The Second Honeymoon

by Ruby Mildred Ayres

  It was pouring with rain when they left the restaurant; the bright sunshine of morning had utterly gone, the street was dripping, the pavements saturated.

  "We shall have to go home, I suppose," said Jimmy lugubriously.

  "Home?" Christine looked up at him. "Do you mean to the hotel?" she asked.

  "I suppose so, unless you would care to come to my rooms," said Jimmy, flushing a little. "There's sure to be a fire there, and--and it's pretty comfortable."

  For a moment she hesitated, and his heart-beats quickened a little, hoping she would agree to the suggestion; but the next moment she shook her head.

  "I don't care to--thank you. I will go back to the hotel."

  Jimmy hailed a taxi. He looked moody and despondent once more. They drove away in silence.

  Presently--

  "I will go to your rooms if--if you will answer me one thing," said Christine abruptly.

  Jimmy stared. The colour ran into his pale face.

  "I will answer anything you like to ask me--you know I will."

  "Did--did Miss Farrow ever go to your rooms?"

  She asked the question tremblingly; she could not look at him. With a sudden movement Jimmy dropped his face in his hands; the hot blood seemed to scorch him; this sudden mention of a name he had never wished to hear again was almost unbearable.

  "Yes," he said; "she did." He looked up. "Christine--don't condemn me like that," he broke out agitatedly. He saw the cold disdain in her averted face.

  "She lived such a different life from anything you can possibly imagine. It's--well--it's like being in another world. Women on the stage think nothing of--of--the free-and-easy sort of thing. She used to come to my rooms to tea. She used to bring her friends in after the theatre--after rehearsals." He leaned over as if to take her hand, then drew his own away again. "I--I ask you to come now because--because I thought you would take away all the memories I want to forget. Can't you ever forget too? Can't you ever try and forgive me? It's--it's--awful to think that we may have to live together all our lives and that you'll never look at me again as you used to--never be glad to see me, never want me to touch you." His voice broke; he bit his lip till it bled.

  Christine clasped her hands hard in her lap.

  "It was awful to me too--once," she said dully. "Awful to know that you didn't love me when I was so sure that you did. But I've got over it. I suppose you will too, some day, even if you think it hurts very much just now. I dare say we shall be quite happy together in our own way some day. Lots of married people are--quite happy together, and don't love each other at all."

  She dismissed him when they reached the hotel. She went up to her room and cried.

  She did not know why she was crying; she only knew that she felt lonely and unhappy. She would have given the world just then for someone to come in and put kind arms round her. She would have given the world to know that there was someone to whom she really mattered, really counted.

  Jimmy only wanted her because he realised that she no longer wanted him. The wedding ring of which she had been so proud was now an unwelcome fetter of which she would never again be free.

  They went to the theatre in the evening. Jimmy had take great pains to make himself smart; it was almost pathetic the efforts he made to be bright and entertaining. He told her that he had sent a note to Sangster to meet them afterwards for supper. It gave him a sharp pang of jealousy to notice how Christine's eyes brightened.

  "I am so glad," she said. "I like him so much."

  She was almost friendly to him after that. Once or twice he made her laugh.

  He was very careful to keep always to impersonal subjects. He behaved just as if they were good friends out for an evening of enjoyment. When they left the theatre Christine looked brighter than he had seen her for weeks. Jimmy was profoundly grateful. He was delighted that Sangster should see her with that little flush in her cheeks. She did not look so very unhappy, he told himself.

  Sangster was waiting for them when they reached the supper-room. He greeted Christine warmly. He told her jokingly that he had got his dress-suit out of pawn in her honour. He looked very well and happy. The little supper passed off cheerily enough. It was only afterwards, when they all drove to the hotel where Christine was staying, that Sangster blundered; he held a hand to Jimmy when he had said good night to Christine.

  "Well, so long, old chap."

  Jimmy flushed crimson.

  "I'm not staying here. Wait for me; I'm coming along."

