He sighed heavily; he looked at the lines he had been so absently scribbling.
Christine--Christine--Christine. Nothing but her name. It stared up at him in all shapes and sizes from the blotter. Sangster flushed dully; he tore the sheet of paper free, and tossed it into the fire. What was he dreaming about? Where were his thoughts?
He had arranged to meet Jimmy at the same little restaurant where yesterday he had taken Christine to lunch. He was there a quarter of an hour before the appointed time.
When Jimmy arrived Sangster glanced at him anxiously. He was very pale; his eyes looked defiant; there was a hard fold to his lips.
"Hallo!" he said laconically; he sat down opposite to Sangster. "I don't want any lunch; you fire away."
He seemed to avoid Sangster's eyes; there was a little awkward silence.
"How's the wife?" Sangster asked nervously.
Jimmy laughed mirthlessly.
"She's left me; she says she'll never live with me again."
"Left you!"
"Yes. . . . Oh, don't look so scandalised, man! I saw her off from Euston myself; it was all outwardly quite a friendly arrangement. She's gone down to Upton House; she's going to have a friend of hers to stay with her for a time--a Miss Leighton----" He paused, and went on heavily: "Of course, you've heard about--about----"
"Yes----"
"Well--well, they sent for me. It was too late! She--she was dead when I got there; but Christine found out somehow--I don't know how. I give you my word of honour I meant to have told her; but--she wouldn't believe anything I said. . . . We--we had a row last night; I dare say it was my fault. I was upset, of course----"
"Of course."
"And this morning I tried to apologise. I asked her to overlook everything that had happened, and--and start again." Jimmy laughed dully. "I--well, I believe she hates the sight of me."
Jimmy caught his breath hard on the memory of the burning hatred that had looked at him from Christine's beautiful brown eyes.
"It's quite for the best--this arrangement. Don't think I'm blaming her--I'm not; perhaps if she'd been a little older--if she'd known a little more about the world--she'd have been more tolerant; I don't know. Anyway, she's gone." He raised his humiliated eyes to Sangster's distressed face.
"She will forgive you. She's hurt now, of course; but later on . . ."
Jimmy shook his head.
"She's made me promise to keep away from her for six months. I had no option--she thinks the worst of me, naturally. She thinks that I--I cared for--for Cynthia--right up to the end. . . . I didn't." He stopped, choking. "She's dead--don't let's talk about it," he added.
Sangster had hardly touched his lunch; he sat smoking fast and furiously.
"Six months is a long time," he said at last.
"Yes--it's only a polite way of saying she never wants to see me again; and I don't blame her."
"That's absurd; she's too fond of you."
Jimmy hunched his shoulders.
"That's what I tried to flatter myself; but I know better now. She--she wouldn't even shake hands with me when I said 'good-bye' to her at Euston." There was a little silence. The thoughts of both men flew to Christine as she had been when she first came to London; so happy--so radiantly happy.
And Jimmy could look farther back still; could see her as she had been in the old days at Upton House when she had been his first love. Jimmy gave a great sigh.
"What a damnable hash-up, eh?" he said.
"It'll all come right--I'm certain it will."
Jimmy looked at him affectionately.
"Dear old optimist!" He struck a match and lit the cigarette which had been hanging listlessly between his lips. "I suppose--if you'd run down and have a look at her now and then," he said awkwardly. "She likes you--and you could let me know if she's all right."
"If you don't think she would consider it an intrusion."
"I am sure she wouldn't; and you'll like Upton House." Jimmy's voice was dreamily reminiscent. "It's to be sold later on, you know; but for the present Christine will live there. . . . It would be a real kindness if you would run down now and then, old chap."
"I will, of course, if you're sure----"
"I'm quite sure. Christine likes you."
"Very well."
Sangster kept his eyes downbent; somehow he could not meet Jimmy's just then.
"And you--what are you going to do?" he asked presently.
"I shall go back to my old rooms for a time, and take Costin with me; he'll be pleased, anyway, with the new arrangement. It was really funny the way he tried to congratulate me when I told him I was going to be married----" He broke off, remembering that afternoon, and the way Cynthia had come into the room as they were talking.
He would never see her again; never meet the seductive pleading of her eyes any more; never hear her laughing voice calling to him, "Jimmy dear."
The thought was intolerable. He moved restlessly in his chair; the sweat broke out on his forehead.
"My God! it seems impossible that she's dead," he said hoarsely.
Sangster did not look up.
There was a long pause.
"She was in Mortlake's car, you know," said Jimmy again, disjointedly.
Sangster nodded.
"He'll be shockingly cut-up," said Jimmy again. "I hated the chap; but he was really fond of her."
"Yes." Jimmy's cigarette had gone out again, and he relit it absently.
"Christine will never believe that it hasn't broken my heart," he said in a queer voice.
No answer.
"You won't believe it either?" he said.
The eyes of the two men met; Jimmy flushed scarlet.
"It's the truth," he said. "I think, ever since I knew that she--that she had tried to get rid of me----" He stopped painfully. "It makes me wonder if I ever--ever really, you know."
"We all make mistakes--bad mistakes," said Sangster kindly.
