"Good morning." Parker was too dazed to return the politeness.
Ronnie shook his head smilingly when the porter opened the gate of the automatic elevator. He would walk, he said, and went up the stairs two at a time. This exercise tired him slightly. And usually he felt so strong, nothing tired him. That day he lifted Moropulos and flung him on his bed. Moropulos had hated him ever since.
"What am I thinking about?" said Ronnie Morelle aloud.
François was not in. Ronnie had expected him to be there and yet would have been surprised had he seen him. There was a letter lying on the table. Ronnie saw it when he entered the room. He did not look at it again for some time. Strolling aimlessly round the library, hands in pockets, he stopped before the Anthony over the mantelpiece—ugly and a little unpleasant. He made a little grimace of disgust. Out of the tail of his eye he saw the letter. Why did people write to him, he wondered, troubled? They knew that he couldn't read, he made no secret of his ignorance. Yet, picking up the envelope, he read his own name and was unaware of his inconsistency. The letter was from François. His brother had arrived. He had gone to the station to meet him and would return instantly. Would Monsieur excuse? It was unlikely that monsieur would return before him, but if he did, would he be pleased to excuse. He wrote "excuse" three times and in three different ways, and they were all wrong. Ronald laughed softly. Poor François! poor—
His face became grave and slowly his eyes went back to the Anthony, that lewd painting.
Poor soul! His eyes filled with tears. They rolled with the curious leisure of tears down his face, and dropped on the gray suede waistcoat.
Poor soul! Poor weak, undeveloped soul!
Ronnie was sitting on the Chesterfield to read the letter. François, coming in hurriedly, saw a man crying into the crook of his arm and stood petrified.
"M'sieur!"
Ronnie looked up. His eyes were swollen, his smooth skin blotchily red in patches.
"Hello, François. I'm being stupid. Get me a glass of water, please."
His hand was shaking so that he could hardly hold the glass to his chattering teeth.
François watched and marvelled.
"Did you meet your brother?" Ronnie was drying his eyes and smiling faintly at the valet's grotesque dismay.
"Yes, M'sieur, I hope that m'sieur was not inconvenienced—"
Ronnie shook his head.
"No—make me something. Coffee or tea—anything—have you brought your brother here?"
"Oh, no, M'sieur."
"You will want to see him, François. You may take the rest of the day off."
"Certainly, M'sieur," said François, recovering himself. His services were seldom dispensed with until later in the day. Possibly his employer had excellent reason.
Ronnie did not hear the bell ring and until he caught the click of the lock and the sound of voices in the lobby, he had no idea that he had a caller.
François came in alone, secretive, low-voiced.
"It is Mister East, M'sieur: Yesterday was the day, but m'sieur forgot," he said mysteriously.
"Yesterday was—what day?" Ronnie rubbed his chin with a knuckle. How stupid of him to forget!
"Ask him to come in please."
François hesitated, but went, returning with a thin young man whose face seemed all angles and bosses. He was well dressed, a little too well dressed. His plastered hair was parted and one fringe curled like a wave of black ink that had been petrified just as it was in the act of breaking on the yellow beach of his forehead.
He had a way of holding back his head so that he looked down his nose in whatever direction his gaze was turned.
"Morning," he said coldly and cleared his throat.
"Good morning?" Ronnie's tone was polite but inquisitive.
"I called yesterday but nobody was in," said Mr. East, gently stern.
"Why did you call at all?" asked Ronnie.
A look of amazement toning to righteous anger from Mr. East.
"Why did I call at all?" he repeated. "To give you a chance of actin' the man; to collect what is due to a poor girl that was—"
"To commit blackmail, in fact?" smiled Ronnie. (He was quick to smile today.)
"Eh?"
"I remember—I have given you money every week, ostensibly for your sister. Tell her to come and see me."
"What! Her come to see you? In this, what I might term, den of iniquity? No! I don't allow you to see the poor girl. And as for blackmail, didn't you, of your own free will, offer to pay?"
Mr. East had grown red in the face, he was indignant, hurt, and soon would be pugnacious.
Ronnie got to his feet and the listening François heard the door open.
"Get out, please," said Ronnie pleasantly. "I don't wish to hurt you—but get out."
The man was speechless.
"I am going to a lawyer," he blustered, "I won't soil my hands with you."
"I think you are very wise," said Ronnie and closed the door on him.
On the mat outside, Mr. East stood for at least five minutes thinking, or trying to think.
"He's been drinking!" he said hollowly, and, had he consulted Parker, his suspicions would have received support.
François heard his employer's summons and came from his tiny compartment.
"I am going out," said Ronnie.
"I will telephone for the car, M'sieur," but Ronnie shook his head.
"I will walk," he said. "You need not wait, François. Have I a key?"
"Yes, M'sieur," wonderingly, "it is on the chain of m'sieur."
Ronnie pulled a bunch from his pocket.
"Which is it—this?"
"Certainly, M'sieur."
"You need not wait," said Ronnie again. "I do not know when I shall be in."
"Good, M'sieur."
Well might François wonder, for Ronnie was speaking in French, the French of a man who had lived with French people. And Ronald Morelle, though he had a knowledge of that language, never spoke it, or if he did, his accent was bad and his vocabulary limited.
It was eight o'clock at night when Ronnie returned. The flat was in darkness and was chilly. He turned on the lights before he closed the door and had a difficulty in finding the switch. It took him a longer time to locate the controls of the electric stove in the fireplace. They were skilfully hidden.
In the kitchenette he lit a gas-ring and filling a copper kettle, set the water to boil.
François, in his hurry to meet his brother that morning, had forgotten to dust the black writing table. Ronnie found a duster and remedied his man's neglect.
By the time he had finished, the kettle was boiling. The tea was in a little wooden box; the sugar he found on another shelf—there was no milk. Ronnie put on his coat and with a jug in his hand, went out to find a dairy. The hall porter saw a man in a silk hat and wasp-waisted overcoat passing his lodge, and came out hurriedly.
"Excuse me, Mr. Morelle. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"I want some milk," said Ronnie simply, "but please don't trouble; there is a dairy in the Brompton Road, I remember seeing the place."
"They will be closed now, sir," said the porter. "If you give me the jug, I'll get some for you."
He took the vessel and made a flat-to-flat canvass and was successful in his quest.
