"What's up, old chap?"
"Only my rotten head—-it aches like the very devil."
Jimmy stood for a moment with his hand pressed hard over his eyes, then he took a step forward, and stopped again.
"I can't—I—confound it all——"
Sangster caught his arm.
"Don't be an ass; go to bed." He raised his voice; he called to Costin; between them they put Jimmy to bed and tucked him up. He kept protesting that there was nothing the matter with him, but he seemed grateful for the darkness of the room, and the big pillows beneath his aching head.
Sangster went back to the sitting-room with Costin.
"I don't think we need send for a doctor," he said. "It's only a chill, I think. See how he is in the morning. What's he been up to, Costin?"
Costin pursed his lips and raised his brows.
"He's been out most nights, sir," he answered stoically. "Only comes home with the milk, as you might say. Hasn't slept at all, and doesn't eat. It's my opinion, sir, that he's grieving like——" He looked towards the mantelshelf and the place which they could both remember had once held Cynthia Farrow's portrait.
Sangster shook his head.
"You mean——" he asked reluctantly.
"Yes, sir." Costin tiptoed across the room and closed the door which led to Jimmy's bedroom. "He's never been the same, sir, since Miss Farrow died—asking your pardon," he added hurriedly.
Sangster threw his cigarette end firewards.
"It's a rotten business," he said heavily. In his own heart he agreed with Costin; he believed that it was Cynthia's death that was breaking Jimmy's heart. He would have given ten years of his life to have been able to believe that it was something else quite different.
"Well, I'll look in again in the morning," he said. "And if you want me, send round, of course."
"Yes, sir."
Costin helped Sangster on with his coat and saw him to the door; he was dying to ask what had become of Mrs. Jimmy, but he did not like to. He was sure that Jimmy had merely got married out of pique, and that he had repented as quickly as one generally does repent in such cases.
Sangster walked back to his rooms; he felt very depressed. He was fond of Jimmy though he did not approve of him; he racked his brains to know what to do for the best.
When he got home he sat down at his desk and stared at the pen and ink for some moments undecidedly; then he began to write.
He addressed an envelope to Christine down at Upton House, and stared at it till it was dry. After all, she might resent his interference, and yet, on the other hand, if Jimmy were going to be seriously ill, she would blame him for not having told her.
Finally he took a penny from his waistcoat pocket and tossed up for it.
"Heads I write, tails I leave it alone."
He tossed badly and the penny came down in the waste-paper basket, but it came down heads, and with a little lugubrious grimace, Sangster dipped the pen in the ink again and squared his elbows.
He wrote the letter four times before it suited him, and even then it seemed a pretty poor epistle to his critical eye as he read it through—
"Dear Mrs. Challoner,—I am just writing to let you know that Jimmy is ill; nothing very serious, but I thought that perhaps you would like to know. If you could spare the time to come and see him, I am sure he would very much appreciate it. He seems very down on his luck. I don't want to worry or alarm you, and am keeping an eye on him myself, but thought it only right that you should know.—Your sincere friend,
It seemed a clumsy enough way of explaining things, he thought discontentedly, and yet it was the best he could do. He folded the paper and put it into the envelope; he sat for a moment with it in his hand looking down at Christine's married name, "Mrs. James Challoner."
Poor little Mrs. Jimmy! A wife, and yet no wife. Sangster lifted the envelope to his lips, and hurriedly kissed the name before he thrust the envelope into his pocket, and went out to post it.
Would she come, he wondered? he asked himself the question anxiously before he dropped the letter into the box. Somehow deep down in his heart he did not think that she would.
"I shall never be able to manage it if I live to be a hundred," saidChristine despairingly.
She leaned back in the padded seat of Kettering's big car and looked up into his face with laughing eyes.
She had been trying to drive; she had driven the car at snail's pace the length of the drive leading from Upton House, and tried to turn out of the open carriage gate into the road.
"If you hadn't been here we should have gone into the wall, shouldn't we?" she demanded.
Kettering laughed.
"I'm very much afraid we should," he said. "But that's nothing. I did all manner of weird things when I first started to drive. Take the wheel again and have another try."
But Christine refused.
"I might smash the car, and that would be awful. You'd never forgive me."
"Should I not!" His grave eyes searched her pretty face. "I don't think you need be very alarmed about that," he said. "However, if you insist——" He changed places with her and took the wheel himself.
It was early morning, and fresh and sunny. Christine was flushed and smiling, for the moment at least there were no shadows in her eyes; she looked more like the girl who had smiled up from the stalls in the theatre to where Jimmy Challoner sat alone in his box that night of their meeting.
Jimmy had never once been mentioned between herself and this man since that first afternoon. Save for the fact that Kettering called her "Mrs. Challoner," Christine might have been unmarried.
"Gladys will think we have run away," she told him presently with a little laugh. "I told her we should be only half an hour."
"Have we been longer?" he asked surprised.
Christine looked at her watch.
"Nearly an hour," she said. "We were muddling about in the drive for ever so long, you know; and I really think we ought to go back."
"If you really think so——" He turned the car reluctantly. "I suppose you wouldn't care for a little run after lunch?" he asked carelessly. "I've got to go over to Heston. I should be delighted to take you."
"I should love it—if I can bring Gladys."
He did not answer for a moment, then:
"Oh, bring Gladys by all means," he said rather dryly.
"What time?"
"I'll call for you at two—If that will do."
They had reached the house again now; Christine got out of the car and stood for a moment with one foot on the step looking up at Kettering.
There was a little silence.
"How long have we known each other?" he asked suddenly.
She looked up startled—she made a rapid calculation.
"Nearly three weeks, isn't it?" she said then.
He laughed.
"It seems longer; it seems as if I must have known you all my life."
The words were ordinary enough, but the look in his eyes brought the swift colour to Christine's cheeks—her eyes fell.
"Is that a compliment?" she asked, trying to speak naturally.
