JIMMY HAS A VISITOR
"I'm going to be married, Costin," said Jimmy Challoner.
He was deep in an arm-chair, with his legs stuck up on the seat of
another, and he was blowing rather agitated puffs of smoke into the
room from an expensive cigar, for which he had not paid.
Costin was mixing a whisky-and-soda at the table, and just for an
instant the syphon jerked, sending a stream of soda-water over the
cloth.
"Yes, sir; certainly, sir; to--to Miss Farrow, I presoom, sir."
There was a momentary silence, then:
"No, you fathead," said Jimmy Challoner curtly. "To Miss Wyatt--a Miss
Christine Wyatt; and I'm going to be married the day after to-morrow."
"Yes, sir; I'm sure I wish you every happiness, sir. And if I may ask,
sir--will you still be requiring my services?"
Jimmy stared.
"Of course I shall," he said blankly. "Who the police do you think is
going to look after my clothes, and shave me?" He brought his feet
down from the opposite chair and sat up. "I'm going to be married in
London--quietly," he said; he did not look at Costin now. "Miss Wyatt
has lost her mother recently--I dare say you know. I--er--I think that
is all," he added, with a sort of embarrassment, as he recalled the
times, the many times, he had made a confidant of Costin in the days
before he was engaged to Cynthia; the many little gifts that Costin had
conveyed to her; the notes he had brought back. Jimmy stifled a sigh
in his broad chest; he rose to his feet.
"And, Costin----"
"Yes, sir."
"There is no need to--to mention--Miss Farrow--if--you understand?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"Very well; get out," said Jimmy.
Costin obeyed imperturbably. He knew Jimmy Challoner very well; and in
this case, at all events, the master was certainly no hero to the
valet. Left alone, Jimmy subsided again into his chair with a sigh.
The day after to-morrow! it seemed as if it must be the end of
everything; as if he would be brought up sharply against an unscalable
brick wall when his wedding-day came.
Poor little Christine! she had changed very much during the past few
days; she looked somehow older--more grown-up; she smiled less
frequently, and she was very quiet--even with Jimmy. And she loved
Jimmy; she seemed to love him all the more now that he was all that was
left to her. Jimmy realised it, too, and it worried him. He meant to
be good to her--he wanted to be good to her; but--involuntarily he
glanced towards the blank space on the mantelshelf where Cynthia
Farrow's portrait used to stand.
He had not seen her since that night when she had told him the truth;
when she had told him that she had thrown him over because he was not
rich enough, because she valued diamonds and beautiful clothes more
than she valued his love. He wondered if she knew of his engagement;
if she had been told about it, and if so--whether she minded.
So far nobody had seemed particularly pleased except the Great Horatio,
who had cabled that he was delighted, and that he was making immediate
arrangements to increase Jimmy's allowance.
Jimmy had smiled grimly over that part of the message; it was hard luck
that the Great Horatio should only shell out now, when--when--he pulled
up his thoughts sharply; he tried to remember that he was already
almost as good as a married man; he had no right to be thinking of
another woman; he was going to marry Christine.
The door opened; Costin reappeared.
"Please, sir--a lady to see you."
"What!"
Jimmy stared incredulously. "A lady to see me? Rot! It's some
mistake----"
"No, sir, begging your pardon, sir," said Costin stolidly. "It's--if
you please, sir, it's Miss Farrow."
Jimmy stood immovable for a moment, then he turned round slowly and
mechanically, almost as if someone had taken him by his shoulders and
forced him to do so.
"Miss--Farrow!" he echoed Costin's apologetic utterance of Cynthia's
name expressionlessly. "Miss--Farrow . . ." The colour rushed from
his brow to chin; his heart began to race just as it used to in the old
days when he had called to see her, and was waiting in her pink
drawing-room, listening to the sound of her coming steps on the landing
outside. After a moment:
"Ask--ask her to come in," he said.
He turned back to the mirror; mechanically he passed a hand over the
refractory kink in his hair; he looked at his tie with critical eyes;
he wished there had been time to shave, he wished--and then he forgot
to wish anything more at all, for the door had opened, and Cynthia
herself stood there.
She was beautifully dressed; he realised in a vague sort of way that
she had never looked more desirable, and yet for the life of him he
could not have told what she was wearing, except that there was a big
bunch of lilies tucked into the bosom of her gown.
She held out her hands to him; she was smiling adorably.
"Jimmy," she said.