When Ronnie opened the door to the porter, Ronnie was in his shirt-sleeves and he had a broom in his hand. He explained pleasantly that he had upset a can of flour. François occasionally prepared an omelette for his master.
"If you'll let me sweep it up—" began the porter, but Ronnie declined the offer.
With a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter he made a meal, cleared away the remnants of the feast and washed and dried the utensils.
Then he sat down to pass the evening. The book-shelves were bewilderingly interesting. He took out a book. Greek! Of course, he read Greek and this was the Memorabilia; its margins covered with pencil notes in his own handwriting!
Presently he replaced the book and tried to reduce the events of the day to some sort of order. The execution!
What happened outside the execution shed?
He had looked into the eyes of the condemned man and suddenly the placid current of his mind had been disturbed as by a mighty wind. And standing there he had watched something being taken into the death house; whose uncouth body was it that hung strapped and strangled in the brick pit? Ambrose Sault's?
He remembered a second of painful experience when he had a confused memory of strange people and places, queer earthquake memories. He recollected having been flogged by a red-haired brute of a man who wielded a strap; he recalled a dim-lit cell and the pale blue eyes of a clergyman who was pleading with him; of a woman, dark-faced and thick-lipped—his mother?—he remembered the past of Ambrose Sault! He had been Ambrose Sault in those ten seconds, with all the consciousness of Sault's life, all the passion of Sault's faith. And then the weighted traps had fallen with a thunderous clap and he was Ronald Morelle again—only different.
Yet he was not wholly conscious of the difference. What a strange business it was! How was humanity served by that ritual of death? His heart melted within him as in a vivid flash he saw the blank despair of the trussed victim of the law shuffling forward to annihilation. He was being weak—but, oh God, how sad, how unutterably sad! He sobbed into his hands and was pained at the futility of his grief. Poor soul! Poor, mean, smirched soul! How vilely it had served the beautiful body which was its habitation!
He looked up frowning, his tear-stained face puckered in perplexity. Beautiful body? Ambrose Sault was gross, uncouth. And by all accounts a good man. Even Steppe admired his principles. Why should principles be admired? It was natural to be honest and clean.
He had left the door of the pantry ajar; the shrill sound of the bell brought him to his feet.
He waited to wipe his face and the bell rang again impatiently.
"My friend, you must wait," said Ronnie.
A third time the bell rang before he opened the door.
Steppe filled the doorway, the expanse of his shirt-front showed like a great white heart, against the gloom of his evening dress.
"Hello. You're in, huh? Long time answering the bell—I suppose you've got somebody here."
He looked around. The only light in the room was the shaded table-lamp. Ronnie had extinguished the others before he sat down.
"The wicked love the darkness, huh, huh!" Steppe chuckled, and then looking past him, Ronnie saw that he was not alone. Beryl waited at the door and behind her was Dr. Merville.
"Get dressed and come out," commanded Steppe noisily. "What's the matter with all you people, huh? Come along. We're going to a theatre. You're as bad as Beryl, sitting in the dark. You overbred people think too much."
"May we come in, Ronnie?" asked Beryl.
It was very likely that Steppe's crude suggestion was justified. She had no illusions about Ronnie.
"Come in? Of course you can come in," said Steppe scornfully. "Now hurry, Morelle. We'll give you ten minutes—and put some lights on."
"There is enough light."
Ronnie's voice was calm and deep. Steppe, turning to find the switch, swung back again and peered at his face.
"What's that?" he asked sharply. "I said there wasn't—what have you done to your voice? Here!"
He walked across the room and ran his hand down the three switches.
Ronnie screwed up his eyes to meet the painful brilliance.
He saw Beryl's look of surprise, met the stare of the big man.
"He's been crying!" bellowed Steppe in delight. "Huh, huh! Look at him, Beryl, sniveling!"
"Mr. Steppe—Jan! How can you!"
"How can I? By God, he's been sniveling! Look at his face, look at his eyes!" Steppe slapped his thigh in an ecstasy of joy. "So it got you, huh? I couldn't understand how a fellow like you could see it, without curling up!"
His coarseness, the malignity, the heartlessness of the man sickened Beryl Merville. But Ronnie—! He was serene, unmoved by the other's taunts, meeting his eyes steadily.
"It was dreadful—so dreadful, Steppe. To see that poor shrieking thing thrust forward, struggling—"
"What!" shouted Steppe, and the girl gasped. "Ambrose Sault—shrieking in fear—"
"You lie!" snarled Steppe. "Sault wasn't that kind. I've seen Maxton and he says he was without fear. You're dreaming, you fool. If it had been you—yes. You'd have squealed—by God! You would have raised Cain! But Ambrose Sault—he was a man. D'ye hear, a man. He's dead and I'm glad. But he was a man."
He held himself in with an effort.
"Get dressed and come out," he ordered roughly.
"I'm so sorry, Ronnie," the girl had come to him, pity and sympathy in her sad face. "It was dreadful for you."
He nodded. "Yes—it was dreadful. I am not coming out tonight, Beryl."
She squeezed his arm gently. "Poor Ronnie!"
"Poor fiddlesticks!" sneered Steppe. "Hurry, cry-baby. I'm not going to wait here all night. What are you afraid of? You shouldn't have seen the damned thing, if you were going to snivel about it. You should have 'Tried the luck'!"
He chuckled as at a joke as he saw the swollen eyes of his victim wander to the bookshelf.
"The luck!" said Ronnie. He was speaking to himself, as he moved to the bookcase.
Beryl saw him take down a worn volume and lay it on the table. He seemed like a man walking in his sleep. Mechanically he took up a miniature sword from a pin tray and held it for a moment in his hand.
"Try the luck!" scoffed Steppe. "Shall I go to the play, shan't I go to the play—dear Lord!"
For the space of a second their eyes met and Beryl, watching, saw the big man start. Then the sword was thrust between the pages and the book opened.
Ronnie looked gloomily at the close-set type—frowned. Then he read slowly, sonorously:
"I will take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke; yet neither shall thou mourn nor weep; neither shall thy tears fall down."
The clock on the mantelpiece struck nine.
A silence, painful and intense, so profound that Beryl's quick breathings were audible.
"I will take away the desires of thine eyes with a stroke—"
"Don't read it again!" cried Steppe harshly. "I'm going—listening to this fool—come on, Beryl."
Turning at the door she saw him still standing at the table. His face was in shadow, his hands white and shapely, outspread upon the leather-covered top; the open book between them.
