CHRISTINE HEARS THE TRUTH
Sangster took Christine to a little out-of-the-way restaurant, where he
knew there would not be many people.
He carefully avoided referring again to Jimmy; he talked of anything
and everything under the sun to try and distract her attention. She
had declared that she was not hungry; but, to his delight, she ate
quite a good lunch. She liked the restaurant; she had never been in
Bohemia before. She was very interested in an old table Sangster
showed her, which was carved all over with the signatures of well-known
patrons of the house. A little flush crept into her pale cheeks;
presently she was smiling.
Sangster was cheered; he told himself that she only needed
understanding. He believed that if Jimmy chose, he could convince her
that everything was going to be all right in the future; he believed
that with a little tact and patience Jimmy could entirely regain her
lost confidence. But patience and Jimmy seemed somehow irreconcilable;
Jimmy was too young--too selfish. He sighed involuntarily as he looked
at Christine.
When they had left the restaurant again, and were walking towards the
park, he deliberately began to talk about Jimmy.
"I suppose Jimmy never told you how he and I first met, did he?" he
asked.
"No." Her sensitive little face flushed; she looked up at him eagerly.
"It isn't a bit romantic really," he said. "At least, not from my
point of view; but I dare say you would be interested, because it shows
what a fine chap Jimmy really is." He took it for granted that she was
listening. He went on: "It was some years ago now, of course--five
years, I think; and I was broke--broke to the wide, if you know what
that means!" He glanced down at her smilingly. "I'm by way of being a
struggling journalist, you know," he explained. "More of the
struggling than the journalist. I'm not a bit of good at the job, to
be quite candid; but it's a life I like--and lately I've managed to
scrape along quite decently. Anyhow, at the time I met Jimmy I was
down and out . . . Fleet Street would have none of me, and I even had
to pawn my watch."
"Oh!" said Christine with soft sympathy.
Sangster laughed.
"That's nothing; it's been pawned fifty times since it first came into
my possession, I should think. Don't think I'm asking for
sympathy--I'm not. It's the sort of life that suits me, and I wouldn't
change it for another--even if I had the chance. But the night I ran
across Jimmy I was fairly up against it. I hadn't had a square meal
for a week, and I was ill to add to the trouble. Jimmy was coming
along Pall Mall in evening-dress. He was smoking a cigar that smelt
good, and I wondered as he passed me if I dared go up and ask him for a
shilling."
"Oh, Mr. Sangster!" He looked down hearing the distress in her voice.
"Don't look so sorry!" he said very gently. "It's all in a day's march
for me. I've had my good times, and I've had my bad; and when I come
to write the story of my life--when I'm a bloated millionaire, that
is!" he added in laughing parenthesis--"it will make fine reading to
know that I was once so hard up that I cadged a shilling off a swell in
evening-dress!"
But Christine did not laugh; her eyes were almost tragic as she looked
up wonderingly at Sangster's honest face.
"And--and did you ask him?" she questioned.
"Did I not!" said Sangster heartily. "I went up to him--Jimmy stopped
dead, I believe he thought I was going to pinch his watch--and I said,
'Will you be a sport and lend me a bob?' Not a bit romantic, you see!"
Christine caught her breath.
"And did he--did he?" she asked eagerly.
Sangster laughed reminiscently.
"You'll never guess what he said. He asked no questions, he took the
cigar from his lips and looked at me, and he said, 'I haven't got a bob
in the world till my brother, the Great Horatio, sends my monthly
allowance along; but if you'll come as far as the next street, I know a
chap I can borrow a sovereign from.' Wasn't that just Jimmy all over?"
Christine was laughing, too, now.
"Oh, I can just hear him saying it! I can just see him!" she cried.
"And then what did you do?"
"Well, we went along--to this pal of Jimmy's, and Jimmy borrowed a
fiver. He gave me three pounds, and took me along to have a dinner.
And--well, we've been pals ever since. A bit of luck for me, wasn't
it?"
"I was thinking," said little Christine very earnestly, "that it was a
bit of luck for Jimmy."
Sangster grew furiously red. For a moment he could think of nothing to
say; he had only told the story in order to soften her towards Jimmy,
and in a measure he had succeeded.
Christine walked beside him without speaking for some time; her brown
eyes were very thoughtful.
Sangster talked no more of Jimmy; he was too tactful to overdo things.
