The Second Honeymoon

by Ruby Mildred Ayres

The question was direct enough, and in desperation he answered it as directly.

  "I have come because my brother will be home next week, and I want to know what I am to tell him."

  For the first time she blenched a little. Her eyes sought his with a kind of fear.

  "Tell him? What do you mean? What does it matter what you tell him?"

  "I mean about our marriage. The old boy was so pleased when he knew that I--that you---- It will about finish him if he knows how--if he knows that we--" He floundered helplessly.

  "You mean if he knows that you married me out of pique, and that I found it out?" she added bitterly.

  He attempted no defence; he stood there miserable and silent.

  "You can tell him what you like," said Christine, after a moment. "I don't care in the very least."

  "I know you don't. I quite realise that; but--but if, just for the sake of appearances, you felt you could be sufficiently forgiving to--to come back to me, just--just for a little while, I mean," he added with an embarrassed rush. "I--I wouldn't bother you. I--I'd let you do just as you liked. I wouldn't ask anything. I--I----"

  Christine laughed.

  "You are inviting me to have a second honeymoon, in fact. Is that it?" she asked bitterly. "Thank you very much. I enjoyed the first so tremendously that, of course, it is only natural you should think I must be anxious to repeat the experiment."

  Jimmy flushed to the roots of his hair.

  "I deserve everything you can say. I haven't any excuse to offer; and I know you'll never believe it if I were to tell you that--that when Cynthia----"

  She put up her hands to her eyes with a little shudder.

  "I don't want to hear anything about her; I don't ever want to hear her name again."

  "I'm sorry, dear." The word of endearment slipped out unconsciously. Christine's little figure quivered; suddenly she began to sob.

  She wanted someone to be kind to her so badly. The one little word of endearment was like a ray of sunshine touching the hard bitterness of her heart, melting it, breaking her down.

  "Christine!" said Jimmy in a choked voice.

  He went over to her. He put an arm round her, drawing her nearer to the fire. He made her sit in the arm-chair, and he knelt beside her, holding her hand. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to say all the many passionate words of remorse that rose to his lips, but somehow he was afraid. He was not sure of her yet. He was afraid of startling her, of driving her back into cold antagonism and suspicion.

  Presently she stopped sobbing; she freed her hand and wiped away the tears.

  "It was silly to cry," she said jerkily. "There was nothing to cry for." She was ashamed that she had broken down; angry that the cause of her grief had been that one little word of endearment spoken by Jimmy.

  He rose to his feet and went to stand by the mantelshelf, staring down into the fire.

  There was a long silence.

  "When--when is Horatio coming?" Christine asked him presently.

  "I don't know for certain. The cable said Monday, but it may be later or even earlier."

  She looked at him. His shoulders were drooping, his face turned away from her.

  There was an agony of indecision in her heart. She did not want to make things harder for him than was absolutely necessary; and yet she clung fast to her pride--the pride that seemed to be whispering to her to refuse--not to give in to him. She stared into the fire, her eyes blurred still with tears.

  "I suppose he'll stop your allowance if he knows?" she said at last, with an odd little mirthless laugh.

  Jimmy flushed.

  "I wasn't thinking of that," he said quickly. "I don't care a hang what he does; but--but--well, I would have liked him to think things were all right between us, anyway."

  He waited a moment. "Of course, if you can't," he said then, jaggedly, "if you feel that you can't I'll tell him the truth. It will be the only way out of it."

  A second honeymoon! Christine's own words seemed to ring in her ears mockingly.

  She had never had a honeymoon at all yet. That week in London had been only a nightmare of tears and disillusionment and heartbreak. If it meant going through it all again----

  She got up suddenly and went to stand beside Jimmy. She was quite close to him, but she did not touch him, though it would have seemed the most natural thing in all the world just at that moment to slip a hand through his arm or to lay her cheek to the rough serge of his coat. She had been so proud of him, had loved him so much; and yet now she seemed to be looking at him and speaking to him across a yawning gulf which neither of them were able to bridge.