"He's drunk," said Steppe and she made no reply. Jan Steppe was very preoccupied all that evening, but not so completely oblivious of realities that he did not bargain with the doctor for certain shares in the Klein River Mine. Just before he had left his house Steppe had received a code cable from Johannesburg.
On the morning of Ambrose Sault's execution, Evie found a letter awaiting her at the drug store. Whatever natural unhappiness of feeling she may have had when she left her weeping mother, vanished in the perusal of Ronnie's long epistle. The envelope bore the St. John's Wood postmark, but this she would not have regarded as significant, even if she had noticed it, which she did not.
Not a love letter in the strictest sense; it was too precise and businesslike for that. It gave her certain dates to be cherished, certain instructions to be observed. It went to the length of naming Parisian dressmakers where she might be expeditiously fitted. She was to bring nothing, only a suitcase with bare necessities. A week's stay in Paris would give her all the time she needed to equip herself. It was a trial to her that she would not see Ronnie for a month, not until the great day—she caught her breath at the thought. But he had stipulated this. Ronnie was too keen a student of women to give her the opportunity of changing her mind. His letters could not be argued with, or questioned.
And the month would quickly pass. Teddy Williams was a faithful attendant and, although he could not be compared in any respect with Ronnie, it was pleasant and flattering to extend her patronage to one who hung upon her words and regarded her as an authority upon most subjects.
She had imparted her views on marriage to Teddy, and that young man had been impressed without being convinced.
Ronnie's letter was to be read and re-read. She expected another the next day and, when it did not come, she was disappointed. Yet he had not promised to write; in his letter he had said: "Until you are my very own, I shall live the life of an anchorite."
She looked up "anchorite" and found that it meant "one who retires from society to a desert or solitary place to avoid the temptations of the world and to devote himself to religious exercises," and accepted this as a satisfactory explanation, though she couldn't imagine Ronnie engaging himself in religious exercises.
Life ran normally at home, now that Mr. Sault was dead. Evie had felt very keenly the disgrace of having a lodger who was a murderer. Only the fact that Ronnie knew him, too, and to some extent shared in the general odium, prevented her from enlarging upon the scandal to her mother and Christina. Beyond her comprehension was her sister's remarkable cheerfulness. Christina didn't seem to care whether Mr. Sault was alive or dead. She was her own caustic self and the shadow of her proper woe failed to soften or sadden her.
A week of her waiting had passed before Christina even mentioned the name of Ambrose Sault, and then it was in connection with the disposal of his room. Apparently he had paid his rent for a long period in advance, and Mrs. Colebrook refused to let the room again until the tenancy had expired.
"Mother is being sentimental over Ambrose and his room," said Christina, "but there is no reason why you shouldn't have the room, Evie. You've been aching for privacy as long as I can remember."
Evie shuddered.
"I couldn't sleep there, I'd be afraid he'd haunt me."
"I should be afraid he wouldn't," said Christina, with a little smile. "If you don't like the idea, I will have my bed put in there."
"No, no, please don't, Christina," begged the girl urgently, "I—I prefer to sleep here if you don't mind. I want to be with you as much as I can and I'm out all day."
"And home much earlier. Is it Ronnie or Teddy?"
"I'm seeing a lot of Teddy," replied Evie primly, "he is quite a nice boy."
"And Ronnie?"
"Leave Ronnie alone," Evie turned a good-humored smile to her. "He is too busy to meet me so often."
"Loud cheers," said the ironical Christina. "Evie—why don't you ask him to call here? I should enjoy a chat with him."
"Here?" Evie was incredulous. "How absurd! Ronnie wouldn't dream of coming here."
Christina laughed.
"I won't tease you any more, Evie. Does he ever say anything about Ambrose? He was in the prison when Ambrose was executed."
Evie writhed.
"I wish you wouldn't talk about it, Christina—in such a cold-blooded way—ugh!"
"Does he?"
"I haven't seen him since that—that awful day," she said, "and I'm sure he wouldn't talk about it." Evie hesitated. "Do you think much about Mr. Sault, Chris?"
Christina put down her knitting in her lap and nodded.
"All the time," she said, "he isn't out of my thoughts for a second. Not his face, I mean, or his awkward-looking body, but the real. Do you remember, Evie, how embarrassed I used to make him sometimes, and how he'd rub his chin with the back of his hand? I always knew when Ambrose was troubled. And how he used to sit on my bed and listen so seriously to all my wails and whines?"
Evie looked for some evidence of emotion, but Christina's eyes were dry—she appeared to be happy.
"Yes—Chris, do you think I ought to take these stockings back to the store? They laddered the first time I put them on and I paid a terrible price for them."
Christina took the stockings from the girl and there all talk of Ambrose Sault came to an end.
A few afternoons later, returning from her early walk, she was met at the door by her agitated mother.
"There's a gentleman called to see you, Christina, he's in the kitchen."
"A gentleman?"
"A gentleman" might mean anything by Mrs. Colebrook's elastic description.
"He's a friend of Miss Merville's named Mr. Morelle."
"What?" Christina could hardly believe her ears. Ronnie Morelle? Had Evie conveyed her joking request to him? Even if she had, it was not likely he would call for the pleasure of seeing her.
Mrs. Colebrook hustled her into the kitchen and closed the door on them. She had all the respect of her class for the sanctity of private conversation.
Ronnie was sitting in the chair where Ambrose had so often sat, as Mrs. Colebrook reminded her at least three times a day. He rose as she entered and stood surveying her.
It was the first time she had seen him close at hand, and her first impression was one of admiration. She had never met so good-looking a man and instantly she absolved Evie for her infatuation. He did not offer his hand at first, and it was not until she was about to speak that it came out to her shyly. It was a strong hand and the warmth of the grip surprised her.
"Christina!" he said softly and she felt herself go red.
"That is my name. You are Ronnie Morelle? I have heard a great deal about you from Evie."
"From Evie?—yes, why of course! Your mother is looking well. She works very hard—too hard I think. Women ought not to do such heavy work."
She sat, tongue-tied, could only point to the chair from which he had risen.
"I had to come to see you—but I have been rather occupied and selfish. I have been reading a great deal—a sheer delight. You will understand that? And poor François has had a lot of trouble, his brother developed appendicitis. We have had an anxious time."