"I hope so; I meant it to be."
Her hand was resting on the open door of the car; for an instant he laid his own above it; Christine drew hers quickly away.
"Well, we'll be ready at two, then," she said. She turned to the house. Kettering drove slowly down the drive. He was a very fine-looking man, Christine thought with sudden wistfulness; he had been so kind to her—kinder than anyone she had ever known. She was glad he was going to have Upton House, as it had got to be sold. He had promised her to look after it, and not have any of the trees in the garden cut down.
"It shall all be left just as it is now," he told her.
"Perhaps some day you'll marry, and your wife will want it altered," she said sadly.
"I shall never get married," he had answered quickly.
She had been glad to hear him say that; he was so nice as a friend, somehow she did not want anyone to come along and change him.
She went into the house and called to Gladys.
"I thought you would think we were lost perhaps," she said laughingly, as she thrust her head into the morning-room where Gladys was sitting.
The elder girl looked up; her voice was rather dry when she answered:"No, I did not think that."
Christine threw her hat aside.
"I can't drive a bit," she said petulantly. "I'm so silly! I nearly ran into the wall at the gate."
"Did you?"
"Yes. Gladys, we're going over to Heston at two o'clock with Mr.Kettering."
Gladys looked up.
"We! Who do you mean by 'we'?"
"You and I, of course."
"Oh"—there was a momentary silence, then: "There's a letter for you on the table," said Gladys.
Christine turned slowly, a little flush of colour rushing to her cheeks. She glanced apprehensively at the envelope lying face upwards, then she drew a quick breath, almost of relief it seemed.
She picked the letter up indifferently and broke open the flap. There was a moment of silence; Gladys glanced up.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
Christine was staring out of the window, the letter lay on the floor at her feet.
"Jimmy's ill," she said listlessly.
"Ill!" Gladys laid down her pen and swung round in the chair. "What's the matter with him?" she asked rather sceptically.
"I don't know. You can read the letter, it's from Mr.Sangster—Jimmy's great friend."
She handed the letter over.
Gladys read it through and gave it back.
"Humph!" she said with a little inelegant sniff; she looked at her friend. "Are you going?" she asked bluntly.
Christine did not answer. She was thinking of Jimmy, deliberately trying to think of the man whom she had done her best during the last three weeks to forget. She tried to think of him as he had been that last dreadful night at the hotel, when he had threatened to strike her, when he had told her to clear out and leave him; but somehow she could only recall him as he had looked at Euston that morning when he said good-bye to her, with the hangdog, shamed look in his eyes, and the pathetic droop to his shoulders.
And now he was ill! It was kind of Sangster to have written, she told herself, even while she knew quite well that Jimmy had not asked him to; it would be the last thing in the world Jimmy would wish.
If he were ill, it was not because he wanted her. She drew her little figure up stiffly.
"I shan't go unless I hear again that it is serious," she said stiltedly.
"Not—go!" Gladys's voice sounded somehow blank, there was a curious expression in her eyes. After a moment she looked away. "Oh, well, you must please yourself, of course."
Christine turned to the door—she held Sangster's letter in her hand.
"Besides," she said flippantly, "I'm going over to Heston this afternoon with Mr. Kettering."
She went up to her room and shut the door. She stood staring before her with blank eyes, her pretty face had fallen again into sadness, her mouth dropped pathetically.
She opened Sangster's letter and read it through once more. Was Jimmy really ill, and was Sangster afraid to tell her, she wondered? Or was this merely Sangster's way of trying to bring them together again?
But Jimmy did not want her; even if he were dying Jimmy would not want to see her again.
If he had cared he would never have consented to this separation; if he had cared—but, of course, he did not care!
She began to cry softly; big tears ran down her cheeks, and she brushed them angrily away.
She had tried to shut him out of her heart. She had tried to forget him. In a defensive, innocent way she had deliberately encouraged Kettering. She liked him, and he helped her to forget; it restored her self-esteem to read the admiration in his kind eyes, it helped to soothe the hurt she had suffered from Jimmy's hands; and yet, in spite of it all, he was not Jimmy, and nobody could ever take Jimmy's place. She kept away from Gladys till lunch time, when at last she appeared, her eyes were red and swollen, and she held her head defiantly high. Gladys considerately let her alone. Somehow, in spite of everything, she quite expected to hear that Christine was off to London by the afternoon train, but the meal passed almost in silence, and when it was finished Christine said:
"We'd better get ready; Mr. Kettering will be there at two."
Gladys turned away.
"I'd rather not go, if you don't mind," she said uncomfortably.
"Not—go!"
"No—I—I don't care about motoring. I—I've got a headache too."
Christine stared at her, then she laughed defiantly.
"Oh, very well; please yourself."
She went upstairs to dress; she took great pains to make herself look pretty. When Kettering arrived she noticed that his eyes went past her gloomily as if looking for someone else.
"Gladys is not coming," she said.
His face brightened.
"Not coming! Ought I to be sorry, I wonder?"
She laughed.
"That's rude."
"I'm sorry." He tucked the rug round her, and they started away down the drive. "You don't want the wheel, I suppose?" he asked whimsically.
Christine shook her head.
"Have you—you been crying?" Kettering asked abruptly.
Christine flushed scarlet.
"Whatever makes you ask me that?"
"Your eyes are red," he told her gently.
She looked up at him with resentment, and suddenly the tears came again. Kettering bit his lip hard. He did not speak for some time.
"I've got a headache," Christine said at last with an effort. "I—oh,I know it's silly. Don't laugh at me."
"I'm not laughing." His voice dragged a little; he kept his eyes steadily before him.
"I thought perhaps something had happened—that you had had bad news," he said presently. "If—if there is anything I can do to help you, you know—you know I——"
"There isn't anything the matter," she interrupted with a rush. She was terrified lest he should guess that her tears were because of Jimmy; she had a horror nowadays that everyone would know that she cared for a man who cared nothing for her; she brushed the tears away determinedly; she set herself to talk and smile.