Jimmy smiled a little.
"You old philosopher . . . I don't believe you've ever cared a hang for a woman in all your life."
"Oh, yes I have." Sangster's eyes were staring past Jimmy, down the little room.
"Really?" Jimmy was faintly incredulous. "Who was she--wouldn't she have you?"
"I never asked her, and she is married now--to another man."
"A decent fellow?"
There was a little silence, then:
"I think he'll turn out all right," said Sangster quietly. "I hope so."
CHAPTER XVI
THE PAST RETURNS
Christine had learned a great deal since her marriage. As she stood on the platform at Euston that morning with Jimmy Challoner she felt old enough to be the grandmother of the girl who had looked up at him with such glad recognition less than a month ago in the theatre.
Old enough, and sad enough.
She could not bear to look at him now. It cut her to the heart to see the listless droop of his shoulders and the haggard lines of his face. It was not for her--his sorrow; that was the thought she kept steadily before her eyes; it was not because he had offended and hurt her past forgiveness; but because Cynthia Farrow was now only a name and a memory.
The train was late in starting. Jimmy stood on the platform trying to make conversation; he had bought a pile of magazines and a box of chocolates which lay disregarded beside Christine on the seat; he had ordered luncheon for her, although she protested again and again that she should not eat anything.
He racked his brains to think if there were any other little service he could do for her. He was full of remorse and shame as he stood there.
She had been so fond of him--she had meant to be so happy; and now she was glad to be leaving him.
The guard blew his whistle. Jimmy turned hastily, the blood rushing to his white face.
"If you ever want me, Christine----" She seemed not to be listening, and he broke off, only to stumble on again: "Try and forgive me--try not to think too hardly of me." She looked at him th
en; her beautiful eyes were hard and unyielding.
The train had begun to move slowly from the platform. Jimmy was on the footboard; he spoke to her urgently.
"Say you forgive me, Christine. If you'll just shake hands----"
She drew back, as if she found him distasteful.
The train was gathering speed. A porter made a grab at Jimmy.
"Stand back, sir."
Jimmy obeyed mechanically. Christine would not have cared had he been killed, he told himself savagely.
But for his pig-headed foolishness, he and Christine might have been going down to Upton House together; but for the past----
"Damn the past!" said Jimmy Challoner as he turned on his heel and walked away.
* * * * * *
But the past was very real to Christine as she sat there alone in a corner of the first-class carriage into which Jimmy had put her, and stared before her with dull eyes at a row of photographs advertising seaside places.
This was the end of all her dreams of happiness. She and Jimmy were separated; it seemed impossible that they had ever really been married--that she was really his wife and he her husband.
She dragged off her glove, and looked at her wedding ring; she had never taken it off since the moment in that dingy London church when Jimmy had slipped it on.
And yet it was such an empty symbol. He had never loved her; he had married her because some other woman, whom he did love, was beyond his reach.
She did not cry; she seemed to have shed all the tears in her heart. She just sat there motionless as the train raced her back to the old house and the old familiar scenes, where she had been happy--many years ago--with Jimmy Challoner.
He had wired to Gladys Leighton; Gladys would be there at the station to meet her. She wondered what she would say to her.
She thought of the uncle who had journeyed to London with such reluctance to give her away; he would tell her that it served her right, she was sure. Even on her wedding day he had trotted out the old maxim of marrying in haste.
Christine smiled faintly as she thought of him; after all, she need not see much of him--he did not live near Upton House. When the restaurant attendant came to tell her that lunch was ready, she followed him obediently. Jimmy had tipped him half-a-crown to make sure that Christine went to the dining-car. She even enjoyed her meal. A man sitting at the same table with her looked at her curiously from time to time; he was rather a good-looking man. Once when she dropped her gloves he stooped and picked them up for her; later on he pulled up the window because he saw her shiver a little. "These trains are well warmed as a rule," he said.
Christine looked at him timidly.
She liked his face; something about his eyes made her think of Jimmy.
"Are you travelling far?" he asked presently.
She told him--only to Osterway.
He smiled suddenly.
"I am going there, too. Do you happen to know a place called Upton House?"
Christine flushed.
"It's my home," she said. "I live there."
"What a coincidence. I heard it was in the market--I am going down with a view to purchase."
Her face saddened.
"Yes--it is to be sold. My mother died last month. . . . Everything is to be sold."
"You are sorry to have to part with it?" he asked her sympathetically.
"Yes." Tears rose to her eyes, and she brushed them, ashamedly away. "I've lived there all my life," she told him. "All my happiest days have been spent there." She was thinking of Jimmy, and the days when he rode old Judas barebacked round the paddock.
The stranger was looking at Christine interestedly; he glanced down at her left hand, from which she had removed the glove; he was surprised to see that she wore a wedding ring.
Surely she could not be married--that child! He looked again at the mourning she wore; perhaps her husband was dead. He forgot for the moment that she had just told him of the death of her mother.
He questioned her interestedly about Osterway. What sort of a place was it? Were the people round about sociable? He liked plenty of friends, he said.
