Part 20

"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."

"_I_ had 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-three Mourned 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?"

VIII

Ronnie had some such idea when he parted from Maxton and the doctor. He went home to collect the bundle of books he had packed ready to take to Christina, and there discovered the reason why his absent-minded host had forgotten to put in an appearance.

Mr. Jerry Talbot was stretched exhaustedly in a lounge chair. He was a sallow young man with a large nose and a microscopic moustache. He had bushy eyebrows, arched enquiringly. Only one eyebrow was now visible, the other and the greater part of his slick head was hidden under black silk bandages. Looking at him, Ronnie wondered what he had ever seen in the man.

"Lo, Ronnie," he greeted the other feebly, "I tried to 'phone you but you were gone. I had a sort of faint after I spoke to you this morning, that's why I didn't turn up; so sorry. But look at me, old boy, look at me!"

"How did this happen?" asked Ronnie.

"Lola!"

Ronnie frowned. Lola? Who--? Yes, yes, Lola. He remembered.

"We had rather a hot time at my house last night, and Madame sent some of the girls along. Lola got tight and after some argument about a brooch that one of my guests had lost, Lola picked up a champagne bottle and--there you are!"

"Where is she?"

"In quod," said Mr. Jerry Talbot viciously. "I gave her in charge, and, Ronnie, she had the brooch! They found it at the police station. So I was right when I called her a thieving little--whatever it was I called her. It is an awkward business for me, old thing, but of course I'm swearing blue-blind that I never invited her and that she came in without--sort of drifted in from the street. Madame put me up to that. She's fed up with Lola and so are the other girls."

"Just wait a moment," said Ronnie frowning, "do I understand that Madame is going to disown this girl, this, what is her name--?"

"Lola," scoffed Mr. Talbot, "good heavens, you're not pretending that you don't know her! And you took her to Wechester with you--"

"Yes, of course I did," agreed Ronnie. "It is rather terrible work--straightening out the ravel of life--yes, I know her."

"Madame is disowning her, and so are the other girls. Between ourselves, Ritti has cleared out everything of Lola's and sent her trunks to a baggage office. None of her maids will talk, and naturally, none of the people who go to Ritti's. Lola has had a tip to shut up about Madame's, and if she is wise, she'll admit she's a street girl who had the cheek to walk into the party. I had to tell you, Ronnie, in case this infernal girl mentions you. She is being brought before the magistrate this afternoon."

And so came Lola from the dingy cells with her evening finery looking somewhat bedraggled, and standing in the pen, pale and defiant, heard the charge of assault preferred against her.

"Have you any witnesses to call?"

"None. All my witnesses have been standing on the box committing perjury," sobbed the girl, broken at last.

"I was invited. Mr. Talbot sent for me--he sent to Madame Ritti's--"

"Madame Ritti says that she hardly knows you. That with the exception of a few days last year, when you were staying with her, you have never been to the house," said the patient magistrate. "She made you leave her, because she found you were an undesirable."

"Your worship, there is a gentleman here who wishes to give evidence," said the usher.

Ronald Morelle stepped to the stand, smiled faintly at the open-mouthed surprise of Jerry Talbot, at the shocked amazement of Madame Ritti, and bowed to the magistrate.

He gave his name, place of living, and occupation.

"Now, Mr. Morelle, what can you tell us?" demanded the magistrate benevolently.

"I know this girl," he indicated the interested prisoner, "her name is Lola Pranceaux, or rather, that is the name by which she is known. She is an inmate of a house," he did not say "house," and Madame Ritti almost jumped from her seat at his description, "maintained by Madame Ritti. I can also assure your worship that she is very well known to the prosecutor, Mr. Talbot, and to me. I have taken her away to the country on more than one occasion. To my knowledge she was invited last night to Mr. Talbot's house. There is no reason why she should steal a trumpery brooch. She has jewels of her own. I myself gave her the solitaire ring she is now wearing."

The magistrate glared at Jerry Talbot.

"Are you pressing this charge?"

"No--no, your honor--worship," stammered Jerry.

The man of law wrote furiously upon a paper.

"You may go away, Pranceaux, you are discharged. I have heard a considerable amount of perjury in this case and I have heard the truth--not very pleasant truth, I admit. Mr. Morelle has testified for the accused with great frankness which I can admire. His habits and behavior are less admirable. Next case!"

Ronnie was the last of the party to leave the court. Lola came hurriedly across the waiting room to clasp his hand.

"Oh, Ronnie, you--pal! How lovely of you! I never thought you were such a brick! Madame looked like hell--she's pinched all my jewelry and now she'll have to give it up. Ronnie, how can I thank you?"

"Lola--come to my flat, I want to talk to you."

François who opened the door to them was not surprised. After all, one could not expect Ronald Morelle to improve in every respect. It was a pleasure to work for him, he was so considerate. Lola settled herself in the most comfortable corner of the settee and waited for François to go.

"You will have some tea?" Ronnie gave the order to a servant who was no less surprised than Lola.

"What have you done with that picture that was over the mantelpiece?" asked the girl, seeing a blankness of wall.

"I've burned it," said Ronnie.

"But it was worth thousands, Ronnie! You told me so."

"It was worth a few hundreds. If it had been a Titian I would not have destroyed it--it had its use in a gallery. But it was not. Worth a few hundreds perhaps. I burned it. François cut it into strips and we burned it in the furnace fire. François and I had a great day. He did not think the picture was pretty."

