JIMMY BREAKS OUT
It took Jimmy a whole week to realise that Christine meant what she
said when she asked him not to write to her, or go near her. At first
he had been so sure that in a day or two at most she would be sorry,
and want to see him; somehow he could not believe that the little
unselfish girl he had known all his life could so determinedly make up
her mind and stick to it.
He grumbled and growled to Sangster every time they met.
"I was a fool to let her go. The law is on my side; I could have
insisted that she stayed with me." He looked at his friend. "_I could
have insisted, I say!_" he repeated.
Sangster raised his eyes.
"I'm not denying it; but it's much wiser as it is. Leave her alone,
and things will work out their own salvation."
"She'll forget all about me, and then what will happen?" Jimmy
demanded. "A nice thing--a very nice thing that would be."
"No doubt she thinks that is what you wish her to do."
Jimmy called him a fool; he threw a half-smoked cigarette into the
fire, and sat watching it burn with a scowl on his face.
The last week had seemed endless. He had kept away from the club; the
men in the club always knew everything--he had learned that by previous
experience; he had no desire for the shower of chaff which he knew
would greet his appearance there.
Married a week--and now Christine had gone! It made his soul writhe to
think of it. It had hurt enough to be jilted; but this--well, this
struck at his pride even more deeply.
"I thought you promised me to go down to Upton House and see how things
were," he growled at Sangster. "You haven't been, have you? I suppose
you don't mean to go either?"
"My dear chap----"
"Oh, don't 'dear chap' me," Jimmy struck in irritably. "Go if you mean
to go. . . . After all, if anything happens to Christine, it's my
responsibility----"
"Then you should go yourself."
"I promised I wouldn't--unless she asked me to. If you were anything
of a sport----"
In the end Sangster consented to go. He was not anxious to undertake
the journey, much as he wanted to see Christine again. At the end of
the second week he went off early one morning without telling Jimmy of
his intentions, and was back in town late the same night. Jimmy was
waiting for him in the rooms in the unfashionable part of Bloomsbury.
It struck Sangster for the first time that Jimmy was beginning to look
old; his face was drawn--his eyes looked worried. He turned on his
friend with a sort of rage when he entered.
"Why couldn't you have told me where you were going. Here I've been
waiting about all day, wondering where you were and what was up."
"I've been to see your wife--and there's nothing up."
"You mean you didn't see her?"
"Oh, yes, I did."
"Well--well!" Jimmy's voice sounded as if his nerves were worn to
rags; he could hardly keep still.
"She seemed very cheerful," said Sangster slowly. He spoke with care,
as if he were choosing his words. "Miss Leighton was with her; and we
all had tea together."
"At Upton House?"
"Yes."
Jimmy's eyes were gleaming.
"How does the old place look?" he asked eagerly. "Gad! don't I wish
I'd got enough money to buy it myself. You've no idea what a ripping
fine time we used to have there years ago."
"I'm sure you did; but--well, as a matter of fact, I believe the house
is sold."
"Sold!"
"Yes; a man named Kettering--a friend of your brother's, I believe--is
negotiating for it, at any rate. Whether the purchase is really
completed or not, I----"
"Kettering!" Jimmy's voice sounded angry. "Kettering--that stuck-up
ass!" he said savagely.
Sangster laughed.
"I shouldn't have described him as stuck-up at all," he said calmly.
"He struck me as being an extremely nice sort of fellow."
"Was he there, then?"
"Yes--he's staying somewhere in the neighbourhood temporarily, I
believe, from what I heard; at any rate, he seemed very friendly
with--with your wife and Miss Leighton."
Jimmy began pacing the room.
"I remember him well," he said darkly, after a moment. "Big chap with
a brown moustache--pots of money." He walked the length of the room
again. "Christine ought not to encourage him," he burst out presently.
"What on earth must people think, as I'm not there."
"I don't see any harm," Sangster began mildly.
Jimmy rounded on him:
"You--you wouldn't see harm in anything; but Christine's a very
attractive little thing, and----" He broke off, flushing dully.
"Anyway, I won't have it," he added snappily.
"I don't see how you're going to stop it, unless----"
"Unless what?"
"Unless you go down there." Sangster spoke deliberately now. In spite
of his calm assertion that there was no harm in Kettering's visit to
Upton House, his anxious eyes had noticed the indefinable something in
Kettering's manner towards Christine that had struck Gladys Leighton
that first evening. Sangster knew men well, and he knew, without any
plainer signs or telling, that it was not the house itself that took
Kettering there so often, but the little mistress of the house, with
her sweet eyes and her pathetic little smile.
He got up and laid a hand on Jimmy's shoulder as he spoke.