Jimmy was not mentioned between them again till he took her back to the
hotel. Then:
"I don't know how to thank you for being so kind to me," she said
earnestly. Her brown eyes were lifted confidingly to his face. "But
I've been happier this afternoon than--than I've ever been since my
mother died."
Sangster gripped her hand hard for a moment.
"And you will be happy--always--if you're just a little patient," he
said, rather huskily. "Jimmy's a spoilt boy, and--and--it's the women
who have to show all of us--eh? It's the women who are our guardian
angels; remember that!"
He hated himself for having had to blame her, even mildly, when the
fault was so utterly and entirely Jimmy's. It seemed a monstrous thing
that Christine should have to teach Jimmy unselfishness; he hoped he
had not said too much.
But Christine was really much happier, had he known it. She went up to
her room, and changed her frock for one of the few simple ones she had
had new when she was married. She did her hair in a way she thought
Jimmy would like; she sent one of the servants out for flowers to
brighten the little sitting-room; she timidly ordered what she thought
would be an extra nice dinner to please him. The waiter looked at her
questioningly.
"For--for two, madam?" he asked hesitatingly.
"Yes, please. Mr. Challoner and I will dine up here this evening."
As a rule, Jimmy dined downstairs alone, and Christine had something
sent up to her. She was vaguely beginning to realise now how foolish
she had been. The little time she had spent with Sangster had been
like the opening of a door in her poor little heart, letting in fresh
air and common sense. After all, how could she hope to win Jimmy by
tears and recriminations? She had heard the doctrine of "forgive and
forget" preached so frequently; surely this was the moment in which to
apply it to herself and him.
Her heart beat a little fast at the thought. She spoke again to the
waiter as he turned to leave the room.
"And--and will you find out what wine Mr. Challoner has with his
dinner, as a rule; and--and serve the same this evening."
The man hesitated, then:
"Mr. Challoner told me he should not be dining in this evening, madam,"
he said reluctantly. "He came in about three o'clock, and went out
again; I think there was a message for him. He told me to tell you if
you came in." He averted his eyes from Christine's blanching face as
he spoke. "I am sure that is what Mr. Challoner said, madam," he
repeated awkwardly.
"Oh, very well." Christine stood quite still in the empty room when he
had gone; it seemed all the more lonely and empty, now that once again
she had been robbed of her eager hopes.
Jimmy was not coming home. Jimmy found her so dull and uninteresting
that he was only too glad of an excuse to stay out.
She wondered where he had gone; whom the message had been from.
A sudden crimson stain dyed her cheek. . . . Cynthia Farrow!
She tried hard to stamp the thought out of existence--tried hard to
push it from her but it was useless. It grew and grew in her agonised
mind till she could think of nothing else. She walked about the room,
wringing her hands.
If Jimmy had gone to Cynthia, that was the end of everything. She
could never forgive this. If Jimmy had gone to Cynthia, she hoped that
she would die before she ever saw him again.
She could not believe that she had ever talked to him of Cynthia--that
she had ever admired her, or thought her beautiful. She hated her
now--hated her for the very charms that had so hopelessly captivated
the man she loved. If Jimmy had gone to Cynthia . . . she stood still,
fighting hard for self-control.
She tried to remember what Sangster had said:
"Jimmy is such a boy; give him a chance." And here she was already
condemning him without a hearing.
She bit her lips till they bled. She would wait till she knew; she
would wait till she was sure--quite sure.
She did her best to eat some of the dinner she had ordered, but it was
uphill work. Jimmy's empty chair opposite was a continual reminder of
his absence. Where was he? she asked herself in an agony of doubt.
With whom was he dining whilst she was here alone?
After dinner she tried to read. She sat down by the fire, and turned
the pages of a magazine without really seeing a line or picture. When
someone knocked at the door she started up eagerly, with flushing
cheeks; but it was only the waiter with coffee and an evening paper.
She asked him an anxious question:
"Mr. Challoner has not come in yet?" She tried hard to speak as if it
were nothing out of the ordinary for Jimmy to be out.
"Not yet, madam." He set down the coffee and the evening paper and
went quietly away. Outside on the landing he encountered the maid who
waited on Christine.
"It's a shame--that's what it is!" the girl said warmly when he told
her in whispered tones that Mrs. Challoner was alone again. "A shame!
and her only just married, the pretty dear!"
She wondered what Christine was doing; she hovered round the door,
sympathetic and longing to be able to help, and not knowing how.
Christine had taken up the paper. She did not know how to pass the
evening; the minutes seemed to be dragging past with deliberate
slowness.
