THE COMPACT
Down in the drawing-room things were decidedly uncomfortable.
Gladys sat by the tea-table, enjoying her tea no less for the fact that
Jimmy was walking up and down like a wild animal, waiting for Christine
to return.
Secretly Gladys was rather amused at the situation. She considered
that whatever Jimmy suffered now, it served him right. She blamed him
entirely for the estrangement between himself and his wife. She had
never liked him very much, even in the old days, when she had
quarrelled with him for being so selfish; she could not see that he had
greatly improved now, as she watched him rather quizzically.
After a moment:
"You'll wear the carpet out," she said practically,
Jimmy stood still.
"Why doesn't Christine come back?" he demanded. "What's she doing with
that fool Kettering?"
"He isn't a fool," said Gladys calmly. "I call him an exceedingly nice
man."
Jimmy's eyes flashed.
"I suppose you've been encouraging him to come here and dangle after my
wife. I thought I could trust you."
Gladys looked at him unflinchingly.
"I thought I could trust you, too," she said serenely. "And apparently
I was mistaken. You've spoilt Christine's life, and you deserve all
you get."
"How dare you talk to me like that?"
She laughed.
"I dare very well. I'm not afraid of you, Jimmy. I know too much
about you. Christine married you because she loved you; she thought
there was nobody like you in all the world. It's your own fault if she
has changed her mind."
"I'll break every bone in Kettering's confounded body." Jimmy burst
out passionately. "I'll--I'll----" He stopped suddenly and sat down
with a humiliating sense of weakness, leaning his head in his hands.
Gladys's eyes softened as she looked at him.
"You've been ill, haven't you?" she asked.
He did not answer, and after a moment she left the tea-table, got up
and went over to where he sat.
"Buck up, Jimmy, for heaven's sake," she said seriously. She put her
hand on his shoulder kindly enough. "It's not too late. You're
married, after all, and you may as well make the best of it. You may
both live another fifty years."
Jimmy said he was dashed if he wanted to. He said he had had enough of
life; it was a rotten swindle from beginning to end.
Gladys frowned.
"If you're going to talk like an utter idiot!" she said impatiently.
He caught her hand when she would have moved away.
"I'm sorry. You might be a pal to a chap, Gladys. I--well, I'm at my
wits' end to know what to do. With Horatio coming home----"
Her eyes grew scornful.
"Oh, so _that's_ why you've come here!"
"It is and it isn't. I wanted to see Christine. You won't believe me,
I know, but I've been worried to death about her ever since she left
me. Ask Sangster, if you don't believe me. I swear to you that, if it
were possible, I'd give my right hand this minute to undo all the
rotten past and start again. I suppose it's too late. I suppose she
hates me. She said she did that last night in London. She looks as if
she does now. The way she asked me if I was going to stay to dinner--a
chap's own wife!--and in front of that brute Kettering!"
"He isn't a brute."
Gladys walked away and poured herself another cup of tea.
"Christine has been hurt--hurt much more than you have," she said at
last. She spoke slowly, as if she were carefully choosing her words.
"She was so awfully fond of you, Jimmy." Jimmy moved restlessly.
"It--it must have been a dreadful shock to her, poor child." She
looked at him impatiently. "Oh, what on earth is the use of being a
man if you can't make a woman care for you? She did once, and it ought
not to be so very difficult to make her care again. She--she's just
longing for someone to be good to her and love her. That's why she
seems to like Mr. Kettering, I know. It is only seeming, Jimmy. I
know her better than you do. It's only that he came along just when
she was so unhappy--just when she was wanting someone to be good to
her. And he _has_ been good to her--he really has," she added
earnestly.
Jimmy drew a long breath. He rose to his feet, stretching his arms
wearily.
"I don't deserve that she should forgive me," he said, with a new sort
of humility. "But--but if ever she does----" He took a quick step
forwards Gladys. "Go and ask her to come and speak to me, there's a
dear. I promise you that I won't upset her. I'll do my very best."
