him in ruins; for the moment, at least, he was blind and deaf to everything.
When at last he could find his voice—
"It was all—a lie then—about your—husband!—a lie—to—to get rid of me."
"If you like to put it that way."
Jimmy turned blindly to the door. He felt like a drunken man. He had opened it when she called his name; when she followed and caught his hand, holding him back.
"Jimmy, don't go like that—not without saying good-bye. We've been such friends—we've had such good times together."
She was sobbing now; genuine enough sobs they seemed. She clung to him desperately.
"I always loved you; you must have known that I did, only—only—— Oh, I couldn't bear to be poor! That was it, Jimmy. I couldn't face being poor."
Jimmy stood like a statue. One might almost have thought he had not been listening. Then suddenly he wrenched his hand free.
"Let me go, for God's sake—let me go!"
He left her there, sobbing and calling his name.
She heard him go down the stairs—heard the sullen slam of a distant door; then she rushed over to the window.
It was too dark to see him as he strode away from the house; everything seemed horribly silent and empty.
Jimmy had gone; and Cynthia Farrow knew, as she stood there in the disordered room, that by sending him away she had made the greatest mistake of her selfish life.
Out in the night Jimmy Challoner stood for a moment in the darkness, not knowing where to go or what to do.
He had had a bad shock. He could have borne it if she had only thrown him over for that other man; but that she should have thought it worth while to lie to him about it struck him to the soul. She had made a fool of him—an utter and complete fool; he would never forgive her as long as he lived.
After a moment he walked on. He carried his hat in his hand. The cool night air fanned his hot forehead.
He had lost everything that had made life worth living; that was his first passionate thought. Nobody wanted him—nobody cared a hang what became of him; he told himself that he could quite understand poor devils who jumped off bridges.
He went into the first restaurant he came to, and ordered a neat brandy; that made him feel better, and he ordered a second on the strength of it. The first shock had passed; anger took its place.
He would never forgive her; all his life he would never forgive her; she was not worth a thought. She had never been worth loving.
She was a heartless, scheming woman; little Christine Wyatt had more affection in the clasp of her hand than Cynthia had in the whole of her beautiful body.
The thought of Christine recalled Sangster's words.
Sangster was a fool; he did not know what he was talking about. Christine and he had been sweethearts as children certainly, but that anything more could ever exist between them was absurd.
But he began to remember the little flush that always crept into Christine's face when she saw him, the expression of her beautiful eyes; and the memory gave him back some of his lost self-confidence. Christine liked him, at all events; Christine would never have behaved as Cynthia had done . . . Christine. . . . Jimmy Challoner hailed a passing taxi, and gave the address of the hotel where Christine and her mother were staying.
His desire for sympathy drove him there; his desire to be with someone who liked his company. He was bruised all over by the treatment he had received from Cynthia Farrow; he wanted balm poured on his wounds.
The hall porter told him that Mrs. Wyatt was out, but that he thought the young lady——
"It's Miss Wyatt I wish to see," said Jimmy impatiently.
After a moment he was asked to come upstairs. He knew the Wyatts had a private sitting-room. Christine was there by the fire when he entered.
"Jimmy," she said eagerly.
Jimmy Challoner went forward with outstretched hand.
"I hope you don't mind my coming again so soon; but I was bored—thoroughly fed-up," he explained stumblingly.
Christine looked radiant. She had not yet learned to disguise her true feelings. Jimmy was still holding her hand; she tried gently to free it.
"Don't—don't take it away," said Jimmy. The double dose of brandy and his own agitation had excited him; he drew her over to the fire with him; he hardly knew what he was doing.
Suddenly: "Will you marry me, Christine?" he said.
There was a sharp silence.
Christine's little face had grown as white as death; her soft brown eyes were almost tragic.
"Marry you!" She echoed his words in a whisper. "Marry you," she said again. "Oh, Jimmy!" She caught her breath in something like a sob. "But—but you don't love me," she said in a pitiful whisper.
Jimmy lost his head.
"I do love you," he declared. "I love you most awfully . . . Say yes, Christine—say yes. We'll be ever so happy, you and I; we always got on rippingly, didn't we?"
Nobody had ever made love to Christine before, since the days when Jimmy Challoner had chased her round the garden for kisses, and she had always loved him. She felt giddy with happiness. This was a moment she had longed for ever since that night in the suburban theatre when she had looked up into the stage box and seen him sitting there.
