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 and Mrs. 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.
CHAPTER VI
JIMMY DEMANDS THE TRUTH
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 beside Christine. 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 Arthur Sangster 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?"
CHAPTER VII
LOVE AND POVERTY
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.
The Second Honeymoon Page 4