They had tea at Heston, in the little square parlour of a country inn where the floor was only polished boards, and where long wooden trestles ran on two sides of the room.
"It looks rather thick," Kettering said ruefully, standing looking down at the plate of bread and butter. "I hope you don't mind; this is the best place in the village."
Christine laughed.
"It's like what we used to have at school, and I'm hungry."
She looked up at him with dancing eyes; she had quite forgotten her sorrow of the morning. Somehow this man's presence always cheered her and took her out of herself. She poured tea for him, and laughed and chatted away merrily.
Afterwards they sat over the fire and talked.
Christine said she could see faces in the red coals; she painted them out to Kettering.
He had to stoop forward to see what she indicated; for a moment their heads were very close together; it was Christine who drew back sharply.
"Oughtn't we to be going home?" she asked with sudden nervousness.
She rose to her feet and went over to the window; the sunshine had gone, and the country road was grey and shadowy. Kettering's big car stood at the kerb. After a moment he followed her to the window; he was a little pale, his eyes seemed to avoid hers.
"I am quite ready when you are," he said.
She was fastening her veil over her hat; her fingers shook a little as she tied the bow.
Kettering had gone to pay for the tea; she stood looking after him with dawning apprehension in her eyes.
He was a fine enough man; there was something about him that gave one such a feeling of safety—of security. She could not imagine that he would ever deliberately set himself to hurt a woman, as—as Jimmy had. She went out to the car and stood waiting for him.
"All that tea for one and threepence!" he said, laughing, when he joined her. "Wonderful, isn't it?"
She laughed too. She got in beside him and tucked the rug round her warmly.
"How long will it take to get home?" she asked. She seemed all at once conscious of the growing dusk, conscious, too, of anxiety to get back to Gladys. She was a little afraid of this man, though she would not admit it even to herself.
"We ought to be home in an hour," he said. He started the engine.
The car ran smoothly for a mile or two. Christine began to feel sleepy. Kettering did not talk much, and the fresh evening air on her face was soothing and pleasant. She closed her eyes.
Presently when Kettering spoke to her he got no answer; he turned a little in his seat and looked down at her, but her head was drooping forward and he could not see her face.
"Christine." He spoke her name sharply, then suddenly he smiled; she was asleep.
He moved so that her head rested against his arm; he slowed the car down a little.
Kettering was not a young man, his fortieth birthday had been several years a thing of the past, but all his life afterwards he looked back on that drive home to Upton House as the happiest hour he had ever known, with Christine's little head resting on his arm and the grey twilight all about them. When they were half a mile from home he roused her gently. She sat up with a start, rubbing sleepy eyes.
"Oh! where are we?" He laid his hand on hers for a moment.
"You've been asleep. We're nearly home."
He turned in at the drive of Upton House. He let her get out of the car unassisted.
Gladys was at the door; her eyes were anxious.
"I thought you must have had an accident," she said. She caughtChristine's hand. "You're fearfully late."
"We had tea at Heston," Christine said. She ran into the house.
Kettering looked at the elder girl.
"You would not come," he said. "Don't you care for motoring?"
"No." She came down the steps and stood beside him. "Mr. Kettering, may I say something?"
He looked faintly surprised.
"May you! Why, of course!"
"You will be angry—you will be very angry, I am afraid," she said."But—but I can't help it."
"Angry! What do you mean?"
There was a moment's silence, then:
"Well," said Kettering rather curtly.
She flushed, but her eyes did not fall.
"Mr. Kettering, if you are a gentleman, and I know you are, you will never come here again," she said urgently.
A little wave of crimson surged under Kettering's brown skin, but his eyes did not fall; there was a short silence, then he laughed—rather mirthlessly.
"And if I amnotthe gentleman you so very kindly seem to believe me," he said constrainedly.
Gladys Leighton came a little closer to him; she laid her hand on his arm.
"You don't mean that; you're only saying it because—because——" She broke off with an impatient gesture. "Oh!" she said exasperatedly, "what is the use of loving a person if you do not want them to be happy—if you cannot sacrifice yourself a little for them."
Kettering looked at her curiously. He had never taken much notice of her before; he had thought her a very ordinary type; he was struck by the sudden energy and passion in her voice.
"She is not happy now, at all events," he said grimly.
She turned away and fidgeted with the wheel of the car.
"She could not very well be more unhappy than she is now," he said again bitterly.
"She would be more unhappy if she knew she had done something to be ashamed of—something she had got to hide."
He raised his eyes.
"Are you holding a brief for Challoner?" he asked.
She frowned a little.
"You know I am not; I never thought he was good enough for her. Even years ago as a boy he was utterly selfish; but—but Christine loved him then; she thought there was nobody in all the world like him; she adored him."
He winced. "And now?" he asked shortly.
She did not answer for a moment; she stood looking away from him.
"There was a letter this morning," she said tonelessly. "Jimmy is ill, and they asked her to go to him."
"Well!"
"She would not go. She told me she was going to Heston with you instead."
The silence fell again. Kettering's eyes were shining; there was a sort of shamed triumph about his big person.
Gladys turned to him impatiently.
"Are you looking glad? Oh, I think I should kill you if I saw you looking glad," she said quickly. "I only told you that so that you might see how much she is under your influence already; so that you can save her from herself. . . . She's so little and weak—and now that she is unhappy, it's just the time when she might do something she would be sorry for all her life—when she might——"
"What are you two talking about?" Christine demanded from the doorway.She came down the steps and stood between them; she looked atKettering. "I thought you had gone," she said, surprised.
"No; I—Miss Leighton and I have been discussing the higher ethics," he said dryly. He held his hand to Gladys. "Well, good-bye," he said; there was a little emphasis on the last word.
She just touched his fingers.