Ronnie Morelle! And he was talking gravely of the anxious time he had had because the brother of his servant—it was incredible.
She never dreamed that he was this kind of man; all her preconceived ideas and more than half of her prejudice against him, were swept away in a second. He was sincere; she knew it. Absolutely sincere. This was no pose of his.
"You haven't seen Evie—oh, yes, you have! She told you I wanted to see you, Mr. Morelle. I do, although I was only joking when I suggested your coming. Are you very fond of Evie?"
"Yes, she is a nice child. A little thoughtless and perhaps a little selfish. Young girls are that way, especially if they are pretty. I am fond of young people, all young things have an appeal for me. Kittens, puppies, chicks—I can watch them for hours."
This was Ronnie Morelle. She had to tell herself all the time. He was the man whom Ambrose Sault had described as "foul" and Ambrose was so charitable in his judgments; the man who had taken Beryl Merville.
"I am glad you spoke of Evie," he went on. "She must not be hurt. At her age men make a profound impression and color the whole of after-life. It is so easy to sour the young. It is hard to improve on the old texts," he smiled. "I wonder why I try. 'As the twig is bent, so is the tree inclined.' I never think that it is wise to reason with a girl in love—fascinated is a better word.Aegrescit mendeno! The disease thrives on remedies. I don't know where I picked up that phrase—it is Latin, isn't it?"
He went red again, was painfully embarrassed.
She fell back against the wall, white as death. Only by an effort of will did she arrest the scream that arose in her throat.
In his distress he was rubbing his chin with his knuckle!
"Oh, my God!" cried Christina, wide-eyed. Springing up she took both his hands and looked into his face.
"Don't youknow!" she breathed.
A smile dawned slowly in the handsome face of Ronnie Morelle.
"I know it is very good to see you, Christina," he said.
"Don't you—know? Look at me—Ronnie!"
Then as suddenly she released his hands and held on to the table.
"Get me some water, please."
She watched him as he went unerringly into the scullery. There were two taps, one connected with a rain-water cistern that her father had made; the other was the drinking water.
He turned the right tap, found a glass where it was invariably hidden on a shelf behind a cretonne curtain, and brought it back to her.
She drank greedily.
"Sit down—Ronnie. I want you to tell me something. You went to the execution—I know it hurts you, my dear, but you must tell me. How did he die?"
She waited, holding her breath.
"It was—terrible," he said in a low voice, "he was so afraid!"
"Afraid!" she whispered.
"I don't remember much. Every thought seemed to have gone out of my mind. Afterwards I was so numbed—why, I didn't even recognize my own car or know that I had a car."
"Did you touch him—look at him, then, did you, Ronnie?"
Ronald Morelle answered with a gesture.
"Did you—?"
"I looked at him, but only for a second. He was reciting a poem. Henley's. I was reading it today, trying to recall things. That was all, I just looked into his eyes and I was feeling hateful toward him, Christina. And that was all. He began to moan and cry out. I was terribly distressed."
She said no more. She wanted to be alone with her mad thoughts. When he rose to go, she was glad.
"I'll come again on Wednesday," he said, but corrected his promise. "No, Wednesday is wash-day. Your mother will not want me here."
"How do you know, Ronnie, that it is mother's wash-day?" She was addressing him as if he were a child from whom information must be coaxed.
"I don't know. Evie may have told me—of course it is Wednesday, Christina!"
She nodded.
"Yes, it is Wednesday."
Mrs. Colebrook, consonant with her principles, had effaced herself so effectively that Christina had to seek her in her hiding-place. She was sitting in Sault's room and sniffed suspiciously when the girl called her.
"Mother, you have often told me about something Ambrose did when you were very ill. Will you tell me again?"
Mrs. Colebrook was happy to tell, embellishing the story with footnotes and interpolations descriptive of her own impressions on that occasion.
"Thank you, Mother."
"What did he want? I didn't like to come down whilst he was here—not in this old skirt. Did he know poor Mr. Sault? A la-did-da sort of fellow, but very polite. He quite flustered me, he was so friendly."
She relieved the girl from the necessity for replying by supplying her own answers.
At the foot of the stairs Mrs. Colebrook heard the snick of a key as Christina locked the door of her room. Mrs. Colebrook sighed. Christina was getting more and more unsociable.
Did Beryl know—should she know? Suppose she went to her and told her the crazy theory she had? Beryl would doubt her sanity. No, no good would come of precipitancy. She must be sure, thought Christina, lying on her bed, her hand at her mouth as though she feared that she might involuntarily cry her news aloud.
No particulars of Ambrose Sault's death had appeared in the press. The longest notice was one which, after a brief reference to the execution, went on to give details concerning the crime. Practically the references to the execution were similar:
"Ambrose Sault was executed at Wechester Jail yesterday morning for the murder of Paul Moropulos. The condemned man walked with a firm step to the gallows and death was instantaneous. He made no statement. Billet was the executioner."
The hangman always received his puff. When she had been staying with Beryl, she had met Sir John Maxton; he had returned on the morning of the execution and had come straight to the house. He had said nothing that gave her any impression except that Ambrose had died bravely. Would he have heard anything later? She made up her mind, dressed and went out. There was a telephone a block away and she got through to Sir John's chambers in the Temple. To her relief he answered the telephone himself.
"Is that you, Sir John? It is Christina Colebrook—yes—I'm very well. Can I see you, Sir John? Any time, now if you wish. I could be with you in twenty minutes—oh, thank you—thank you so much."
A bus dropped her in Fleet Street and she walked through the Temple grounds to the ugly and dreary buildings where he rented chambers. They were on the ground floor, happily; Christina was still a semi-invalid.
"You've come to ask me about Sault!" he said as soon as she was announced.
"Why do you think that?" she smiled.
"I guessed. I suppose Ronnie has told everybody about the ghastly business. It seems impossible, impossible that he could have shown the white feather as he did," said Sir John. "I can hardly believe it is true, and yet when I got into touch with the deputy governor, he told me very much the same story—that one moment Sault was calm and literally smiling at death; the very next instant he was—pitiful, blubbering like a child. I hate telling you this, because I know you were such dear friends, but—you want to know?"
She inclined her head.
"Nothing else happened?"
"Nothing—oh, yes, there was one curious circumstance. In the midst of his amazing outburst Sault cried: 'Ronald Morelle of Balliol!' Did he know that Ronnie was at Balliol? I can only imagine that by this time he hadn't any idea at all what he was talking about."
