Ruby M. Ayres - The Second Honeymoon

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THE SECOND HONEYMOON

by

RUBY M. AYRES

Author of A Bachelor Husband, The Scar, Etc.

New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1921, by
W. J. Watt & Company

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I THE PAST INTERVENES
II JILTED!
III THE TWO WOMEN
IV JIMMY GETS NEWS
V SANGSTER TAKES A HAND
VI JIMMY DEMANDS THE TRUTH
VII LOVE AND POVERTY
VIII THE SECOND ENGAGEMENT
IX MOTHERLESS
X JIMMY HAS A VISITOR
XI HUSBAND AND WIFE
XII SANGSTER IS CONSULTED
XIII CHRISTINE HEARS THE TRUTH
XIV BITTERNESS
XV SANGSTER SPEAKS IN RIDDLES
XVI THE PAST RETURNS
XVII JIMMY BREAKS OUT
XVIII KETTERING HEARS SOMETHING
XIX A CHANCE MEETING
XX LOVE LOCKED OUT
XXI THE COMPACT
XXII TOO LATE!
XXIII THE UNEXPECTED

THE SECOND HONEYMOON

CHAPTER I

THE PAST INTERVENES

James Challoner, known to his friends and intimates as Jimmy, brushed
an imaginary speck of dust from the shoulder of his dinner jacket, and
momentarily stopped his cheery whistling to stare at himself in the
glass with critical eyes.

Jimmy was feeling very pleased with himself in particular and the world
in general. He was young, and quite passably good-looking, he had
backed a couple of winners that day for a nice little sum, and he was
engaged to a woman with whom he had been desperately in love for at
least three months.

Three months was a long time for Jimmy Challoner to be in love (as a
rule, three days was the outside limit which he allowed himself), but
this--well, this was the real thing at last--the real, romantic thing
of which author chaps and playwright Johnnies wrote; the thing which
sweeps a man clean off his feet and paints the world with rainbow tints.

Jimmy Challoner was sure of it. His usually merry eyes sobered a
little as he met their solemn reflection in the mirror. He took up a
silver-backed brush and carefully smoothed down a kink of hair which
stood aggressively erect above the rest. It was a confounded nuisance,
that obstinate wave in his hair, making him look like a poet or a
drawing-room actor.

Not that he objected to actors and the stage in the very least; on the
contrary, he had the profoundest admiration for them, at which one
could hardly wonder seeing that Cynthia--bless her heart!--was at
present playing lead in one of the suburban theatres, and that at that
very moment a pass for the stage box reposed happily in an inner pocket
of his coat.

Cynthia was fast making a name for herself. In his adoring eyes she
was perfect, and in his blissful heart he was confident that one day
all London would be talking about her. Her photographs would be In
every shop window, and people would stand all day outside the pit and
gallery to cheer her on first nights.

When he voiced these sentiments to Cynthia herself, she only laughed
and called him a "silly boy"; but he knew that she was pleased to hear
them all the same.

Jimmy Challoner gave a last look at his immaculate figure, took up his
coat and gloves and went out.

He called a taxi and gave the address of the suburban theatre before he
climbed in out of the chilly night and sat back in a corner.

Jimmy Challoner was quite young, and very much in love; so much in love
that as yet he had not penetrated the rouge and grease-paint of life
and discovered the very ordinary material that lies beneath it. The
glare of the footlights still blinded him. Like a child who is taken
for the first time to a pantomime, he did not realise that their
brilliance is there in order to hide imperfections.

He was so perfectly happy that he paid the driver double fare when he
reached the theatre. An attentive porter hurried forward.

Just at the moment Jimmy Challoner was very well known in that
particular neighbourhood; he was generous with his tips for one thing,
and for another he had a cheery personality which went down with most
people.

He went round to the stage door as if he were perfectly at home there,
as indeed he was. The doorkeeper bade him a respectful good evening,
and asked no questions as he went on and up the chill stone passage.

At the top a door on the right was partly open. A bar of yellow light
streamed out into the passage. A little flush crept into Challoner's
youthful face. He passed a hand once more nervously over the
refractory kink before he went forward and knocked.

A preoccupied voice said, "Come in."

Challoner obeyed. He stood for a moment just inside the door without
speaking.

It was not a very large room, and the first impression it gave one was
that it was frightfully overcrowded.