"It was your favorite?"

"_Was_ it?" He was astonished. "Well, it is burned: It was too ugly. The subject--no the figures were a little ugly. Now, Lola, what are you going to do?"

She had half made up her mind.

"I shall take a flat--"

He shook his head.

"In a way, I have a recollection that you told me you had relations in Cornwall. Was I dreaming? And you said that when you had saved enough money you were going to buy a farm in Cornwall and raise hackneys. Was that a dream?"

She shook her head.

"No, that is my dream," she said, "but what is the use of talking about that, Ronnie. It would cost a small fortune."

"Could you do it on five thousand?" he asked.

"With my money and five thousand--yes."

"I will lend you three thousand free of all interest, and I will give you two thousand. I won't give it all to you, because I want a hold on you. Easy money spends itself. Will you go to Cornwall, Lola?"

François, entering, saved him from her hectic embrace.

"You're just--wonderful," she dabbed her eyes. "I know you think I'm dirt and I am--"

"Don't be silly. Why should I think that? I am not even sorry for you. Are you sorry for the train that is derailed? You put it back on the track. That is what I am doing. I am one of the derailers. It amused me, it hurt you--oh, yes, it did. I know I was not 'the first', there would be an excuse for me in that event. We are all dirt if it comes to that--dirt is matter in the wrong place. I want to put you where you belong."

She was incoherent in her gratitude, awed a little by his seriousness and detachment, prodigiously surprised that François remained on duty.

When on her way to the hotel which was to shelter her, she read the evening newspaper, she could appreciate more fully just what Ronnie had done.

"Read this!" said Evie tragically.

Christina took the newspaper from her hands.

"'A curious case'--is that what you mean?"

The report was a full one, remembering how late in the day the charge had come up for hearing.

"Well?" said Christina, when she had finished reading.

"I shall write to Ronald." Evie was very stiff, very determined, sourly virginal. "Of course, you can't believe all that you read in the newspapers, but there is no smoke without fire."

"And every cloud has its silver lining," said Christina. "Let us _all_ be trite! What is worrying you, Evie? I think it was fine of Ronnie to look after the girl."

"And they drove away from the court together!" wailed Evie.

"Why not? It is much better to go together than by taking separate routes and pretending they weren't meeting when all the time they were."

"I shall write to Ronnie, I must have an explanation," Evie was firm on this point.

Christina read the account again.

"I don't see what other explanation you can ask," she said. "He has said all that is fit for publication."

"What is this woman Lola to him?" demanded Evie furiously. "How dare he stand up--shamelessly--and admit--oh, Chris, it is _awful_!"

"It must be pretty awful for Lola, too," said Christina. "That sort of girl doesn't mind--she likes to have her beastly name in the paper."

"You don't know," said Christina. "I won't descend to slopping over her poor mother, and her innocent sisters, and I'd die before I'd remind you that once she was like the beautiful snow. Ambrose always said that there was a lot of sympathy wasted over sinners. It is conceivable that she was quite a decent sort until somebody came along who held artistic views about marriage; most of these girls start that way, their minds go first. They get full of that advanced stuff. Some of 'em go vegetarian and wear sandals, some of 'em go on the streets. Generally speaking, the street girls are better fed. But that is how they start: they reach the streets in their own way. Some get into the studio party set. They bob their hair and hate washing. They know people who have black wallpaper and scarlet ceilings and one white rose rising from a jade vase. Evie, I have been laying on the flat of my back ever since I can remember, and I've had a procession of sinners marching around my bed--literally. Mother let people come because I was dull. I don't know Lola. She is a little above us, but Lola's kind are bred around here by the score, pigging four and five in a room; they have no reticences, there are no mysteries. All the processes of life are familiar to them as children. Then one fine day along comes Mrs. So-and-So and sits on the end of this bed and weeps and weeps until mother turns her out. There was a woman in this road who broke her heart over her daughter's disgrace. And when they came to bury the good lady they found she had never been married herself! All this weeping and wailing and talking about 'disgrace' doesn't mean anything in this neighborhood. It is conventional, expected of them, like deep mourning for widows and half mourning for aunts. We haven't produced many celebrities. We had a chorus girl who was in a divorce case, and there is a legend that Tota Belindo, the great Spanish dancer, came from this street. We turn out the tired old-looking girls that you never see up west. The Lolas come from families that care. Nice speaking people who haven't been taught to write by a sign-writer. I've heard about them and met one. She used to drink, that is how she came to Walter Street. That kind of a girl only pretends she doesn't care. She isn't like the hardy race of prostitutes we raise in Walter Street."

"I think your language is terrible, Christina! I ought to know you would defend this perfectly awful girl. You take a very lax view, Chris, it is a good thing I have a well-balanced mind--"

"You haven't," said Christina. "It isn't a month ago that you were sneering about marriage. I believe in marriage: I'm old-fashioned. Marriage is a wonderful bridge; it carries you over the time when, if you're not married, you are getting used to a strange man and comparing him unfavorably with your last. Besides, it is easier to divorce a man than to run away from him. Divorce is so easy that there is no excuse for remaining single."

"I don't know whether you're being decent or not, Christina. But there are some people who have never married all their lives, and they've been _perfectly_ happy--of course, I can't tell you who they are, it is absurd to ask me. Only I know that there have been such people--in history, I mean. I believe in marriage, but it is much worse to be married to somebody you don't love than to be living with a man you do love."