Part 18

"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.

III

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 you _know_!" 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.