Every chair and table seemed littered with frocks and furbelows. Every
available space on the walls was covered with pictures and photographs
and odds and ends. The room was brilliantly lit, and at a
dressing-table strewn with make-up boxes and a hundred and one toilet
requisites, a girl was reading a letter.

At first glance she looked very young. She was small and dainty, with
clearly cut features and beautiful hair, the most beautiful hair in all
the world Jimmy Challoner thought for the thousandth time as he stood
in the doorway looking across at her with his foolish heart in his
eyes. She seemed to feel his gaze, for she turned sharply. Then she
drew in her breath hard, and hurriedly thrust the letter away in a
drawer as she rose to her feet.

"You!" she said; then, "Jimmy, didn't--didn't you get my letter?"

Challoner went forward. His confident smile had faded a little at the
unusual greeting. It was impossible not to realise that he was not
exactly welcome.

"No, I haven't had a letter," he said rather blankly. "What did you
write about? Is anything the matter?"

She laughed rather constrainedly. "No--at least, I can't explain now."
Her eyes sought his face rather furtively. "I'm in a hurry. Come
round after the first act, will you?--that's the longest interval. You
won't mind being sent away now, will you? I am due on almost directly."

She held her hand to him. "Silly boy! don't frown like that."

Challoner took the hand and drew her nearer to him. "I'm not going
till you've kissed me."

There was a touch of masterfulness in his boyish voice. Cynthia Farrow
half sighed, and for a moment a little line of pain bent her brows, but
the next moment she was smiling.

"Very well, just one, and be careful of the powder."

Challoner kissed her right on the lips. "Did you get my flowers? I
sent roses."

"Yes, thank you so much, they are lovely."

She glanced across the room to where several bouquets lay on the table.
Challoner's was only one of them.

That was what he hated--having to stand by and allow other men to
shower presents on her.

He let her go and walked over to the table where the flowers lay. He
was still frowning. Across the room Cynthia Farrow watched him rather
anxiously.

A magnificent cluster of orchids lay side by side with his own bouquet
of roses; he bent and looked at the card; a little flush crept into his
cheek.

"Mortlake again! I hate that fellow. It's infernal cheek of him to
send you flowers when he knows that you're engaged to me----"

He looked round at her. She was standing leaning against the littered
dressing-table, eyes down-cast.

There was a moment of silence, then; Challoner went back and took her
in his arms.

"I know I'm a jealous brute, but I can't stand it when these other
fellows send you things."

"You promised me you wouldn't mind."

"I know, but--oh, confound it!" A faint tap at the door was followed
by the entrance of a dresser. Challoner moved away.

"After the first act, then," he said.

"Yes." But she did not look at him.

He went away disconsolately and round to the stage box. He was
conscious of a faint depression. Cynthia had not been pleased to see
him--had not been expecting him. Something was the matter. He had
vexed her. What had she written to him about, he wondered?

He looked round the house anxiously. It was well filled and his brow
cleared. He hated Cynthia to have to play to a poor house--she was so
wonderful!

A lady in the stalls below bowed to him. Challoner stared, then
returned the bow awkwardly.

Who the dickens was she, he asked himself?

She was middle-aged and grey-haired, and she had a girl in a white
frock sitting beside her.

They were both looking up at him and smiling. There was something
eagerly expectant in the girl's face.

Challoner felt embarrassed. He was sure that he ought to know who they
were, but for the life of him he could not think. He met so many
people in his rather aimless life it was impossible to remember them
all.

His eyes turned to them again and again. There was something very
familiar in the face of the elder woman--something---- Challoner knit
his brows. Who the dickens----

The lights went down here, and he forgot all about them as the curtains
rolled slowly up on Cynthia's first act.

Challoner almost knew the play by heart, but he followed it all
eagerly, word by word, as if he had never seen it before, till the big
velvet curtains fell together again, and a storm of applause broke the
silence.

Challoner rose hastily. He had just opened the door of the box to go
to Cynthia when an attendant entered. He carried a note on a tray.

"For you, sir."

Challoner took it wonderingly. It was written in pencil on a page torn
from a pocket-book.

"A lady in the stalls gave it to me, sir," the attendant explained,
vaguely apologetic.

Jimmy unfolded the little slip of paper, and read the faintly pencilled
words. "Won't you come and speak to us, or have you quite forgotten
the old days at Upton House?"

Challoner's face flashed into eager delight. What an idiot he had been
not to recognise them. How could he have ever forgotten them? Of
course, the girl in the white frock was Christine, whose mother had
given his boyhood all it had ever known of home life!