  "You're a silly fool," Jimmy said savagely, as they walked away. "What in the world did you want to say that for?"

  "My dear fellow, I thought it was all right. I thought you'd made it up. I'm awfully sorry."

  "We haven't made it up--never shall from what I can see," Jimmy snapped at him. "Oh, for the Lord's sake let's talk about something else."

  Sangster raised his troubled eyes to the dark starless sky. He had been so sure everything was all right. Jimmy had made no recent confidence to him. He had thought Christine looked well and happy--and now, after all. . . .

  "It looks as if we shall have some more rain," he said dully. "It's been awful weather this week, hasn't it?"

  "Damn the weather!" said Jimmy Challoner.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE UNEXPECTED

  Four days passed away, and still the Great Horatio had not arrived in London. He had sent a couple of telegrams from Marseilles explaining that a chill had delayed him.

  "Sly old dog," Jimmy growled to Sangster. "He means that he's having a thundering good time where he is."

  Sangster laughed.

  "Marseilles isn't much of a place. Perhaps he really is ill."

  Jimmy grunted something unintelligible.

  "I doubt it," he added. "And the devil of it is that Christine doesn't believe me. She doesn't think the old idiot's coming home at all; she doesn't believe anything I tell her--now."

  "Nonsense!" But Sangster's eyes looked anxious. He had seen a great deal during the last four days, and for the first time there was a tiny doubt in his mind. Had Christine really lost her love for Jimmy? He was obliged to admit that it seemed as if she had. She never spoke to him if she could help it, and he knew that Jimmy was as conscious of the change as he, knew that Jimmy was worrying himself to a shadow.

  "Your brother will turn up when you're least expecting him," he said in his most matter-of-fact voice. "You'll see if he doesn't--and then everything will come right."

  Jimmy grunted. He fidgeted round the room and came to anchorage in front of the window. He stood staring out into the not very cheerful street.

  Sangster knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose.

  "Well, we may as well be going," he said. "I thought you told me we were to lunch with your wife."

  "So I did. She's gone shopping this morning--didn't want me. I said we'd meet her at the Savoy at one. I want to call in at my rooms first, if you don't mind." Jimmy spoke listlessly. He was a great deal with Sangster nowadays. Christine so often made excuses for him not to be with her, and he had got into that state when he could not tolerate his own company. He dreaded being left to his thoughts; he would not be alone for a minute if he could help it.

  They left Sangster's rooms and went to Jimmy's.

  "I asked Christine to come here the other day," Jimmy said with a short laugh as he fitted his key in the door. "She wouldn't, of course."

  "Why not?"

  "Because Cynthia had been here." He looked away from his friend's eyes. "I don't blame her. She'll never understand the difference. That--that other---- I wonder how it ever came about at all now, when I look back."

  Sangster followed him silently.

  "I shall give the d----d place up," Jimmy said sullenly. "I can't afford to keep it on really; and if she won't come here----"

  Sangster made no comment. Jimmy put his hat down on the table and went over to the sideboard for whisky and glasses.

  "Don't be a fool, Jimmy," said Sangster.

/>   He shrugged his shoulders when Jimmy told him to mind his own business. He turned away.

  "Here's a telegram," he said suddenly.

  Jimmy turned.

  "For me?"

  "Yes--your brother I expect."

  Jimmy snatched up the yellow envelope and tore it open. He read the message through:

  "Coming to London to-night. Meet me Waterloo eight-thirty."

  He laughed mirthlessly.

  "The Great Horatio?" Sangster asked.

  "Yes."

  Jimmy had forgotten the whisky. He took up his hat.

  "Come on; I must tell Christine." He made for the door.

  "You'd better take the wire to show her," said Sangster. They went out into the street together.

  "It's too early to go to the Savoy," said Jimmy. He was walking very fast now. There was a sort of eagerness in his face; perhaps he hoped that his brother's presence, as Sangster had said, would make all the difference. "We'll hop along to the hotel and fetch her."