Jimmy had got his arm round her now; he put his hot cheek to her soft hair.
"Say yes, Christine," he whispered; but he did not wait for her to say it. He could be very masterful when he chose, and with sudden impulsive impatience he bent and kissed her.
Christine burst into tears.
He had swept her off her feet. A moment since she had never dreamed of anything like this; and now—now her head was on Jimmy Challoner's shoulder, and his arm round her.
"Don't cry," he said huskily. "Don't cry—I didn't mean to be a brute.Did I frighten you?"
He was already beginning to realise what he had done. A little cold shiver crept down his spine.
He had kissed this girl and asked her to marry him; but he did not love her. There was something still of the old boyish affection for her in his hearty but nothing more. Remorse seized him.
"Don't cry," he begged again with an effort. "Would you like me to go away? . . . Oh, don't cry, dear."
Christine dried her eyes.
"It's—it's only be-because I'm so h-happy," she said on the top of a last sob. "Oh, J-Jimmy—I do love you."
The words sounded somehow infinitely pathetic. Jimmy bit his lip hard.His arm fell from about her waist.
"I—I'm not half good enough for you," he stammered.
He really meant that. He felt himself a perfect rotter beside her innocent whole-hearted surrender. Christine was looking at him with tearful eyes, though her lips smiled tremulously.
"Oh, Jimmy—what will mother say?" she whiskered. "And—and Mr.Sangster?"
Jimmy laughed outright then. She was such a child. Why on earth should it matter what Sangster said?
Christine did not know why she had spoken of him at all; but his kind face had seemed to float into her mind with the touch of Jimmy's lips. She was glad she had liked him. He was Jimmy's friend; now he would be her friend, too.
There was an awkward silence. Jimmy made no attempt to kiss her again—he did not even touch her.
He was thinking of the night when he had asked Cynthia to marry him. It had been in a taxi—coming home from the theatre. In imagination he could still smell the scent of the lilies she wore in her fur coat—still feel the touch of her hair against his cheek.
That had been all rapture; this—he looked at Christine remorsefully. Poor child, she missed nothing in this strange proposal. Her eyes were like stars. As she met Jimmy's gaze she moved shyly across to him and raised her face.
"Kiss me, Jimmy," she said.
Jimmy kissed her very softly on the cheek. She put her hands up to his broad shoulders.
"And—and you do—really—love me?" she asked wistfully.
Jimmy could not meet her eyes, but—
"Of course I do," he said.
* * * * * *
It was late when Jimmy got back to his rooms that night. Mrs. Wyatt had insisted on him staying to dinner. There was no doubt that she was delighted at the turn affairs had taken, though she had said that it was soon—very soon. They must be engaged a few months at least, to make sure—quite sure.
She kissed Jimmy—she kissed Christine; she said she was very happy.
Jimmy felt a cad. He was thankful when the evening was ended. He drew a great breath of relief when he walked away from the hotel.
He was an engaged man—and engaged to Christine. He felt as if someone had snapped handcuffs on his wrists.
Being Christine's fiancé would mean a very different thing from being engaged to Cynthia.
The two girls lived very different lives, had been brought up very differently.
Jimmy had liked the free and easy Bohemianism of the set in whichCynthia moved; he was not so sure about Christine's.
He was utterly wretched as he walked home. He had tied himself for life; there would be no slipping out of this engagement.
Poor little Christine! she deserved a better man. He felt acutely conscious of his own unworthiness.
He walked the whole way home. He was dog tired when he let himself into his rooms. Sangster rose from a chair by the fire.
Jimmy stifled an oath under his breath as he shut the door.
Sangster was the last man he wished to see at the present moment. He kept his eyes averted as he came forward.
"Hallo!" he said. "Been here long?"
"All the evening. Thought you'd sure to be in. Costin said you'd be in to dinner, he thought."
"I meant to . . . stayed with the Wyatts, though."
Jimmy helped himself to a whiskey. He knew that Sangster was watching him. His gaze got unbearable. He swung round with sharp impatience. "What the devil are you staring at?" he demanded irritably.
"Nothing. What a surly brute you're getting. Got a cigarette?"
Jimmy threw his case over.
"By the way," he said with overdone carelessness, "I've got some news for you. It'll be in all the papers to-morrow, so I thought I might as well tell you first." There was a little pause.
"Well?" said Sangster shortly.
Jimmy struck a match on the sole of his shoe.
