VI
Beryl was still in the drawing-room and the tea table had not been cleared when Ambrose Sault came for the doctor's bag. She heard the sound of his voice in the hall and came to the head of the stairs.
"Is that you, Mr. Sault? Won't you come up for a moment?"
The doctor had telephoned to Moropulos, he explained, asking him to take the grip to his club. She gathered that it was usual for Ambrose to carry out these little commissions.
"How is Miss Colebrook?—has she forgiven me for acting the part of district visitor? She is a nice girl and her hair is such a wonderful color."
"The osteopath says she will get well," replied Ambrose simply, "and when I went in to see her this morning she told me she really thought that she felt better already. She has the heart of a lion, Miss Merville."
"She is certainly brave." Beryl knew she was a brute because she could not work up an enthusiastic interest in Christina Colebrook.
"It will be wonderful if she is cured." Sault's voice was hushed. "I daren't let myself think about it—in fact, I shall be more bitterly disappointed than she, if the treatment does not succeed."
"You are very fond of her?" She had been examining his face as he spoke, wondering what there was in him that she had seen at their first meeting which reminded her of Ronnie. There was not a vestige of likeness between them. This man's face, for all its strength, was coarse; the eyes were the only fine features it possessed. And the skin—there was a yellow-brown tinge in it. She remembered her father saying once that people who had negro blood in their veins betrayed their origin even though they were quite white, by a dark half-moon on their finger-nails. Whilst he was speaking, he moved his hands so that his nails were discernible. They were ugly nails, broad and ragged of edge—yes, there it was—a brown crescent showing against the deep pink.
"Yes, I'm fond of her. She is lovable. I haven't met anybody like Christina before."
Why was she annoyed? Perhaps "annoyed" hardly described her emotion. She was disappointed in him. Her attitude toward Sault was enigmatical—it was certainly capricious. She was a little nauseated and was glad when he went.
Sault carried the suitcase to the club and left it with a porter. He wished he had an excuse for calling every day at the house—the sight of her exalted him, raised him instantly to a higher plane.
He saw Evie walking home in front of him; she saw him, stopped and became interested in a shop window. She always avoided him in the street and would not dream of walking with him. In the kitchen, to which she followed him, she condescended to speak.
"You were looking very pleased with yourself when I saw you in High Street, Mr. Sault," she said.
"Was I—yes, I was feeling good. You're home early tonight, Evie."
Mrs. Colebrook had a washing day and was at her labors in the scullery, and Evie could flare up without reproof.
"I'm so glad you notice when I come in, and go out!" she said. "It is nice to know that all your movements are watched. I suppose I ought to ask your permission when I stay out late? We always like to please the lodger!"
He looked down into the pretty flushed face and smiled gently. "I believe you are trying to be cross with me, Evie," he said good-naturedly, "and I don't feel like being cross with anybody. My dear, it is no business of mine—"
"Don't call me 'my dear', if you please! You have a nerve to 'my dear' me! A man like you!"
Sault's knuckle touched his chin awkwardly. "I didn't mean to be offensive—"
"You are offensive! You are the most beastly offensive person I know! You go prying and spying into my business and telling lies about gentlemen whose boots you're not fit to blacken."
"Hello, hello!" Mrs. Colebrook stood in the kitchen doorway, wiping her soapy hands on her apron. "What's this, Evie? Telling lies about you? Mr. Sault would not tell a lie to save his life. What gentleman? He'd have to be a pretty good gentleman for Mr. Sault to blacken his boots."
Evie wilted before her mother's fiery gaze and, turning, slammed from the room.
"It is nothing, Mrs. Colebrook," smiled Ambrose. "I made her angry—something I said. It was my fault entirely. Now what about those blankets?"
"You're not going to wash any blankets," said Mrs. Colebrook, "and Evie has got to say she is sorry."
"I washed blankets before you were born, Mrs. Colebrook, or soon after, at any rate. I promised you I'd come home and help you."
He went with her to the little scullery with its copper and wash tub, she protesting.
"I didn't think you meant it," she said, "and I can't let you do it. You go into the kitchen and I'll make you a cup of tea."
"Blankets," said Ambrose, rolling up his sleeves.
Evie burst into her room, red with anger. She hated Sault more than ever. She said so, flinging her hat wildly on the bed.
"Oh—was that you who was strafing?" asked Christina.
"I gave him a piece of my mind," said Evie with satisfaction.
"That was generous, considering the size of it." Christina bent outward and laid down the paper and stylograph she had been using.
"I couldn't have done that a few days ago," she said, "and what has poor Ambrose done?"
"He had the cheek to tell me I was home very early, as if he was the lord of the house!"
"Aren't you home early?"
"It is no business of his, the interfering old devil!"
Christina eyed her critically. "You came home in a bad temper," she said. "I suppose giving up Ronnie has got on your nerves."
"I haven't given him up!" Evie snapped, "only he's busy tonight."
Christina chewed a toffee ball reflectively. "That man is certainly industrious," she said. "They will have to bring out new papers to print all he writes. Does he find time to eat?"
Evie lifted her nose scornfully. "What did you say to my Ambrose?"
"I told you."
"You said that you gave him a piece of your mind—that doesn't mean anything to me. Did you call him a murderer?"
"Of course I didn't—I hope I'm a lady."
"I've often hoped so, and maybe one of these days my hopes will be realized. So you didn't call him a murderer? You lost a great opportunity. Don't be offensive to him again, Evie," she said quietly.
Evie did not reply. When Christina spoke in that tone of voice she was frightened of her.
"What is Ambrose doing now?"
"I don't know—in the kitchen, I suppose, guzzling food. And I'm starving! But I won't sit down at the same table as a black man, I won't!"
"Don't be a fool, Evie. Go down and get some food. You can bring it up here and eat it. And, Evie—Ambrose is a very dear friend of mine and I dislike hearing you call him a 'black man'. He is almost as white as you and I. His great grandfather was an Indian."
"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.