Part 9

"If you don't like to hear me say unpleasant things about your friends, don't say them about mine."

Here, Evie thought, not without reason, that she had a point which was worth laboring. She was astonished when Christina surrendered without firing another shot.

"Perhaps you are right, dear. Go and get something to eat."

Evie returned almost immediately with the news that the kitchen was empty and that she had seen one whom she was pleased to describe as "the enemy" bending over a wash-tub, his arms white with lather.

"Do you think he is making up to mother?" she asked, as that interesting possibility presented itself.

Christina choked. "Don't say funny things when I'm eating candy," she begged.

VII

The revue had reached its seventh scene before Beryl and her escort were shown into the big stage box of the Pavilion. She had hardly taken her seat before she saw a familiar face in the stalls.

"Isn't that Mr. Moropulos?" she asked, and following the direction of her eyes he nodded. The Greek did not appear to have noticed them. He was conspicuous as being the only man in that row of the stalls who was not wearing evening dress.

"Yes, that is Moropulos. Don't let him see you, Beryl."

Apparently Mr. Moropulos did not identify the pair, for though he turned his head in their direction he showed no sign of recognition. Half-way through the last part of the revue, he disappeared and they did not see him again.

"And now home. It has been a jolly afternoon and evening," said Beryl as they came out.

Ronnie was looking round for his car. "What a fool I am," he said. "I told Parker not to wait--for some extraordinary reason I imagined your car would be here. We'll have to take a taxi."

The cab had hardly started before he tapped at the window and leaning out, gave a fresh direction.

"Come home and have some supper. I've just remembered that I told François I was bringing a couple of men home--told him early this morning."

She hesitated. "I can't stay very long," she said. "No--nobody is waiting up for me. My maid never does--it spoils my enjoyment of a dance if I think that I am keeping some poor girl out of her bed. I'll come in for five minutes, dear."

His arm came round her, her head drooped toward him. "Ronnie--I'm so glad all this has come about, darling--I've run after you--I know I have. But I don't care--four years seems such an awful long time to wait."

"An eternity," he breathed.

"And marriage is, as you say--in your immoral way--only a third party sanction--it is silly." He kissed her. An automatic lift carried them to the third floor and Ronnie went in switching on the lights.

"I wonder whether father will be angry," she asked, "if your man--"

"He sleeps out," Ronnie helped her off with her wrap. "He's never here after nine. This is my own room, Beryl--but you saw it when the doctor brought you here to dinner."

She walked over to the big black table and sat down.

"Here genius broods," she laughed quietly, "what a humbug you are, Ronnie! I don't believe you write a thousand words a month!"

He smiled indulgently.

"And there is your wicked Anthony! He looks worse by artificial light. Now, Ronnie, I really must go."

"Go?" incredulously, "with foie-gras sandwiches and a beautifully dry wine--?"

The door into the dining-room was open and he pointed.

"It is the last bottle of that wine. Jerry will be furious when he comes to breakfast in the morning and finds it gone."

Ronnie had a friend, one Jeremiah Talbot, a man after his own heart. Beryl had met him once, a languid loose-lipped man with a reputation for gallantry.

"Well--I'll eat just a little--and then you must take me home. You shouldn't have paid off the cab."

He was too busy at the wine bucket to listen. She sat on the edge of one of the window chesterfields and let her eyes rove around the room, and after a while he brought a plate and a filled glass.

She put her lips to the wine and handed it back to him. "No more, dear."

A sudden panic had taken possession of her, and she was shaking. "No--!" And yet it was so natural and so comforting to let him hold her. She relaxed, unresisting.

"I shouldn't be here, Ronnie," she murmured between his kisses, "let me go, darling--please." But he held her the tighter and she did not deny his greedy lips.

VIII

Ronnie woke with a start, stared at the window and cursed. Pulling on a dressing-gown he slipped from the room and at the sight of him the woman who was dusting the sideboard paused in her labors.

"I don't want you here today--where is your friend?"

"In the pantry, sir."

"Well, take her with you--ah, François, listen. Turn these women out and then go out yourself--go to the city--and get--buy anything you like, but don't come back before eleven--no twelve."