She went reluctantly, and as soon as the door had closed behind her,
Jimmy Challoner went over to the looking-glass and stared at his pale
reflection anxiously. He had always rather admired himself, but this
afternoon his pallor and thinness disgusted him. No wonder Christine
did not want to look at him or talk to him. He passed a nervous hand
over the refractory kink in his hair, flattening it down; then,
remembering that Christine had once said she liked it, brushed it up
again agitatedly.
It seemed a long time before she came down to him. He was sure that
half an hour must have passed since Gladys shut the door on him, before
it opened again and Christine stood there, a little pale, a little
defiant.
"You want to speak to me," she said. Her voice was antagonistic, the
soft curves of her face seemed to have hardened.
"Yes. Won't you--won't you come and sit down?" Jimmy was horribly
nervous. He dragged forward a chair, but she ignored it. She shut the
door and stood leaning against it.
"I would rather stay here," she said. "And please be quick. If there
is anything important to say----"
The indifference of her voice cut him to the heart. He broke out with
genuine grief:
"Oh, Christine, aren't you ever going to forgive me?"
Just for a moment a little quiver convulsed her face, but it was gone
instantly. She knew by past experience how easily Jimmy could put just
that soft note into his voice. She told herself that it was only
because he wanted something from her, not that he was really in the
very least sorry for what had happened, for the way he had hurt her,
for the havoc he had made of her life.
"It isn't a question of forgiveness at all," she said. "I didn't ask
you to come here. I didn't want you to come here, I was quite happy
without you."
"That is very evident," he said bitterly. The words escaped him before
he could stop them. He apologised agitatedly.
"I didn't mean that; it slipped out; I ought not to have said it. I
hardly know what I am saying. If you can't ever forgive me, that
settles it once and for all, of course; but----"
She interrupted.
"Why have you come here? What do you want?"
The question was direct enough, and in desperation he answered it as
directly.
"I have come because my brother will be home next week, and I want to
know what I am to tell him."
For the first time she blenched a little. Her eyes sought his with a
kind of fear.
"Tell him? What do you mean? What does it matter what you tell him?"
"I mean about our marriage. The old boy was so pleased when he knew
that I--that you---- It will about finish him if he knows how--if he
knows that we--" He floundered helplessly.
"You mean if he knows that you married me out of pique, and that I
found it out?" she added bitterly.
He attempted no defence; he stood there miserable and silent.
"You can tell him what you like," said Christine, after a moment. "I
don't care in the very least."
"I know you don't. I quite realise that; but--but if, just for the
sake of appearances, you felt you could be sufficiently forgiving
to--to come back to me, just--just for a little while, I mean," he
added with an embarrassed rush. "I--I wouldn't bother you. I--I'd let
you do just as you liked. I wouldn't ask anything. I--I----"
Christine laughed.
"You are inviting me to have a second honeymoon, in fact. Is that it?"
she asked bitterly. "Thank you very much. I enjoyed the first so
tremendously that, of course, it is only natural you should think I
must be anxious to repeat the experiment."
Jimmy flushed to the roots of his hair.
"I deserve everything you can say. I haven't any excuse to offer; and
I know you'll never believe it if I were to tell you that--that when
Cynthia----"
She put up her hands to her eyes with a little shudder.
"I don't want to hear anything about her; I don't ever want to hear her
name again."
"I'm sorry, dear." The word of endearment slipped out unconsciously.
Christine's little figure quivered; suddenly she began to sob.
She wanted someone to be kind to her so badly. The one little word of
endearment was like a ray of sunshine touching the hard bitterness of
her heart, melting it, breaking her down.
"Christine!" said Jimmy in a choked voice.
He went over to her. He put an arm round her, drawing her nearer to
the fire. He made her sit in the arm-chair, and he knelt beside her,
holding her hand. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to say all the many
passionate words of remorse that rose to his lips, but somehow he was
afraid. He was not sure of her yet. He was afraid of startling her,
of driving her back into cold antagonism and suspicion.