She looked at the clock--only eight! She waited some time, then looked
again. Five past. Why, surely the clock must have stopped; surely it
must be half an hour since she had last glanced at its expressionless
face.
She sighed wearily.
She had never felt so acutely alone and deserted in all her life; she
had hardly been separated for a single day from her mother till death
stepped in between them. Mrs. Wyatt's constant presence had kept
Christine young; had made her more of a child than she would have been
had she had to look after herself. She felt her position now the more
acutely in consequence.
"Serious accident to Miss Cynthia Farrow." Her eyes caught the
headline of the paragraph as she idly turned the page; she gave a
little start. Her hands clutched the paper convulsively.
She read the few lines eagerly:
"Miss Cynthia Farrow, the well-known actress, was the victim of a
serious motor-car accident this afternoon. Returning from the theatre,
the car in which Miss Farrow was riding came into collision with a car
owned by Mr. C. E. Hoskins, the well-known airman. Miss Farrow was
unfortunately thrown out, and is suffering from concussion and severe
bruises. Miss Farrow has been appearing at the ---- Theatre as . . . ."
Christine read no more. She did not care for the details of Cynthia
Farrow's life; all she cared was that this paragraph settled for once
and all her doubt about Jimmy. Of course, Jimmy could not be with her
if she were ill and unconscious. She felt bitterly ashamed of her
suspicion; her spirits went up like rockets; she threw the paper aside.
The terrible load of care seemed lifted for a moment from her
shoulders; she was asking Jimmy's pardon on her heart's knees for
having ever dreamed that he would do such a thing after all his
promises to her.
She opened the door and looked into the corridor. Downstairs she could
hear a band playing in the lounge; it sounded inviting and cheery. She
went down the stairs and found a seat in a palm-screened corner.
Jimmy had begged her to mix more with other people, and not stay in her
room so much. If he came in now he would be pleased to see that she
had done as he asked her, she thought with a little thrill.
She could look ahead now, and make plans for their future. She would
consent to leaving London at once, and going somewhere where Cynthia
Farrow's influence had never made itself felt. She would start all
over again; she would be so tactful, so patient. She would win him
over to her; make him love her more than he had ever loved Cynthia.
Her face glowed at the thought; her eyes shone like stars. She lost
herself in happy introspection.
"Yes--rotten hard luck, isn't it?" said a voice somewhere behind her.
"Just when she's on the crest of the wave, as you might say. Doubtful
if she gets over it, so I hear."
Christine listened apathetically. She wondered who the voice was
talking about; she half turned; trying to see the speaker, but the
palms effectually screened him.
A second, less distinct voice made some remark, and the first speaker
answered with a little laugh:
"Yes--dead keen, wasn't he, poor beggar; but he wasn't rich enough for
her. A woman like that makes diamonds trumps every time, and not
hearts, you know--eh? Poor old Jimmy--he always hated Mortlake like
the devil. . . . She was in Mortlake's car when the smash occurred,
you know . . . No, I don't much think she'll marry him. If she goes
on at the rate she's going now, she'll be flying for higher game in a
month or two. I know women of that stamp--had some myself, as you
might say. . . . What--really! poor old chap! Thought he only got
married the other day."
The second voice was more audible now:
"So he did; some little girl from the country, I hear. God alone knows
why he did it. . . . Anyway, there can't be any affection in it,
because I happen to know that Jimmy was sent for to-night. They said
she asked for him as soon as she could speak. . . . Jimmy, mark you!
not a bob in the world. . . ." The voice broke in a cynical laugh.
Jimmy! They were talking of Jimmy--and----
All the blood in her body seemed to concentrate suddenly in her heart,
and then rush away from it, turning her faint and sick. The many
lights in the big lounge seemed to twinkle and go out.
She pressed her feet hard to the floor; she shut her eyes.
After a moment she felt better; her brain began to work again stiffly.
So Jimmy was with Cynthia, after all. Jimmy had been sent for, and
Jimmy had gone.
This was the end of everything; this was the end of all her dreams of
happiness of the future.
She sat there for a long, long time, unconscious of her surroundings;
it was only when the band had stopped playing, and a sort of silence
fell everywhere, that she moved stiffly and went back up the stairs to
her own room.
She stood there by the bed for a moment, looking round her with dull
eyes; the clock on the mantel-shelf pointed to nine.
Too late to go away to-night. Was it too late? A sudden memory leapt
to her mind.
