The Second Honeymoon Part 28

"My G.o.d! it seems impossible that she's dead," he said hoa.r.s.ely.

Sangster did not look up.

There was a long pause.

"She was in Mortlake's car, you know," said Jimmy again, disjointedly.

Sangster nodded.

"He'll be shockingly cut-up," said Jimmy again. "I hated the chap; but he was really fond of her."

"Yes." Jimmy's cigarette had gone out again, and he relit it absently.

"Christine will never believe that it hasn't broken my heart," he said in a queer voice.

No answer.

"You won't believe it either?" he said.

The eyes of the two men met; Jimmy flushed scarlet.

"It's the truth," he said. "I think, ever since I knew that she--that she had tried to get rid of me----" He stopped painfully. "It makes me wonder if I ever--ever really, you know."

"We all make mistakes--bad mistakes," said Sangster kindly.

Jimmy smiled a little.

"You old philosopher . . . I don't believe you've ever cared a hang for a woman in all your life."

"Oh, yes I have." Sangster's eyes were staring past Jimmy, down the little room.

"Really?" Jimmy was faintly incredulous. "Who was she--wouldn't she have you?"

"I never asked her, and she is married now--to another man."

"A decent fellow?"

There was a little silence, then:

"I think he'll turn out all right," said Sangster quietly. "I hope so."

CHAPTER XVI

THE PAST RETURNS

Christine had learned a great deal since her marriage. As she stood on the platform at Euston that morning with Jimmy Challoner she felt old enough to be the grandmother of the girl who had looked up at him with such glad recognition less than a month ago in the theatre.

Old enough, and sad enough.

She could not bear to look at him now. It cut her to the heart to see the listless droop of his shoulders and the haggard lines of his face.

It was not for her--his sorrow; that was the thought she kept steadily before her eyes; it was not because he had offended and hurt her past forgiveness; but because Cynthia Farrow was now only a name and a memory.

The train was late in starting. Jimmy stood on the platform trying to make conversation; he had bought a pile of magazines and a box of chocolates which lay disregarded beside Christine on the seat; he had ordered luncheon for her, although she protested again and again that she should not eat anything.

He racked his brains to think if there were any other little service he could do for her. He was full of remorse and shame as he stood there.

She had been so fond of him--she had meant to be so happy; and now she was glad to be leaving him.

The guard blew his whistle. Jimmy turned hastily, the blood rus.h.i.+ng to his white face.

"If you ever want me, Christine----" She seemed not to be listening, and he broke off, only to stumble on again: "Try and forgive me--try not to think too hardly of me." She looked at him then; her beautiful eyes were hard and unyielding.

The train had begun to move slowly from the platform. Jimmy was on the footboard; he spoke to her urgently.

"Say you forgive me, Christine. If you'll just shake hands----"

She drew back, as if she found him distasteful.

The train was gathering speed. A porter made a grab at Jimmy.

"Stand back, sir."

Jimmy obeyed mechanically. Christine would not have cared had he been killed, he told himself savagely.

But for his pig-headed foolishness, he and Christine might have been going down to Upton House together; but for the past----

"d.a.m.n the past!" said Jimmy Challoner as he turned on his heel and walked away.

But the past was very real to Christine as she sat there alone in a corner of the first-cla.s.s carriage into which Jimmy had put her, and stared before her with dull eyes at a row of photographs advertising seaside places.

This was the end of all her dreams of happiness. She and Jimmy were separated; it seemed impossible that they had ever really been married--that she was really his wife and he her husband.

She dragged off her glove, and looked at her wedding ring; she had never taken it off since the moment in that dingy London church when Jimmy had slipped it on.

And yet it was such an empty symbol. He had never loved her; he had married her because some other woman, whom he did love, was beyond his reach.

She did not cry; she seemed to have shed all the tears in her heart.

She just sat there motionless as the train raced her back to the old house and the old familiar scenes, where she had been happy--many years ago--with Jimmy Challoner.

He had wired to Gladys Leighton; Gladys would be there at the station to meet her. She wondered what she would say to her.

She thought of the uncle who had journeyed to London with such reluctance to give her away; he would tell her that it served her right, she was sure. Even on her wedding day he had trotted out the old maxim of marrying in haste.

Christine smiled faintly as she thought of him; after all, she need not see much of him--he did not live near Upton House. When the restaurant attendant came to tell her that lunch was ready, she followed him obediently. Jimmy had tipped him half-a-crown to make sure that Christine went to the dining-car. She even enjoyed her meal. A man sitting at the same table with her looked at her curiously from time to time; he was rather a good-looking man. Once when she dropped her gloves he stooped and picked them up for her; later on he pulled up the window because he saw her s.h.i.+ver a little. "These trains are well warmed as a rule," he said.