The Second Honeymoon Part 47

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 suns.h.i.+ne 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, flus.h.i.+ng 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 p.a.w.n in her honour. He looked very well and happy.

The little supper pa.s.sed 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?"

"d.a.m.n the weather!" said Jimmy Challoner.