HUSBAND AND WIFE
". . . to love, cherish, and to obey till death us do part."
Christine raised her soft brown eyes shyly and looked at Jimmy
Challoner.
A ray of sunlight, piercing the stained glass window above the altar,
fell on her face and slim figure; her voice was quite clear and steady,
though a little sad perhaps, as she slowly repeated the words after the
rather bored-looking clergyman.
Jimmy had insisted on being married in a parish where neither of them
was known; he had got a special licence, and there was nobody in the
church but the verger and Sangster, and a deaf uncle of Christine's,
who thought the whole affair a great bother, and who had looked up a
train to catch back home the very moment that Christine should have
safely passed out of his keeping into her husband's.
He bade them "good-bye" in the vestry; he kissed Christine rather
awkwardly, and said that he hoped she would be happy; his voice seemed
to imply a doubt. He shook hands with Jimmy and called him a lucky
dog; he spoke like a man who hardly realises what he is saying; he
shook hands with Sangster and hurried away.
They heard him creaking down the aisle of the church, and the following
slam of the heavy door behind him; there was a little awkward silence.
The clergyman was blotting Christine's new name in the register; he
looked up at her with short-sighted eyes, a quill pen held between his
teeth.
"Would you--er--care to have the pen, Mrs.--er--Challoner?"
He had a starchy voice and a starchy manner.
Christine was conscious of a sudden feeling of utter home-sickness;
everybody was so stiff and strange; even Jimmy--dearly as she loved
him--seemed somehow like a stranger in his smart coat and brand-new
tie, and with the refractory kink in his hair well flattened down by
brilliantine.
She wanted her mother; she wanted her mother desperately; she wanted to
be kissed and made much of by someone who really wanted her to be
happy. Tears smarted in her eyes, but she would not let them fall.
Her throat ached with repressed sobs as she took the brand-new quill
pen from the white hand extended to her, with a little shy:
"Thank you."
Sangster came forward.
"Shall I take care of it for you, Mrs. Challoner? We must tie a white
bow round it, shall we? You will like to keep it, I am sure."
Christine turned to him eagerly. He spoke so kindly; his eyes looked
at her with such sympathy. A big tear splashed down on the bosom of
her black frock.
She was all in black, poor little Christine, save for white gloves, and
some white flowers which Jimmy had sent her to carry. She tried to
smile and answer Sangster when he spoke to her, but the words died away
in her throat.
The gloomy London church depressed her; her own voice and Jimmy's had
echoed hollowly behind them as they made their responses; her hand had
shaken badly when she gave it to him to put on her wedding ring.
She was married now; she looked at Jimmy appealingly.
Jimmy was very flushed; when he spoke his voice sounded high and
reckless. Christine heard him asking Sangster to come and have some
lunch with them; he seemed most anxious that Sangster should come.
Christine listened with a queer little sinking at her heart; she had
wanted to be alone with Jimmy; she had so looked forward to this--their
first meal together as husband and wife; but she bravely hid her
disappointment.
"Do come; please do," she urged him.
They all left the church together. Christine walked between the two
men down the long aisle; she did not feel a bit as if she had been
married; she wondered if soon she was going to wake up and find that
she had dreamt it all.
There was a taxi waiting at the church door. She got in, and both men
followed. Jimmy sat beside her, but he talked to Sangster all the way.
He was terribly nervous; he kept twisting and torturing the new pair of
grey gloves which he had never put on; they were all out of shape and
creased long before taxi stopped again at the quiet restaurant where
they were to lunch.
Christine looked at Jimmy.
"What can I do with my flowers? I--everybody will know if I take them
in with me." She blushed as she spoke. Jimmy's own face caught the
reflection from hers.
"Oh, leave 'em in the taxi," he said awkwardly. "I'll tell the chap to
come back for us in an hour."
He surreptitiously stuffed the new gloves into a coat pocket; he tried
to look as if there were nothing very unusual about any of them as he
led the way in.