Jimmy's first wild instinct was to rush forward and take her in his
arms; then he remembered. He backed away from her a step; he began to
tremble.
"What--what have you come here for?" he stammered.
She laughed.
"Jimmy, how rude! You don't look a bit pleased to see me. You--oh,
Jimmy, I thought you'd be so happy--so delighted."
She came across to him now; she slipped a hand through his arm; she
leaned her cheek against his coat-sleeve; the scent of the lilies she
wore mounted intoxicatingly to his head.
He tried not to look at her--he tried to stiffen his arm beneath her
cheek; but his heart was thumping--he felt as if he were choking.
There was a moment of silence, then she looked up at him with a little
spark of wonderment in her eyes.
"You're not going to forgive me--is that it?" she asked blankly.
She moved away from him; she stood just in front of him, looking into
his face with the witching eyes he knew so well.
He would not look at her; he stared steadily over her head at the door
beyond; he tried to laugh.
"It's not a question of forgiveness--is it?" he asked jerkily.
"You--you chucked me up. You--you told me a lie to get rid of me.
It--it isn't a question of forgiveness, do you think?"
She looked nonplussed, then she smiled. She took Jimmy's face between
her hands, holding it so that he was forced to meet her eyes; she stood
on tiptoe and softly kissed his chin.
"I'm sorry," she said, and now there was a very genuine ring of
earnestness in her voice. "I'm more sorry than I can ever say.
Forgive me, Jimmy; I've been punished enough. I--oh, if you knew how
miserable I've been."
Jimmy stood like a man turned to stone; he stared at her with a sort of
dread in his eyes. There were tears in hers; one big tear fell from
her long lashes, and splashed down on to the lilies she wore.
After a moment he spoke with difficulty.
"Are you . . . what are you trying to say to me?"
Her hands fell to her sides; she looked down with a touch of shame.
"I'm trying to say that I'm sorry; I'm trying to tell you that I--I
don't mind how poor you are. I thought I did, but--oh, Jimmy, I'd
rather have you, and no money at all, than--than be as rich as Croesus
with--with any other man."
"Cynthia!" Jimmy spoke her name in a stifled voice; she raised her
eyes quickly. There was none of the passionate joy in his face which
she had so confidently expected; none of the passionate joy in his
voice which her heart told her ought to be there. Suddenly he turned
aside from her; he put his arm down on the mantelshelf, hiding his face
in it.
"Jimmy." She whispered his name with a sort of fear.
"Jimmy--what--what is it? Oh, you are frightening me. I thought you
would be so glad--so glad." She caught the limp hand hanging against
his side; she laid her soft cheek to it.
Jimmy Challoner tore himself free with a sort of rage.
"It's too late--too late," he said hoarsely.
"Too--late!" She stared at him, not understanding. "What--what do you
mean? That--that you can't forgive me; that--that you're so angry
that--that----"
He swung round, white-faced and quivering.
"It's too late," he said again hopelessly. "I'm engaged to be married.
I--oh, why did you ever send me away?" he broke out in anguish.
Her face had paled, but she was still far enough from understanding.
"Engaged to be married--you! To whom, Jimmy?"
He answered her in a voice of stifled rage.
"It's your doing--all your fault. You nearly drove me mad when you
sent me away, and I--I----" There was a long pause. "I told you that
I met some friends in the theatre that night when you . . . well, I'm
engaged to her--to Christine. I've known her all my life. I--I was
utterly wretched . . . I asked her to marry me. We're--we're going to
be married the day after to-morrow."
Twice she tried to speak, but no words would come. She was as white
now as the lilies she wore; her eyes had a stunned, incredulous look in
them. She had never even remotely dreamed of this; it was like some
crude nightmare. . . . Jimmy engaged! Jimmy who had sworn a thousand
times never to love another woman; Jimmy who had been heart-broken when
she sent him away. She broke out in vehement protest:
"Oh, no--no!"
"It's true," said Jimmy obstinately. "It's true."
For the moment he was hardly conscious of any feeling except a sort of
shock. It had never once crossed his mind that she would come back to
him; he could not believe even now that she was in earnest; he found
himself remembering that night in her dressing-room at the theatre when
she had lied to him, and pretended, and deceived him. Perhaps even
this was all part of the play-acting; perhaps she was just trying to
win him back again, to make a fool of him afresh.
Cynthia broke out again.