Of course, he had not seen them for years, but--dash it all! what an
ungrateful brute they must think him!

For the moment even Cynthia was forgotten in the sudden excitement of
this meeting with old friends. Challoner rushed off to the stalls.

"I knew it must be you," Christine's mother said, as Jimmy dropped into
an empty seat beside her. "Christine saw you first, but we knew you
had not the faintest notion as to who we were, although you bowed so
politely," she added laughing.

"I'm ashamed, positively ashamed," Jimmy admitted, blushing
ingenuously. "But I am delighted--simply delighted to see you and
Christine again--I suppose it is Christine," he submitted doubtfully.

The girl in the white frock smiled. "Yes, and I knew you at once," she
said.

Challoner was conscious of a faint disappointment as he looked at her.
She had been such a pretty kid. She had hardly fulfilled all the
promise she had given of being an equally pretty woman, he thought
critically, not realising that it was the vivid colouring of Cynthia
Farrow that had for the moment at least spoilt him for paler beauty.

Christine was very pale and a little nervous-looking. Her eyes--such
beautiful brown eyes they were--showed darkly against her fair skin.
Her hair was brown, too, dead brown, very straight and soft.

"By Jove! it's ripping to see you again after all this time," Jimmy
Challoner broke out again eagerly. He looked at the mother rather than
the daughter, for though he and Christine had been sweethearts for a
little while in her pinafore days, Jimmy Challoner had adored Mrs.
Wyatt right up to the time when, in his first Eton coat, he had said
good-bye to her to go to school and walked right out of their lives.

"And what are you doing now, Jimmy?" Mrs. Wyatt asked him. "I suppose
I may still call you Jimmy?" she said playfully.

"Rather! please do! I'm not doing anything, as a matter of fact,"
Challoner explained rather vaguely. "I've got rooms in the Temple, and
the great Horatio sends me a quarterly allowance, and expects me not to
live beyond it." He made a little grimace. "You remember my brother
Horace, of course!"

"Of course I do! Is he still abroad?"

"Yes, he'll never come back now; not that I want him to," Jimmy
hastened to add, with one of those little inward qualms that shook him
whenever he thought of his brother, and what that brother would say
when he knew that he was shortly to be asked to accept Cynthia Farrow
as a sister-in-law.

The great Horatio, as Jimmy disrespectfully called the head of his
family, loathed the stage. It was his one dread that some day the
blueness of his blood might run the risk of taint by being even
remotely connected with one of its members.

"He's not married, of course?" Mrs. Wyatt asked.

Challoner chuckled. "Married! Good Lord, no!" He leaned a little
forward to look at Christine.

"And you?" he asked. "Has the perfect man come along yet?"

It had been an old joke of his in the far away days, that Christine
would never marry until she found a perfect man. She had always had
such quaintly romantic fancies behind the seriousness of her beautiful
brown eyes.

She flushed now, shaking her head. "And you?" she asked. "Are you
married?"

Challoner said "No" very quickly. He wondered whether he ought to tell
them about Cynthia. The thought reminded him of his promise to go to
her after the first act. He rose hastily to his feet.

"I quite forgot. I've got an appointment. If you'll excuse me, I'll
come back, if I may."

He bowed himself off. Christine's beautiful eyes followed him
wistfully.

"I never thought he'd be half so good-looking when he grew up," she
said. "And yet somehow he hasn't altered much, has he?"

"He hasn't altered in manner in the least," Mrs. Wyatt laughed. "Fancy
him remembering about your perfect man, Christine? We must ask him to
dinner one night while we are in London. How funny, meeting him like
this. I always liked him so much. I wonder he hasn't got married,
though--a charming boy like that!" But her voice sounded as if she
were rather pleased to find Challoner still a bachelor.

"I don't know why he should be married," Christine said. "He's not
very old--only twenty-seven, mother."

"Is that all? Yes, I suppose he is--the time goes so quickly."

Challoner, meanwhile, had raced off to the back of the stage. He could
not imagine how on earth he had even for one second forgotten his
appointment. He was flushed with remorse and eagerness when he reached
Cynthia's room.

A dresser was retouching her hair. Challoner waited impatiently till
Cynthia sent her away. It occurred to him that she was deliberately
detaining her. He bit his lip.

But at last she was dismissed, and the door had hardly closed before he
stepped forward.

