VI
A call at the Colebrook's in the afternoon or evening had become a regular practice since Christina had stayed with her. Evie had very carefully avoided being at home when Beryl called.
"I'm sorry I don't like your aristocratic friend, and I know it is a great comfort to have somebody to speak to, about poor Mr. Sault, but I simply can't stand her, Ronnie says that he quite understands my dislike. Christina, do you think Miss Merville is a—you won't be offended, will you? Do you think she is a good girl?"
"Good? Do you mean, does she go to church?"
"Don't be silly. Do you think she is a—virtuous girl? Ronnie says that some of these society women are awfully fast. He says it wouldn't be so bad if there was love in it, because love excuses everything, and the real wicked people are those who marry for money."
"Like Beryl," said Christina, "and love may excuse everything—like you—he hopes."
Evie sighed patiently.
"Do you know what I think about Ronnie?" asked Christina.
"I'm sure I don't want to know," snapped Evie, roused out of her attitude of martyrdom.
"I think he is a damned villain!—shut up, I'm going to say it. I think he is the very lowest blackguard that walks the earth! He is—"
But Evie had snatched up her coat and fled from the room.
Christina's orders from the osteopath were to go to bed early. She was making extraordinary progress and had walked unassisted down the stairs that very day—she was lying dressed on the bed when Beryl arrived.
"I suppose you'll liken me to the squire's good wife visiting the indigent sick," she said, "but I've brought a basket of things—fruit mostly. Do you mind?"
"I've always wanted to meet Lady Bountiful," said Christina. "I thought she never stepped from the Christmas magazine covers. Did you meet Evie?"
"No, I thought she was out."
"She's hiding in the scullery," said Christina calmly.
"She doesn't like me. Ronnie, I suppose?"
Christina nodded. "Ronnie at first hand may be endurable: as interpreted by Evie he is—there is only one word to describe him—I promised mother that I would never use it again. Any news?"
Beryl nodded. "I had a letter—"
"So did I!" said Christina triumphantly, and drew a blue envelope from her blouse.
"Written by the prison chaplain and dictated by Ambrose. Such a typical letter—all about the kindness of everybody and a minute description of the cell intended, I think, to show how comfortable he is."
Christina had had a similar letter.
"Sir John Maxton is defending him," said Beryl. "That is what I have come to tell you. He is a very great advocate."
They looked at one another, and each had the same thought.
"The best lawyer and the kindest judge and the most sympathetic jury would not save Ambrose," said Christina, and they looked for a long time into one another's eyes and neither saw fear.
Beryl did not stay long. They ran into a blind alley of conversation after that: a time of long quietness.
Jan Steppe was waiting in the drawing-room when she returned. The maid need not have told her: she sensed his presence before the door was opened. She had seen very little of Steppe, remembering that she had engaged herself to marry him. She did not let herself think much about it: she had not been accurate when she told Christina that she had no imagination. It was simply that she did not allow herself the exercise of her gift. The same idea had occurred to Jan Steppe—he had seen little of her. He was a great believer in clearing up things as he went along. An unpleasant, but profitable, trait of his.
"Been waiting for you an hour: you might leave word how long you'll be out, huh, Beryl?"
A foretaste, she thought, of the married man, but she was not offended. That was just how she expected Steppe would talk: probably he would swear at her when he knew her better. Nevertheless—
"I go and come as I please," she said without heat. "You must be prepared to put me under lock and key if you expect to find me in any given place, at any given time. And then I should divorce you for cruelty."
He did not often show signs of amusement. He smiled now.
"So that's your plan. Sit down by me, Beryl, I want a little talk."
She obeyed: he put his arm about her, and looking down, she saw his big hairy hand gripping her waist.
"Why are you shaking, Beryl? You're not frightened of me, huh?" he asked, bending his swarthy face to hers.
"I—I don't know." Her teeth were chattering. She was frightened. In a second all her philosophy had failed and her courage had gone out like a blown flame. Every reserve of will was concentrated now in an effort to prevent herself screaming. Training, education, culture, all that civilization stood for, crashed at the touch of him. She was woman, primitive and unreasoning: woman in contact with savage mastery.
"God! What's the matter, huh? You expect to be kissed, don't you? I'm going to be your husband, huh? Expect to be kissed then, don't you? What is the matter with you?"
She got up from the sofa, her legs sagging beneath her.
Looking, he saw her face was colorless: Steppe was alarmed. He wanted her badly. She had the appeal which other women lacked, qualities which he himself lacked. And he had frightened her. Perhaps she would break off everything. He expected to see the ring torn from her trembling hand and thrown on the floor at his feet. Instead of that:
"I am very sorry, Mr. Steppe—foolish of me. I've had rather a trying day." She was breathless, as though she had been running at a great pace.
"Of course, Beryl, I understand. I'm too rough with you, huh? Why, it is I who should be sorry, and I am. Good friends, huh?"
He held out his hand, and shivering, she put her cold palm in his.
"Doctor coming back soon? That's fine. You haven't sent him on any newspapers, huh? No, he could get them there."
Other commonplaces, and he left her to work back to the cause of her fright.
With reason again enthroned (this was somewhere near four o'clock in the morning) she could find no other reason than the obvious one. She was afraid of Steppe as a man. Not because he was a man, but because he was the kind of man that he was. He was a better man than Ronnie, she argued. He had principles of sorts. Ronnie had none. Perhaps she would get used to him: up to that moment it did not occur to her to break her engagement, and curiously enough, she never thought of her father. Steppe was sure in his mind that he held her through Dr. Merville. That was not true. Neither sense of honor nor filial duty bound her to her promise, nor was marriage an expiation. She must wear away her life in some companionship. After, was Ambrose Sault, in what shape she did not know or consider. She never thought of him as an angel.