"Well, this girl must be told; she can't care for you. You say you
haven't seen her for years. It's--it's absurd!" She took a step
towards him. "You must tell her, Jimmy; you must explain to her. She
. . . surely there is such a thing as buying her off."
The vulgarity of the expression made him wince; he thought of Christine
with a sort of shame.
She would be the last girl in the world, he knew, to wish to hold him
to a promise which he was unwilling to fulfil; he thought of her pale
face and wistful brown eyes, and he broke out strenuously:
"It's impossible . . . it's too late . . . we are to be married on
Thursday; everything is fixed up. I--oh, for God's sake, Cynthia,
don't go on talking about it. You drove me to do what I have done.
It's too late--I can't go back on my word."
She stood twisting her fingers agitatedly. Suddenly she went to where
he stood; she tried to put her arms round his neck, but he resisted
fiercely. He held her wrists; he kept his head flung back beyond her
reach.
"It's too late, Cynthia--do you hear! I've given my word; I'm not
going back on it now. You can't blame me. . . . I--I'd have given my
life for this to have happened before--just a few days ago; but now----"
"You don't love me," she accused him passionately; she began to cry.
"You said you would never love any woman but me as long as you lived.
I thought you cared more for me than I do for you, but now I know you
don't--you don't care so much. If you did you would give up this--this
girl, whoever she is, without a single thought." Her voice dropped
sobbingly. "Oh, Jimmy--Jimmy, don't be cruel; you can't mean It. I
love you so much . . . you belonged to me first."
"You sent me away; you lied to me and deceived me."
He felt that he must keep on reminding himself of it; that he dared not
for one instant allow himself to forget everything but how beautiful
she was, and how much he wanted her.
She fell back from him; she dropped into a chair, hiding her face, and
sobbing.
There was a touch of the theatrical in her attitude, but Jimmy was too
miserable to be critical. He only knew that she was miserable and on
his account, and that he loved her.
He broke out agitatedly:
"Don't, Cynthia--don't cry; you break my heart. . . Oh, for God's
sake, don't cry."
"You don't care how miserable I am," she sobbed. "You--you haven't got
a heart to break, if you can stand there like a stone and tell me that
it's too late. It's not too late; you're not married yet. Tell her
the truth; oh! if you love me tell her the truth, Jimmy."
Jimmy was looking at her, but for a moment he only saw the big
sitting-room at the hotel where Mrs. Wyatt had died, and the crushed
little figure of Christine herself, as he had knelt beside her and drew
her head to his shoulder.
"Oh, Jimmy, I've got no one now--no one." Her voice came back to him,
a mournful echo; and his own husky answer:
"You've got me, Christine!"
How could he go back on that--how could he add to her weight of sorrow?
"She's got nobody but me in all the world," he said simply; he was
looking at Cynthia now, as if he found it easier. "She has just lost
her mother, and she's the loneliest little thing----" he stopped
jaggedly.
For a moment she did not answer; she had stopped sobbing; she was
carefully wiping her eyes; she got up and walked over to the glass
above the mantelshelf; she looked at herself anxiously.
"Well, I suppose it's good-bye, then," she said heavily; her voice
dragged a little. She picked up her gloves and a silver chain-bag
which she had thrown down on the table; she turned towards the door.
"Good-bye, Jimmy."
Jimmy Challoner did not answer; he could not trust his voice. He
walked past her and put his fingers on the door handle to open it for
her; he was very white, and his eyes were fierce.
Cynthia stood still for an instant; she was quite close to him now.
"Good-bye," she said again faintly.
He tried to answer, but could not find his voice; their eyes met, and
the next moment she was in his arms.
He never knew how it happened; never knew if he made the first move
towards her, or she to him; but he held her fast, kissing her as he had
never kissed little Christine--her eyes, her hair, her warm, tremulous
lips.
"You do love me, then, after all?" she whispered.
Jimmy let her go; he fell back against the door, hiding his eyes.
"You know I do," he said hoarsely.
He hated himself for his momentary weakness; he could not bear to look
at her; when she had gone, he sat down in the big arm-chair and hid his
face in his hands.
His pulses were racing; his head felt on fire.
The day after to-morrow he was to marry Christine. He had given his
promise to her, and he knew that it was too late to draw back--too late
to break her heart. And yet there was only one woman in all the world
whom he loved, and whom he wanted--the woman from whom he had just
parted; the woman who was even then driving away down the street with a
little triumphant smile on her carefully reddened lips.