Presently she stopped sobbing; she freed her hand and wiped away the
tears.
"It was silly to cry," she said jerkily. "There was nothing to cry
for." She was ashamed that she had broken down; angry that the cause
of her grief had been that one little word of endearment spoken by
Jimmy.
He rose to his feet and went to stand by the mantelshelf, staring down
into the fire.
There was a long silence.
"When--when is Horatio coming?" Christine asked him presently.
"I don't know for certain. The cable said Monday, but it may be later
or even earlier."
She looked at him. His shoulders were drooping, his face turned away
from her.
There was an agony of indecision in her heart. She did not want to
make things harder for him than was absolutely necessary; and yet she
clung fast to her pride--the pride that seemed to be whispering to her
to refuse--not to give in to him. She stared into the fire, her eyes
blurred still with tears.
"I suppose he'll stop your allowance if he knows?" she said at last,
with an odd little mirthless laugh.
Jimmy flushed.
"I wasn't thinking of that," he said quickly. "I don't care a hang
what he does; but--but--well, I would have liked him to _think_ things
were all right between us, anyway."
He waited a moment. "Of course, if you can't," he said then, jaggedly,
"if you feel that you can't I'll tell him the truth. It will be the
only way out of it."
A second honeymoon! Christine's own words seemed to ring in her ears
mockingly.
She had never had a honeymoon at all yet. That week in London had been
only a nightmare of tears and disillusionment and heartbreak. If it
meant going through it all again----
She got up suddenly and went to stand beside Jimmy. She was quite
close to him, but she did not touch him, though it would have seemed
the most natural thing in all the world just at that moment to slip a
hand through his arm or to lay her cheek to the rough serge of his
coat. She had been so proud of him, had loved him so much; and yet now
she seemed to be looking at him and speaking to him across a yawning
gulf which neither of them were able to bridge.
"Jimmy, if--if I do--if I come back to you--just for a little while, so
that--so that your brother won't ever know, you won't--you won't try
and keep me--afterwards? You won't--you won't try and force me to stay
with you, will you?"
"I give you my word of honour. I don't know how to thank you. I--I'm
not half good enough for you. I don't deserve that you should ever
give me a thought; I'm such an awful rotter," said Jimmy Challoner,
with a break in his voice. He tried to take her hand, but she drew
back.
"It's only--only friends we're going to be," she whispered.
He choked back a lump in his throat.
"Only friends, of course," he echoed, trying to speak cheerily. He
knew what she meant; knew that he was not to remember that they were
married, that they were just to behave like good pals--for the complete
deception of the Great Horatio.
"Thank you, thank you very much," he said again. "And--and when will
you--when----" he stammered.
"Oh, not yet," she told him quickly. "There is plenty of time. Next
week will do. You can let me know when your brother arrives. I'll
come then. I'll----" Someone knocked at the door. It was Gladys.
She looked apologetic. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a telegram
for Jimmy. I thought it might be important." She handed him the
yellow envelope.
Jimmy took it agitatedly. His heart was thumping. He was sure that he
knew what were its contents. He broke open the flap. There was a
little silence; then he handed the message to his wife.
"Horatio arrives in London to-morrow morning. Wire just received.
Thought you ought to know at once.--SANGSTER."
Christine read the message through, then let it flutter to the floor at
her feet; she looked up at Jimmy's embarrassed face.
"Well?" she said sharply.
"He's coming to-morrow, you see," Jimmy began stumblingly. "He--he'll
be in London to-morrow, so if--so if----" He cast an appealing glance
at Gladys.
"I suppose I'm in the way," she said bluntly. "I'll clear out."
She turned to the door, but Christine stopped her.
