The Second Honeymoon Part 43

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.

n.o.body 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 pa.s.s 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 d.a.m.ned 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 a.s.sure 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 pa.s.sion. "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 pa.s.sion. "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.