She rose.
"Thank you, Sir John," she said quietly, "you have saved my reason."
"In what way?" His curiosity was piqued.
"There was something I had to believe—or go mad. That is cryptic, isn't it? But I can't be plain, for fear you think I've lost my reason already!"
Sir John was too polite to press her, too much of a lawyer to reveal his curiosity. He went on to talk of Sault.
"He was certainly the best man I have met in my life. By 'best' I particularly refer to his moral character, his ideals, his sense of divinity. His courage humbled me, his philosophy left me feeling like a child of six. I must believe what I am told, so I accept the story about his having made a scene on the scaffold, without question. But there is an explanation for it, that I'll swear, and an explanation creditable to Ambrose Sault."
Christina went home with a light heart, convinced.
She had begun a letter to Beryl and was debating half-way through whether she would as much as hint her peculiar theory, when Evie burst into the room cyclonically, her eyes blazing.
"He's been here! Mother said so—you were talking to him for a long time! Oh, Chris, what did he say—wasn't it wonderful of him to come? Don't you think he is handsome, Chris? Own up—isn't he a gorgeous man? Did he ask after me, was he very disappointed when he found I was out—?"
"I'll take your questions in order," said Christina, solemnly ticking them off on her finger. "He has been here, if he is Ronnie; he said a lot of things. It was certainly wonderful for me that he came. He asked after you, but didn't seem to be cast down to find you were out. Was that the lot? I hope so."
"But Christina!" she was quivering with excitement. "What do you think of him?"
"I—think—he—is—sublime!"
Evie glanced at her resentfully, suspecting sarcasm; saw that her sister was in earnest, and seeing this, was confounded.
"He is very nice," she said less enthusiastic, "yes—a dear—did you really get on with him, Chris? How queer! And after all that you've said about him! Didn't your conscience prick you—?"
Christina sent her red locks flying in a vigorous head-shake.
"No, it wasn't conscience," she said.
Evie, from being boisterously interested, became quietly distrait.
"Of one thing I am certain," volunteered Christina, "and it is that he will never behave dishonorably or give you, or for the matter of that, mother and me, one hour's real pain."
"No—I'm sure he won't," said Evie awkwardly, the more awkward, because she was trying so hard not to be.
"Such a man couldn't be mean. I am certain of that," Christina went on. "Evie, I am not scared about you any more—and I was, you know. Just scared! Sometimes when you came back from seeing Ronnie, I dared not look at you for fear—I didn't exactly know what I feared. Now—well, I feel that you are in good hands, darling, and I shall not be thinking every time you go out: 'I wonder if she will come back again?'"
Evie's face was burning. If she had spoken, she would have betrayed herself. She became interested in the contents of a hanging cupboard and hummed a careless tune, shakily.
"Are you singing or is it the hinge?" asked Christina.
"You're very rude—I was singing—humming."
"There must be music in the family somewhere," said Christina, "probably it goes back to our lordly ancestor—"
"I told Teddy about that, about Lord Fransham—"
"Did you tell Ronnie?"
Evie wondered if she should say. Christina was so excellently disposed toward him that it would be a pity to excite her resentment.
"Yes—he laughed. He said everybody has a lord in his family if he only goes back far enough. Teddy thought it was wonderful and he said—you'll laugh?"
"I swear I won't."
"Well—he said that he knew that I had aristocratic blood by my instep, it is so arched. And it is you know, Chris, just look!"
"Shurrup!" said Christina vulgarly.
"Well—he did. Teddy isn't half the fool you think him. I don't exactly mean you, Chris, but people. His father has a tremendous farm, miles and miles of it. He sent Teddy over here for six months. What do you think for?"
Christina couldn't think.
"To find a wife!" said Evie. "Isn't it quaint? And do you know that Teddy is staying at the Carlton-Grand. I thought he was living with his aunt in Tenton Street and I only discovered by accident that he was staying at a swagger hotel. He said he would write and tell his father about our lord."
She sighed heavily.
"I like Teddy awfully. He is so grateful for—well, for anything I can do for him, such as putting his tie straight and telling him about things."
"Why don't you marry Teddy?"
A few weeks ago Evie would have snorted scornfully. Now she was silent for a long time. She sighed again.
"That is impossible. I'm too fond of Ronnie and I believe in keeping—in keeping my word. Teddy's father is building a beautiful little house for him. And Teddy says that he has a quiet horse that a girl could ride. He believes in riding astride, so do I. I've never ridden, but that is the way Ishouldride—through the corn for miles and miles. You can see the mountains from Teddy's farm. They are covered with snow, even in the summer. There is a place called Banff where you can have a perfectly jolly time, dances and all that. In the winter, when it is freezingly cold, Teddy goes to Vancouver, where it is quite warm. He has an orange-farm somewhere."
For the third time she sighed. Christina in her wisdom, made no comment.
Evie usually had her breakfast alone. Christina was late and Mrs. Colebrook breakfasted before her family came down and was, moreover, so completely occupied in supplying the needs of her youngest daughter, that it would have been impossible to settle herself down to a meal.
Evie was generally down by a quarter to eight; the post came at eight o'clock. Until recently Evie had no interest in the movements of that official. Very few letters came to the house in any circumstances and of these Evie's share was negligible.
Teddy brought a new interest to the morning for he was a faithful correspondent, and the girl would have known long before, that he was an inmate of a superior caravanserie, had not the youth, in his modesty, written on the plainest of notepaper. Not then, nor at any other time, did the mail have any thrill for Mrs. Colebrook. She had a well-to-do sister living in the north who wrote to her regularly every six months. These letters might have been published as a supplement to the Nomenclature of Diseases, for they constituted a record of the obscure ailments which inflicted the writer's family. She had a sister-in-law living within a mile of her, whom she seldom saw and never heard from. Whatever letters came to the house were either for Christina or Evie, generally for Christina.
Ambrose Sault had once presented Christina with five hundred postal cards. It was one of the freakish things that Ambrose did, but behind it, there was a solid reason. Christina enjoyed a constant supply of old magazines and out-of-date periodicals. Evie collected them for her from her friends. And in these publications were alluring advertisements, the majority of which begged the reader, italically, to send for Illustrated Catalogue No. 74, or to write to Desk H. for a beautiful handbook describing at greater length the wonders of the articles advertised. Sometimes samples were offered, samples of baby's food, samples of fabric, samples of soap and patent medicine, and other delectable products.
