"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!
CHAPTER XX
LOVE LOCKED OUT
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 given one bitter throb of disappointment at sight of Christine's husband. This was the end of their little half-hour together. Perhaps it was Fate 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 on Monday."
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 see you," 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 with Gladys 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.
CHAPTER XXI
THE COMPACT
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, so that's why 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 he has been 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, rememberi
ng 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 Second Honeymoon Page 15