"Darling!" his eager arms were round her. "Are you angry with me? Did
you think I had forgotten? I met some old friends--at least, they
spotted me from the stalls and sent a note, and, of course, I had to go
and speak to them."

She was standing rather stiffly within the circle of his arms.

"You're not wild with me?" he asked in a whisper. "I'm so sorry. If
you knew how badly I wanted to see you."

He kissed her lips.

She was singularly unresponsive, though for a moment she let her head
rest against his shoulder. Then she raised it and moved away.

"Jimmy, I want to talk to you. No, stay there," as he made a little
eager movement to follow. "Stay there; I can't talk to you if you
won't be sensible."

"I am sensible." Challoner dragged up a chair and sat straddled across
it, his arms on the back, looking at her with ardent eyes. She kept
her own averted. She seemed to find it hard to begin what it was she
wanted to say. She stood beside the dressing-table absently fingering
the trinkets lying there. Among them was a portrait of Challoner in a
silver frame. The pictured eyes seemed to be watching her as she stood
trying to avoid the human ones. With sudden exasperation she turned.

"Jimmy, you'll hate me--you'll--oh, why didn't you get my letter?" she
broke out vehemently. "I explained so carefully, I----" she stopped.

There was a little silence. Challoner rose to his feet. He was rather
white about the lips. There was a dawning apprehension in his eyes.

"Go on," he said. "What is it you--you can't--can't tell me?"

But he knew already, knew before she told him with desperate candour.

"I can't marry you, Jimmy, I'm sorry, but--but I can't--that's all."

The silence fell again. Behind the closed door in the crowded theatre
the orchestra suddenly broke into a ragtime. Challoner found himself
listening to it dully. Everything felt horribly unreal. It almost
seemed like a scene in a play--this hot, crowded room; the figure of
the woman opposite in her expensive stage gown, and--himself!

A long glass on the wall opposite reflected both their figures. Jimmy
Challoner met his mirrored eyes, and a little wave of surprise filled
him when he saw how white he was. He pulled himself together with a
desperate effort. He tried to find his voice.

Suddenly he heard it, cracked, strained, asking a one-word question.

"Why?"

She did not answer at once. She had turned away again. She was
aimlessly opening and shutting a little silver powder-box lying amongst
the brushes and make-up. All his life Jimmy Challoner remembered the
little clicking noise it made.

He could see nothing of her face. He made a sudden passionate movement
towards her.

"Cynthia, in God's name why--why?"

He laid his hands on her shoulders. She wriggled free of his touch.
For an instant she seemed to be deliberately weighing something in her
mind. Then at last she spoke.

"Because--because my husband is still living."

"Still--living!" Jimmy Challoner echoed the words stupidly. He passed
a hand over his eyes. He felt dazed. After a moment he laughed. He
groped backwards for a chair and dropped into it.

"Still--living! Are you--are you _sure_?"

So it was not that she did not love him. His first thought was one of
utter relief--thank God, it was not that!

She put the little silver box down with a sort of impatience. "Yes,"
she said. She spoke so softly he could hardly catch the monosyllable.

Challoner leaned his head in his hands. He was trying desperately to
think, to straighten out this hopeless tangle in his brain, but
everything was confused.

Of course, he knew that she had been married before--knew that years
and years ago, before she had really known her own mind, she had
married a man--a worthless waster--who had left her within a few months
of their marriage. She had told him this herself, quite
straightforwardly. Told him, too, that the man was dead.

And after all he was still living!

The knowledge hammered against his brain, but as yet he could not
realise its meaning. Cynthia went on jerkily.

"I only knew--yesterday. I wrote to you. I--at first I thought it
could not be true. But--but now I know it is. Oh, why don't you say
something--anything?" she broke out passionately.

Challoner looked up. "What can I say, if this is true?"

"It is true," her face was flushed. There was a hard look in her eyes
as if she were trying to keep back tears. After a moment she moved
over to where he sat and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Jimmy Challoner turned his head and kissed it.

"Don't take it so badly, Jimmy. It's--it's worse for me," her voice
broke. A cleverer man than Jimmy Challoner might have heard the little
theatrical touch in the words, but Jimmy was too genuinely miserable
himself to be critical.

At the first sob he was on his feet. He put his arms round her; he
laid his cheek against her hair; but he did not kiss her. Afterwards
he wondered what instinct it was that kept him from kissing her. He
broke out into passionate protestations.

"I can't give you up. There must be some way out for us all. You
don't love him, and you do care for me. It can't be true, it's--it's
some abominable trick to part us, Cynthia."