"I'm engaged," he said, "to Christine."
It seemed a long, long time before Sangster moved or spoke. After a moment Jimmy Challoner swung round irritably.
"Well, why don't you say something?" he demanded. "It's a nice friendly way to receive news. Why the devil don't you say something?" he asked again angrily.
Sangster said something then; something which Jimmy had never expected.
"You ought to be shot!"
And then the silence fell once more.
Jimmy kicked at the blazing coals furiously; he had got very red.
"You ought to be shot!" said Sangster again. He rose to his feet; he threw his unsmoked cigarette into the grate and walked towards the door.
Jimmy turned.
"Here—come back! Where are you going? Of all the bad-tempered beggars——" His face was abashed; there was a sort of wavering in his voice. He moved a step forward to overtake his friend.
Sangster looked back at him with biting contempt in his honest eyes.
"I'm fed up with you," he said. "Sick to death of you and your abominable selfishness. I—oh, what's the good of talking——?" He was gone with a slam of the door.
Jimmy dragged a chair forward and flung himself into it. His face was a study; now and then he gave a little choked exclamation of rage.
What the deuce did Sangster mean by taking such an attitude? It was like his infernal cheek. It was no business of his if he chose to get engaged to Christine and half a dozen other girls at the same time. Anyone would think he had done a shabby trick by asking her to marry him; anyone would think that there had been something disgraceful in having done so; anyone would think——
"Damn it all!" said Jimmy Challoner.
He took a cigarette and lit it; but it went out almost immediately, and he flung it into the fire and lit another.
In a minute or two he had thrown that away also; he lay back in his chair and closed his eyes.
He was an engaged man—it was no novelty. He had been engaged before to a woman whom he adored. Now he was engaged to Christine, the girl who had been his boyhood's sweetheart; a girl whom he had not seen for years.
He wondered if she believed that he loved her. He sat up, frowning. He did love her—of course he did; or, at least, he would when they were married and settled down. Men always loved their wives—decent men, that is.
He tried to believe that. He tried to forget the heaps and heaps of unhappy marriages which had been brought before his notice; friends of his own—all jolly decent chaps, too.
But, of course, such a thing would never happen to him. He meant to play the game by Christine, she was a dear little thing. But the face of Cynthia would rise before his eyes; he could not forget the way she had cried that evening, and clung to him.
He forgot how she had lied and deceived him; he remembered only that she loved him—that she admitted that she still loved him.
It was all the cursed money. If only the Great Horatio would come out of his niggardly shell and stump up a bit! It was not fair—he was as rich as Croesus; it would not hurt him to fork out another five hundred a year.
Jimmy leaned his head in his hands; his head was aching badly now; he supposed it was the quantity of brandy he had drunk. He got up from his chair, and, turning out the light, went off to bed. But the darkness seemed worse than the light; it was crowded with pictures of Cynthia. He saw her face in a thousand different memories; her eyes drew and tortured him. She was the only woman he had ever loved; he was sure of that. He was more sure of it with every passing, wakeful second.
He never slept a wink till it began to get light. When at last he fell asleep he had dreadful dreams. He woke up to the sound of Costin moving about the room. He turned over with a stifled groan.
"Good morning, sir," said Costin stolidly.
Jimmy did not condescend to answer. Pale sunlight was pouring through the window. He closed his eyes; his head still ached vilely. He got up late, and dressed with a bad grace.
He ate no breakfast. He tried to remember whether he had promised to go round to the Wyatts' that morning or not; everything was a blank in his mind except the one fact that he was engaged to Christine.
He could remember that clearly enough, at all events.
About eleven he took his hat and went out. He was annoyed because the sun was shining; he was annoyed because London was looking cheerful when he himself felt depressed beyond measure.
Unconsciously he found his way to the Wyatts' hotel; they were both out, for which he was grateful.
"Miss Wyatt left a message for you in case you called, sir," the porter told him. "She said would you come back to lunch?"
Jimmy muttered something and walked away. He had no intention of going back to lunch; he wandered down Regent Street. Presently he found himself staring in at a jeweller's window. That reminded him; he would have to buy Christine a ring.
He wondered if Cynthia intended to keep the one he had given to her; it had cost him a fabulous sum. He had been hard up for weeks afterwards in consequence; and even then it was not nearly so fine as some she already had—as some Mortlake could afford to give her, for instance.
