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."
"There are times when you remind me of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin'," mused Christina. "I wonder why—oh, yes, little Eva who said such damnably true things so very truly. She died. The book had to have a happy ending anyway. Eva—Evie, I mean, I should write to your slave master and demand an explanation. I'll bet you won't, though!"
"Won't I?" Evie stiffened. "I have my self-respect to consider, Christina, and my friends. I hope Teddy hasn't read the case."
She wrote a letter, many words of which were underlined, and notes of exclamation stood up on each page like the masts of docked shipping.
Ronnie's answer was waiting for her next night.
"Will you come to the flat, Evie?"
Evie did not consult her sister; she took a lank young man into her confidence. Would he escort her and wait in the vestibule of the flats until she came out? Evie had discovered the need for a chaperon.