XII
Mrs. Colebrook acclaimed it as a miracle and discovered in the amazing circumstance the result of her industrious praying.
"Every night I've said: 'Please God, make Christina well, amen.'"
The osteopath, a short, bearded man, who perspired with great freedom, grunted his grudging satisfaction.
Christina was not well by any means, but for the first time in her life she stood upon her own two feet. Only for a few seconds, with Mrs. Colebrook supporting her on the one side and the bone doctor on the other, but she stood.
"Yes—not bad after a month's work," said the osteopath. "You must have massage for those back muscles, they are like wool. If you don't mind a man doing it, you couldn't do better than persuade Mr. Sault. He is an excellent masseur—I found this out by accident. The evening he came to engage me, I'd been dining out and sprained my ankle getting out of a cab—young lady, I observe your suspicion. I am an abstainer and have not touched strong wines for twenty years. I came in feeling bad and I was not inclined to discuss spines with him or anybody. But he insisted on massaging the limb—said he had learned the art in a hospital somewhere—yes, ask him. Otherwise it will cost you half a guinea a day."
Evie heard all this early in the afternoon. It was early closing day and she came home to lunch. She flew up the stairs and literally flung herself upon Christina.
"You darling. Isn't it wonderful! Mother says you stood up by yourself. Oh, Chris, didn't it feel splendid!"
"Mother is a romancer," smiled Christina. "I certainly did stand on my feet, with considerable assistance, and it felt like hell!—pardon the language—physically. Spiritually and intellectually it was a golden moment of life. Oh, Evie, I'm gurgling with joy inside and the prospect of Ambrose rubbing my back fills me with bliss."
"Ambrose—Mr. Sault?"
Christina inclined her head gravely.
"But not your bare back?"
"I fear so," said Christina. "I knew this would be a shock to you."
"Don't be silly, Chris—it is all right I suppose," and then with a happy laugh, "of course it is all right. I'm wrong. I think I must have an unpleasant mind. You've always said I had—well, you've hinted. I'd even let him rub my back if it would do you good."
"You Lady Godiva," murmured Christina admiringly, "quo vadis?"
"That means where am I going? I always mix it up with that other one, 'the sign of the cross.' I am going to a matinee with a girl from the shop. She had tickets sent to her by a gentleman who knows the manager. It will be a bad play; you can't get tickets for a success. How is your Ambrose? I haven't seen him for weeks. Ronnie says that there has been an awful lot of trouble at the office—"
"Oh! Has he an office?"
"I don't know—some office Ronnie is connected with. He's a director, my dear. I saw his name in the paper—Ronnie, I mean."
"Has Ambrose been in trouble?"
"No, some other man, I forget his name. It is foreign and he drinks. But it has all blown over now."
Christina sighed. "I don't see how Ambrose came into it, even after your lucid explanation."
"Ambrose, that is to say Mr. Sault, is supposed to look after—whatever his name is. It sounds like the name of a cigarette. He is supposed to stop him drinking. And he found this—Moropulos, that's the name, in a bar and hauled him out and Moropulos fought him. I don't know the whole story but I do know that there was a row."
"Is the cigarette person still able to walk about?" asked Christina incredulously.
"Yes, but they are very bad friends. Moropulos says he'll get even with Sault."
"Unhappy man," said Christina, "Ronnie is getting quite communicative, isn't he?"
"We're real friends," answered the girl enthusiastically, "we're just pals! I sometimes feel—I don't know whether I ought to tell you this. But I will. I sometimes feel that I really don't want to marry Ronnie at all. I feel that I could be perfectly happy, married to somebody else, if I had him for a friend. Isn't that queer?"
Christina thought it was queer and wondered if this attitude of mind was Evie's very own or whether it had grown by suggestion. But she had evidently done Ronnie an injustice in this instance.
"I've never told Ronnie this," said Evie. "I don't fancy that he would understand, but I did ask him whether he thought that he could be friends with Beryl Merville if she married somebody else. I only asked him for fun, just to hear what he would say. My dear, how he loathes that girl! I could tell he was sincere. He was so furious! He said that if she married, he would never visit her house and he wished he had never seen her."
Christina made no response. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that Beryl Merville must know the man very well to have excited such hatred, but she observed the truce.
When Ambrose put in an appearance late in the evening she learned that he had heard from the osteopath. His large smile told her that even before he spoke.
"Now, Ambrose, did he say anything about massage?"
Ambrose nodded. "I'll do it if you'll let me," he said simply. "My hands aren't as awkward as they look."
Later her mother, who had been an interested spectator of the treatment, spoke a great truth. "It seems natural for Mr. Sault to be rubbing your back, Christina. He's just like a—a soul with hands—sounds ridiculous I know, but that is what I felt. He wasn't a man and he wasn't a woman. It seemed natural, somehow—how did you feel about it?"
"Mother, I begin to feel that I got my genius from you," said Christina, patting a rumpled sheet into place, "I couldn't have bettered that; 'a soul with hands'!"
Mrs. Colebrook blinked complacently. "I've always been a bit clever in describing people," she said. "Do you remember how I used to call Evie 'spitfire'?"
"Don't spoil my illusions mother—'a soul with hands' entitles you to my everlasting respect. And don't tell Evie, or she'll talk about his feet. He has big feet, I admit, though he makes less noise than Evie. And he snores, I heard him last night."