Christina had expressed a wish that she could write, and Ambrose had supplied the means. Thereafter Christina's letter-bag was a considerable one. She knew more about motor-cars, their advantages over one another, their super-excellent speeds and economies, than the average dealer. If you asked her what car ran the longest distance on a can of petrol, she would not only tell you, but would specify which was the better of the gases supplied. She knew the relative nutritive qualities of every breakfast food on the market; the longest-wearing boots and the cheapest furniture.
Evie had finished her meal when the postman knocked.
"A letter from Teddy and a sample for Christina, I suppose," speculated Mrs. Colebrook, hurrying to the door. She invariably ran to meet the postman having a confused idea that it was an offence, punishable under the penal code, to keep him waiting.
There was no mail for Christina.
"Here's your letter."
Evie took the stout and expensive looking envelope, embossed redly with the name of the hotel.
"Who's writing to me?" asked Mrs. Colebrook. She turned the letter over, examined the handwriting, critically deciphered the post-mark—finally tore open the flap of the envelope.
"Well, I never!" said Mrs. Colebrook. She looked at the heading again. "Who is 'Johnson and Kennett'?" she asked.
"The house agents? There is a firm of that name in Knightsbridge. What is it, mother?"
Mrs. Colebrook read aloud.
"Dear Madam: We have been requested to approach you in regard to work which we feel you would care to undertake. A client of ours has a small house on the continent, for which he is anxious to secure a housekeeper. Knowing, through Dr. Merville, that you have a daughter who is recovering from an illness, he asks me to state that he would be glad if your daughter accompanied you. There is practically no work, three servants, all of whom speak English, are kept, and our client wishes us to state that the grounds are extensive and pretty, and hopes that you will make the freest use of them, and the small car which he will leave there. He himself does not expect to occupy the house, so that you will be practically free from any kind of supervision."
The salary was named. It was generous.
Mrs. Colebrook looked over her glasses at the wondering Evie.
"Mother! How perfectly splendid!"
But Mrs. Colebrook was not so enthusiastic. Change of any kind was anathema. She had acted as housekeeper in her younger days, so that the work had no terrors for her, but—abroad!
Foreign countries meant peril. Foreigners to her were sinister men who carried knives, and were possessed of homicidal tendencies. They spoke a language expressly designed to conceal their evil intentions, and they found their recreation in plotting in underground chambers. There was a cinema at the end of Walter Street.
"There is something written on the other side," said Evie suddenly.
Mrs. Colebrook turned the sheet.
"The invitation extends to your younger daughter, if she would care to accompany you."
"Well!" said Evie, and flew up the stairs to Christina's room.
"Christina! What do you think! Mother has had a letter from a house agent offering—"
"Don't tell me!" Christina interrupted, "let me guess! They've offered her a beautiful house in the country rent free—no? Then they've offered—let me think—a house in a nice warm climate where I can bask in the sunshine and watch the butterflies flirting with the roses!"
Evie's jaw dropped.
"Whatever made you think—?"
Christina snatched the letter and read, her eyes bright with excitement.
"Oh, golly!" she said and laughed so long that Evie grew alarmed.
"No, I'm not mad, and I'm not clairvoyant. Mother, what do you think of it?"
Mrs. Colebrook had followed her daughter upstairs.
"I don't know what to think," she said. She was one of those people who welcome an opportunity to show their indecision. Mrs. Colebrook liked to be "persuaded", though she might make up her mind irrevocably, it was necessary that argument round and about should be offered, before she yielded her tentative agreement.
Nobody knew this better than Christina. She drew a long sigh of relief, recognising the signs.
"We'll talk it over after Evie has gone to her pill-shop," she said, and for once Evie did not contest a description of her place of business, which usually provoked her to retort.
"I only want to say, mother, that you need not worry about me. I can get lodgings at one of the girl's hostels. I don't think I want to go abroad. In fact, I know that I don't. But it would be fine for Christina. It is my dream come true. I've always had that plan for her—a place where she could sit in the sunshine and watch the flowers grow."
Christina's smile was all loving-kindness; she took the girl's fingers in her hand and pinched them softly.
"Off to your workshop, woman," she ordered. "Mother and I want to talk about the sunny south."
"I'm not sure that I can take it," said Mrs. Colebrook dismally, "I don't like the idea of living in a foreign place—"
"We'll discuss that," said Christina in her businesslike way. "Did those linoleum patterns come?"
There was no letter for Evie when she arrived at the store. Curiously enough she was not as disappointed as she expected to be. There was a chance that Ronnie would have written after his visit to the house, but when she found her desk bare, she accepted his neglect with equanimity.
Her love for Ronnie was undiminished. She faced, with a coolness which was unnatural in her, the future he had sketched, and if at times she felt a twinge of uneasiness, she put the less pleasant aspect away from her. It would not be honorable to go back on her word, even if she wanted to do so. And she did not. As to the more agreeable prospect she did not think about that either. It was easier to dismiss the whole thing from her mind. She told herself she was being philosophical. In reality, she was solving her problem by the simple process of forgetting it.
Leaving the store at midday to get her lunch, she saw Ronnie. He was driving past in his big Rolls and apparently he did not see her. Why was she glad—for glad she was? That thought had to be puzzled out in the afternoon, with disastrous consequences to her cash balance, for when she made her return that night, she was short the price of a hot-water bottle.
But Ronnie had seen her, long before she had seen him. He was on his way to lunch with a man he knew but toward whom he had for some reason conceived a dislike. It was rather strange, because Jerry Talbot was the one acquaintance he possessed who might be called "friend". They had known one another at Oxford, they had for some time hunted in pairs, they shared memories of a common shame. Yet when Jerry's excited voice had called him on the telephone that morning and had begged him to meet his erstwhile partner at Vivaldi's, Ronnie experienced a sense of nausea. He would have refused the invitation, but before he could frame the words, Jerry had rung off.
Vivaldi's is a smart but not too smart restaurant, and had been a favorite lunching place of Ronnie's. It was all the more unreasonable in him, that he should descend beneath the glass-roofed portico with a feeling of revulsion.
Mr. Talbot had not arrived, said the beamingmaître de hotel. Yes, he had booked a table. Ronnie seated himself in the lounge and a bellboy brought him an evening newspaper which he did not read. Had he done so, he would not have waited.
