Double Harness

Eva was wondering at Jeremy. Of course he had said nothing of the news to her; indeed she knew nothing explicit of Dora Hutting--she had heard only a hint or two from her mother. But this evening there was a difference in Jeremy. Hitherto an air of hesitation had hung about him; when he had said anything--well, anything rather marked--he would often retreat from it, or smooth it down, or give it some ordinary (and rather disappointing) explanation in the next sentence. He alternated between letting himself go and bringing himself up with a jerk. This demeanour had its interesting side for Eva, but it had also been rather disquieting; sometimes it had seemed almost to rebuke her for listening to the first sentence without displeasure, since the first had been open to the interpretation which the second so hastily disclaimed. In fact Jeremy's conscience had kept interposing remarks between the observations of another faculty in Jeremy. The result had not been h.o.m.ogeneous. Conscience spoils love-making; it should either let it alone, or in the proper cases prevent it altogether.

This evening things had changed. His chagrin and his relief--his grudge against Dora and her curate, and his sense of recovered liberty--joined forces. He did not let the gra.s.s grow under his feet. He engaged in the primeval art of courting without hesitation or reserve. His eyes spoke in quick glances, his fingers sought excuses for transient touches. He criticised Eva, obviously meaning praise where with mock audacity he ventured on depreciation. Eva had been sewing embroidery; Jeremy must have the process explained, and be shown how to do it. To be sure, it was rather dark--they had to lean down together to get the firelight.

His fingers were very awkward indeed, and needed a lot of arranging.

Eva's clear laugh rang out over this task, and Jeremy pretended to be very much hurt. Then, suddenly, Eva saw a line on his hand, and had to tell him what it meant. They started on palmistry, and Jeremy enjoyed himself immensely. The last Christine saw was when he had started to tell Eva's fortune, and was holding her hand in his, inventing nonsense, and not inventing it very well.

Well or ill, what did it matter? Old or new, it mattered less. The whole thing was very old, the process as well ascertained as the most primitive method ever used in Jeremy's dyeing works. "Poor children!"

breathed Christine, as she stole softly away towards the hall door. She could not stand there and look on and listen any more. Not because to listen was mean, but because it had become intolerable. She was ready to sob as she let herself out silently from the house of love into the chilly outer air. She left them to their pleasure, and set her face homewards. But her mind and her heart were full of what she had seen--of the beauty and the pity of it; for must not the beauty be so short-lived? Had not she too known the rapture of that advancing flood of feeling--yes, though the flood flowed where it should not? How the memories came back--and with

A man came full beneath the light of a street-lamp. It was a figure she could never forget nor mistake. It was Frank Caylesham. He saw her, and raised his hat, half-stopping, waiting her word to stop. She gave an involuntary little cry, almost hysterical.

"Fancy meeting you just now!" she gasped.

CHAPTER XIX

IN THE CORNER

Christine had neither desire to avoid nor strength to refuse the encounter. Her emotions had been stirred by what she had seen at Kate Raymore's; they demanded some expression. Her heart went forth to a friend, forgetting any bitterness which attached to the friends.h.i.+p. The old attraction claimed her. When Caylesham said that it was quite dark and there was no reason why he should not escort her, she agreed readily, and was soon babbling to him about Eva and Jeremy. She put her arm in his, talked merrily, and seemed very young and fresh as she turned her face up to his and joked fondly about the young people. None of the embarra.s.sment which had afflicted her visit to his flat hung about her now. She had somebody she could talk to freely at last, and was happy in his society. It was a holiday--with a holiday's irresponsibility about it. He understood her mood; he was always quick to understand at the time, though very ready to forget what the feeling must have been and what it must continue to be when he had gone. He shared her tenderness, her pity, and her amus.e.m.e.nt at the youthful venturers. They talked gaily for a quarter of an hour, Christine not noticing which way they went. Then a pause came.

"Are we going right?" she asked.

"Well, not quite straight home," he laughed.

"Oh, but we must," she said with a sigh. He nodded and took a turn leading more directly to her house.

"I hear things are much better with John. I met Grantley and he told me they were in much better shape."

"Thanks to Grantley Imason and you. Yes, and you."

"I was very glad to do it. Oh, it's nothing. I can trust old John, you know."

"Yes; he'll pay you back. Still it was good of you." She lifted her eyes to his. "He knows, Frank," she said.

"The devil he does!" Caylesham was startled and smiled wryly.

"I don't know why I told you that. I suppose I had to talk to somebody.

Yes; Harriet Courtland told him--you remember she knew? He made her angry by lecturing her about Tom, and she told him."

"He knows, by Jove, does he?" He pulled at his moustache; she pressed his arm lightly. "But, I say, he's taken the money!" He looked at her in a whimsical perplexity.

"So you may imagine what it is to me."

"But he's taken the money!"

"How could he refuse it? It would have meant ruin. Oh, he didn't know when he sent me to you--he'd never have done that."

"But he knew when he kept it?"

"Yes, he knew then. He couldn't let it go when once he'd got it, you see. Poor old John!"

"Well, that's a rum thing!" Caylesham's code was infringed by John's action--that was plain: but his humour was tickled too. "How did he--well, how did he take it?"

"Awful!" she answered with a s.h.i.+ver.

"But I say, you know, he kept the money, Christine."

"That makes no difference--or makes it worse. Oh, I can't tell you!"

"It doesn't make it worse for you anyhow. It gives you the whip hand, doesn't it?"

She did not heed him; she was set on pouring out her own story.

"It's dreadful at home, Frank. Of course I oughtn't to talk to you _of_ all people. But I've had two months and more of it now."

"He's not unkind to you?"

"If he was, what do I deserve? Oh, don't be fierce. He doesn't throw things at me, like Harriet Courtland, or beat me. But I----" She burst into a little laugh. "I'm stood in the corner all the time, Frank."

"Poor old Christine!"

"He won't be friends. He keeps me off. I never touch his hand, or anything."

A long-dormant jealousy stirred in Caylesham.

"Well, do you want to?" he asked rather brusquely.

"Oh, that's all very well, but imagine living like that! There's n.o.body to speak to. I'm in disgrace. He doesn't talk about it, but he talks round it, you know. Sometimes he forgets for five minutes. Then I say something cheerful. Then he remembers and--and sends me back to my corner." Her rueful laugh was not far from a sob. "It's awfully humiliating," she ended, "and--and most frightfully dull."

"But how can he----?"

"One good scene would have been so much more endurable. But all day and every day!"

Caylesham was amused, vexed, exasperated.

"But, good heavens, it's not as if it was an ordinary case. Remember what he's done! Why do you stand it?"

"How can I help it? I did the thing, didn't I?"

His voice rose a little in his impatience.

"But he's taken my money. He's living on it. It's saved him. By gad, how can he say anything to you after that? Haven't you got your answer? Why don't you remind him gently of that?"

"That would hurt him so dreadfully."

"Well, doesn't he hurt you?"