"You're not in the way--I'd rather you stayed. You may as well hear
what we're talking about. Jimmy's brother is coming home, and--and,
you see, he doesn't know that I--that we----"
"I've asked her to come back to me--at any rate, for a time," Jimmy
interrupted valiantly. "I know I don't deserve it, but it would make
such a deuce of a difference if she would--you know what Horatio
is--I--I'd give anything to prevent him knowing what a mess I've made
of everything," he added boyishly.
They were both looking at Gladys now, Jimmy and Christine, and for a
moment she stood irresolute, then she turned to Jimmy's wife. "Well,
what are you going to do?" she said, and her usually blunt voice was
quite gentle.
Christine moved closer to her friend.
"Oh, what do you think I ought to do?" she appealed in a whisper.
Gladys glanced across at Jimmy Challoner; he looked miserable enough;
at the sight of his thin face and worried eyes she softened towards
him; she took Christine's hand.
"I think you ought to go," she said.
Jimmy turned away; he stood staring down into the fire; he felt somehow
as if they were both taking a mean advantage of Christine; he felt as
if he had tried to force her hand; he was sure she did not wish to come
back to him, but he was sure, too, that because in her heart she
thought it her duty to do so, he would not return to London alone that
night.
Nobody spoke for a moment; Jimmy was afraid to look round, then
Christine said slowly:
"Very well, what train are we to go by?"
Her voice sounded a little expressionless; Jimmy could not look at her.
"Any train you like," he said jerkily. "My time is yours--anything you
want . . . you have only to say what you would like to do."
A few weeks ago she would have been so happy to hear him speak like
that, but now the words seemed to pass her by.
"We may as well have dinner first, and go by a fast train," she said.
"I hate slow trains. Will you--will you pack some things for me?" She
looked at Gladys.
"Of course." Gladys turned to the door, and Christine followed her,
leaving Jimmy alone.
He did not move; he stood staring down at the cheery fire, his elbow
resting on the mantleshelf.
He wished now that he had not asked this of his wife; he wished he had
braved the situation out and received the full vent of the Great
Horatio's wrath alone. Christine would think less of him than ever for
being the first to make overtures of peace; he could have kicked
himself as he stood there.
Kettering loomed in the background of his mind with hateful
persistence; Kettering had looked at Christine as if--as if---- Jimmy
roused himself with a sigh; it was a rotten world--a damned rotten
world.
Upstairs Gladys was packing a suit-case for Christine, and talking
about every conceivable subject under the sun except Jimmy.
Christine sat on the side of the bed, her hands folded in her lap. She
took no interest in the proceedings, she hardly seemed to be listening
to her friend's chatter.
Suddenly she broke into a remark Gladys was making:
"You really think I am doing the right thing, Gladys?"
Gladys sat back on her heels and let a little silk frock she had been
folding fall to the floor. She looked at the younger girl with
affectionate anxiety.
"Yes, I do," she said seriously. "Things would never have got any
better as they were. It's perfectly true, in my opinion, that if you
don't see a person for a long time you don't care whether you ever see
him again or not, and--and I should hate you and Jimmy to--to have a
final separation, no matter what I've said, and no matter what a
selfish pig he is."
Christine smiled faintly.
"He can't _help_ not caring for me," she said.
"No, but he can help having married you," Gladys retorted
energetically. "Don't think I'm sympathising with him. I assure you
I'm not. I hope he'll get paid out no end for what he's done, and the
way he's treated you. But--but all the same, I think you ought to go
back to him."
Christine flushed.
"I hate the thought of it," she said with sudden passion. "I shall
never forget those days in London. I tried to pretend that everything
was all right when anybody was there, just so that the servants should
not see, but they all did, I know, and they were sorry for me. Oh, I
feel as if I could kill myself when I look back on it all. To think I
let him know how much I cared, and all the time--all the time he
wouldn't have minded if he'd never seen me again. All the time he was
longing for--for that other woman. I know it's horrid to talk like
that about her, but--but she's dead, and--and----" she broke off with a
shuddering little sigh.
