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.
CHAPTER VIII
THE SECOND ENGAGEMENT
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 ha
d 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 which Cynthia 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?"
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!
The Second Honeymoon Page 5