"Why not go down yourself?" he said casually.
Jimmy swore.
"I said I wouldn't. . . . I'm not going to be the first to give in.
It was her doing--she sent me away. If she wants me she can say so."
"She has her pride, too, you know,"
Jimmy swore again. He was feeling very ill and upset; he was firmly
convinced that he was the most ill-used beggar in the whole of London.
Remorse was gnawing hard at his heart, though he was trying to believe
that it was entirely another emotion. He had not slept properly for
nights; his head ached, and his nerves were jumpy.
"I'll not go till she sends for me," he said again obstinately.
Sangster made no comment.
He did not see Jimmy again for some days, though he heard of him once
or twice from a mutual acquaintance.
"Challoner's going to the devil, I should think," so the mutual
acquaintance informed him bluntly. "What's the matter with the chap?
Hasn't anybody got any influence over him? He's drinking hard and
gambling his soul away."
Sangster said "Rubbish!" with a confidence he was far from feeling.
He did not really believe it; he knew Jimmy was a bit reckless and
inclined to behave wildly when things did not entirely go to his taste,
but he considered this a gross exaggeration of the truth; he made a
mental note to look Jimmy up the following day.
But it was the very same night that Costin, Jimmy Challoner's man,
presented himself at the rooms in the unfashionable part of Bloomsbury
and asked anxiously for Mr. Sangster.
Sangster heard his voice in the narrow passage outside and recognised
it. He left his supper--a very meagre supper of bread and cheese, as
funds were low that week--and went to the door.
"Do you want me, Costin?"
The man looked relieved.
"Yes, sir--if you please, sir. It's Mr. Challoner, I'm afraid he's
very ill, but he won't let me send for a doctor, so I just slipped out
and came round to you, sir."
* * * * * *
Sangster found Jimmy Challoner huddled up in an arm-chair by a roasting
fire. His face looked red and feverish, his eyes had a sort of
unnatural glazed look, but he was sufficiently well to be able to swear
when he saw his friend.
"Costin fetched you, of course. Interfering old idiot! He thinks I'm
ill, but it's all bally rot! I've got a chill, that's all. What the
deuce do you want?"
Sangster answered good-temperedly that he didn't want anything in
particular; privately he agreed with Costin that it was more than an
ordinary chill that had drawn Jimmy's face and made such hollows
beneath his eyes. He stood with his back to the fire looking down at
him dubiously.
"What have you been up to?" he asked.
"Up to!" Jimmy echoed the phrase pettishly. "I haven't been up to
anything. You talk as if I were a blessed brat. One must do something
to amuse oneself. I'm fed-up--sick to death of this infernal life.
It's just a question of killing time from hour to hour. I loathe
getting up in the morning, I hate going to bed at night, I'm sick to
death of the club and the fools you meet there. I wish to God I could
end it once and for all."
"Humph! Sounds as if you want a tonic," said Sangster in his most
matter-of-fact way. He recognised a touch of hysteria in Jimmy's
voice, and in spite of everything he felt sorry for him.
"Give me a drink," said Jimmy presently. "That idiot, Costin, has kept
everything locked up all day. I'm as dry as blazes. Give me a drink,
there's a good chap."
Sangster filled a glass with soda water and brought it over to where
Jimmy sat huddled up in the big chair. He looked a pitiable enough
object--he wanted shaving, and he had not troubled to put on his
collar; his feet were thrust into an old pair of bedroom slippers. He
sipped the soda and pushed it away angrily.
"I don't want that damned muck," he said savagely.
"I know you don't, but it's all you're going to have. Look here,
Jimmy, don't be an ass! You're ill, old chap, or you will be if you go
on like this. Take my advice and hop off to bed, you'll feel a heap
better between the sheets. Can I do anything for you--anything----"
"Yes," said Jimmy sullenly. "You can--leave me to myself."
He held his hands to the fire and shivered; Sangster looked at him
silently for a moment, then he shrugged his shoulders and turned
towards the door. He was out on the landing when Jimmy called his name.
"Well?"
"Where the deuce are you going?" Jimmy demanded irritably. "Nice sort
of pal, you are, to go off and leave a chap when he's sick."
Sangster did not make the obvious reply; he came back, shutting the
door behind him. Jimmy was leaning back in his chair now; his face was
nearly as red as the dressing-gown he wore, but he shivered violently
from time to time. There was a little silence, then he opened his eyes
and smiled rather apologetically.
"Sorry to be so dull. I haven't slept for a week."
It would have been nearer the truth to say that he had hardly closed
his eyes since the night of Cynthia Farrow's death, but he knew that if
he said that Sangster would at once bark up the wrong tree, and
conclude that he was fretting for her--breaking his heart for her,
whereas he was doing nothing of the kind.