He could not yet realise that this detestable thing had really happened to him. He made up his mind that if Christine would have him, he would marry her at once. There was nothing to wait for—and he wanted to let Cynthia see that he was not going to wear the willow for her.
He turned away from the window and the dazzling rows of diamond rings and walked on. He remembered that he had not answered his brother's letter; on the spur of the moment he turned into the nearest post office and sent a cable:
Letter received. Am engaged to Christine Wyatt, of Upton House. You remember her.—JAMES.
He never signed himself "Jimmy" when he was writing to the Great Horatio. The cable, together with his brother's address, cost him fifteen shillings; he grudged the expense, but he supposed it had to be sent.
He wandered on again up the street.
He had some lunch by himself, and went back to the Wyatts' hotel. Christine came running down the stairs to meet him; her eyes were dancing, her face flushed.
"Oh, Jimmy!" she said. She looked as if she expected him to kiss her, he thought; after a moment he lightly touched her cheek with his lips.
"I'm sorry I couldn't come to lunch," he said stiltedly. "I—er—I had an engagement. If you care to come out——"
He knew he must sound horribly casual and indifferent; he tried in vain to infuse some enthusiasm into his voice, but failed.
Christine seemed to notice nothing amiss; she assented eagerly when he suggested they should go and look at the shops.
"You—er you must have a ring, you know," he said.
His heart smote him when he saw the way her lips trembled. He took her hand remorsefully.
"I mean to make you very happy," he said. He dropped her hand again and moved away.
In his mind he kept comparing this with the first days of his engagement to Cynthia. He had not been tongue-tied and foolish then; he had not needed to be reminded that it was usual to kiss a girl when you were engaged to her; he—oh, confound it!
Christine had gone for her hat and coat.
"Mother is not at all well," she said anxiously when she came back. "Do you know, Jimmy, I have thought sometimes lately that she really isn't so well and strong as she tries to make me believe."
Jimmy was not impressed; he said that he thought Mrs. Wyatt looked A1; not a day older than when she had mothered him down at Upton House all those years ago. Christine was pleased; she adored her mother; she was quite happy as they left the hotel together.
"You choose what you like," he told her when they were in the jeweller's shop. The man behind the counter thought him the most casual lover he had ever yet served. He looked at Christine with a sort of pity; she was so eager and happy. He brought another tray of diamond rings.
Christine appealed to Jimmy Challoner.
"I would much rather you chose one for me. Which one would you like best?"
He shook his head.
"I don't mind—anything you like; you've got to wear it." He saw a little swift look of amazement in her eyes; he roused himself.
"Diamonds are nice," he said with more enthusiasm.
Christine chose a single stone; the ring just fitted, and she turned her little hand about delightedly to show Jimmy how the diamond flashed.
She felt as if she were walking on air as they left the shop. Now and then she glanced at Jimmy as if afraid that she had dreamed all this.
She had loved him all her life; she was sure that he, too, must have loved her, or he would never have asked her to be his wife.
They had tea together. Over the buttered muffins Jimmy said suddenly:
"Christine, why can't we get married—soon, I mean!"
Lovely colour dyed her face.
"But—but we've only just got engaged," she said breathlessly.
"I know; but engagements are always short nowadays. If you are willing——"
Apparently she was more than willing; she would have married him that minute had he suggested it, She said she must speak to her mother about it.
"There is your brother to tell, too," she said.
"I cabled to him this morning," Jimmy answered.
"Did you!" Her eyes brightened. "How sweet of you, Jimmy. Do you think he will be pleased?"
"He's never pleased about anything," said Jimmy with a little laugh.
He leaned an elbow on the corner of the table and looked into her eyes.
"Say yes, Christine," he urged. "If you want to marry me, Mrs. Wyatt won't stand in the way; after all, you've known me all your life."
She flushed and stammered:
"Jimmy—I—I think I'm a little afraid. Supposing—supposing you found out that—that you'd made a mistake——" Her eyes were troubled.
Jimmy's face caught the flush from hers; for a moment his eyes wavered.
"We're going to be awfully happy," he asserted then, almost violently."If you love me——"
"You know I do." His hand fell carelessly to hers.
"Very well, then say yes."
Christine said it.
She thought everything perfect; she had never been so happy in all her life. If Jimmy did not love her tremendously, he would not be so anxious to be married, she told herself. Theirs was going to be one of those romantic marriages of which one reads in books.
"Shall I speak to Mrs. Wyatt, or will you?" he asked her.