He waited until the flat was empty and returned to his room. Beryl was lying with her head in the crook of her arm. She was not asleep--nor crying, as he had feared.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, darling--I must have fallen asleep."

"What is the time?" She did not turn but spoke into the pillow.

"Eight--curse it! You can't go home in evening dress."

"Why not?"

She struggled up, her face averted.

"It is the best way," she said, "will you get me a cab?"

When he came up again, she was tidying her hair at the mirror. "It was very foolish," she remarked without emotion.

"There is nobody below, and, thank God, there was an Albert Hall ball last night," said Ronnie, "and it is only eight--shall I come down with you?"

She shook her head. "No--just show me how to work the elevator. An Albert Hall ball? Where could I have been after that finished? You lie better than I, Ronnie."

"Having breakfast--lots of people make a special function of breakfast after those shows."

"All right--show me how the elevator works."

To her maid a quarter of an hour later: "I'm going to bed, Dean, and if Mr. Morelle rings up, will you tell him that I am very sorry I cannot see him this morning. You can bring me a cup of chocolate--yes, I've had breakfast, but bring me some chocolate."

She was standing by the window in a silk wrap when the maid brought the tray. Beryl did not look round.

"Put it down, Dean--I will ring when I want you."

She walked across the room and locked the door. Then she came to the mirror and looked for a long time at herself. "Yes--Beryl--it _is_ you! I was hoping it was somebody else!"

IX

That same morning Mr. Moropulos asked a question of Ambrose Sault.

"What exposure should you give to a photograph taken, say, soon after eight o'clock in the morning?"

"What sort of a morning?"

"This morning."

Ambrose glanced out of the window.

"You could get a snap shot on a twenty-fifth of a second," he said.

Mr. Moropulos produced a folding kodak from his pocket. "Would this stop be wide enough?"

Ambrose took the camera in his hand. "Yes," he said. "What were you taking, a scene or a figure?"

"A figure," said Mr. Moropulos, "a lady in evening dress."

Ambrose smiled. "Eight o'clock is a funny time to photograph a lady in evening dress," he said.

"An amusing time--if one hadn't been waiting up all night to take it. I was here at five. Yes--I came back for the camera. I took a chance of missing the lady, but even if I had it wouldn't have mattered. But eight o'clock!" he laughed gleefully, "how very obliging. Sault, my Ambrosial man, I am going to sleep."

"I think you need it," said Ambrose.

He did all the work of the house, even to making Mr. Moropulos' bed and he was glad of the opportunity to "spring-clean" the sitting-room. He only interrupted his labors to cut a crust of bread and a slice of cheese for his lunch.

At five o'clock in the afternoon the telephone bell rang for the first time that day. "Is that Mr. Moropulos--is that you, Mr. Sault?"

"Yes, lady."

He recognized her voice instantly and his heart leaped within him.

"I'm so glad--will you come to the house please?"

"Yes--I'll come right away." He hung up the receiver as Moropulos strolled in yawning.

"He-e! Who was the caller?"

"A friend of mine," said Sault.

"Didn't know you had any friends--are you going? Make me some coffee before you go, Sault."

"Make it yourself," said Ambrose.

Moropulos grinned after him. "I'd give a lot of money to stick a knife into that big chest of yours, my good Ambrose," he said pleasantly.

Marie opened the door to the untidy visitor, showing him straight to the drawing-room and Beryl came halfway to him, taking his hand in both of hers.

"I'm so glad you've come--I had to send for you--do you mind? I want to talk to you--about nothing in particular--I'm nervy. Can't you tell from my hand?"

The hand in his was shaking, he felt the quiver of it. And she looked pale. Why had she sent for him? She was amazed at herself. Perhaps it was his strength she wanted; a rock on which she might rebuild the shattered fabric of her reason. She had been thinking of him all the afternoon. Ronnie never came to her mind. He was incidental--reality lay with the coarse-featured man whom she had likened to a Cæsar.

"I don't want you to do anything for me, except be here. Just for a little while." She was pleading like a frightened child.

"I am here--I will stay here until you want me to go," said Ambrose, and smiled into her eyes.

