"Why?"
She did not answer at once. She had turned away again. She was aimlessly opening and shutting a little silver powder-box lying amongst the brushes and make-up. All his life Jimmy Challoner remembered the little clicking noise it made.
He could see nothing of her face. He made a sudden passionate movement towards her.
"Cynthia, in God's name why--why?"
He laid his hands on her shoulders. She wriggled free of his touch. For an instant she seemed to be deliberately weighing something in her mind. Then at last she spoke.
"Because--because my husband is still living."
"Still--living!" Jimmy Challoner echoed the words stupidly. He passed a hand over his eyes. He felt dazed. After a moment he laughed. He groped backwards for a chair and dropped into it.
"Still--living! Are you--are you sure?"
So it was not that she did not love him. His first thought was one of utter relief--thank God, it was not that!
She put the little silver box down with a sort of impatience. "Yes," she said. She spoke so softly he could hardly catch the monosyllable.
Challoner leaned his head in his hands. He was trying desperately to think, to straighten out this hopeless tangle in his brain, but everything was confused.
Of course, he knew that she had been married before--knew that years and years ago, before she had really known her own mind, she had married a man--a worthless waster--who had left her within a few months of their marriage. She had told him this herself, quite straightforwardly. Told him, too, that the man was dead.
And after all he was still living!
The knowledge hammered against his brain, but as yet he could not realise its meaning. Cynthia went on jerkily.
"I only knew--yesterday. I wrote to you. I--at first I thought it could not be true. But--but now I know it is. Oh, why don't you say something--anything?" she broke out passionately.
Challoner looked up. "What can I say, if this is true?"
"It is true," her face was flushed. There was a hard look in her eyes as if she were trying to keep back tears. After a moment she moved over to where he sat and laid a hand on his shoulder.
Jimmy Challoner turned his head and kissed it.
"Don't take it so badly, Jimmy. It's--it's worse for me," her voice broke. A cleverer man than Jimmy Challoner might have heard the little theatrical touch in the words, but Jimmy was too genuinely miserable himself to be critical.
At the first sob he was on his feet. He put his arms round her; he laid his cheek against her hair; but he did not kiss her. Afterwards he wondered what instinct it was that kept him from kissing her. He broke out into passionate protestations.
"I can't give you up. There must be some way out for us all. You don't love him, and you do care for me. It can't be true, it's--it's some abominable trick to part us, Cynthia."
"It is true," she said again. "It is true."
She drew away from him. She began to cry, carefully, so as not to spoil her make-up. She hid her face in her hands. Once she looked at him through her white fingers to see how he was taking it. Jimmy Challoner was taking it very badly indeed. He stood biting his lip hard. His hands were clenched.
"For God's sake don't cry," he broke out at length. "It drives me mad to see you cry. I'll find a way out. We should have been so happy. I can't give you up."
He spoke incoherently and stammeringly. He was really very much in love, and now the thought of separation was a burning glass, magnifying that love a thousandfold.
There were voices outside. Cynthia hastily dried her eyes. She did not look as if she had been crying very bitterly.
"That's my call. I shall have to go. Don't keep me now. I'll write, Jimmy. I'll see you again."
"You promise me that, whatever happens?"
"I promise." He caught her fingers and kissed them. "Darling, I'll come back for you when the show's over. I can't bear to leave you like this. You do love me?"
"Do you need to ask?"
The words were an evasion, but he did not notice it. He went back to the stage box feeling as if the world had come to an end.
He forgot all about the Wyatts in the stalls below. Christine's brown eyes turned towards him again and again, but he never once looked her way. His attention was centered on the stage and the woman who played there.
She was so beautiful he could never give her up, he told himself passionately. With each moment her charm seemed to grow. He watched her with despairing eyes; life without her was a crude impossibility. He could not imagine existence in a world where he might not love her. That other fellow--curse the other fellow!--he ground his teeth in impotent rage.
The brute had deserted her years ago and left her to starve. He had not the smallest claim on her How. By the time the play was ended Jimmy Challoner had worked himself into a white heat of rage and despair.
Christine Wyatt, glancing once more towards him as the curtain rose for the final call, wondered a little at the tense, unyielding attitude of his tall figure. He was standing staring at the stage as if for him there was nothing else in all the world. She stifled a little sigh as she turned to put on her cloak.
The house was still applauding and clamouring for Cynthia to show herself again. Challoner waited. He loved to see her come before the curtain--loved the little graceful way she bowed to her audience.
But to-night he waited in vain, and when at last he pushed his way round to the stage door it was only to be told that Miss Farrow had left the theatre directly the play was over.
Challoner's heart stood still for a moment. She had done this deliberately to avoid him, he was sure. He asked an agitated question.
"Did she--did she go alone?"
The doorkeeper answered without looking at him, "There was a gent with her, sir--Mr. Mortlake, I think."
Challoner went out into the night blindly. He had to pass the theatre to get back to the main street. Mrs. Wyatt and Christine were just entering a taxi. Christine saw him. She touched his arm diffidently as he passed.
"Jimmy!"
Challoner pulled up short. He would have avoided them had it been at all possible.