"Things will come all right--you see," said Gladys wisely. She picked
up Christine's frock and carefully folded it. "Give him a chance,
Christine; I don't hold a brief for him, but, my word! it would be
rotten if the Great Horatio found out the truth and cut Jimmy off with
a shilling, wouldn't it? Of course, _really_ it would serve him right,
but one can't very well tell him so." She shut the lid of the case,
and rose to her feet. "There, I think that's all. It must be nearly
dinner time."
But Christine did not move.
"I wish you would come with us," she said tremblingly. "Why can't you
come with us? I shouldn't mind half so much if you were there."
Gladys glanced at her and away again.
"Now you're talking sheer rubbish," she said lightly. "You remind me
of that absurd play, _The Chinese Honeymoon_, when the bride took her
bridesmaids with her." She laughed; she took Christine's hand and
dragged her to her feet. "You might smile a little," she protested.
"Don't let Jimmy think you're afraid of him."
"I _am_ afraid. I don't want to go." Suddenly she began to cry.
Gladys's kind eyes grew anxious, she stood silent for a moment.
"I'm ever so much happier here," Christine went on. "I hate London; I
hate the horrid hotels. I'd much rather be here with you and----" she
broke off.
Gladys let go of her hand; there was a pucker of anxiety between her
eyes. What had Kettering said to Christine? she asked herself in
sudden panic. Surely he had not broken his word to her. She dismissed
the thought with a shrug of the shoulders.
"Don't be a baby, Chris," she said a trifle impatiently. "It's up to
you this time, anyway. What's the use of being young and as pretty as
you are if you can't win the man you want?"
Christine dried her eyes, her cheeks were flushed.
"But I don't want him," she said with sudden passion. "I don't want
him any more than he wants me."
Gladys stared at her in speechless dismay, she felt as if a cold hand
had been laid on her heart. She was unutterably thankful when the
dinner gong broke the silence; she turned again to the door.
"Well, _I_ want my dinner, that's all I know," she said.
She went downstairs without waiting for Christine.
Jimmy met her in the hall; he looked at her with a sort of suspicion,
she thought, and she knew she was colouring.
"Look here, Jimmy," she said with sudden brusqueness, "if she comes
back here again without you it will be the last time you need ask me
for help. You've got your chance. If you can't make her want to stay
with you for the rest of your natural life I wash my hands of the whole
affair."
"I'll do my best. I----" he floundered.
Gladys caught his arm in friendly fashion.
"I've no right to tell you, I suppose," she said, lowering her voice,
"but it won't be easy. I never thought she'd change so, but
now--well----" She shrugged her shoulders.
A little flame flashed into Jimmy's eyes.
"You mean that she doesn't care a hang for me now, is that it?" he
asked roughly.
Gladys did not answer, she turned her face away.
Jimmy put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him.
"Gladys, you don't mean--not--not Kettering?"
There was a thrill of agony in his voice.
"I don't know--I can't be sure," Gladys answered him agitatedly. "I
don't know anything. It's only--only what I'm afraid of." She moved
hurriedly away from him as they heard Christine's footsteps on the
landing upstairs.
"I suppose it was wrong of me to have said that," she told herself in a
panic as she went in to dinner. "But after all, it serves him right!
Perhaps he'll understand now something of what she suffered, poor
darling."
Out in the hall Jimmy was standing at the foot of the stairs looking up
at Christine.
"I--I feel such an awful brute," he began agitatedly. "I don't deserve
that you should consider me in the least. I--I'll do my best,
Christine."
She seemed to avoid looking at him. She moved quickly past him.
"Don't let's talk about it," she said nervously. "I'd much rather we
did not talk about it." She went on into the dining-room without him.
Jimmy stood for a moment irresolute, he could not believe that it was
Christine who had spoken to him like this. Christine, who so obviously
wished to avoid being with him.
A sudden flame of jealousy seared his heart, he clenched his fists.