Jimmy and she had gone down to Upton House by a train later than this
the day after her mother died. She tried to remember; it had been the
nine-fifty from Euston, she was sure. She made a rapid calculation;
she could catch that if she was quick--catch it if she hurried. She
threw off her slippers; she began to collect a few things together in a
handbag; her breath was coming fast--her heart was racing. She would
never come back any more--never live with him again. She had lost her
last shred of trust in him--she no longer loved him.
She was pinning on her hat with shaking fingers when someone tried the
handle of the door--someone called her name softly.
"Christine . . ." It was Jimmy.
She stood quite still, hardly daring to breathe. She pressed her hands
over her lips, as if afraid that he would hear the quick beating of her
frightened heart.
"Christine . . ." He waited a moment, then she heard him saying
something under his breath impatiently; another second, and he turned
away to the sitting-room opposite.
She heard him moving about there for some time; she looked at the
clock. Almost too late to go now; a fever of impatience consumed her.
If only he had not come back--if only she had gone sooner.
She turned out the light, and softly, an inch at a time, opened the
door. There was a light burning in the sitting-room; there was a smell
of cigarette smoke. Jimmy was still there.
She wondered if she could get away without him hearing her; she tiptoed
back into the room, took up her bag from the bed, and crept again to
the door.
The floor seemed to creak at every step. Half a dozen times she
stopped, frightened; then suddenly the half-closed door of the
sitting-room opposite opened, and Jimmy came out.
He was in evening-dress; he still wore a loose overcoat.
For a moment he stared at her blankly. The lights had been lowered a
little in the corridor, and at first he was not sure if it was she.
Then he strode across to her and caught her by the wrist in a not very
gentle grip.
"Where are you going?" he asked roughly.
She cowered back from him against the wall; her face was white, but her
eyes blazed at him in passionate defiance.
"I am going away. Let me go. I am never coming back any more."
He half led, half dragged her into the sitting-room; he put his back to
the door, and stood looking at her, white-faced, silent.
The breath was tearing from his throat; he seemed afraid to trust
himself to speak.
Presently:
"Why?" he asked hoarsely.
Christine was standing against the table, one trembling hand resting on
it; she was afraid of him and of the white passion in his face, but she
faced him bravely.
"I am never going to live with you any more. I--I wish I had never
seen you."
Even her voice seemed to have changed; he realized it dully, and the
knowledge added to his anger. She no longer spoke in the
half-trembling childish way he remembered; there was something more
grown-up and womanly about her.
"Don't be a little fool," he said roughly. "What is the matter? What
have I done now? I'm sick to death of these scenes and heroics; for
God's sake try and behave like a rational woman. Do you want the whole
hotel to know that we've quarrelled?"
"They know already," she told him fiercely.
He came nearer to her.
"Take off your hat and coat, Christine, and don't be absurd. Why,
we've only been married a little more than a week." His voice was
quieter and more gentle. "What's the matter? Let's sit down and talk
things over quietly. I've something to tell you. I wanted to see you
to-night; I came to your door just now."
"I know--I heard you."
"Very well; what's it all about? What have I done to upset you like
this?"
She shut her eyes for a moment. When he spoke to her so kindly it
almost broke her heart; it brought back so vividly the boy sweetheart
whom she had never really forgotten. And yet this Jimmy was not the
Jimmy she had known in those happy days, This Jimmy only looked at her
with the same eyes; in reality he was another man--a stranger whom she
feared and almost hated.
He took her hand.
"Christine--are you ill?"
She opened her eyes; they were blazing.
The touch of his fingers on hers seemed to drive her mad.
"Yes," she said shrilly, "I am--ill because of you and your lies, and
your hateful deception; ill because you've broken my heart and ruined
my life. You swore to me that you'd never see Cynthia Farrow again.
You swore to me that it was all over and done with; and now--now----"
"Yes--now," said Jimmy; his voice was hoarse and strained. "Yes--and
now," he said again, as she did not answer.
She wrenched herself free.
"You've been with her this evening. You've left me alone here all
these hours to be with her. I don't count at all in your life. I
don't know why you married me, unless it was to--to pay her out. I
wish I'd never seen you. I wish I'd died before I ever married you. I
wish--oh, I wish I could die now," she ended in a broken whisper.
Jimmy had fallen back a step; he was no longer looking at her. There
was a curious expression of shocked horror in his, eyes as they stared
past his wife into the silent room.
Presently:
"She's dead," he said hoarsely. "Cynthia Farrow is dead."