It was Christine, and not Cynthia, who was on his mind day and night,
night and day; Christine for whose sake he reproached himself so
bitterly and could get no rest. She was so young--such a child.
Every day he found himself remembering some new little incident about
her; every day some little jewel from the past slipped out of the mists
of forgetfulness and looked at him with sad eyes as if to ask:
"Have you forgotten me? Don't you remember----"
He could not help thinking of Christine's mother too; he had been fond
of her--she had mothered him so much in the old days; he wondered if
she knew how he had repaid all her kindness; what sort of a hash he had
made of life for poor little Christine.
"You'd better cut off to bed," Sangster said again bluntly.
He lit a cigarette and puffed a cloud of smoke into the air; he was
really disturbed about Jimmy. The repeated advice seemed to annoy
Jimmy; he frowned and rose to his feet; he caught his breath with a
sort of gasp of pain. Sangster turned quickly.
"What's up, old chap?"
"Only my rotten head---it aches like the very devil."
Jimmy stood for a moment with his hand pressed hard over his eyes, then
he took a step forward, and stopped again.
"I can't--I--confound it all----"
Sangster caught his arm.
"Don't be an ass; go to bed." He raised his voice; he called to
Costin; between them they put Jimmy to bed and tucked him up. He kept
protesting that there was nothing the matter with him, but he seemed
grateful for the darkness of the room, and the big pillows beneath his
aching head.
Sangster went back to the sitting-room with Costin.
"I don't think we need send for a doctor," he said. "It's only a
chill, I think. See how he is in the morning. What's he been up to,
Costin?"
Costin pursed his lips and raised his brows.
"He's been out most nights, sir," he answered stoically. "Only comes
home with the milk, as you might say. Hasn't slept at all, and doesn't
eat. It's my opinion, sir, that he's grieving like----" He looked
towards the mantelshelf and the place which they could both remember
had once held Cynthia Farrow's portrait.
Sangster shook his head.
"You mean----" he asked reluctantly.
"Yes, sir." Costin tiptoed across the room and closed the door which
led to Jimmy's bedroom. "He's never been the same, sir, since Miss
Farrow died--asking your pardon," he added hurriedly.
Sangster threw his cigarette end firewards.
"It's a rotten business," he said heavily. In his own heart he agreed
with Costin; he believed that it was Cynthia's death that was breaking
Jimmy's heart. He would have given ten years of his life to have been
able to believe that it was something else quite different.
"Well, I'll look in again in the morning," he said. "And if you want
me, send round, of course."
"Yes, sir."
Costin helped Sangster on with his coat and saw him to the door; he was
dying to ask what had become of Mrs. Jimmy, but he did not like to. He
was sure that Jimmy had merely got married out of pique, and that he
had repented as quickly as one generally does repent in such cases.
Sangster walked back to his rooms; he felt very depressed. He was fond
of Jimmy though he did not approve of him; he racked his brains to know
what to do for the best.
When he got home he sat down at his desk and stared at the pen and ink
for some moments undecidedly; then he began to write.
He addressed an envelope to Christine down at Upton House, and stared
at it till it was dry. After all, she might resent his interference,
and yet, on the other hand, if Jimmy were going to be seriously ill,
she would blame him for not having told her.
Finally he took a penny from his waistcoat pocket and tossed up for it.
"Heads I write, tails I leave it alone."
He tossed badly and the penny came down in the waste-paper basket, but
it came down heads, and with a little lugubrious grimace, Sangster
dipped the pen in the ink again and squared his elbows.
He wrote the letter four times before it suited him, and even then it
seemed a pretty poor epistle to his critical eye as he read it through--
"_Dear Mrs. Challoner,--I am just writing to let you know that Jimmy is
ill; nothing very serious, but I thought that perhaps you would like to
know. If you could spare the time to come and see him, I am sure he
would very much appreciate it. He seems very down on his luck. I
don't want to worry or alarm you, and am keeping an eye on him myself,
but thought it only right that you should know.--Your sincere friend,_
"RALPH SANGSTER."
It seemed a clumsy enough way of explaining things, he thought
discontentedly, and yet it was the best he could do. He folded the
paper and put it into the envelope; he sat for a moment with it in his
hand looking down at Christine's married name, "Mrs. James Challoner."
Poor little Mrs. Jimmy! A wife, and yet no wife. Sangster lifted the
envelope to his lips, and hurriedly kissed the name before he thrust
the envelope into his pocket, and went out to post it.
Would she come, he wondered? he asked himself the question anxiously
before he dropped the letter into the box. Somehow deep down in his
heart he did not think that she would.