Christine hardly ate anything; she was shy and unhappy. The kind
efforts which Sangster made to make her feel at her ease added to her
embarrassment. She missed her mother more and more as the moments fled
away; she was on the verge of a breakdown when at last the interminable
meal was ended.
She had hardly touched the champagne with which Jimmy had insisted on
filling her glass; there were two empty bottles on the table, and she
wondered mechanically who had drunk it all.
Sangster bade her "good-bye" as they left the restaurant; he held her
hand for a moment, and looked into her eyes.
"I hope you will be very happy; I am sure you will."
Christine tried to thank him; she wished he were not going to leave
them; she had not wanted him to come with them in the first place, but
now she was conscious only of a desire to keep him there. Her heart
pounded in her throat as he turned away; she looked apprehensively at
Jimmy--her husband now.
He was looking very smart, she thought with a little thrill of pride;
she was sure he was quite the best-looking man she had ever seen. He
was talking to Sangster, but she could not hear what either of them was
saying.
"Be good to her, Jimmy . . . she's such a child."
That was what Sangster was saying; and Jimmy--well, Jimmy flushed
uncomfortably as he answered with a sort of bravado:
"Don't be a silly old ass! Do you think I'm going to beat her?"
Then it was all over, and Christine and Jimmy were driving away
together.
Jimmy looked at her with a nervous smile.
"Well--we're married," he said eloquently.
"Yes." She raised her beautiful eyes to his face; her heart was
throbbing happily. Unconsciously she made a little movement towards
him.
Jimmy put out his hand and let down the window with a run.
"Jove! isn't it hot!" he said.
He was beginning to wonder if he had drunk too much champagne; he
passed his silk handkerchief over his flushed face.
"I thought it was rather cold," said Christine timidly.
He frowned.
"Does that mean that you want the window up?" He did not mean to speak
sharply; but he was horribly nervous, and Sangster's parting words had
not improved matters at all.
Christine burst into tears; she was overstrung and excited; her nerves
were all to pieces; she sobbed for a moment desolately.
Jimmy swore under his breath; he did not know what to do. After a
moment he touched her--he pressed his silk handkerchief into her
shaking hands.
"Don't cry," he said constrainedly. "People will think I've been
unkind to you . . . already!" he added with a nervous laugh.
She mopped her eyes obediently; she felt frightened.
The horrible feeling that Jimmy was a stranger came back to her afresh.
Oh, was this the kind boy lover who had been so good to her that day
her mother died--the kind lover who had taken her in his arms and told
her that she had him, that he would never leave her?
She longed so for just one word--one sign of affection; but Jimmy only
sat there, hot and uncomfortable and silent.
After a moment:
"Better?" he asked.
"Yes . . ." She tried to control herself; she stammered a little
shamed apology. "I'm so sorry--Jimmy."
He patted her hand.
"That's all right."
She took courage; she looked into his face.
"And you do--oh, you do love me?" she whispered.
"Of course I do." He put an awkward arm round her; he pressed her head
to his shoulder, so that she could not see his face. "Of course I do,"
he said again. "Don't you worry--we're going to be awfully happy." He
kissed her cheek.
Christine turned and put her arms round his neck; she was only a child
still--she saw no reason at all why she should not let Jimmy know how
very much she loved him.
"Oh, I do love you--I do," she said softly.
Jimmy coloured hotly; he felt an uncontrollable longing to kick
himself; he kissed her again with furtive haste.
"That's all right, dear," he said.
They had arranged to stay a week in London.
Christine liked London. "And we couldn't very well do anything very
much, could we?" So she had appealed to him wistfully. "When
mother----" She had not been able to go on.
Jimmy had agreed hastily to anything; he had chosen a very quiet and
select hotel, and taken a suite of rooms. He did not know how on earth
they were going to be paid for; he was counting on an extra cheque from
the Great Horatio as a wedding present. He was relieved when the taxi
stopped at the hotel; he got out with a sigh; he turned to give his
hand to Christine; his heart smote him as he looked at her.
Sangster was right when he had called her "such a child." She looked
very young as she stood there in the afternoon sunshine, in her black
frock, and with her white flowers clasped nervously in both hands.