  "Jimmy, if--if I do--if I come back to you--just for a little while, so that--so that your brother won't ever know, you won't--you won't try and keep me--afterwards? You won't--you won't try and force me to stay with you, will you?"

  "I give you my word of honour. I don't know how to thank you. I--I'm not half good enough for you. I don't deserve that you should ever give me a thought; I'm such an awful rotter," said Jimmy Challoner, with a break in his voice. He tried to take her hand, but she drew back.

  "It's only--only friends we're going to be," she whispered.

  He choked back a lump in his throat.

  "Only friends, of course," he echoed, trying to speak cheerily. He knew what she meant; knew that he was not to remember that they were married, that they were just to behave like good pals--for the complete deception of the Great Horatio.

  "Thank you, thank you very much," he said again. "And--and when will you--when----" he stammered.

  "Oh, not yet," she told him quickly. "There is plenty of time. Next week will do. You can let me know when your brother arrives. I'll come then. I'll----" Someone knocked at the door. It was Gladys. She looked apologetic. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a telegram for Jimmy. I thought it might be important." She handed him the yellow envelope.

  Jimmy took it agitatedly. His heart was thumping. He was sure that he knew what were its contents. He broke open the flap. There was a little silence; then he handed the message to his wife.

  "Horatio arrives in London to-morrow morning. Wire just received. Thought you ought to know at once.--SANGSTER."

  Christine read the message through, then let it flutter to the floor at her feet; she looked up at Jimmy's embarrassed face.

  "Well?" she said sharply.

  "He's coming to-morrow, you see," Jimmy began stumblingly. "He--he'll be in London to-morrow, so if--so if----" He cast an appealing glance at Gladys.

  "I suppose I'm in the way," she said bluntly. "I'll clear out."

  She turned to the door, but Christine stopped her.

  "You're not in the way--I'd rather you stayed. You may as well hear what we're talking about. Jimmy's brother is coming home, and--and, you see, he doesn't know that I--that we----"

  "I've asked her to come back to me--at any rate, for a time," Jimmy interrupted valiantly. "I know I don't deserve it, but it would make such a deuce of a difference if she would--you know what Horatio is--I--I'd give anything to prevent him knowing what a mess I've made of everything," he added boyishly.

  They were both looking at Gladys now, Jimmy and Christine, and for a moment she stood irresolute, then she turned to Jimmy's wife. "Well, what are you going to do?" she said, and her usually blunt voice was quite gentle.

  Christine moved closer to her friend.

  "Oh, what do you think I ought to do?" she appealed in a whisper.

  Gladys glanced across at Jimmy Challoner; he looked miserable enough; at the sight of his thin face and worried eyes she softened towards him; she took Christine's hand.

  "I think you ought to go," she said.

  Jimmy turned away; he stood staring down into the fire; he felt somehow as if they were both taking a mean advantage of Christine; he felt as if he had tried to force her hand; he was sure she did not wish to come back to him, but he was sure, too, that because in her heart she thought it her duty to do so, he would not return to London alone that night.r />
  Nobody spoke for a moment; Jimmy was afraid to look round, then Christine said slowly:

  "Very well, what train are we to go by?"

  Her voice sounded a little expressionless; Jimmy could not look at her.

  "Any train you like," he said jerkily. "My time is yours--anything you want . . . you have only to say what you would like to do."

  A few weeks ago she would have been so happy to hear him speak like that, but now the words seemed to pass her by.

  "We may as well have dinner first, and go by a fast train," she said. "I hate slow trains. Will you--will you pack some things for me?" She looked at Gladys.

  "Of course." Gladys turned to the door, and Christine followed her, leaving Jimmy alone.

  He did not move; he stood staring down at the cheery fire, his elbow resting on the mantleshelf.

  He wished now that he had not asked this of his wife; he wished he had braved the situation out and received the full vent of the Great Horatio's wrath alone. Christine would think less of him than ever for being the first to make overtures of peace; he could have kicked himself as he stood there.

