TOO LATE!
Jimmy and Christine travelled to London at opposite ends of the
carriage.
Jimmy had done his best to make his wife comfortable, he had wrapped a
rug round her though it was a mild night, he had bought more papers and
magazines than she could possibly read on a journey of twice the
length, and seeing that she was disinclined to talk, he had finally
retired to the other end of the carriage and pretended to be asleep.
He was dying for a smoke, he would have given his soul for a cigarette,
but he was afraid to ask for permission, so he sat there in durance
vile with his arms folded rightly and his eyes half closed, while the
train sped on through the night towards London.
Christine turned the pages of her magazines diligently, though it is
doubtful if she read a word or saw a single picture.
She felt very tired and dispirited, it was as if she had been forced
back against her will to look once more on the day of her wedding, when
the cold cheerlessness of the church and vestry had frightened her, and
when Jimmy had asked Sangster to lunch with them. The thought of
Sangster gave her a gleam of comfort; she liked him, and she knew that
he could be relied upon; she wondered how soon she would see him.
And then she thought of Kettering and the last words he had said to her
on the steps at Upton House, and a little sigh escaped her. She
thought Jimmy was asleep, she put down the magazine and let herself
drift. There was something about Kettering that had appealed to her as
no other man had ever done, something manly and utterly reliable which
she found restful and protecting. She wondered what he would say when
he heard that she had gone back to Jimmy, and what he would think.
She looked across at her husband, his eyes were wide open.
"Do you want anything?" he asked quickly.
"No, thank you." She seized upon the magazine again, she flushed in
confusion.
"I've been wondering," said Jimmy gently, "where you would like to stay
when we get to town. I think you'd be more comfortable in--in my rooms
if you wouldn't mind going there, but----"
She interrupted hastily, "I'd much rather go to an hotel. I don't care
where it is--any place will do."
She spoke hurriedly, as if she wished the conversation ended.
Jimmy looked at her wistfully, she was so pretty, much prettier than
ever he had realised, he told himself with a sense of loss. A thousand
times lately he found himself wishing that Cynthia Farrow had not died;
not that he wanted her any more for himself, not that it any longer
made him suffer to think of her and those first mad days of his
engagement, but so that he might have proved to Christine that the fact
of her being in London and near to him affected him not at all, that he
might prove his infatuation for her to be a thing dead and done with.
Now he supposed she would never believe him. He looked at her pretty
profile, and with sudden impulse he rose to his feet and crossed over
to sit beside her.
"I want to speak to you," he said, when she made a little movement as
if to escape him. "No, I'm not going to touch you."
There was a note of bitterness in his voice, once she had loved him to
be near her--a few short weeks ago--and she would have welcomed this
journey with him alone, but now things were so utterly changed.
"I must speak to you, just once, about Cynthia," he said urgently.
"Just this once, and then I'll never mention her again. I can't hope
that you'll believe what I'm going to say, but--but I do beg of you to
try and believe that I am not saying all this because--because
she--she's dead. If she had lived it would make no difference to me
now; if she were alive at this moment she would be no more to me
than--than any other woman in the world."
Christine kept her eyes steadily before her; she listened because she
could not help herself, but she felt as if someone were turning a knife
in her heart.
"The night--the night she died," Jimmy went on disconnectedly, "I was
going to make a clean breast of--of everything to you, and ask you to
forgive me and let us start again. I was, 'pon my honour I was,
but--but Fate stepped in, I suppose, and you know what happened. When
I married you I'll admit that--that I didn't care for you as much
as--as much as I ought to have done, but now----"
"But now"--Christine interrupted steadily though she was driven by
intolerable pain--"now it's too late. I'm not with you to-night for
any reason except that--that I think it's my duty, and because I don't
want your brother to know or to blame you. We--we can't ever be
anything--except ordinary friends. I suppose we can't get unmarried,
can we?" she said with a little quivering laugh. "But--but at least we
need never be anything more than--than friends----"
Jimmy was very white; Christine had spoken so quietly, so decidedly,
they were not angry words, not even deliberately chosen to hurt him,
they sounded just final!
He caught her hand.
"Oh, my God, you don't mean that, Christine, you're just saying it
to--to punish me, just to--to--pay me out. You don't really mean
it--you don't mean that you've forgotten all the old days, you don't
mean that you don't care for me any more--that you never will care for
me again. I can't bear it. Oh, for God's sake say you don't mean
that."
There was genuine anguish in his voice now, and in his eyes, but
Christine was not looking at him, she was only remembering that he had
once loved another woman desperately, passionately, and that because
that woman was no longer living he wished to transfer his affections;
she kept her eyes steadily before her, as she answered him:
"I am sorry, I don't want to hurt you, but--but I am afraid that--that
is what I do mean."