Jimmy felt conscious of a lump in his throat.
"Come along, dear," he said very gently; he put his hand through her
arm. They went into the hotel together.
Christine went upstairs with one of the maids. Jimmy said he would
come up presently for tea; he went into the smoking-room and rang for a
brandy and soda. For the first time in his life he was genuinely
afraid of what he had done; he knew now that he cared nothing for
Christine. It was a terrifying thought.
And she had nobody but him--the responsibility of her whole life lay on
his shoulders; it made him hot to think of it.
He tossed the brandy and soda off at a gulp. He looked at his watch;
half-past four. They had been married only two hours; and he had got
to spend all the rest of his life with her.
Poor little Christine--it was not her fault. He had asked her to marry
him; he meant to be good to her. A servant came to the door.
"Mrs. Challoner said would I tell you that tea is served upstairs in
the sitting-room, sir."
Jimmy squared his shoulders; he tried to look as if there had been a
Mrs. Challoner for fifty years; but the sound of Christine's new name
made his heart sink.
"Oh--er--thanks," he said as carelessly as he could. "I'll go up." He
waited a few moments, then he went slowly up the stairs, feeling very
much as if he were going to be executed.
He stood for a moment on the landing outside the door of the private
sitting-room, with an absurdly schoolboyish air of bashfulness.
He passed a hand nervously over the back of his head; he wriggled his
collar; twice he took a step forward and stopped again; finally the
appearance of a servant along the corridor drove him to make up his
mind. He opened the door with a rush.
Christine was standing over by the window; the afternoon sunshine fell
on her slim, black-robed figure and brown hair. She turned quickly as
Jimmy Challoner entered.
"Tea has been up some minutes; I hope it's not cold."
"I like it cold," said Jimmy.
As a matter of fact, he hated tea at any time, and never drank it if it
could be avoided; but he sat down with as good a grace as he could
muster, and took a cup from her hand with its new ring--his ring.
Jimmy Challoner glanced at it and away again.
"Nice room this--eh?" he asked.
"Yes." Christine had sugared her own cup three times without knowing
it; she took a cake from the stand, and dropped it nervously. Jimmy
laughed; a boyish laugh of amusement that seemed to break the ice.
"Anyone would think you had never seen me before," he said, with an
attempt to put her at her ease. "And I've known you all your life!"
"I know; but----" She looked at him with very flushed cheeks. "I'm
afraid, Jimmy--afraid that you'll find you've made a mistake; afraid
that you'll find I'm too young and--silly."
"You're not to call the lady I have married rude names."
"But it's true," she faltered. She put down the cup and went over to
where he sat. She stood with her hands clasped behind her, looking
down at him with a sort of fond humility.
"I do love you, Jimmy," she said softly. "And I will--I will try to be
the sort of wife you want."
Jimmy tried to answer her, but somehow the words stuck in his throat.
She was not the sort of wife he wanted, and never would be. That
thought filled his mind. All the willingness in the world could not
endow her with Cynthia's eyes, Cynthia's voice, Cynthia's caressing way
of saying, "Dear old boy."
He choked back a big sigh; he found Christine's hand and raised it to
his lips.
"We shall get along swimmingly," he said with an effort. "Don't you
worry your little head."
But she was not satisfied.
"I must be so different from all the other women you are used to," she
told him wistfully. "I'm not smart or amusing--and I don't dress as
well as they do."
Jimmy smiled.
"Well, one can always buy clothes," he said. A sudden wave of
tenderness swept through his heart as he looked at her. "Anyway,
you've got one pull over all of them," he said with momentary sentiment.
"Have I--Jimmy! What do you mean?"
He kissed her trembling little fingers again.
"You were my first love," he said with a touch of embarrassment. "And
it's not many men who can claim to have married their first love."
Christine was quite happy now; she bent and kissed him before she went
back to her seat. Jimmy felt considerably cheered. If she were as
easily pleased as this, life would not be the difficult thing that he
had imagined, he told himself. He selected a chocolate cake--suitably
heart-shaped--and began to munch it with a sort of relish.