Half an hour passed and Ronnie was feeling hungry. Another quarter of an hour.
"I am going into the restaurant—when Mr. Talbot comes, tell him I have begun my lunch."
He was shown to the table and chose a simple meal from the card. At any rate, Jerry's unpardonable rudeness gave him an excuse for declining further invitations.
He had finished his lunch and had signalled for his bill when, looking round, he recognized two men at one of the window tables. He would not have approached them, but Sir John Maxton beckoned.
Dr. Merville would gladly have dispensed with his presence, thought Ronnie, and wondered if he had intruded into an important conference.
"Come and sit down, Ronnie. Lunching alone? That is rather unusual, isn't it?"
"My friend disappointed me," said Ronnie and he saw the doctor's lip curl.
"Did she—too bad," said Maxton.
"It was a 'he'," corrected Ronnie, and knew that neither man believed him.
He noticed Sir John glancing at his companion.
"Ronnie, I wonder if you can help us. Do you remember the flotation of that Traction Company of Steppe's?"
"I don't think it is much good asking Ronnie," the doctor broke in with a touch of impatience. "Ronnie's memory is a little too convenient."
"I remember the flotation—in a way," admitted Ronnie.
"Do you remember the meeting that was held at Steppe's house when he produced the draft of the prospectus?"
Ronnie nodded.
"Before we go any farther, John," interrupted Merville, "I think it will be fair to Ronnie, if we tell him that there is trouble over the prospectus. Some of the financial papers are accusing us of faking the assets. The question is, was I responsible, by including properties which I should not have included, or did Steppe, in his draft, give me the facts as I published them? I don't think Ronnie will remember quite so vividly if he knows that he may be running counter to Steppe."
Ronnie did not answer.
"You see what I am driving at," Sir John went on. "There may be bad trouble if the Public Prosecutor takes these accusations seriously—which, so far he hasn't. We want to be prepared if he does."
"I cannot remember very clearly," said Ronnie. "I am not a member of the Board. But I do recall very clearly Steppe showing a draft and not only showing it, but reading it."
"Do you remember whether in that draft he referred to the Woodside Repairing Sheds; and if he did, whether he spoke of those as being the absolute property or leased property of the company?"
"The absolute property," said Ronnie. "I remember distinctly because the Woodside Repairing Shops are on the edge of a little estate which my father left me—you remember, John? And naturally I was interested."
Merville was dumbfounded. Never in his most sanguine moments did he suppose that Ronnie would assist him in this respect. Ronnie, who shivered at a word from Steppe, whose sycophantic servant he had been!
"This may come to a fight," said Sir John, "and that would mean putting you in the box to testify against Steppe. Have you quarrelled with him?"
"Good gracious, no!" said Ronnie in surprise. "Why should I quarrel with him? He doesn't worry me. In a way he is amusing, in another way pathetic. I feel sometimes sorry for him. A man with such attainments, such powers and yet so paltry! I often wonder why he prefers the mean way to the big way. He uses his power outrageously, his strength brutally. Perhaps he didn't start right—got all his proportions wrong. I was working it out last night—the beginnings of Steppe—and concluded that he must have had an unhappy childhood. If a child is treated meanly, and is the victim of mean tyrannies, he grows up to regard the triumph of meanness as the supreme end in life. His whole outlook is colored that way, and methods which we normal people look upon as despicable are perfectly legitimate in his eyes."
"Good God!" said Sir John aghast. It was the man, not the arguments which startled him.
"Children ought not to be left to the chance training which their parents give them," Ronnie went on, full of his subject, "but here, I admit, I am postulating a condition of society which will never be realized. Some day I will start my Mother College. It is a queer sounding title," he said apologetically, "but you will understand I want a great institution where we can take the illegitimate children of the country, the unwanted children. They go to baby farmers and beasts of that kind now. I want a college of babies where we will teach them and train them from their babyhood up to think and feel goodly, not piously. That doesn't matter. But bigly and generously. To have high ideals and broad visions; to—"
He stopped and blushed, conscious of their interest and stupefaction; squirmed unhappily in his chair, and rubbed his chin nervously with the knuckles of his hand.
Sir John Maxton leaned back in his chair, his face twitching.
A waiter was passing.
"Bring me a brandy," he said hoarsely, "a double brandy."
Christina had only wanted water.
"What flabbergasts me is Ronnie's willingness to go against Steppe," said the doctor, just before he dropped Sir John at his chambers.
He had done most of the talking since they left Vivaldi's and Maxton had been content that he should.
"I can only suppose that Ronnie has had a row with Jan."
"Tell me this, Merville," said Sir John, leaning his arms on the edge of the door and speaking into the car, "if you believe that Steppe is the rascal I pretty well know him to be, why are you allowing Beryl to marry him?"
An awkward question for the doctor.
"Oh, well—one isn't sure. I may be in error after all. Steppe is quite a good fellow."
"Do you owe him money?" asked Maxton quietly.
Close friendship has its privileges.
"A little—nothing to speak of. You don't think I would sacrifice Beryl—?"
"I don't know, Bertram—I don't know. Why ever you took up with that crowd is beyond me."
"By the way," said the doctor, anxious to switch to another subject, "that isn't an original idea of Ronnie's—the Mother College, or whatever he calls it. Poor Ambrose Sault had exactly the same dream. I never heard the details from him, but he has mentioned it. Funny that Ronnie is taking it up?"
"Yes," Sir John waved his hand and went into the building.
He rang for his clerk.
"Do you remember a young lady coming to see me a few days ago? A Miss Colebrook—have we any record of her address?"
"No, Sir John."
"H'm—put me through to Dr. Merville's house in Park Place—I want to speak to Miss Merville."
A minute later:
"Yes—John Maxton speaking, is that you, Beryl? I want to know Miss Colebrook's address—thank you," he scribbled on his blotting pad. "Thank you—no, my dear, only I may have to get in touch with her."
He remembered after he had hung up the telephone, that Ambrose Sault had propounded a will in which the address had appeared, but the will was in the hands of Sir John's own lawyers. Ambrose had left very little, so little that it was hardly worth while taking probate. But the recollection of the will gave him the excuse he wanted.
"Sir John rang me up, father, he asked for Christina's address. Do you know why?"