"Good-bye." She put her arm round Christine; there was something defensive in her whole attitude.
Kettering got into the car; he did not look at Christine again. He started the engine; presently he was driving slowly away.
"Have you two been quarreling?" Christine asked. There was a touch of vexation in her voice; her eyes were straining through the darkness towards the gate.
Gladys laughed.
"Quarrelling! Why ever should I quarrel with Mr. Kettering? I've hardly spoken half a dozen words to him in all my life."
"You seemed to have a great deal to say to him, all the same,"Christine protested, rather shortly.
They went back to the house together.
It was during dinner that night that Gladys deliberately led the conversation round to Jimmy again.
They had nearly finished the unpretentious little meal; it had passed almost silently. Christine looked pale and preoccupied. Gladys was worried and anxious.
A dozen times during the past few days she had tried to decide whether she ought to write to Jimmy or not. Her sharp eyes had seen from the very first the way things were going with regard to Kettering, and she was afraid of the responsibility. If anything happened—if Christine chose to doubly wreck her life—afterwards they might all blame her; she knew that.
She was fond of Christine, too. And though she had never approved ofJimmy, she would have done a great deal to see them happy together.
It was for that reason that she now spoke of him.
"When are you going to London, Chris?"
Christine looked up; she flushed.
"Going to London! I am not going. . . . I never want to go there any more."
Gladys made no comment; she had heard the little quiver in the younger girl's voice.
Presently:
"I suppose you think I ought to go to Jimmy," Christine broke out vehemently. "I suppose you are hinting that it is my duty to go. You don't know what you are talking about; you don't understand that he cares nothing about me—that he would be glad if I were dead and out of the way. He only wants his freedom; he never really wished to marry me."
"It isn't as bad as that. I am sure he——"
"You don't know anything about him. You don't know what I went through during those hateful weeks before—before I came here. I don't care if I never see him again; he has never troubled about me. It's my turn now; I am going to show him that he isn't the only man in the world."
Gladys had never heard Christine talk like this before; she was frightened at the recklessness of her voice. She broke in quickly:
"I won't listen if you're going to say such things. Jimmy is your husband, and you loved him once, no matter what you may do now. You loved him very dearly once."
Christine laughed.
"I've got over that. He wasn't worth breaking my heart about. I was just a poor little fool in those days, who didn't know that a man never cares for a woman if he is too sure of her. Oh, if I could only have my time over again, I'd treat him so differently—I'd never let him how how much I cared."
Her voice had momentarily fallen back into its old wistfulness. There were tears in her eyes, but she brushed them quickly away.
"Don't talk about him; I don't want to talk about him."
But Gladys persisted.
"It isn't too late; you can have the time all over again by starting afresh, and trying to wipe out the past. You're so young. Why, Jimmy is only a boy; you've got all your lives before you." She got up and went round to where Christine was sitting. She put an arm about her shoulders. "Why don't you forgive him, and start again? Give him another chance, dear, and have a second honeymoon."
Christine pushed her away; she started up with burning cheeks.
"You don't know what you're talking about. Leave me alone—oh, do leave me alone." She ran from the room.
She lay awake half the night thinking of what Gladys had said. She tried to harden her heart against Jimmy. She tried to remember only that he had married her out of pique; that he cared nothing for her—that he did not really want her. As a sort of desperate defence she deliberately thought of Kettering; he liked her, she knew. She was not too much of a child to understand what that look in his eyes had meant, that sudden pressure of his hand on hers.
And she liked him, too. She told herself defiantly that she liked him very much; that she would rather have been with him over at Heston that afternoon than up in town with Jimmy. Kettering at least sought and enjoyed her society, but Jimmy——
She clenched her hands to keep back the blinding tears that crowded to her eyes. What was she crying for? There was nothing to cry for; she was happy—quite happy; she was away from Jimmy—away from the man whose presence had only tortured her during those last few days; she was at home—at Upton House, and Kettering was there whenever she wanted him. She hoped he would come in the morning again; that he would come quite early. After breakfast she wandered about the house restlessly, listening for the sound of his car in the drive outside; but the morning dragged away and he did not come.
Christine ate no lunch; her head ached, she said pettishly when Gladys questioned her. No, she did not want to go out; there was nowhere to go.
And all the time her eyes kept turning to the window again and again restlessly.
Gladys did not know what to do; she was hoping and praying in her heart that Kettering would do as she had asked him, and stay away. What was the good of him coming again? What was the good of him making himself indispensable to Christine? The day passed wretchedly. Once she found Christine huddled up on the sofa crying; she was so miserable, she sobbed; nobody cared for her; she was so lonely, and she wanted her mother.
Gladys did all she could to comfort her, but all the time she was painfully conscious of the fact that had Kettering walked into the room just then there would have been no more tears.
Sometimes she thought that it only served Jimmy Challoner right; sometimes she told herself that this was his punishment—that Fate was fighting him with his own weapons, paying him back in his own coin; but she knew such thoughts were mere foolishness.
He and Christine were married, no matter how strongly they might resent it. The only thing left to them was to make the best they could of life.
She sat with Christine that night till the girl was asleep. She was not very much Christine's senior in years, but she felt somehow old and careworn as she sat there in the silent room and listened to the girl's soft breathing.
She got up and went over to stand beside her.
So young, such a child, it seemed impossible that she was already a wife, this girl lying there with her soft hair falling all about her.
Gladys sighed and walked over to the window. It must be a great thing to be loved, she thought rather sadly; nobody had ever loved her; no man had ever looked at her as Kettering looked at little Christine. . . . She opened the window and looked out into the darkness.
It was a mild, damp night. Grey mist veiled the garden and shut out the stars; everything was very silent.
If only Christine's mother had been here to take the responsibility of it all, she thought longingly; she had so little influence with Christine herself. She closed the window and went back to the bedside.