"How would you like to run over to Paris for a few days--later on, of
course, I mean?" he added hastily, meeting her eyes. It would be
rather fun showing Christine round Paris, he thought. He looked at her
with a twinkle.
She was very pretty, anyway; he was proud of her, too, deep down in his
heart. No doubt after a bit they would be quite happy together.
He finished the chocolate cake, and asked if he might smoke; he was
longing for a cigarette. He was not quite sure if it would be correct
to smoke in a room which would be chiefly used by Christine. With
Cynthia things had been so different--she smoked endless cigarettes
herself; there was never any need to ask permission of her.
He could not imagine Christine with a cigarette between her pretty
lips. And yet--yet he had liked it with Cynthia. Odd how different
women were.
"Please do smoke," said Christine. She was glad he had asked her; glad
that for the rest of his life whenever he smoked a cigarette, it would
not merely be Jimmy Challoner blowing puffs of smoke into the air, but
her husband. She glowed at the thought.
Jimmy was much more happy now; to his own way of thinking he was
getting on by leaps and bounds. He went over and sat on the arm of
Christine's chair; another moment and he would have put an arm round
her, but a soft, apologetic tapping at the door sent him flying away
from her to the other side of the room.
He was carefully turning the pages of a book when he answered, "Come
in," with elaborate carelessness. One of the hotel servants entered;
he carried a letter on a tray; he handed it to Christine.
"A messenger from the Sunderland Hotel has just brought this, madam.
He told me to say that it has been there two days, but they did not
know till this morning where to send it on to you."
Christine's face quivered. She did not want to think of the
Sunderland; her mother had died there; it would always be associated in
her mind with the great tragedy of her life. She took the letter
hesitatingly; she did not know the writing. She waited till the
servant had gone before she opened it.
Jimmy was still turning the leaves of the railway guide feverishly. At
the shutting of the door he turned with a sigh of relief.
"A letter?" Christine was drawing the paper from its envelope; pink
paper, smelling faintly of lilies. Jimmy lit a fresh cigarette. He
walked over to the window and stood looking into the street; a horribly
respectable street it was, he thought impatiently, of good-class
houses, with windows neatly curtained and knockers carefully polished.
He was really quite anxious to kiss Christine; he was wondering whether
she, too, was anxious for him to kiss her. After a moment he turned a
little, and looked at her tentatively.
But Christine was not looking at him; she was sitting with her eyes
fixed straight in front of her, a frozen look of horror on her little
face. The letter had tumbled from her lap to the floor.
"Christine!" said Jimmy sharply. He was really alarmed; he took a big
stride over to where she sat; he shook her. "Christine--what has
happened? What is the matter?"
She looked at him then; she turned her beautiful eyes to his face, and
at sight of them Jimmy caught his breath hard.
"Oh, Christine!" he said almost in a whisper.
His thoughts sped back incongruously to a day in the years that had
gone; when he and she had been children together down in the country at
Upton House.
He had stolen a gun belonging to the Great Horatio, and they had crept
out into the woods together--he and she--to shoot rabbits, as he had
confidently told her; and instead--oh, instead they had shot
Christine's favourite dog Ruler.
All his life Jimmy remembered the broken-hearted look in Christine's
eyes when she flung herself down by the fast-stiffening body of her
favourite. And now she was looking like that again; looking at him as
if he had broken her heart--as if---- Jimmy Challoner backed a step;
his face had paled.
"In God's name, what is it--what is it?"
And then he saw the letter lying there on the floor between them in all
its brazen pinkness. The faint scent of lilies was wafted to his brain
before he stooped and grabbed it up. He held it at arm's length while
he read it, as if already its writer had become repellent to him.
There was a long, long silence.
The letter had been written two days ago. Jimmy realised dully that
Cynthia must have gone straight from his rooms that evening and sent
it; realised that it had been lying at the hotel where Mrs. Wyatt died
until now.