Mortlake! she had gone with that brute, whilst he--he answered Mrs. Wyatt mechanically.
"Thanks--thanks very much. I was going to walk, but if you will be so kind as to give me a lift."
He really hardly knew what he was saying. He took off his hat and passed a hand dazedly across his forehead before he climbed into the taxi and found himself sitting beside Christine.
He forced himself to try to make conversation. "Well, and how did you enjoy the play?"
It was a ghastly effort to talk. He wondered if they would notice how strange his manner was.
"Immensely," Mrs. Wyatt told him. "I've heard so much about Cynthia Farrow, but never seen her before. She certainly is splendid."
"She's the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," said Christine.
Challoner shot her a grateful look. Most women were cats and never had a word of praise for one of their own sex. He felt slightly comforted.
"If you've nothing better to do, Jimmy," said Mrs. Wyatt, "won't you come back to the hotel and have some supper with us? We are only up in town for a fortnight. Do come if you can."
Challoner said he would be delighted. He was very young in some ways. He had not the smallest intention of calling on Cynthia that night. He wished savagely that she could know what he was doing; know that in spite of everything he was not breaking his heart for her.
She was with that brute Mortlake; well, he was not going to spend the next hour or two alone with only his thoughts for company.
He wondered where Cynthia had gone, and if she had known all along that Mortlake was calling for her. He ground his teeth.
The two women were talking together. They did not seem to notice his silence. Christine's voice reminded him a little of Cynthia's; a sudden revulsion of feeling flooded his heart.
Poor darling! all this was not her fault. No doubt she was just as
miserable as he. He longed to go to her. He wished he had not accepted the Wyatts' invitation. He felt that it was heartless of him to have done so. He would have excused himself even now if the taxi had not already started.
Mrs. Wyatt turned to him. "I suppose you are very fond of theatres?"
"Yes--no--yes, I mean; I go to heaps." He wondered if his reply sounded very foolish and absent-minded. He rushed on to cover it. "I've seen this particular play a dozen times; it's a great favourite of mine. I--I'm very keen on it."
"I think it is lovely," said Christine dreamily.
She was leaning back beside him in the corner. He could only see her white-gloved hands clasped in the lap of her frock.
"You must let me take you to some," he said. He had a rotten feeling that if he stopped talking for a minute he would make a fool of himself. "I often get passes for first nights and things," he rambled on.
Christine sat up. "Do you! oh, how lovely! I should love to go! Jimmy, do you--do you know any people on the stage--actors and actresses?"
"I know some--yes. I know quite a lot."
"Not Miss Farrow, I suppose?" she questioned eagerly.
"Yes--yes, I do," said Challoner.
She gave a little cry of delight. "Oh, I wish I could meet her--she's so beautiful."
Challoner could not answer. He would have given worlds had it been possible to stop the cab and rush away; but he knew he had got to go through with it now, and presently he found himself following Mrs. Wyatt and Christine through the hall of the hotel at which they were staying.
"It's quite like old times, isn't it?" he said with an effort. "Quite like the dear old days at Upton House. Don't I wish we could have them again."
"The house is still there," said Mrs. Wyatt laughing. "Perhaps you will come down again some day."
Challoner did not think it likely. There would be something very painful in going back to the scene of those days, he thought. He was so much changed from the light-hearted youngster who had chased Christine round the garden and pulled her hair because she would not kiss him.
He looked at her with reminiscent eyes. There was a little flush in her pale cheeks. She looked more like the child-sweetheart he had so nearly forgotten.
Mrs. Wyatt had moved away. He and Christine were alone. "I used to kiss you in those days, didn't I?" he asked, looking at her. He felt miserable and reckless.
She looked up at him with serious eyes. "Yes," she said almost inaudibly.
Something in her face stirred an old emotion in Jimmy Challoner's heart. This girl had been his first love, and a man never really forgets his first love; he leaned nearer to her.
"Christine, do you--do you wish we could have those days over again?" he asked.
A little quiver crossed her face. For a moment the beautiful brown eyes lit up radiantly. For a moment she was something better than just merely pretty.
He waited eagerly for her answer. His pride, if nothing deeper, had been seriously wounded that night. The tremulous happiness in this girl's face was like a gentle touch on a hurt.
"Do you--do you wish it?" he asked again.
"Yes," said Christine softly. "Yes, if you do."
CHAPTER II
JILTED!
It was late when Jimmy got home to his rooms; he was horribly tired, and his head ached vilely, but he never slept a wink all night.
The fact that Cynthia's husband was alive did not hurt him nearly so much as the fact that Cynthia had avoided him that evening and left the theatre with Mortlake. Jimmy hated Mortlake. The brute had such piles of money, whilst he--even the insufficient income which was always mortgaged weeks before the quarterly cheque fell due, only came to him from his brother. At any moment the Great Horatio might cut up rough and stop supplies.
Jimmy was up and dressed earlier than ever before in his life. He went out and bought some of the most expensive roses he could find in the shops. He took them himself to Cynthia Farrow's flat and scribbled a note begging her to see him if only for a moment.