"I think I would like to—first," she told him.
"Very well." Jimmy was relieved. He was somehow a little afraid of Mrs. Wyatt's kind mother eyes; he dreaded lest she might read deep down into his heart, and know what he was doing—guess that he was only marrying Christine because—because why?
To forget another woman; to pay another woman out for the way she had treated him. That is how he would have answered that question had he been quite honest with himself; but as it was he evaded facing it at all. He merely contented himself with assuring Christine all over again that he was going to be very good to her and make her happy.
"I'll tell mother to-night," Christine said when they went back to the hotel. "And I'll write to you, Jimmy; I'll——" she broke off. The porter had come forward; he spoke to Jimmy in an undertone.
"May I speak to you a moment, sir?"
Christine moved away.
"If you will ask the young lady to wait, sir," the man said again with a sort of agitation.
A little flame of apprehension swept across Jimmy's face. He spoke toChristine.
"Wait for me a moment—just a moment." He turned again to the man."Well—well, what is it?"
The man lowered his voice.
"The lady, sir—Mrs. Wyatt; she was taken very ill an hour ago. The doctor is with her now. I was told to tell you as soon as you came in, so that you could warn the young lady, sir."
Christine had come forward.
"Is anything the matter?" she asked. She looked from Jimmy to the porter wonderingly. Jimmy took her hand.
"Your mother isn't very well, dear." The little word slipped out unconsciously. "There is a doctor with her now. . . . No, don't be worried. I dare say it's nothing. I'll come up with you and see."
Christine fled up the staircase. She was already in her mother's room when Jimmy overtook her. Through the half-closed door he could see the doctor and a woman in nurse's dress. His heart began to race. Supposing Mrs. Wyatt were really ill; supposing—— The doctor came out to him as he stood on the landing.
"Are you—are you a relative of Mrs. Wyatt's?" he asked.
Jimmy hesitated.
"I—I am engaged to Miss Wyatt," he said. "I hope—I hope there is nothing serious the matter?"
The doctor glanced back over his shoulder. Jimmy's eyes instinctively turned in the same direction; he could see Christine on her knees beside the bed in the darkened room.
"Mrs. Wyatt is dying, I regret to say," the doctor said; he spoke in a low voice, so that his words should not reach Christine. "It's only a question of hours at most. I've done all I can, but nothing can save her. It's heart trouble, you know; she must have been suffering with it for years."
Jimmy Challoner stood staring at him, white-faced—stunned.
"Oh, my God!" he said at last. He was terribly shocked; he could not believe it. He looked again to where Christine knelt by the bed.
"Does she—Christine—who is to tell her?" he asked incoherently.
The doctor shook his head.
"I should suggest that you——" he began.
Jimmy recoiled. "I! Oh, I couldn't. . . . I——" He broke off helplessly. He was thinking of the old days down at Upton House; the great kindness that had always been shown to him by Christine's mother. There was a choking feeling in his throat.
"I think you are the one to tell her," said the doctor again, rather stiffly.
Christine had heard their voices. She looked towards the door; she rose softly and came out to where the two men stood.
Her eyes were anxious, but she was a hundred miles from guessing the truth. She spoke to Jimmy Challoner.
"She's asleep, Jimmy. The nurse tells me that she only fainted. Oh, I ought not to have left her when I knew she wasn't well. I shall never forgive myself; but she'll be all right now if she has a nice sleep, poor darling."
Jimmy could not meet her eyes; he bit his lip hard to hide its sudden trembling.
The doctor came to Jimmy's rescue.
"Has your mother ever had similar attacks to this one, Miss Wyatt?" he asked.
Christine considered.
"She hasn't been very well lately. She's complained of being tired several times, and once she said she had a pain in her side; but——" She broke off; she looked breathlessly into his face. Suddenly she caught her breath hard, clutching at Jimmy Challoner's arm.
"Jimmy," she said shrilly.
Jimmy put his arm round her; his voice was all broken when he spoke.
"She's ill, Christine—very ill. Oh, my dear——" He could not go on; he was very boyish still in many ways, and he felt more like breaking down and weeping with her than trying to comfort her and help her through the ordeal she had got to face.
But Christine knew in a minute. She pushed him away; she stood with hands clasped together, staring before her through the half-closed door with wide, tragic eyes.
"Mother," she said uncertainly; and then again, "Mother!" And now there was a wild sort of cry in her voice.