Christine was moving restlessly. As Gladys looked down at her she began to laugh in her sleep—a little chuckle of unaffected joy.
Gladys smiled, too, involuntarily. She was happy in her dreams, at any rate, she thought with a sense of relief.
And then suddenly Christine woke with a start. She sat up in bed, throwing out her arms.
"Jimmy——" But it was a cry of terror, not of joy."Jimmy—Jimmy—don't hurt me. . . . oh!"
She was sobbing now—wild, pitiful sobs.
Gladys put her arms round her; she held her tightly.
"It's all right, dear. I'm here—nobody shall hurt you." She stroked her hair and soothed and kissed her; she held her fast till the sobbing ceased. Then:
"I've been dreaming," said Christine tremblingly. "I thought"—she shivered a little—"I thought—thought someone was going to hurt me."
"Nobody can hurt you while I am here; dreams are nothing—nobody believes in dreams."
Christine did not answer. She had never told Gladys of that one moment when Jimmy had tried to strike her—when beside himself with passionate rage and misery he had lifted his hand to strike her.
She fell asleep again, holding her friend's hand.
Two days passed uneventfully away, but Kettering did not come to Upton House. Christine's first faint resentment and amazement had turned to anger—an anger which she kept hidden, or so she fondly believed.
She hardly went out. She spent hours curled up on the big sofa by the window reading, or pretending to read. Gladys wondered how much she really read of the books which she took one by one from the crowded library.
The third morning Christine answered Sangster's letter. She wrote very stiltedly; she said she was sorry to hear that Jimmy was not well, but no doubt he was all right again by this time. She said she was enjoying herself in a quiet way, and very much preferred the country to London.
"I have so many friends here, you see," she added, with a faint hope that perhaps Sangster would show the letter to Jimmy, and that he would gather from it that she did not miss him in the very least.
And Sangster did show it to Jimmy; to a rather weak-looking Jimmy, propped up in an armchair, slowly recovering from the severe chill which had made him quite ill for the time being.
A Jimmy who spoke very little, and asked no questions at all, and who took the letter apathetically enough, and laid it by as soon as he had read it.
"You wrote to her, then," he said indifferently.
"Yes."
"You might have saved yourself the trouble; I knew she would not come. If you had asked me I could have told you. Of course, you suggested that sheshouldcome."
"Yes."
Jimmy's eyes smiled faintly.
"Interfering old ass," he said affectionately.
Sangster coloured. He was very unhappy about Jimmy; he had always known that he was not particularly strong, and, as a matter of fact, during the past few days Jimmy had grown most surprisingly thin and weak, though he still insisted that there was nothing the matter with him—nothing at all.
There was a little silence.
"I suppose that's meant for a dig at me," said Jimmy presently. "That bit about having so many friends. . . . She means Kettering, I suppose."
"I don't see why she should," said Sangster awkwardly.
Jimmy laughed rather grimly.
"Well, it's only tit for tat if she does," he said. "But I thought——" He did not finish; did not say that he had thought Christine cared too much for him ever to give a thought to another fellow. He turned his head against the cushions and pretended to sleep, and presently Sangster went quietly away.
He thought that Christine had—well, not behaved badly. How could anyone blame her for anything she chose to do or not to do, after what had occurred? But, still, he was vaguely disappointed in her; he thought she ought to have come—just to see how Jimmy really was.
But Christine was not thinking very much about Jimmy in those days at all. Somehow the foreground of her life seemed to have got filled up with the figure of another man; a man whom she had never once seen since that drive over to Heston.
Sometimes she thought she would write a little note and ask him to come to tea; sometimes she thought she would walk the way in which she knew she could always meet him, but something restrained her.
And then one afternoon, quite unexpectedly, she ran into him in the village.
He was coming out of the little post office as she was going in, and he pulled up short with a muttered apology before he recognised her; then—well, then they both got red, and a little flame crept into Kettering's eyes.
"I thought I was never going to see you any more," Christine said rather nervously. "Are you angry with me?"
"Angry!" He laughed a little. "Why ever should I be angry with you? . . . I—the fact is, I've been in London on business."
"Oh!" She looked rather sceptical; she raised her chin a dignified inch. "You ought to have told me," she said, unthinkingly.
He looked at her quickly and away again.
"I missed you," said Christine naïvely.
"That is very kind of you." There was a little silence. "May I—may I walk a little way with you?" he asked diffidently.
"If you care to."
He checked a smile. "I shall be delighted," he said gravely.
They set out together.
Christine felt wonderfully light-hearted all at once; her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were flushed. Kettering hardly looked at her at all. It made him afraid because he was so glad to be with her once more; he knew now how right Gladys had been when she asked him not to come to Upton House again. He rushed into conversation; he told her that the weather had been awful in London, and that he had been hopelessly bored. "I know so few people there," he said. "And I kept wondering what you were——" He broke off, biting his lip.
"What I was doing?" Christine finished it for him quickly. "Well, I was sitting at the window most of the time, wondering why you didn't come and see me," she said with a laugh.
"Were you——"
She frowned a little; she looked up at him with impatient eyes.
"What is the matter? I know something is the matter; I can feel that there is. You are angry with me; you——"
"My dear child, I assure you I am not. There is nothing the matter except, perhaps I am a little—worried and—and unhappy."
He laughed to cover his sudden gravity. "Tell me about yourself and—and Jimmy. How is Challoner?"
He had never spoken to her of Jimmy before; his name had been tacitly unmentioned between them. Christine flushed; she shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know; he wasn't very well last week, but I dare say he is all right again now." Her voice was very flippant. In spite of himself Kettering was shocked; he hated to hear her speak like that; he had always thought her so sweet and unaffected.
"He ought to come down here for a change," he said in his most matter-of-fact tones. "Why don't you insist that he comes down here for a change? Country air is a fine doctor; he would enjoy it."