  Kettering loomed in the background of his mind with hateful persistence; Kettering had looked at Christine as if--as if---- Jimmy roused himself with a sigh; it was a rotten world--a damned rotten world.

  Upstairs Gladys was packing a suit-case for Christine, and talking about every conceivable subject under the sun except Jimmy.

  Christine sat on the side of the bed, her hands folded in her lap. She took no interest in the proceedings, she hardly seemed to be listening to her friend's chatter.

  Suddenly she broke into a remark Gladys was making:

  "You really think I am doing the right thing, Gladys?"

  Gladys sat back on her heels and let a little silk frock she had been folding fall to the floor. She looked at the younger girl with affectionate anxiety.

  "Yes, I do," she said seriously. "Things would never have got any better as they were. It's perfectly true, in my opinion, that if you don't see a person for a long time you don't care whether you ever see him again or not, and--and I should hate you and Jimmy to--to have a final separation, no matter what I've said, and no matter what a selfish pig he is."

  Christine smiled faintly.

  "He can't help not caring for me," she said.

  "No, but he can help having married you," Gladys retorted energetically. "Don't think I'm sympathising with him. I assure you I'm not. I hope he'll get paid out no end for what he's done, and the way he's treated you. But--but all the same, I think you ought to go back to him."

  Christine flushed.

  "I hate the thought of it," she said with sudden passion. "I shall never forget those days in London. I tried to pretend that everything was all right when anybody was there, just so that the servants should not see, but they all did, I know, and they were sorry for me. Oh, I feel as if I could kill myself when I look back on it all. To think I let him know how much I cared, and all the time--all the time he wouldn't have minded if he'd never seen me again. All the time he was longing for--for that other woman. I know it's horrid to talk like that about her, but--but she's dead, and--and----" she broke off with a shuddering little sigh.

  "Things will come all right--you see," said Gladys wisely. She picked up Christine's frock and carefully folded it. "Give him a chance, Christine; I don't hold a brief for him, but, my word! it would be rotten if the Great Horatio found out the truth and cut Jimmy off with a shilling, wouldn't it? Of course, really it would serve him right, but one can't very well tell him so." She shut the lid of the case, and rose to her feet. "There, I think that's all. It must be nearly dinner time."

  But Christine did not move.

  "I wish you would come with us," she said tremblingly. "Why can't you come with us? I shouldn't mind half so much if you were there."

  Gladys glanced at her and away again.

  "Now you're talking sheer rubbish," she said lightly. "You remind me of that absurd play, The Chinese Honeymoon, when the bride took her bridesmaids with her." She laughed; she took Christine's hand and dragged her to her feet. "You might smile a little," she protested. "Don't let Jimmy think you're afraid of him."

  "I am afraid. I don't want to go." Suddenly she began to cry.

  Gladys's kind eyes grew anxious, she stood silent for a moment.

  "I'm ever so much happier here," Christine went on. "I hate London; I hate the horrid hotels. I'd much rather be here with you and----" she broke off.

  Gladys let go of her hand; there was a pucker of anxiety between her eyes. What had Kettering said to Christine? she asked herself in sudden panic. Surely he had not broken his word to her. She dismissed the thought with a shrug of the shoulders.

  "Don't be a baby, Chris," she said a trifle impatiently. "It's up to you this time, anyway. What's the use of being young and as pretty as you are if you can't win the man you want?"

  Christine dried her eyes, her cheeks were flushed.

  "But I don't want him," she said with sudden passion. "I don't want him any more than he wants me."

  Gladys stared at her in speechless dismay, she felt as if a cold hand had been laid on her heart. She was unutterably thankful when the dinner gong broke the silence; she turned again to the door.

  "Well, I want my dinner, that's all I know," she said.

  She went downstairs without waiting for Christine.

  Jimmy met her in the hall; he looked at her with a sort of suspicion, she thought, and she knew she was colouring.