"Mr. Sault, I do so wish to talk about something. It won't hurt you will it?" She had only released his hands to pull a chair forward. Opposite to him she sat, this time both of her hands in his. Why? She gave up asking the question.

"You killed somebody, is it true--I knew it was true before I asked you. Did it injure you--make you think less of yourself--did you loathe the man you killed because he made you do it? You are looking at me so strangely--you don't think I am mad, do you?"

"I don't think you are mad. No, I didn't even hate the man. He deserved death. I did not wish to kill him, but there was no other way. There must be that definite end to some problems--death. There is no other. I believe implicitly in it--destruction. A man who is so vile that he kills in his greed or his lust! Who takes an innocent and a helpful life--helpful to the world and its people--you must destroy him. The law does this, so that the brain behind his wicked hands shall not lead him to further mischief. If you have a sheep-dog that worries sheep you shoot him. There is no other way. Or he will breed other sheep dogs with the same vice. Most problems are soluble by various processes. Some of them drastic, some of them commonplace. A few, a very few, can only be ended that way. My man was one of these. I won't tell you the story--he was a bad man and I killed him. But I didn't hate him, nor hate myself. And I think no less of myself--and no more. I did what I thought was right--I've never regretted it, but I've never been proud of it."

She listened, fascinated. The hands in his were quiet now, there was a hue in her cheeks.

"How fine to feel like that--to detach yourself--but why should you regret? You injured no one. Except the man and--was he married?"

He nodded. "I didn't know at the time. She came forward afterwards and paid the expenses of my defense--she hated him--it was very sad."

They were quiet together until she lifted her head and spoke. "Mr. Sault--I'm going to ask you another strange question. Have you, in all your life, ever been in love?"

"Yes," he said instantly.

"With a woman, just because she is a woman? As I might love a man because he has all the outward attractions of a man? Have you loved her just for her beauty and despised her mean soul and her vicious mind, and--and despising--still loved?"

She hung upon his words, and when he said "no" her heart sank.

"No--no, I couldn't do that. That would be--horrible!"

He shuddered. She had made Ambrose Sault shudder! Ambrose Sault who spoke calmly of murder, had shuddered at something, which, to him, was worse than murder! The fragrance of sin which had held to her and supported her through the day, was stale and sour and filthy. She shrank away from him, but he held her hands tightly.

"Let me go, please," her voice sounded faint.

"In a moment--look at me, lady."

She raised her eyes to his and they held them.

"I am going to say something to you that I never dreamed I would say; I never thought the words would come to me. Look at me, lady, a rough man--old--I'm more than fifty, ugly, with an old man's shape and an old man's hands. Illiterate--I love you. I shall never see you again--I love you. You are beautiful--the most beautiful lady I have seen. But it isn't that. There is something in you that I love--I don't know what--soul--spirit--individuality. I hope I haven't revolted you--I don't think I have."

"Ambrose!" She clutched at the hands he was drawing away. "I must tell you--there is nothing to love but what you see, there is no soul--no soul--nothing but weakness and a pitiful cowardice. I love a man who is like that, too. Foul, foul! But beautiful to look at--and, Ambrose, I have given him all that he can take."

Not a muscle of his face moved.

"I have given him everything--this very day--that is why I sent for you. There must be something in what you say--a spirit in me responds to you--oh, Ambrose, I love him!"

She was sobbing against the stained and raveled coat. There was a scent of some pungent oil--turpentine. But he did not speak. His big hand touched her head lightly, smoothing her hair.

"You think I'm--what do you think I am?" she asked.

"You know," he patted her shoulder gently. "I suppose you are wondering what I am feeling? I will tell you this--I am not hurt. I can't be hurt, for you have lost nothing which I prize. If you were different, you wouldn't like me to say that."

He took her face between his rough hands and looked into her eyes. "How very beautiful it is!" he said.

She shut her eyes tight to keep back the tears.

"I said I wouldn't see you again. Perhaps I won't--but if you want me send for me."

She dried her eyes. "I'm a weakling--I wish I was wicked and didn't care--I don't care, really. What has happened is--" she shrugged, "it is the discovery of my own rottenness that has shocked me--nearly driven me mad. You are going now, Ambrose--that is so lovely in you--you even know when to go!"