"I don't think he would; he hates the country." She spoke without looking at him. "I am sure that he is having a much better time in London than he would have here——" She broke off. "Mr. Kettering, will you come back and have tea with me?"
Kettering coloured; he tried to refuse; he wanted to refuse; but somehow her brown eyes would not let him; somehow——
"I shall be delighted," he heard himself say.
He had not meant to say it; he would have given a great deal to recall the words as soon as they were spoken, but it was too late. Another moment and they were in the house.
He looked round him with a sense of great pleasure. It seemed a lifetime since he had been here; it was like coming home again to be here and with the woman he loved. He looked at little Christine with wistful eyes.
"Gladys is out," she said, "so you will have to put up with me alone; do you mind?"
"Do I mind!" She coloured beneath his gaze; her heart was beating fast.
He followed her across the hall. He knew he was doing the weak thing; knew that he ought to turn on his heel and go away, but he knew that he intended staying.
An hour with Christine alone; it was worth risking something for to have that. Christine opened the drawing-room door.
"We'll have tea here," she said; "it's much more cosy. I——"
She stopped dead; her voice broke off into silence with a curious little jarring sound.
A man had risen from the sofa by the window; a tall young man, with a pale face and worried-looking eyes—Jimmy Challoner!
Jimmy only glanced at Christine; his eyes went past her almost immediately to the man who was following her into the room; a streak of red crept into his pale face.
It was Kettering who recovered himself first; he went forward with outstretched hand.
"Well, I never! We were just talking about you."
His voice was quite steady, perfectly friendly, but his heart had givenone bitter throb of disappointment at sight of Christine's husband.This was the end of their little half-hour together. Perhaps it wasFate stepping in opportunely to prevent him making a fool of himself.
Jimmy and he shook hands awkwardly. Jimmy had made no attempt to greet his wife. One would have thought that they had met only an hour or two previously, to judge by the coolness of their meeting, though beneath her black frock Christine's heart was racing, and for the first few moments she hardly knew what she was doing or what she said.
Jimmy looked ill; she knew that, and it gave her a faint little heartache; she avoided looking at him if she could help it. She left the two men to entertain each other, and busied herself with the tea-tray.
Kettering rose to the occasion nobly. He talked away as if this unwelcome meeting were a pleasure to him. He did his best to put Christine at her ease, but all the time he was wondering how soon he could make his excuses and escape; how soon he could get out of this three-cornered situation, which was perhaps more painful to him than to either of his companions.
He handed the tea for Christine, and sat beside her, screening her a little from Jimmy's worried eyes. How was she feeling? he was asking himself jealously. Was she glad to see her husband, or did she feel as he did—that Jimmy's unexpected presence had spoilt for them both an hour which neither would easily have forgotten?
"How is your brother?" he asked Jimmy presently. "I haven't heard from him just lately. I suppose he has thought no more of coming home? He has talked of it for so long."
Jimmy roused himself with an effort. He had not touched his tea, and he had given the cake he had mechanically taken to Christine's terrier. He looked at her now, and quickly away again.
"He is on his way home," he said shortly.
There was a little silence. Christine's face flushed; her eyes grew afraid.
"On his way home—the Great Horatio?"
Jimmy's nickname for his brother escaped her unconsciously. Jimmy smiled faintly.
"Yes; I heard last night. I—I believe he arrives in England onMonday."
It was Kettering who broke the following silence.
"I shall be glad to see him again. He will be surprised to hear that I have come across you and Mrs. Challoner." He spoke to Jimmy, but his whole attention was fixed on the girl at his side. He had seen the sudden stiffening of her slim little figure, the sudden nervous clasp of her hands.
And then the door opened and Gladys Leighton walked into the room. She looked straight at Kettering, and he met her eyes with a sort of abashed humiliation. He rose to his feet to offer her his chair. Jimmy rose also. He and Gladys shook hands awkwardly.
"Well, I didn't expect to seeyou," said Gladys bluntly. She glanced at Christine.
"None of us expected to see him," said Jimmy's wife, rather shrilly. "The Great Horatio is on his way home. I suppose he has come down to tell us the news." Her voice sounded flippant. Jimmy was conscious of a sharp pang as he listened to her. He hardly recognised Christine in this girl who sat there avoiding his eyes, avoiding speaking to him unless she were obliged.
Once she had hung on his every word; once she had flushed at the sound of his step; but now, one might almost have thought she was Kettering's wife instead of his.
He hated Kettering. He looked at him with sullen eyes. He thought of what Sangster had said of this man—that he was always at Upton House; that he seemed very friendly with both the girls. A vague jealousy filled Jimmy's heart. Kettering was rich, whilst he—well, even the small allowance sent to him by his brother looked now as if it were in danger of ceasing entirely.
If the Great Horatio knew that he and Christine were practically separated; if the Great Horatio ever knew the story of Cynthia Farrow, Jimmy Challoner knew that it would be a very poor lookout for him indeed.
He wondered how long Kettering meant to stay. He felt very much inclined to give him a hint that his room would be preferable to his company; but, after all, he himself was in such a weak position. He had come to see Christine unasked. It was her house, and in her present mood it was quite probable that she might order him out of it if he should make any attempt to assert his authority.
She spoke to him suddenly; her beautiful brown eyes met his own unfalteringly, with a curious antagonism in them.
"Shall you—shall you be staying to dinner, or have you to catch the early train back to London?"
He might have been the veriest stranger. Jimmy flushed scarlet.Kettering turned away and plunged haphazard into conversation withGladys Leighton.
Jimmy's voice trembled with rage as he forced himself to answer.
"I should like to stay to dinner—if I may."
He had never thought it possible that she could so treat him, never believed that she could be so utterly indifferent. Christine laughed carelessly.
"Oh, do stay, by all means. Perhaps Mr. Kettering will stay as well?"
Kettering turned. He could not meet her eyes.
"I am sorry. I should like to have stayed; but—but I have another engagement. I am very sorry."