  "Look here, Jimmy," she said with sudden brusqueness, "if she comes back here again without you it will be the last time you need ask me for help. You've got your chance. If you can't make her want to stay with you for the rest of your natural life I wash my hands of the whole affair."

  "I'll do my best. I----" he floundered.

  Gladys caught his arm in friendly fashion.

  "I've no right to tell you, I suppose," she said, lowering her voice, "but it won't be easy. I never thought she'd change so, but now--well----" She shrugged her shoulders.

  A little flame flashed into Jimmy's eyes.

  "You mean that she doesn't care a hang for me now, is that it?" he asked roughly.

  Gladys did not answer, she turned her face away.

  Jimmy put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him.

  "Gladys, you don't mean--not--not Kettering?"

  There was a thrill of agony in his voice.

  "I don't know--I can't be sure," Gladys answered him agitatedly. "I don't know anything. It's only--only what I'm afraid of." She moved hurriedly away from him as they heard Christine's footsteps on the landing upstairs.

  "I suppose it was wrong of me to have said that," she told herself in a panic as she went in to dinner. "But after all, it serves him right! Perhaps he'll understand now something of what she suffered, poor darling."

  Out in the hall Jimmy was standing at the foot of the stairs looking up at Christine.

  "I--I feel such an awful brute," he began agitatedly. "I don't deserve that you should consider me in the least. I--I'll do my best, Christine."

  She seemed to avoid looking at him. She moved quickly past him.

  "Don't let's talk about it," she said nervously. "I'd much rather we did not talk about it." She went on into the dining-room without him.

  Jimmy stood for a moment irresolute, he could not believe that it was Christine who had spoken to him like this. Christine, who so obviously wished to avoid being with him.

  A sudden flame of jealousy seared his heart, he clenched his fists. Kettering--damn the fellow, how dared he make love to another man's wife!

  But he had conquered his agitation before he followed Christine. He did his best to be cheerful and amusing during dinner. He was rewarded once by seeing the pale ghost of a smile on Christine's sad little face; it was as if for a moment she allowed him to raise the veil of disillusionment that had fallen between them and step back into the old happy days when they had
played at sweethearts.

  But the dinner was over all too soon, and Gladys said it was time to think about trains, and she talked and hustled very cleverly, giving them no time to feel awkward or embarrassed. She was going to escort them to the station, she declared, conscious, perhaps, that both of them would be glad of her company; she said that she wished, she could come with them all the way, but that, of course, they did not want her. And neither of them dared to contradict her, though secretly Jimmy and Christine would both have given a great deal had she suddenly changed her mind and insisted on accompanying them to London.

  She stood at the door of the railway carriage until the last minute; she sent all manner of absurd messages, to the Great Horatio; she told Christine to be sure, to give him her love; she kept up a running fire of chaff and banter till the train started away, and a pompous guard told her to "Stand back, there!" and presently the last glimpse of Christine's pale little face and Jimmy's worried eyes had been swallowed up in the darkness of evening.

  Then Gladys turned to walk home alone with a feeling of utter desolation in her heart and an undignified smarting of tears in her eyes.

  "I hope to goodness I've done the right thing in letting her go," she thought, as she turned out on to the dark road again. "I hope--I beg your pardon," she had bumped into a tall man coming towards her.

  He stopped at sound of her voice, it was Kettering.

  "Miss Leighton, what in the world----" he began in amazement.

  "I've been seeing Jimmy off," Gladys explained airily, though her heart was beating uncomfortably. "Jimmy and Christine; they've gone off on a second honeymoon," she added flippantly.

  "Jimmy--and Christine!" he echoed her words in just the tone of voice she had dreaded and expected to hear, half hurt, half angry. She could feel his eyes peering down at her, trying to read her face through the darkness, then he gave a short, angry laugh.

  "I suppose you think you are protecting her from me," he said roughly.

  Gladys did not answer at once, and when she spoke it was in a queer, strangled voice:

  "Or perhaps I am protecting you--from her!"

  There was a little silence, then she moved a step from him. "Good night," she said.