The Second Honeymoon Part 18

She fell back from him; she dropped into a chair, hiding her face, and sobbing.

There was a touch of the theatrical in her att.i.tude, but Jimmy was too miserable to be critical. He only knew that she was miserable and on his account, and that he loved her.

He broke out agitatedly:

"Don't, Cynthia--don't cry; you break my heart. . . Oh, for G.o.d's sake, don't cry."

"You don't care how miserable I am," she sobbed. "You--you haven't got a heart to break, if you can stand there like a stone and tell me that it's too late. It's not too late; you're not married yet. Tell her the truth; oh! if you love me tell her the truth, Jimmy."

Jimmy was looking at her, but for a moment he only saw the big sitting-room at the hotel where Mrs. Wyatt had died, and the crushed little figure of Christine herself, as he had knelt beside her and drew her head to his shoulder.

"Oh, Jimmy, I've got no one now--no one." Her voice came back to him, a mournful echo; and his own husky answer:

"You've got me, Christine!"

How could he go back on that--how could he add to her weight of sorrow?

"She's got n.o.body but me in all the world," he said simply; he was looking at Cynthia now, as if he found it easier. "She has just lost her mother, and she's the loneliest little thing----" he stopped jaggedly.

For a moment she did not answer; she had stopped sobbing; she was carefully wiping her eyes; she got up and walked over to the gla.s.s above the mantelshelf; she looked at herself anxiously.

"Well, I suppose it's good-bye, then," she said heavily; her voice dragged a little. She picked up her gloves and a silver chain-bag which she had thrown down on the table; she turned towards the door.

"Good-bye, Jimmy."

Jimmy Challoner did not answer; he could not trust his voice. He walked past her and put his fingers on the door handle to open it for her; he was very white, and his eyes were fierce.

Cynthia stood still for an instant; she was quite close to him now.

"Good-bye," she said again faintly.

He tried to answer, but could not find his voice; their eyes met, and the next moment she was in his arms.

He never knew how it happened; never knew if he made the first move towards her, or she to him; but he held her fast, kissing her as he had never kissed little Christine--her eyes, her hair, her warm, tremulous lips.

"You do love me, then, after all?" she whispered.

Jimmy let her go; he fell back against the door, hiding his eyes.

"You know I do," he said hoa.r.s.ely.

He hated himself for his momentary weakness; he could not bear to look at her; when she had gone, he sat down in the big arm-chair and hid his face in his hands.

His pulses were racing; his head felt on fire.

The day after to-morrow he was to marry Christine. He had given his promise to her, and he knew that it was too late to draw back--too late to break her heart. And yet there was only one woman in all the world whom he loved, and whom he wanted--the woman from whom he had just parted; the woman who was even then driving away down the street with a little triumphant smile on her carefully reddened lips.

CHAPTER XI

HUSBAND AND WIFE

". . . to love, cherish, and to obey till death us do part."

Christine raised her soft brown eyes shyly and looked at Jimmy Challoner.

A ray of sunlight, piercing the stained gla.s.s window above the altar, fell on her face and slim figure; her voice was quite clear and steady, though a little sad perhaps, as she slowly repeated the words after the rather bored-looking clergyman.

Jimmy had insisted on being married in a parish where neither of them was known; he had got a special licence, and there was n.o.body in the church but the verger and Sangster, and a deaf uncle of Christine's, who thought the whole affair a great bother, and who had looked up a train to catch back home the very moment that Christine should have safely pa.s.sed out of his keeping into her husband's.

He bade them "good-bye" in the vestry; he kissed Christine rather awkwardly, and said that he hoped she would be happy; his voice seemed to imply a doubt. He shook hands with Jimmy and called him a lucky dog; he spoke like a man who hardly realises what he is saying; he shook hands with Sangster and hurried away.

They heard him creaking down the aisle of the church, and the following slam of the heavy door behind him; there was a little awkward silence.

The clergyman was blotting Christine's new name in the register; he looked up at her with short-sighted eyes, a quill pen held between his teeth.

"Would you--er--care to have the pen, Mrs.--er--Challoner?"

He had a starchy voice and a starchy manner.

Christine was conscious of a sudden feeling of utter home-sickness; everybody was so stiff and strange; even Jimmy--dearly as she loved him--seemed somehow like a stranger in his smart coat and brand-new tie, and with the refractory kink in his hair well flattened down by brilliantine.

She wanted her mother; she wanted her mother desperately; she wanted to be kissed and made much of by someone who really wanted her to be happy. Tears smarted in her eyes, but she would not let them fall.

Her throat ached with repressed sobs as she took the brand-new quill pen from the white hand extended to her, with a little shy:

"Thank you."

Sangster came forward.

"Shall I take care of it for you, Mrs. Challoner? We must tie a white bow round it, shall we? You will like to keep it, I am sure."

Christine turned to him eagerly. He spoke so kindly; his eyes looked at her with such sympathy. A big tear splashed down on the bosom of her black frock.

She was all in black, poor little Christine, save for white gloves, and some white flowers which Jimmy had sent her to carry. She tried to smile and answer Sangster when he spoke to her, but the words died away in her throat.

The gloomy London church depressed her; her own voice and Jimmy's had echoed hollowly behind them as they made their responses; her hand had shaken badly when she gave it to him to put on her wedding ring.

She was married now; she looked at Jimmy appealingly.

Jimmy was very flushed; when he spoke his voice sounded high and reckless. Christine heard him asking Sangster to come and have some lunch with them; he seemed most anxious that Sangster should come.

Christine listened with a queer little sinking at her heart; she had wanted to be alone with Jimmy; she had so looked forward to this--their first meal together as husband and wife; but she bravely hid her disappointment.

"Do come; please do," she urged him.

They all left the church together. Christine walked between the two men down the long aisle; she did not feel a bit as if she had been married; she wondered if soon she was going to wake up and find that she had dreamt it all.

There was a taxi waiting at the church door. She got in, and both men followed. Jimmy sat beside her, but he talked to Sangster all the way.

He was terribly nervous; he kept twisting and torturing the new pair of grey gloves which he had never put on; they were all out of shape and creased long before taxi stopped again at the quiet restaurant where they were to lunch.