The answer came back verbally. Miss Farrow sent her love and best thanks but she was very tired and her head ached--would he call again in the afternoon?
Challoner turned away without answering. There was a humiliating lump in his throat. At that moment he was the most wretched man in the whole of London. How on earth could he get through the whole infernal morning? And was she always going to treat him like this in the future? refusing to see him--deliberately avoiding him.
He wandered about the West End, staring into shop windows. At twelve o'clock he was back again at his rooms. A messenger boy was at the door when he reached it. He held a letter which Challoner took from him. It was from Cynthia Farrow.
He tore it open anyhow. His pulses throbbed with excitement. She had relented, of course, and wanted to see him at once. He was so sure of it that it was like a blow over the heart when he read the short note.
DEAR JIMMY,--I am afraid you will be hurt at what I am going to say, but I am sure it is better for us not to meet again. It only makes things harder for us both, and can do no good. I ought to have said good-bye to you last night, only at the last moment I hadn't the courage. If you really care for me you will keep away, and make no attempt to see me. I can never marry you, and though we have had some very happy days together, I hope that you will forget me. Please don't write, either; I really mean what I say, that this is good-bye.
CYNTHIA.
The messenger boy fidgeted uncomfortably, staring at Jimmy Challoner's white face. Presently he ventured a question. "Is there an answer, sir?"
Challoner turned then, "No, no answer."
He let himself into his rooms and shut the door. He felt as if he were walking in space. For the moment he was unconscious of any emotion.
He walked over to the window and read the letter again. The only thing about it that really struck him was its note of finality.
This was no petulantly written dismissal. She had thought it well out; she really meant it.
He was jilted! The word stung him into life. His face flamed. A wave of passionate anger swept over him. He was jilted! The detestable thing for which he had always so deeply pitied other men of his acquaintance had happened to him. He was no longer an engaged man, he was discarded, unwanted!
For the moment he forgot the eloquent fact of Cynthia's marriage. He only realised that she had thrown him aside--finished with him.
And he had loved her so much. He had never cared a hang for any other woman in all his life in comparison with the devotion he had poured at Cynthia's feet.
He looked round the room with blank eyes. He could not believe that he had not fallen asleep and dreamed it all. His gaze was arrested by Cynthia's portrait on the shelf--it seemed to be watching him with smiling eyes.
In sudden rage he crossed the room and snatched it up. He stood for a second holding it in his hand as if not knowing what to do with it, then he dashed it down into the fireplace. The glass splintered into hundreds of fragments. Jimmy Challoner stood staring down at them with passionate eyes. He hated her. She was a flirt, a coquette without a heart.
If he could only pay her out--only let her see how utterly indifferent he was. If only there was some other woman who would be nice to him, and let him be nice to her, to make Cynthia jealous.
He thought suddenly of Christine Wyatt, of the little flame in her brown eyes when last night he had reminded her of the old days at Upton House. His vain man's heart had been stirred then. She liked him at all events.
Mrs. Wyatt had said that she hoped they would see much of him while they were in London. If he chose, he knew that he could be with them all day and every day. Cynthia would get to hear of it, Cynthia would know that he was not wearing the willow for her. He would not even answer her letter. He would just keep away--walk out of her life.
For a moment a sort of desolation gripped him. He had been so proud of her, thought so much of their future together; made such wonderful plans for getting round the Great
Horatio; and now--it was all ended--done for!
His careless face fell into haggard lines, but the next instant he got a fresh grip of himself. He would show her, he would let her see that he was no weakling, no lovelorn swain pleading for denied favours. He squared his shoulders. He took up his hat and went into the street again. He called a taxi and gave the address of the hotel where Christine and her mother were staying.
CHAPTER III
THE TWO WOMEN
Christine was just crossing the hall of the hotel when Jimmy Challoner entered it. She saw him at once, and stood still with a little flush in her face.
"I was just thinking about you," she said. "I was just wondering if you would come and see us to-day; somehow I didn't think you would."
She spoke very simply and unaffectedly. She was genuinely pleased to see him, and saw no reason for hiding it. "Have you had lunch?" she asked. "Mother and I are just going to have ours."
If he had given way to his own inclinations he would have gone without lunch--without everything. He was utterly wretched. The kindness of Christine's eyes brought a lump to his throat. He did not want her to be kind to him. She was not the woman he wanted at all. Why, oh, why was he here when his heart was away--God alone knew where--with Cynthia!
What was she doing? he was asking himself in an agony, even while he followed Christine across the hall to the dining-room; had she really meant him to accept that note of dismissal as final? or had it just been written in a moment of petulance?
He had not meant to think about her; he had vowed to put her out of his thoughts for ever, to let her see that he would not wear the willow for her; and yet--oh, they were all very well, these fine resolves, but when a chap was utterly--confoundedly down and out----
He found himself shaking hands with Christine's mother.
"Jimmy hasn't had any lunch," Christine was saying. "So I asked him to have some with us."
Her voice sounded very gay; the little flush had not died out of her cheeks.
"I am very pleased you have come," said Christine's mother. She shook hands with Jimmy, and smiled at him with her mother-eyes.
The Second Honeymoon Page 2