The words were lame enough; nobody believed their excuse. Kettering rose to take his leave. He shook hands with Gladys and Jimmy. He turned to Christine.
"I will come and see you off," she said.
She followed him into the hall, deliberately closing the door of the drawing-room behind her.
"We must have our little tea another day," she said recklessly. She did not look at him. "It was too bad being interrupted like that."
She hardly knew what she was saying. Her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes were feverish. Kettering stifled a sigh.
"Perhaps it is as well that we were interrupted," he said very gently.He took her hand and looked down into her eyes.
"You're so young," he said, "such a child still. Don't spoil all your life, my dear."
She raised defiant eyes.
"My life was spoilt on my wedding day," she said in a hard voice."I—— Oh, don't let us talk about it."
But he did not let her hand go.
"It's not too late to go back and begin again," he said with an effort. "I know it—it must seem presumptuous for me to talk to you like this, but—but I would give a great deal to be sure that you were happy."
"Thank you." There was a little quiver in her voice, but she checked it instantly. She dragged her hand free and walked to the door.
It was quite dark now; she was glad that he could not see the tears in her eyes.
"When shall I see you again?" she asked presently.
He did not answer at once, and she repeated her question: "When shall I see you again? I don't want you to stay away so long again."
He tried to speak, but somehow could find no words. She looked up at him in surprise. It was too dark to see his face, but something in the tenseness of his tall figure seemed to tell her a great deal, She spoke his name in a whisper.
"Mr. Kettering!"
He laid his hand on her shoulder. He spoke slowly, with averted face.
"Mrs. Challoner, if I were a strong man I should say that you and I must never meet again. You are married—unhappily, you think now; but, somehow—somehow I don't want to believe that. Give him another chance, will you? We all make mistakes, you know. Give him another chance, and then, if that fails——" He did not finish. He waited a moment, standing silently beside her; then he went away out into the darkness and left her there alone.
Christine stood listening to the sound of his footsteps on the gravel drive. He seemed to take a long while to reach the gate, she thought mechanically; it seemed an endless time till she heard it slam behind him.
But even then she did not move; she just stood staring into the darkness, her heart fluttering in her throat.
She would have said that she had only loved one man—the man whom she had married; but now. . . . Suddenly she covered her face with her hands, and, turning, ran into the house and upstairs to her room, shutting and locking the door behind her.
Down in the drawing-room things were decidedly uncomfortable.
Gladys sat by the tea-table, enjoying her tea no less for the fact that Jimmy was walking up and down like a wild animal, waiting for Christine to return.
Secretly Gladys was rather amused at the situation. She considered that whatever Jimmy suffered now, it served him right. She blamed him entirely for the estrangement between himself and his wife. She had never liked him very much, even in the old days, when she had quarrelled with him for being so selfish; she could not see that he had greatly improved now, as she watched him rather quizzically.
After a moment:
"You'll wear the carpet out," she said practically,
Jimmy stood still.
"Why doesn't Christine come back?" he demanded. "What's she doing with that fool Kettering?"
"He isn't a fool," said Gladys calmly. "I call him an exceedingly nice man."
Jimmy's eyes flashed.
"I suppose you've been encouraging him to come here and dangle after my wife. I thought I could trust you."
Gladys looked at him unflinchingly.
"I thought I could trust you, too," she said serenely. "And apparently I was mistaken. You've spoilt Christine's life, and you deserve all you get."
"How dare you talk to me like that?"
She laughed.
"I dare very well. I'm not afraid of you, Jimmy. I know too much about you. Christine married you because she loved you; she thought there was nobody like you in all the world. It's your own fault if she has changed her mind."
"I'll break every bone in Kettering's confounded body." Jimmy burst out passionately. "I'll—I'll——" He stopped suddenly and sat down with a humiliating sense of weakness, leaning his head in his hands.
Gladys's eyes softened as she looked at him.
"You've been ill, haven't you?" she asked.
He did not answer, and after a moment she left the tea-table, got up and went over to where he sat.
"Buck up, Jimmy, for heaven's sake," she said seriously. She put her hand on his shoulder kindly enough. "It's not too late. You're married, after all, and you may as well make the best of it. You may both live another fifty years."
Jimmy said he was dashed if he wanted to. He said he had had enough of life; it was a rotten swindle from beginning to end.
Gladys frowned.
"If you're going to talk like an utter idiot!" she said impatiently.
He caught her hand when she would have moved away.
"I'm sorry. You might be a pal to a chap, Gladys. I—well, I'm at my wits' end to know what to do. With Horatio coming home——"
Her eyes grew scornful.
"Oh, sothat'swhy you've come here!"
"It is and it isn't. I wanted to see Christine. You won't believe me, I know, but I've been worried to death about her ever since she left me. Ask Sangster, if you don't believe me. I swear to you that, if it were possible, I'd give my right hand this minute to undo all the rotten past and start again. I suppose it's too late. I suppose she hates me. She said she did that last night in London. She looks as if she does now. The way she asked me if I was going to stay to dinner—a chap's own wife!—and in front of that brute Kettering!"
"He isn't a brute."
Gladys walked away and poured herself another cup of tea.
"Christine has been hurt—hurt much more than you have," she said at last. She spoke slowly, as if she were carefully choosing her words.
"She was so awfully fond of you, Jimmy." Jimmy moved restlessly. "It—it must have been a dreadful shock to her, poor child." She looked at him impatiently. "Oh, what on earth is the use of being a man if you can't make a woman care for you? She did once, and it ought not to be so very difficult to make her care again. She—she's just longing for someone to be good to her and love her. That's why she seems to like Mr. Kettering, I know. It is only seeming, Jimmy. I know her better than you do. It's only that he came along just when she was so unhappy—just when she was wanting someone to be good to her. And hehasbeen good to her—he really has," she added earnestly.