  He walked Sangster off his feet. He pushed open the swing door of the hotel with an impatient hand.

  "Mrs. Challoner--my wife--is she in?"

  The hall porter looked at Jimmy curiously. He thought he and Christine were the strangest married couple he had ever come across. There was a little twinkle in his solemn eyes as he answered:

  "Mrs. Challoner went very early, sir. She asked me to telephone to you at the Savoy at one o'clock and say she was sorry she would not be able to meet you----"

  "Not be able to meet me?" Jimmy's voice and face were blank.

  "That is what Mrs. Challoner said, sir. She went out with a gentleman,--a Mr. Kettering, she told me to say, sir."

  Sangster turned sharply away. For the first time for many weeks he was utterly and profoundly sorry for Jimmy Challoner, as he stood staring at the hall porter with blank eyes. The eager flush had faded from his face; he looked, all at once, ill and old; he pulled himself together with an effort.

  "Oh! All right--thanks--thanks very much."

  His voice sounded dazed. He turned and went down the steps to the street; but when he reached the pavement he stood still again, as if he hardly knew what he was doing. When Sangster touched his arm he started violently.

  "What is it? Oh, yes--I'm coming." He began to walk on at such a rate that Sangster could hardly keep pace with him. He expostulated good-humouredly:

  "What's the hurry, old chap? I'm getting old, remember."

  Jimmy slackened speed then. He looked at his friend with burning eyes.

  "I'll break every bone in that devil's carcass," he said furiously. "I'll teach him to come dangling after my wife. I ought to have known that was his little game. No wonder she won't go anywhere with me. It's Kettering--damn his impertinence! I suppose he's been setting her against me. He and Horace always thought I was a rotter and an outsider. I'll spoil his beauty for him; I'll----" His voice had risen excitedly. A man passing turned to stare curiously.

  Sangster slipped a hand through Jimmy's arm.

  "Don't be so hasty, old chap. There's no harm in your wife going out to lunch with Kettering if she wants to. Give her the benefit of the doubt for the present, at least."

  "She's chucked me for him. She promised to meet me. She thinks more of him than she does of me, or she'd never have gone." There was a sort of enraged agony in Jimmy's voice, a fierce colour burned in his pale face.

  Sangster shrugged his shoulders. It was rather amusing to him that Jimmy should be playing the jealous husband--Jimmy, whose own life had been so singularly selfish and full of little episodes which no doubt he would prefer to be buried and forgotten.

  Jimmy turned on him:

  "You're pleased, of course. You're chuckling up your sleeve. You think it serves me right--and I dare say it does; but I can't bear it, I tell you--I won't--I won't."

  The words were boyish enough, but there was something of real tragedy in his young voice, something that forced the realisation home to Sangster that perhaps it was not merely dog-in-the-manger jealousy that was goading him now, but genuine pain. He looked at him quickly and away again. Jimmy's face was twitching. If he had been a woman one would have said that he was on the verge of an hysterical outburst. Sangster rose to the occasion.

  "Let's go and get a drink," he said prosaically. "I'm as dry as dust and we haven't had any lunch."

  Jimmy said he wasn't hungry, that he couldn't eat a morsel of anything if it were to save his life. He broke out again into a fresh torrent of abuse of Kettering. He cursed him up hill and down dale. Even when they were in the restaurant to which Sangster insisted on going he could not stop Jimmy's flow of expletives. One or two people lunching near looked at them in amazement. In desperation Sangster ordered a couple of brandies; he forced Jimmy to drink one. Presently he quieted a little. He sat with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. With the passing of his passionate rage, depression seemed to have gripped him. He was sullen and morose, he would not answer when Sangster spoke to him; when they left the restaurant he insisted on going back to Christine's hotel.

  He questioned the porter closely. Where had she gone? Had they driven away together or walked?

  They had had a taxi, the man told him. He began to look rather alarmed; there was something in Jimmy's white face and burning eyes that meant mischief, he thought. He told the "Boots" afterwards: "We shall hear more of this--you mark my words."