"Christine," said Jimmy huskily. He caught her hand; he tried to hold her back, but she broke away from him, staggered a few steps, and fell before either of the men could save her.
Sangster was writing letters in his rooms in the unfashionable part of Bloomsbury when Jimmy's urgent message reached him. It was brought by one of the hotel servants, who waited at the door, yawning and indifferent, while Sangster read the hastily scrawled lines:
For God's sake come at once. Mrs. Wyatt died suddenly this afternoon, and there is no one to see to anything but me.
Dead! Sangster could not believe it. He had admired Mrs. Wyatt tremendously that night when they all went to the theatre together; she had seemed so full of life, so young to have a grown-up daughter like Christine. Oh, surely there must be some mistake.
"I'll come at once," he said. He crushed Jimmy's note into his pocket and went back for his hat. He called a taxi, and took the man from the hotel back with him; he asked him a few questions, but the man was uncommunicative, and apparently not very interested. Yes, the lady was dead right enough, so he had been told, he admitted. The gentleman—Mr. Challoner—seemed in a great way about it.
Sangster was terribly shocked. He had quite forgotten the manner of his parting with Jimmy; he was only too willing and anxious to help him in any way possible. When they reached the hotel he was shown into the Wyatt's private sitting-room. Jimmy was there at the telephone; he hung up the receiver as Sangster entered the room; he turned a white, worried face.
"Awful thing, isn't it?" he said. Even his voice sounded changed; it had lost its usual light-heartedness.
"It's given me a most awful shock," he said again. "She was as well as anything last night; nobody had any idea——" He broke off with a choke in his voice. "Poor little Christine," he said after a moment. "We can't do anything with her. I wondered if you—but I suppose you can't," he added hopelessly.
"Where is Miss Wyatt?" Sangster asked. His kind face was very grave, but there was a steadiness in his eyes—the eyes of a man who might be trusted.
"She's in her room; we had to take her away forcibly from—from her mother. . . . You don't know what a hell I've been through, old chap," said Jimmy Challoner.
Sangster frowned.
"You!" he said with faint cynicism. "What about that poor little girl, then; she——" The door opened behind them, and Christine came in. She stood for a moment looking across at the two men with blank eyes, as if she hardly recognised them. Her face was white and haggard; there was a stunned look in her eyes, but Sangster could see that she had not shed a tear. He went forward and took her hand. He drew her into the room, shutting the door quietly. Jimmy had walked over to the window; he stood staring into the street with misty eyes. He had never had death brought home to him like this before. It seemed to have made an upheaval in his world; to have thrown all his schemes and calculations out of gear; life was all at once a thing to be feared and dreaded.
He could hear Sangster talking to Christine behind him; he could not hear what he was saying; he was only too thankful that his friend had come. The last hours which he had spent alone with Christine had been a nightmare to him. He had been so unable to comfort her; he had been at his wits' end to know what to do or say. She was so utterly alone; she had no father—no brothers to whom he could send. He had wired to an uncle of whom she had told him, but it was impossible that anyone could arrive before the morning, he knew.
Sangster was just the sort needed for a tragedy such as this; was a brick—he always knew what to say and do.
The room seemed very silent; the whole world seemed silent too, as if it had stopped aghast at this sudden tragedy which had been enacted in its midst.
Then Christine began to sob; the most pathetic, loneliest sound it was through the silent room. Jimmy felt himself choking—felt his own eyes blurred and misty.
He turned impulsively. Christine was huddled in one of the big chairs, her pretty head down-flung on an arm. Sangster stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder.
Jimmy never looked at his friend, or he might have learned many, many things from the expression of his eyes just then as he moved back silently and let Jimmy pass.
He fell on his knees beside Christine. For the moment, at least, everything else in the world was forgotten between them; she was just a motherless, broken girl sobbing her heart out—just the girl he had once loved with all a boy's first ardour. He put his arms round her and drew her head down, so that it rested on his shoulder, and her face was hidden in his coat.
"Don't cry, my poor little girl," said Jimmy Challoner, with a break in his own young voice. "Oh, Christine, don't cry."
Sangster, watching, saw the way her arms crept upwards till they were clasped round Jimmy's neck; saw the way she clung to him; heard the anguish in her voice as she said:
"I've got no one now, Jimmy; no one at all."
Jimmy looked up, and, across her bowed head, his eyes met those of his friend with a sort of defiance in them.
"You've got me, Christine," he said with a new sort of humbleness.