There was a moment of absolute silence. She did not look at Jimmy; she
was only conscious of the fierce desire in her heart to hurt him, to
make him feel, make him suffer as he had once made her suffer in the
days that seemed so far away now and dead that she could look back with
wonderment at herself for the despair she had known then.
She was glad that she no longer suffered; glad that she had lost her
passionate love for him in this numbed indifference. She wondered if
he really felt her words, or if he were only pretending.
Once he had pretended to her so well that she had married him; now, as
a consequence, she found herself suspecting him at every turn, doubting
him whenever he spoke.
The train shot into a tunnel, and Christine caught her breath. She
shrank a little farther away from Jimmy in the darkness, but she need
not have feared. Seeing her instinctive movement he rose at once and
walked away to the other side of the carriage. He hardly spoke to her
again till they reached London.
It was late then. Christine felt tired, and her head ached. She asked
no more questions as to where they were going or what he proposed to do
with her. She followed him into the taxi. She did not hear what
directions he gave to the driver. It seemed a very little while before
they stopped, and Jimmy was holding out his hand to help her to alight.
They went into the hotel together, and for a moment Jimmy left her
alone in the wide, empty lounge while he went to make arrangements for
her.
She looked round her dully. The old depression she had known when last
she was in London returned. She hated the silence of the lounge; even
the doors seemed to shut noiselessly, and everywhere the carpets were
so thick that footsteps were muffled.
Jimmy came back. He seemed to avoid her eyes.
"I have taken rooms for you; I think you will be comfortable. Will
you--will you go up now? I have ordered supper; it will be ready in
fifteen minutes. I will wait here."
Christine obeyed wearily. She went up in the lift feeling lonely and
depressed. A kind-faced maid met her on the first landing. She went
with Christine into her bedroom; she unpacked her bag and made the room
comfortable for her; she talked away cheerily, almost as if she guessed
what a sore heart the girl carried with her. Christine felt a little
comforted as she went downstairs again.
It was nearly eleven o'clock. A few people were having supper in the
room to which she was directed. Jimmy was there waiting for her.
They sat down together almost silently.
"A second honeymoon!" Gladys Leighton's words came back to Christine
with a sort of mockery.
She looked at her husband. He was pale and silent. He only made a
pretence of eating; they were both glad when the meal was over.
There was a moment of awkwardness when they rose from the table.
"I am tired," Christine said when he asked if she would care to go to
the drawing-room for a little while. "I should like to go to bed."
"Very well." Jimmy held out his hand. "Good night." He looked at her
and quickly away again. "I will come round in the morning."
She raised startled eyes to his face.
"You are not staying here then?"
He coloured a little.
"No; I thought you would prefer that I did not. I shall be at my
rooms--if you want me."
"Very well." She just touched the tips of his fingers. The next
moment she was walking alone up the wide staircase.
She never slept all night. Though she had felt tired at the end of her
journey, she never once closed her eyes now.
She wished she had not come. She hated Jimmy for having persuaded her;
she hated Gladys for having practically told her that it was her duty
to do as he wished; she hated Jimmy afresh because now, having got her
to London, he had gone off and left her.
She did not choose to believe that he had really done so because he
thought she would prefer it. She felt lonely and deserted; tears
welled into her eyes.
"A second honeymoon!" What a farce it all was.
It seemed an eternity before the rumble of traffic sounded again in the
streets and the first grey daylight crept through the blind chinks.
She wondered what Gladys was doing, what Kettering was doing, and if he
knew that she had gone, and where.
She deliberately conjured the memory of his eyes and voice as he had
last looked at her and spoken.
Her heart beat a little faster at the memory. She knew well enough
that he loved her, and for a moment she wondered what life would be
like with him to always care for her and shield her.
He was much older than Jimmy. She did not realise that perhaps his
knowledge of women and the way in which they liked to be treated was
the result of a long apprenticeship during which he had had time to
overcome the impulsive, headlong blunderings through which Jimmy was
still stumbling.
She was up and dressed early; she had had her breakfast and was ready
to go out when Jimmy arrived. He looked disappointed. He had made an
effort and got up unusually early for him in order to be round at the
hotel before Christine could possibly expect him. He asked awkwardly
if she had slept well. She looked away from him as she answered
impatiently:
"I never sleep well in London--I hate it."
He bit his lip.
"I'm sorry. What would you like to do this morning?"
"I'm going out."
"You mean that you don't wish me to come?"
Christine shrugged her shoulders.
"Come if you wish--certainly."
They left the hotel together. It was a bright sunny morning, and
London was looking its best. Christine rushed into haphazard speech.