"No, dear. I wonder he didn't ask me. I have been lunching with him—and Ronnie. Rather, Ronnie joined us after lunch was through—he was loquacious and strange. H'm—"
"How strange?"
"Beryl, did you notice the other night—I agree with you, Steppe was brutal—how deep his voice had grown? Boys' voices change that way when they reach an age, but Ronnie isn't a boy. Changed—and his views on affairs. He held John spellbound whilst he delivered himself volubly on illegitimate children and the future of the race. And the curious thing is that Ronnie hates children. Loathes them; he makes no secret of that. Says that they are irresponsible animals that should be kept on the leash."
"He said that today?"
"No—oh, a long time ago. Now he wants a big institution where they can be trained—maybe it is a variation of his leash and cage theory. How did you get on?"
Steppe had been to lunch and was in the hall about to take his departure when Sir John rang.
"He came," she said indifferently, "it was a—pleasant lunch. I think he enjoyed it. I had mealies for him and he wrestled with them happily."
"Did you discuss anything?"
"The happy day?" she said ironically. "Yes, next Tuesday. Quietly. We go to Paris the same night. He wants the honeymoon to be spent in the Bavarian Alps, and he is sending his car on to Paris. I think that is all the news."
Her indifference bothered him.
"Steppe, I am sure, is a man who improves on acquaintance," he said encouragingly.
"I am sure he does," she agreed politely, "will you tell Ronnie, or shall I write to him?"
"I will tell Ronnie," said the doctor hastily. "I don't think I should encourage a correspondence with him, if I were you, Beryl. Jan doesn't like it. He was furious about you insisting upon Ronnie coming out with us the other night."
"Very well," said Beryl.
"I think—I only think, you understand, that Steppe is under the impression that you were once very fond of Ronnie, or that you had an affair with him. He is a very jealous man. You must remember that, Beryl."
"It almost seems that I am going to be happily married," she said with a queer smile.
She did not write to Ronnie. There was nothing to be gained by encouraging a correspondence—she agreed entirely with her father on that point. Steppe she dismissed from her thoughts just as quickly as she could.
Why had Sir John asked for Christina's address? There was no reason why he should not. Perhaps Ambrose left a message—but that would have been delivered long ago. And—if Ambrose had left any message, it would be to her. The will perhaps. The doctor had told them both that Ambrose had left his few possessions to Christina. She was glad of that. Yes, it must be the will.
This served at any rate to explain Sir John's call.
The appearance of a title at her front door, caused Mrs. Colebrook considerable qualms. It was her fate never to be wearing a skirt appropriate to the social standing of distinguished visitors.
Christina was lying down. She had had an interview with the osteopath in the morning and he had insisted upon twenty-four hours of bed.
"Show him up, mother. He won't faint at the sight of a girl in bed—lawyers have a special training in that sort of thing."
"He doesn't look like a lawyer," demurred Mrs. Colebrook, "he's a sir."
She conducted the counsel upstairs with many warnings as to the lowness of roof and trickiness of tread. Mrs. Colebrook was resigned to the character and number of Christina's visitors and, in that spirit of resignation, left them.
"We have met," said Sir John and looked around for a chair.
"Sit on the bed, Sir John," she laughed, "Evie broke the leg of the chair last night."
He obeyed her, looking at her quizzically.
"I saw Ronald Morelle at lunch today," he said, "I thought it best to see you—first. And let me get the will off my mind. It has been proved and there is a hundred or so to come to you. Ambrose was not well off, his salary in fact was ridiculously small. That, however, is by the way. I saw Ronnie."
She returned his steady searching gaze.
"Did you talk to Ronnie?"
"I talked to Ronnie," he nodded, "and Ronnie talked to me. Have you ever seen a man who had the odd habit of rubbing his chin with the back of his hand? I see that you have. Ronnie for example? Yes, I thought you would have noticed it."
"How did you know that he had been to see me?"
His thin hard face softened in a smile.
"Who else would he have come to see?"
"Beryl," she answered promptly and he looked surprised.
"Beryl? I know nothing of how he felt in that quarter. Beryl! How remarkable! I knew he would come here; if you had told me that you had not seen him, I should hare thought I was—"
She nodded.
"That is how I felt, Sir John. I had to shake myself hard. It was like the kind of dream one has where you see somebody you know with somebody else's face. Yes, he came here. I had to have a glass of water."
"Ihad brandy," said Sir John gravely. "As a rule I avoid stimulants—brandy produces a distressing palpitation of heart. Perhaps water would have been better for me. That is all, I think, Miss Christina," he picked up his hat. "I had to see you."
"Do you think anybody knows or ought to know?" she asked.
It was the question that had disturbed her.
"They must find out. I have a reputation for being a hard-headed Scotsman. Why the heads of Scotsmen should be harder than any other kinds of heads I do not know. What I mean is, that I cannot risk my credit as a man of truth or my judgment as a man of law or my status as one capable of conducting his own affairs without the assistance of a Commissioner in Lunacy—people must find out. I think they will, the interested people. Beryl you say? Was he—fond of her? How astounding! She is to be married very soon, you know that?"
"Should she be told—she may not have an opportunity of discovering for herself, Sir John?"
"What can you tell her?" he asked bluntly.
She was silent. She had been asking herself that.
Having ushered the visitor from the premises, Mrs. Colebrook joined her daughter, for immediately following Sir John had come a grimy little boy with a grimy little package. Mrs. Colebrook had spent an ecstatic five minutes in her kitchen revelling in the fruits of authorship.
"I've got something to show you, Christina," she held the something coyly under her apron. "It was my own idea—I didn't expect them so soon—came just after I'd left you and Sir What's-his-name."
"What is it, mother?"
Mrs. Colebrook drew from its place of concealment a double-leafed card. It was edged with black and heavy black Gothic type was its most conspicuous feature Christina read:
In loving memory of Ambrose Sault,Who departed this life on March 17, 19—at the age of fifty-threeMourned by all who knew him
"We ne'er shall see his gentle smile,Or hear his voice again,Yet in a very little while,We'll meet him once again."
Christina put down the card.
"I made that up myself," said Mrs. Colebrook proudly, "all except the poetry, which I copied from poor Aunt Elizabeth's funeral card. I think that verse is beautiful."
"I think it is prophetic," said Christina, and added inconsequently, as Mrs. Colebrook thought, "I wonder if Ronnie is coming today?"