The Second Honeymoon.

by Ruby M. Ayres.

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 gla.s.s with critical eyes.

Jimmy was feeling very pleased with himself in particular and the world in general. He was young, and quite pa.s.sably 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sage.

At the top a door on the right was partly open. A bar of yellow light streamed out into the pa.s.sage. A little flush crept into Challoner's youthful face. He pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ce 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 d.i.c.kens was she, he asked himself?