"Have you heard from your brother again?"
"No; I hardly expected to."
Something in the constraint of his voice made her look at him quickly.
"I suppose--I suppose he really is coming?" she said with sudden
suspicion.
Jimmy flushed scarlet.
"I haven't deserved that," he said.
Christine laughed--a hard little laugh, strangely unlike her.
"I am not so sure," she answered.
They had turned into Regent Street now. A flower-girl thrust a bunch
of scented violets into Jimmy's face.
"Buy a bunch for the pretty lady, sir."
Jimmy smiled involuntarily. He looked at Christine.
"May I buy them for you?" He did not wait for her answer; he gave the
girl a shilling.
Christine took the flowers indifferently. She kept marvelling at
herself. It seemed impossible that she was the same girl who had once
walked these very streets with Jimmy, her heart beating fast with
happiness. Then, had he given her a bunch of violets, she would have
thrilled at the little gift; but now--she tucked them carelessly into
the front of her coat. She did not notice when presently they fell
out; but Jimmy had seen, and there was a curiously hurt look in his
eyes.
They walked through the park. Jimmy met several people he knew; he
raised his hat mechanically, making no attempt to stop and speak.
Christine looked at everyone with a sense of antagonism.
Of course all Jimmy's friends knew that once he had loved Cynthia
Farrow; no doubt many of them had seen him walking with her through
this very park. Something of the old jealousy touched her for a
moment. She would never be able to forget, even If she lived for years
and years; the memory of the woman who had wrecked her happiness would
always be there between them--a shadow which it was impossible to
banish.
"What about some lunch?" said Jimmy presently. He glanced at his
watch. "It's half past twelve."
"I should like to ask Mr. Sangster to come with us," Christine said
quickly. "Is he anywhere--anywhere where we can find him?"
"I can 'phone. He's not on the 'phone himself, but the people
downstairs will take a message, if you don't mind waiting for a moment."
"I don't mind at all."
She was dreading another _tête-à-tête_ lunch with her husband. It had
been in her mind all the morning to suggest that Sangster came with
them. She remembered bitterly how once Jimmy had suggested bringing
his friend to share their wedding breakfast. Things had strangely
reversed themselves since that morning.
She waited outside the call box while Jimmy went in; she watched him
through the glass door. He was standing with his hat at the back of
his head, his elbow resting on the wooden box itself. He looked very
young, she thought, in spite of his slightly haggard appearance.
Something in his attitude reminded her of him as he had been in his
Eton days--long-legged and ungainly in his short jacket. She smothered
a little sigh. They had drifted such a weary way since then; too far
to ever retrace their steps.
Presently he rejoined her.
"I am sorry--Sangster is not in."
"Oh!" She looked disappointed. "Is there--isn't there anyone else we
can ask?"
His eyes searched her flushed face bitterly.
"You hate being alone with me as much as all that?"
She looked away.
"I only thought it would be more lively."
"You find me such dull company."
She made no reply.
"Things have changed since we were engaged, haven't they?" said Jimmy
then, savagely. "You were pleased enough to be with me then; you never
wanted a third."
"Things are reversed--that is all," she told him unemotionally.
He laughed ironically.
"I don't think you know quite how successfully you are paying me out,"
he said.
"I would rather not talk about it," she interrupted. "It can do no
good. I have done as you asked me; I told you I could do no more, that
you must expect nothing more."
There was a little silence.
"I'm sorry," said Jimmy stiltedly.
They lunched together.
"I'll get some tickets for a theatre to-night," Jimmy said. "That will
kill the time, won't it?"
"I didn't say I found the time drag," she told him.
"No; but you look bored to death," he answered savagely.
It was such an extraordinary situation--that Christine should ever be
bored with him. It cut Jimmy to the heart; he looked at her with anger.
She was leaning back in her chair, looking round the room. She was as
little interested in him as he had once been in her.
Twenty times during the day he cursed himself for the mad infatuation
that had wrecked his happiness. There was something so sweet and
desirable about Christine. He would have given his soul just then for
one of her old radiant smiles; for just a glimpse of the light in her
eyes which had always been there when she looked at him; for the note
of shy happiness in her voice when she spoke to him.
The days of delirium which he had spent with Cynthia Farrow seemed like
an impossible dream now, when he looked back on them: the late nights
and champagne suppers, the glare of the footlights, the glamour and
grease paint of the theatre. His soul sickened at the thought of the
unnatural life he had led then. All he wanted now was quiet
happiness--the life of domesticity for which he had once pitied
himself, believing it would be his lot as Christine's husband, seemed
the most desirable thing on earth; just he and she--perhaps down in the
country--walking through fields and woods, perhaps at Upton House, with
the crowd of old memories to draw them together again, and wipe the
hard bitterness from little Christine's brown eyes.