Christine answered eagerly that everyone was very nice. To hear her talk one would have imagined that Osterway was a little heaven on earth. The last few weeks, with their excitement and disillusionment, had made the past seem all the more roseate by contrast. She told this man that she would rather live in Osterway than anywhere else; that she only wished she were sufficiently well off to keep Upton House.
When the train ran into the station he asked diffidently if he might be allowed to drive her home.
"My car is down here," he explained. "I sent it on with my man. I am staying in the village for a few days. . . . Upton House is some way from the station, I believe?"
"Two miles. . . . I should like to drive home with you," she told him shyly. "Only I am meeting a friend here."
"Perhaps your friend will drive with us, too," he said.
Christine thought it a most excellent arrangement. She looked eagerly up and down the platform for Gladys Leighton, but there was no sign of her.
"Perhaps she never got my telegram," she said in perplexity. She asked the stationmaster if there had been a lady waiting for the train; but he had seen nobody.
The man with whom she had travelled down from London stood patiently beside her.
"Shall we drive on?" he suggested. "We may meet your friend on the road."
They went out to the big car; there was a smart man in livery to drive them. Christine and her companion sat together in the back seat. They drove slowly the first half-mile, but there was no sign of Gladys anywhere. Christine felt depressed. She had counted on Gladys; she had been so sure that she would not fail her; she began to wonder if Jimmy had sent that wire; she hated herself for the thought, but her whole belief and idea of him had got hopelessly inverted during the past days.
They seemed to reach Upton House very quickly.
"You are evidently expected," her companion said; "judging by the look of the house."
The front door stood open; the wide gate to the drive was fastened back. As the car stopped the housekeeper came to the door; she looked interestedly at Christine, and with faint amazement at her companion. For the first time Christine felt embarrassed: she wondered if perhaps she had been foolish to accept this man's offer of an escort. When they were inside the house she turned to him timidly.
"Will you tell me your name? It--it seems so funny not to know your name. Mine is Christine Wyatt--Challoner, I mean," she added with a flush of embarrassment.
"My name is Kettering--Alfred Kettering." He smiled down at her. "The name Challoner is very familiar to me," he said. "My greatest friend is a man named Challoner."
Christine caught her breath.
"Not--Jimmy?" she asked.
"No--Horace. He has a young brother named Jimmy, though--a disrespectful young scamp, who always called Horace 'the Great Horatio.' You don't happen to know them, I suppose?"
Christine had flushed scarlet.
"He is my husband," she said in a whisper.
"Your--husband!" Kettering stared at her with amazed eyes, then suddenly he held our his hand. "That makes us quite old friends, then, doesn't it?" he said with change of voice. "I have known Horace Challoner all my life; as a matter of fact, I was with him all last summer in Australia. I have been home myself only a few weeks."
Christine did not know what to say. She knew that this man must be wondering where Jimmy was; that it was more than probable that he would write to the Great Horatio and inform him of their chance meeting, and of anything else which he might discover about her mistaken marriage.
"I don't think Horace knows that his brother is married, does he?" the man said again, Christine raised her eyes.
"We've only been married ten days," she said tremulously.
"Is that so? Then I am not too late to offer you my most sincere congratulations, and to wish you every happiness." He took her hand in a kindly gri
p.
Christine tried to thank him, but somehow she seemed to have lost her voice. She moved on across the hall into the dining-room, where there was a cheery fire burning and tea laid.
"You will have some tea with me," she said. "And then afterwards I will show you over the house--if you really want to see it?" She looked up at him wistfully. "I should like you to have it, I think," she told him hesitatingly. "If it has got to be sold, I should like to know that somebody--nice--has bought it."
"Thank you." He stood back to the fire, watching her as she poured out the tea.
Married--this child! It seemed so absurd. She looked about seventeen.
Suddenly:
"And where is Jimmy?" he asked her abruptly. "I wonder if he would remember me! Hardly, I expect; it's a great many years since we met."
Christine had been expecting the question; she kept her face averted as she answered:
"Jimmy is in London; he saw me off this morning. He--he isn't able to come down just yet."
There was a little silence.
"I see," said Kettering. Only ten days married, and not able to come down. Jimmy had never done an hour's work in his life, so far as Kettering could remember. He knew quite well that he was living on an allowance from his brother; it seemed a curious sort of situation altogether.
He took his tea from Christine's hands. He noticed that they trembled a little, as if she were very nervous, he tried to put her at her ease; he spoke no more of Jimmy.
"I wonder what has happened to your friend?" he said cheerily. "I dare say she will turn up here directly."
"I hope she will." Christine glanced towards the window; it was rapidly getting dusk. "I hope she will," she said again apprehensively. "I should hate having to stay here by myself." She shivered a little as she spoke. She turned to him suddenly.
"Are you--married?" she asked interestedly.
He laughed.
"No. . . . Why do you ask?"
"I was only wondering. I hope you don't think it rude of me to have asked you. I was only thinking that--if you were married and had any children, this is such a lovely house for them. When we were all little we used to have such fine times. There is a beautiful garden and a great big room that runs nearly the length of the house upstairs, which we used to have for a nursery."
The Second Honeymoon Page 11