JILTED!
It was late when Jimmy got home to his rooms; he was horribly tired,
and his head ached vilely, but he never slept a wink all night.
The fact that Cynthia's husband was alive did not hurt him nearly so
much as the fact that Cynthia had avoided him that evening and left the
theatre with Mortlake. Jimmy hated Mortlake. The brute had such piles
of money, whilst he--even the insufficient income which was always
mortgaged weeks before the quarterly cheque fell due, only came to him
from his brother. At any moment the Great Horatio might cut up rough
and stop supplies.
Jimmy was up and dressed earlier than ever before in his life. He went
out and bought some of the most expensive roses he could find in the
shops. He took them himself to Cynthia Farrow's flat and scribbled a
note begging her to see him if only for a moment.
The answer came back verbally. Miss Farrow sent her love and best
thanks but she was very tired and her head ached--would he call again
in the afternoon?
Challoner turned away without answering. There was a humiliating lump
in his throat. At that moment he was the most wretched man in the
whole of London. How on earth could he get through the whole infernal
morning? And was she always going to treat him like this in the
future? refusing to see him--deliberately avoiding him.
He wandered about the West End, staring into shop windows. At twelve
o'clock he was back again at his rooms. A messenger boy was at the
door when he reached it. He held a letter which Challoner took from
him. It was from Cynthia Farrow.
He tore it open anyhow. His pulses throbbed with excitement. She had
relented, of course, and wanted to see him at once. He was so sure of
it that it was like a blow over the heart when he read the short note.
DEAR JIMMY,--I am afraid you will be hurt at what I am going to say,
but I am sure it is better for us not to meet again. It only makes
things harder for us both, and can do no good. I ought to have said
good-bye to you last night, only at the last moment I hadn't the
courage. If you really care for me you will keep away, and make no
attempt to see me. I can never marry you, and though we have had some
very happy days together, I hope that you will forget me. Please don't
write, either; I really mean what I say, that this is good-bye.
CYNTHIA.
The messenger boy fidgeted uncomfortably, staring at Jimmy Challoner's
white face. Presently he ventured a question. "Is there an answer,
sir?"
Challoner turned then, "No, no answer."
He let himself into his rooms and shut the door. He felt as if he were
walking in space. For the moment he was unconscious of any emotion.
He walked over to the window and read the letter again. The only thing
about it that really struck him was its note of finality.
This was no petulantly written dismissal. She had thought it well out;
she really meant it.
He was jilted! The word stung him into life. His face flamed. A wave
of passionate anger swept over him. He was jilted! The detestable
thing for which he had always so deeply pitied other men of his
acquaintance had happened to him. He was no longer an engaged man, he
was discarded, unwanted!
For the moment he forgot the eloquent fact of Cynthia's marriage. He
only realised that she had thrown him aside--finished with him.
And he had loved her so much. He had never cared a hang for any other
woman in all his life in comparison with the devotion he had poured at
Cynthia's feet.
He looked round the room with blank eyes. He could not believe that he
had not fallen asleep and dreamed it all. His gaze was arrested by
Cynthia's portrait on the shelf--it seemed to be watching him with
smiling eyes.
In sudden rage he crossed the room and snatched it up. He stood for a
second holding it in his hand as if not knowing what to do with it,
then he dashed it down into the fireplace. The glass splintered into
hundreds of fragments. Jimmy Challoner stood staring down at them with
passionate eyes. He hated her. She was a flirt, a coquette without a
heart.
If he could only pay her out--only let her see how utterly indifferent
he was. If only there was some other woman who would be nice to him,
and let him be nice to her, to make Cynthia jealous.
He thought suddenly of Christine Wyatt, of the little flame in her
brown eyes when last night he had reminded her of the old days at Upton
House. His vain man's heart had been stirred then. She liked him at
all events.
Mrs. Wyatt had said that she hoped they would see much of him while
they were in London. If he chose, he knew that he could be with them
all day and every day. Cynthia would get to hear of it, Cynthia would
know that he was not wearing the willow for her. He would not even
answer her letter. He would just keep away--walk out of her life.
For a moment a sort of desolation gripped him. He had been so proud of
her, thought so much of their future together; made such wonderful
plans for getting round the Great Horatio; and now--it was all
ended--done for!
His careless face fell into haggard lines, but the next instant he got
a fresh grip of himself. He would show her, he would let her see that
he was no weakling, no lovelorn swain pleading for denied favours. He
squared his shoulders. He took up his hat and went into the street
again. He called a taxi and gave the address of the hotel where
Christine and her mother were staying.