She laughed nervously and laid her two hands on his shoulder. She did not want to kiss or be kissed. And she knew that he felt as she did.

"Come to me when I want you--I shall be busy inventing lies for the next few days. Good-bye, Ambrose." When he had gone, she realized that no man's name had been mentioned. Perhaps he knew.

X

For the first time in his life Ronald Morelle was regretting an adventure. All day long he had been trying to write, with the result that his wastepaper basket was full of torn or twisted sheets, even as the silver ash-tray on the table was heaped with cigarette ends. He had gone half a dozen times to the telephone to call up Merville's house and had stopped short of giving the number. Then he tried to write her a note. He could think of nothing to say beyond the flamboyant beginning. What was the use of writing? And what was she thinking about it all? He wished--and he wished again. He had made a hopeless fool of himself. Why had he done it? For the truth unfolded as the hours passed, that an end must be found to this affair. In other cases _finis_ had been written at his discretion, sometimes cheerfully, sometimes with tears and recriminations. There had been instances that called for solid compensations. Beryl was not to be ended that way. Besides, he had half-promised her--he grew hot at the very thought of matrimony and in the discomfort of the prospect, the pleasant irresponsibilities of bachelorhood and the features that went to the making of his life, seemed too good to lose.

In such a mood, he thought of Evie Colebrook. How perfectly attractive she was; he could admire her virtue and coldbloodedly compare her with Beryl--to Beryl's disparagement. He was hemmed in by his new responsibility; ached to be free from fetters that were still warm from the forge. Late at night he wrote two letters, one to Beryl, the other and the longer to Evie.

Beryl had hers with her morning tea, saw who it was from the moment the maid pulled aside the curtains and let in the morning sunlight. She turned it over in her hand--now she knew. So that was how she felt about a letter from Ronnie. Not so much as a tremor, not a quicker pulsation of heart.

She opened the envelope and read:

"_My very dearest_: I don't know what to write to you or how. I adore the memory of you. I am shaken by the calamity--for you. Command me, I will do as you wish. I will not see you again though it breaks my heart."

It was written on a plain card, unsigned. She sent him a wire that morning: "Come to tea."

In answer came a hurried note by special delivery.

"I cannot: I dare not trust myself. I am overwhelmed by the sense of my treachery. That I should have brought a second's unhappiness to you!"

Unsigned. Ronnie never signed or dated such epistles.

She read the note and laughed. Yes, she could laugh.

On the third evening, her father returned in a most cheerful frame of mind. He had carried through a business deal, he and Steppe. And he had enjoyed the trip, having met a number of French medical men who had entertained him.

"They were charming, and the new Pasteur laboratories were most fascinating. We feared you would have had a dull time, Beryl. I hope Ronnie didn't desert you!"

"I am afraid he didn't," she said, and the doctor beamed. "You're not too fond of him, I am glad of that for he is rather a rascal. I suppose young men, some young men, are like that--conscienceless."

"Did you have a good crossing?" she asked, and turned the conversation into a more pleasant way.

"Sault was to have met us at the station but he did not turn up. Perhaps Moropulos is drinking. One never knows when Moropulos will break out. He is afraid of Steppe."

"Who isn't?" she asked with a grimace.

The doctor scratched his cheek meditatively. "I don't know--I'm not afraid of him. Naturally, I shouldn't like a rough and tumble with him, physically or verbally. Ronnie, of course, is in the most abject terror of him. The only man who isn't--er--reluctant to provoke him, is Sault." He chuckled.

"Steppe told me that he had a row with Sault over some girl that Ronnie had been carrying on with--the daughter of the woman Colebrook, my dear. Apparently, Sault went to our friend Jan and told him to put a stop to it, and Steppe was naturally annoyed, and do you know what Sault said?" Her eyes were shining.

"He told Steppe that in certain contingencies he would kill him, before his servant could reach him; to his face!"

"What did Mr. Steppe think of it?" she found her voice to ask.

"Amused--and impressed, too. He says Sault wouldn't tell a lie, wouldn't do a mean thing to save his soul. That is something of a testimonial from a man like Steppe who, I am sorry to say, is inclined to be a little uncharitable."

Beryl folded her serviette; she looked to be absorbed in the operation.