Kettering--damn the fellow, how dared he make love to another man's
wife!
But he had conquered his agitation before he followed Christine. He
did his best to be cheerful and amusing during dinner. He was rewarded
once by seeing the pale ghost of a smile on Christine's sad little
face; it was as if for a moment she allowed him to raise the veil of
disillusionment that had fallen between them and step back into the old
happy days when they had played at sweethearts.
But the dinner was over all too soon, and Gladys said it was time to
think about trains, and she talked and hustled very cleverly, giving
them no time to feel awkward or embarrassed. She was going to escort
them to the station, she declared, conscious, perhaps, that both of
them would be glad of her company; she said that she wished, she could
come with them all the way, but that, of course, they did not want her.
And neither of them dared to contradict her, though secretly Jimmy and
Christine would both have given a great deal had she suddenly changed
her mind and insisted on accompanying them to London.
She stood at the door of the railway carriage until the last minute;
she sent all manner of absurd messages, to the Great Horatio; she told
Christine to be sure, to give him her love; she kept up a running fire
of chaff and banter till the train started away, and a pompous guard
told her to "Stand back, there!" and presently the last glimpse of
Christine's pale little face and Jimmy's worried eyes had been
swallowed up in the darkness of evening.
Then Gladys turned to walk home alone with a feeling of utter
desolation in her heart and an undignified smarting of tears in her
eyes.
"I hope to goodness I've done the right thing in letting her go," she
thought, as she turned out on to the dark road again. "I hope--I beg
your pardon," she had bumped into a tall man coming towards her.
He stopped at sound of her voice, it was Kettering.
"Miss Leighton, what in the world----" he began in amazement.
"I've been seeing Jimmy off," Gladys explained airily, though her heart
was beating uncomfortably. "Jimmy and Christine; they've gone off on a
second honeymoon," she added flippantly.
"Jimmy--and Christine!" he echoed her words in just the tone of voice
she had dreaded and expected to hear, half hurt, half angry. She could
feel his eyes peering down at her, trying to read her face through the
darkness, then he gave a short, angry laugh.
"I suppose you think you are protecting her from me," he said roughly.
Gladys did not answer at once, and when she spoke it was in a queer,
strangled voice:
"Or perhaps I am protecting you--from her!"
There was a little silence, then she moved a step from him. "Good
night," she said.
He followed. "I will walk back with you." He strode along beside her
through the darkness; he was thinking of Christine and Jimmy, speeding
away to London together, and a sort of impotent rage consumed him.
Jimmy was such a boy! So ignorant of the way in which to love a woman
like Christine; he asked an angry question:
"Whose suggestion was this--this----?" He could not go on.
"I don't know--they agreed between themselves, I think. Horatio is
coming home--the Great Horatio, you knew," Gladys told him, her voice
sounded a little hysterical.
"And are you staying on here?"
"I shall for the present--till Christine comes back--if she ever does,"
she added deliberately.
"You mean that you think she won't?" he questioned sharply.
"I mean that I _hope_ she won't."
They walked some little way in silence.
"You'll find it dull--alone at Upton House," he said presently in a
more friendly voice.
"Yes." Gladys was humiliated to know how near she was to weeping; she
would rather have died than let Kettering know how desolate she felt.
"You don't care for motoring, do you?" he said suddenly. "Or I might
come along and take you out sometimes."
"I do, I love it."
She could feel him staring at her in amazement.
"But you said----" he began.
"I know what I said; it was only another way of expressing my
disapproval of--of---- Well, you know!" she explained.
"Oh," he said grimly; suddenly he laughed. "Well, then, may I call and
take you out sometimes? We shall both be--lonely," he added with a
sigh. "And even if you don't like me----"
He waited, as if expecting her to contradict him, but she did not, and
it was impossible for him to know that through the darkness her heart
was racing, and her cheeks crimson because--well, perhaps because she
liked him too much for complete happiness.