VII
"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?"