"He was telling me that Sault was one of the finest mathematicians in the country. And he doesn't read or write! Of course, he writes figures and symbols perfectly. He attends every lecture that he can get to; a remarkable personality."

"Very."

"I thought you rather liked him?"

She started from her reverie. "Who--Ambrose?"

"Ambrose!"

"That is his name, isn't it?"

"But, my dear," smiled the doctor indulgently, "you wouldn't call him by his Christian name! I think he would be rather annoyed to be treated like a servant."

"I wasn't thinking of him as a servant."

They got up from the table together and she went with him as far as his study door.

"What have you been doing with yourself--theatres?"

"Yes, and a ball. An all-night affair. I came home at eight."

"Humph--bad for you, that sort of thing."

She was sure it was. It was bad to lie, too, but she was beyond caring. Ambrose never lied. He would lie for her. Ronnie also would lie--for himself. She mused and mused, thinking of Sault--Ambrose Sault. And the red-haired invalid. And this sister of hers whom Ambrose had gone to Steppe about--she laughed quietly. She would have loved to have seen that contest of giants. Could Steppe be browbeaten? It seemed impossible, and yet Ambrose had cowed him.

She dreamed that night that she saw Ronald and Sault fighting with reaping hooks--she woke up with a shiver. For in her dream their heads had been exchanged, and Ronnie's face smiled at her from Sault's broad shoulders. It was growing light, she found, when she peeped through the curtains. She went to bed again, but did not sleep any more.

It was a coincidence that Ronald Morelle was also awake at that hour. His new responsibility was weighing on him like a leaden weight. She would never let him go. Her wire had terrified him. "There's no end to it!" he said with a groan, "no end."

He did not love Beryl; he loved nobody, but there were some girls whom he wanted to see again and again. Evie was one of that kind. He did not want to see Beryl. He pictured himself chained for life to a woman who was now wholly without attraction. To this misery was added a new and unbelievable horror.

Steppe called just as Ronald was going out to lunch. At any time Steppe was an unwelcome visitor. In the state of Ronnie's nerves, he felt it impossible that he could support the strain of the big man's company for five minutes. He wished Steppe wouldn't barge in without warning. It was not gentlemanly.

"I'm awful glad to see you, Mr. Steppe; when did you get back?"

"Last night--I won't keep you a minute. I'm on my way to make a call on that swine Moropulos," he growled. "I want to see you about Beryl."

Ronald Morelle's heart missed a beat. Had she told? He turned white at the thought. Luckily Steppe was striding up and down the room, hands in pockets, bearded chin on chest.

Ronnie's mouth had gone dry and he had a cold sinking feeling inside him. "Yes--about Beryl," he managed to say.

"You're a great friend of hers, huh? Known her for a long time?"

Ronnie nodded.

"You have some influence with her?"

"I--I hope so--not a great influence--"

"I am going to marry Beryl. The doctor has probably hinted to you that I have plans in that quarter, huh?"

Ronnie swallowed. "No," he said, "I didn't know--my congratulations."

"Keep 'em," said the other shortly, "they're not wanted yet. You're a great friend of hers, huh? Go about with her a great deal? I suppose it is all right. I'd pull the life out of you if it wasn't--but Beryl is a good girl--what I want you to do is this; give me a good name. If you have any influence, use it. Get that?"

"Certainly," Morelle found voice to say, "I'll do what I can."

"That's all right. And, Morelle, when I'm married you won't be asked to spend a great deal of time at my house. You'll come when I invite you. That's straight, huh? So long."

Ronald shut the door on him.

XI

What a mess! What a perfect hell of a mess he was in. He stood by the window, biting his nails. Suppose Beryl told? He wiped his forehead. Girls had queer ideas about their duty in that respect. He knew of cases. One of those threatening gestures which had come his way was the result of such a misguided act of confession on the part of a girl whom he had treated very handsomely indeed. A baser case of ingratitude it would be difficult to imagine. Beryl might. She had principles. Phew!

He heard the trill of the telephone in François' pantry.

"Mr. Moropulos," said François, emerging from his room.

Ronnie scowled. "Tell him--no, put him through." He laid down his walking stick and gloves.