"It is true," she said again. "It is true."

She drew away from him. She began to cry, carefully, so as not to
spoil her make-up. She hid her face in her hands. Once she looked at
him through her white fingers to see how he was taking it. Jimmy
Challoner was taking it very badly indeed. He stood biting his lip
hard. His hands were clenched.

"For God's sake don't cry," he broke out at length. "It drives me mad
to see you cry. I'll find a way out. We should have been so happy. I
can't give you up."

He spoke incoherently and stammeringly. He was really very much in
love, and now the thought of separation was a burning glass, magnifying
that love a thousandfold.

There were voices outside. Cynthia hastily dried her eyes. She did
not look as if she had been crying very bitterly.

"That's my call. I shall have to go. Don't keep me now. I'll write,
Jimmy. I'll see you again."

"You promise me that, whatever happens?"

"I promise." He caught her fingers and kissed them. "Darling, I'll
come back for you when the show's over. I can't bear to leave you like
this. You do love me?"

"Do you need to ask?"

The words were an evasion, but he did not notice it. He went back to
the stage box feeling as if the world had come to an end.

He forgot all about the Wyatts in the stalls below. Christine's brown
eyes turned towards him again and again, but he never once looked her
way. His attention was centered on the stage and the woman who played
there.

She was so beautiful he could never give her up, he told himself
passionately. With each moment her charm seemed to grow. He watched
her with despairing eyes; life without her was a crude impossibility.
He could not imagine existence in a world where he might not love her.
That other fellow--curse the other fellow!--he ground his teeth in
impotent rage.

The brute had deserted her years ago and left her to starve. He had
not the smallest claim on her How. By the time the play was ended
Jimmy Challoner had worked himself into a white heat of rage and
despair.

Christine Wyatt, glancing once more towards him as the curtain rose for
the final call, wondered a little at the tense, unyielding attitude of
his tall figure. He was standing staring at the stage as if for him
there was nothing else in all the world. She stifled a little sigh as
she turned to put on her cloak.

The house was still applauding and clamouring for Cynthia to show
herself again. Challoner waited. He loved to see her come before the
curtain--loved the little graceful way she bowed to her audience.

But to-night he waited in vain, and when at last he pushed his way
round to the stage door it was only to be told that Miss Farrow had
left the theatre directly the play was over.

Challoner's heart stood still for a moment. She had done this
deliberately to avoid him, he was sure. He asked an agitated question.

"Did she--did she go alone?"

The doorkeeper answered without looking at him, "There was a gent with
her, sir--Mr. Mortlake, I think."

Challoner went out into the night blindly. He had to pass the theatre
to get back to the main street. Mrs. Wyatt and Christine were just
entering a taxi. Christine saw him. She touched his arm diffidently
as he passed.

"Jimmy!"

Challoner pulled up short. He would have avoided them had it been at
all possible.

Mortlake! she had gone with that brute, whilst he--he answered Mrs.
Wyatt mechanically.

"Thanks--thanks very much. I was going to walk, but if you will be so
kind as to give me a lift."

He really hardly knew what he was saying. He took off his hat and
passed a hand dazedly across his forehead before he climbed into the
taxi and found himself sitting beside Christine.

He forced himself to try to make conversation. "Well, and how did you
enjoy the play?"

It was a ghastly effort to talk. He wondered if they would notice how
strange his manner was.

"Immensely," Mrs. Wyatt told him. "I've heard so much about Cynthia
Farrow, but never seen her before. She certainly is splendid."

"She's the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," said Christine.

Challoner shot her a grateful look. Most women were cats and never had
a word of praise for one of their own sex. He felt slightly comforted.

"If you've nothing better to do, Jimmy," said Mrs. Wyatt, "won't you
come back to the hotel and have some supper with us? We are only up in
town for a fortnight. Do come if you can."

Challoner said he would be delighted. He was very young in some ways.
He had not the smallest intention of calling on Cynthia that night. He
wished savagely that she could know what he was doing; know that in
spite of everything he was not breaking his heart for her.

She was with that brute Mortlake; well, he was not going to spend the
next hour or two alone with only his thoughts for company.

He wondered where Cynthia had gone, and if she had known all along that
Mortlake was calling for her. He ground his teeth.

The two women were talking together. They did not seem to notice his
silence. Christine's voice reminded him a little of Cynthia's; a
sudden revulsion of feeling flooded his heart.

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