Perhaps Cynthia Farrow had not realised what she was doing--perhaps she
judged all women by her own standard; but surely even she would have
been more than satisfied with the results could she have seen
Christine's face as she sat there in the big, silent room, with the
afternoon sunshine streaming around her.
Twice Jimmy tried to speak, but no words would come; he felt as if
rough hands were at his throat, choking him, squeezing the life out of
his body, Then suddenly he fell on his knees beside his wife.
"Christine--for God's sake----" He tried to take her in his arms, but
she moved away; shrank back from him as if in terror, hiding her face
and moaning--moaning.
"Christine . . ." There was a sob in Jimmy Challoner's voice now; he
broke out stammeringly. "Don't believe it--it's all lies. I'd give my
soul to undo it--if only you'd never seen it. I swear to you on my
word of honour that I'll never see her again. I'll do any mortal
thing, anything in the wide world, if only you'll look at me--if you'll
forgive me---- Oh, for God's sake, say you forgive me----"
Her hands fell from her face; for a moment her eyes sought his.
"Then--then it _is_ true!" she said faintly.
"Yes. I can't tell you a lie about it--it _is_ true. I _did--did_
love her. I was--engaged to her; but it's all over. I swear to you
that it's all over and done with. I'll never see her again--I'll be so
good to you." She hardly seemed to hear.
"Then you never really loved me?" she asked after a moment. "It wasn't
because--because you loved me?"
"N-no." He got to his feet again; he strode up and down the room
agitatedly. He had spoken truly enough when he said that he would have
given his soul to undo these last few moments.
Presently he came back to where she sat--this poor little wife of his.
"Forgive me, dear," he said, very humbly. "I--I ask your pardon on my
knees--and--it isn't too late; we've got all our lives before us.
We'll go right away somewhere--you and I--out of London. We'll never
come back."
She echoed his words painfully.
"_You and I? I--I can't go anywhere--ever--with you--now!_"
He broke into anger.
"You're talking utter nonsense; you must be mad. You've married
me--you're my wife. You'll have to come with me--to do as I tell you.
I--oh, confound it----!" He broke off, realising how dictatorial his
voice had grown. He paced away from her again, and again came back.
"Look at me, Christine." She raised her eyes obediently. The hot
blood rushed to Jimmy's face. He wondered if It were only his fancy,
or if there were really scorn in their soft brownness. He tried to
speak, but broke off. Christine rose to her feet; she passed the pink
letter as if she had not seen it; she walked to the door.
"Where are you going?" asked Jimmy sharply.
She looked back at him. "I don't know. I--oh, please leave me alone,"
she added piteously as he would have followed her.
He let her go then; he waited till the door had shut, then he snatched
up Cynthia's letter once again, and read it through.
It was an abominable thing to have done, he told himself--abominable;
and yet, as he read the skilfully penned words, his vain man's heart
beat a little faster at the knowledge that she still loved him, this
woman who had thrown him over so heartlessly; she still loved him,
though it was too late. The faint scent of the lilies which her
note-paper always carried brought back the memory of her with painful
vividness. Before he was conscious of it, Jimmy had lifted the letter
to his lips.
He flung it from him immediately in honest disgust; he despised himself
because he could not forget her; he tried to imagine what Christine
must be thinking--be suffering. With sudden impulse he tore open the
door; he went across to her room--their room; he tried the handle
softly. It was locked.
"Christine!" But there was no answer. He called again: "Christine!"
And now he heard her voice.
"Go away; please go away." An angry flush dyed his face. After all,
she was his wife; it was absurd to make this fuss. After all,
everything had happened before he proposed to her; it was all over and
done with. It was her duty to overlook the past.
He listened a moment; he wondered if anyone would hear if he ordered
her to let him in--if he threatened to break the door down.
He could hear her crying now; hear the deep, pitiful sobs that must be
shaking her whole slender body.
"Christine!" But there was nothing very masterful in the way he spoke
her name; his voice only sounded very shamed and humiliated as, after
waiting a vain moment for her reply, he turned and went slowly away.