It was pouring with rain when they left the restaurant; the bright
sunshine of morning had utterly gone, the street was dripping, the
pavements saturated.
"We shall have to go home, I suppose," said Jimmy lugubriously.
"Home?" Christine looked up at him. "Do you mean to the hotel?" she
asked.
"I suppose so, unless you would care to come to my rooms," said Jimmy,
flushing a little. "There's sure to be a fire there, and--and it's
pretty comfortable."
For a moment she hesitated, and his heart-beats quickened a little,
hoping she would agree to the suggestion; but the next moment she shook
her head.
"I don't care to--thank you. I will go back to the hotel."
Jimmy hailed a taxi. He looked moody and despondent once more. They
drove away in silence.
Presently--
"I will go to your rooms if--if you will answer me one thing," said
Christine abruptly.
Jimmy stared. The colour ran into his pale face.
"I will answer anything you like to ask me--you know I will."
"Did--did Miss Farrow ever go to your rooms?"
She asked the question tremblingly; she could not look at him. With a
sudden movement Jimmy dropped his face in his hands; the hot blood
seemed to scorch him; this sudden mention of a name he had never wished
to hear again was almost unbearable.
"Yes," he said; "she did." He looked up. "Christine--don't condemn me
like that," he broke out agitatedly. He saw the cold disdain in her
averted face.
"She lived such a different life from anything you can possibly
imagine. It's--well--it's like being in another world. Women on the
stage think nothing of--of--the free-and-easy sort of thing. She used
to come to my rooms to tea. She used to bring her friends in after the
theatre--after rehearsals." He leaned over as if to take her hand,
then drew his own away again. "I--I ask you to come now
because--because I thought you would take away all the memories I want
to forget. Can't you ever forget too? Can't you ever try and forgive
me? It's--it's--awful to think that we may have to live together all
our lives and that you'll never look at me again as you used to--never
be glad to see me, never want me to touch you." His voice broke; he
bit his lip till it bled.
Christine clasped her hands hard in her lap.
"It was awful to me too--once," she said dully. "Awful to know that
you didn't love me when I was so sure that you did. But I've got over
it. I suppose you will too, some day, even if you think it hurts very
much just now. I dare say we shall be quite happy together in our own
way some day. Lots of married people are--quite happy together, and
don't love each other at all."
She dismissed him when they reached the hotel. She went up to her room
and cried.
She did not know why she was crying; she only knew that she felt lonely
and unhappy. She would have given the world just then for someone to
come in and put kind arms round her. She would have given the world to
know that there was someone to whom she really mattered, really counted.
Jimmy only wanted her because he realised that she no longer wanted
him. The wedding ring of which she had been so proud was now an
unwelcome fetter of which she would never again be free.
They went to the theatre in the evening. Jimmy had take great pains to
make himself smart; it was almost pathetic the efforts he made to be
bright and entertaining. He told her that he had sent a note to
Sangster to meet them afterwards for supper. It gave him a sharp pang
of jealousy to notice how Christine's eyes brightened.
"I am so glad," she said. "I like him so much."
She was almost friendly to him after that. Once or twice he made her
laugh.
He was very careful to keep always to impersonal subjects. He behaved
just as if they were good friends out for an evening of enjoyment.
When they left the theatre Christine looked brighter than he had seen
her for weeks. Jimmy was profoundly grateful. He was delighted that
Sangster should see her with that little flush in her cheeks. She did
not look so very unhappy, he told himself.
Sangster was waiting for them when they reached the supper-room. He
greeted Christine warmly. He told her jokingly that he had got his
dress-suit out of pawn in her honour. He looked very well and happy.
The little supper passed off cheerily enough. It was only afterwards,
when they all drove to the hotel where Christine was staying, that
Sangster blundered; he held a hand to Jimmy when he had said good night
to Christine.
"Well, so long, old chap."
Jimmy flushed crimson.
"I'm not staying here. Wait for me; I'm coming along."
"You're a silly fool," Jimmy said savagely, as they walked away. "What
in the world did you want to say that for?"
"My dear fellow, I thought it was all right. I thought you'd made it
up. I'm awfully sorry."
"We haven't made it up--never shall from what I can see," Jimmy snapped
at him. "Oh, for the Lord's sake let's talk about something else."
Sangster raised his troubled eyes to the dark starless sky. He had
been so sure everything was all right. Jimmy had made no recent
confidence to him. He had thought Christine looked well and happy--and
now, after all. . . .
"It looks as if we shall have some more rain," he said dully. "It's
been awful weather this week, hasn't it?"
"Damn the weather!" said Jimmy Challoner.