  "A taxi--yes. . . . Go on." Jimmy moistened his dry lips. "You--you didn't hear where--what directions? . . ."

  "Yes, sir. The gentleman told me to say Euston, told me to tell the driver to go to Euston, I mean, sir----" the man explained in confusion. He was red in the face now and embarrassed.

  "Euston," said Jimmy and Sangster together. They looked at one another, Jimmy with a sort of dread in his eyes, Sangster with anxiety.

  "Yes, sir. Euston it was, I'm sure. And the gentleman told me to tell the driver to go as fast as he could."

  There was a little silence. Sangster slipped a hand through Jimmy's arm.

  "Thanks--thanks very much," he said. He led Jimmy away.

  He called a taxi and told the man to drive to Jimmy's rooms. He made no attempt to speak, did not know what to say. Jimmy was leaning back with closed eyes.

  Presently:

  "Do you think she's gone?" he asked huskily.

  Sangster made a hurried gesture of denial:

  "No, no."

  Jimmy laughed mirthlessly.

  "She has," he said. "I know she has. Serves me damned well right. It's all I deserve." There was a little pause. "Well," he said, "she's more than got her own back, if it's any consolation to her to know it."

  He felt as if there were a knife being turned in his heart. His whole soul revolted against this enforced pain. He had never suffered like this in all his life before. Even that night at the theatre, when Cynthia Farrow had given him his congé, he had not suffered as now; then, it had been more damage to his pride than his heart; but this--he loved Christine--he knew now that he loved little Christine as he had never loved any other woman, as he never would love anyone again.

  He cursed himself for a blind fool. It goaded him to madness to think of the happiness that had been his for the taking, and which he had let fall to the ground. He clenched his teeth in impotent rage. When they reached his rooms he threw his hat and coat aside, and began pacing up and down as if he could not keep still for a moment. Life was insufferable, intolerable; he could not imagine how he was going to get through all the stretch of years lying in wait for him. He had forgotten that the Great Horatio was coming home that night; the Great Horatio had suddenly faded out of the picture; it was no longer a thing of importance if his allowance were cut down, or stopped once and for all. All he wanted was Christine--Christine. He would have given his soul for her at that moment, for just one glimpse of the old trust and love in her brown eyes, for just a sight of the happy smile with which she had greeted him when they were first engaged. They had all be
en his once, and now he had lost her forever.

  Another man had taken and prized the treasure he had blindly thrown away. Jimmy groaned as he paced up and down, up and down.

  Sangster was pretending to read. He turned the pages of a magazine, but he saw nothing of what was written there. In his own way he was as unhappy as Jimmy, in his own way he was suffering tortures of doubt and apprehension.

  He did not know Kettering; had only seen him once at Upton House; but he fully realised that the man had a strong personality, and one very likely to hold and keep such a nature as Christine's.

  But he could not bear to think of the shipwreck this meant for them all. He could not believe that her love for Jimmy had died so completely; she had loved him so dearly.

  Jimmy came over to where he sat:

  "Go and ring up again, there's a dear chap," he said. His voice was hoarse. "Ring up the hotel for me, will you? She may have come back. . . . Oh, I hope to God she has," he added brokenly.

  Sangster rose at once. He held out his hand.

  "I'm so sorry, Jimmy. I'd give anything--anything----" he stopped. "But it's all right, you see," he added cheerily, struck by the despair in his friend's face. "She'll be back there by now. We're both getting scared about nothing. . . . I'll ring up."

  He walked over to the desk where Jimmy's 'phone stood. There was a moment of suspense as he rang and gave the number.

  Jimmy had begun his restless pacing once more. His hands were deep thrust in his trousers pockets, his head bent. His heart seemed to be hammering in his throat as he tried not to listen to what Sangster was saying--tried not to hear.

  "Yes. . . . Challoner--Mrs. Challoner. I only wondered if she had returned. . . . Not yet--oh. . . . Yes. . . . A wire. . . . Yes. . . ."