Jimmy drew a long breath. He rose to his feet, stretching his arms wearily.
"I don't deserve that she should forgive me," he said, with a new sort of humility. "But—but if ever she does——" He took a quick step forwards Gladys. "Go and ask her to come and speak to me, there's a dear. I promise you that I won't upset her. I'll do my very best."
She went reluctantly, and as soon as the door had closed behind her, Jimmy Challoner went over to the looking-glass and stared at his pale reflection anxiously. He had always rather admired himself, but this afternoon his pallor and thinness disgusted him. No wonder Christine did not want to look at him or talk to him. He passed a nervous hand over the refractory kink in his hair, flattening it down; then, remembering that Christine had once said she liked it, brushed it up again agitatedly.
It seemed a long time before she came down to him. He was sure that half an hour must have passed since Gladys shut the door on him, before it opened again and Christine stood there, a little pale, a little defiant.
"You want to speak to me," she said. Her voice was antagonistic, the soft curves of her face seemed to have hardened.
"Yes. Won't you—won't you come and sit down?" Jimmy was horribly nervous. He dragged forward a chair, but she ignored it. She shut the door and stood leaning against it.
"I would rather stay here," she said. "And please be quick. If there is anything important to say——"
The indifference of her voice cut him to the heart. He broke out with genuine grief:
"Oh, Christine, aren't you ever going to forgive me?"
Just for a moment a little quiver convulsed her face, but it was gone instantly. She knew by past experience how easily Jimmy could put just that soft note into his voice. She told herself that it was only because he wanted something from her, not that he was really in the very least sorry for what had happened, for the way he had hurt her, for the havoc he had made of her life.
"It isn't a question of forgiveness at all," she said. "I didn't ask you to come here. I didn't want you to come here, I was quite happy without you."
"That is very evident," he said bitterly. The words escaped him before he could stop them. He apologised agitatedly.
"I didn't mean that; it slipped out; I ought not to have said it. I hardly know what I am saying. If you can't ever forgive me, that settles it once and for all, of course; but——"
She interrupted.
"Why have you come here? What do you want?"
The question was direct enough, and in desperation he answered it as directly.
"I have come because my brother will be home next week, and I want to know what I am to tell him."
For the first time she blenched a little. Her eyes sought his with a kind of fear.
"Tell him? What do you mean? What does it matter what you tell him?"
"I mean about our marriage. The old boy was so pleased when he knew that I—that you—— It will about finish him if he knows how—if he knows that we—" He floundered helplessly.
"You mean if he knows that you married me out of pique, and that I found it out?" she added bitterly.
He attempted no defence; he stood there miserable and silent.
"You can tell him what you like," said Christine, after a moment. "I don't care in the very least."
"I know you don't. I quite realise that; but—but if, just for the sake of appearances, you felt you could be sufficiently forgiving to—to come back to me, just—just for a little while, I mean," he added with an embarrassed rush. "I—I wouldn't bother you. I—I'd let you do just as you liked. I wouldn't ask anything. I—I——"
Christine laughed.
"You are inviting me to have a second honeymoon, in fact. Is that it?" she asked bitterly. "Thank you very much. I enjoyed the first so tremendously that, of course, it is only natural you should think I must be anxious to repeat the experiment."
Jimmy flushed to the roots of his hair.
"I deserve everything you can say. I haven't any excuse to offer; andI know you'll never believe it if I were to tell you that—that whenCynthia——"
She put up her hands to her eyes with a little shudder.
"I don't want to hear anything about her; I don't ever want to hear her name again."
"I'm sorry, dear." The word of endearment slipped out unconsciously.Christine's little figure quivered; suddenly she began to sob.
She wanted someone to be kind to her so badly. The one little word of endearment was like a ray of sunshine touching the hard bitterness of her heart, melting it, breaking her down.
"Christine!" said Jimmy in a choked voice.
He went over to her. He put an arm round her, drawing her nearer to the fire. He made her sit in the arm-chair, and he knelt beside her, holding her hand. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to say all the many passionate words of remorse that rose to his lips, but somehow he was afraid. He was not sure of her yet. He was afraid of startling her, of driving her back into cold antagonism and suspicion.
Presently she stopped sobbing; she freed her hand and wiped away the tears.
"It was silly to cry," she said jerkily. "There was nothing to cry for." She was ashamed that she had broken down; angry that the cause of her grief had been that one little word of endearment spoken by Jimmy.
He rose to his feet and went to stand by the mantelshelf, staring down into the fire.
There was a long silence.
"When—when is Horatio coming?" Christine asked him presently.
"I don't know for certain. The cable said Monday, but it may be later or even earlier."
She looked at him. His shoulders were drooping, his face turned away from her.
There was an agony of indecision in her heart. She did not want to make things harder for him than was absolutely necessary; and yet she clung fast to her pride—the pride that seemed to be whispering to her to refuse—not to give in to him. She stared into the fire, her eyes blurred still with tears.
"I suppose he'll stop your allowance if he knows?" she said at last, with an odd little mirthless laugh.
Jimmy flushed.
"I wasn't thinking of that," he said quickly. "I don't care a hang what he does; but—but—well, I would have liked him tothinkthings were all right between us, anyway."
He waited a moment. "Of course, if you can't," he said then, jaggedly, "if you feel that you can't I'll tell him the truth. It will be the only way out of it."
A second honeymoon! Christine's own words seemed to ring in her ears mockingly.
She had never had a honeymoon at all yet. That week in London had been only a nightmare of tears and disillusionment and heartbreak. If it meant going through it all again——
She got up suddenly and went to stand beside Jimmy. She was quite close to him, but she did not touch him, though it would have seemed the most natural thing in all the world just at that moment to slip a hand through his arm or to lay her cheek to the rough serge of his coat. She had been so proud of him, had loved him so much; and yet now she seemed to be looking at him and speaking to him across a yawning gulf which neither of them were able to bridge.