On her way home she tried to arraign herself before the bar of intelligence, but it was not until she was alone in her room that night that she set forth the stark facts of her folly. She loved Ronald Morelle, loved him with an intensity which frightened her; loved him, although he was, according to all standards by which men are judged, despicable. He was a coward, a liar, a slave to his baser appetites. She had no doubt in her mind, when she faced the truth, that the stories which had been told of him were true. The East girl—the pretty parlormaid who had begun an action against him.
And yet there was something infinitely pathetic about Ronald Morelle, something that made her heart go out to him. Or was that a case of self-deception too? Was it not the beautiful animal she loved, the sleek, lithe tiger—alive and vital and remorseless? To all that was brain and spirit in her, he was loathsome. There were periods when she hated him and was bitterly contemptuous of herself. And in these periods came the soft voice of Ambrose Sault, whispering, insinuating. That was lunacy, too. He was old enough to be her father; was an illiterate workman, an ex-convict, a murderer; when her father had told her he had killed a man she was neither shocked nor surprised. She had guessed, from his brief reference to New Caledonia, that he had lived on that island under duress. He must have been convicted of some great crime; she could not imagine him in any mean or petty rôle. A coarse-handed workman, shabby of attire—it was madness to dream and dream of him as she did. And dreams, so Freud had said, were the expressions of wishes unfulfilled. What did she wish? She was prepared to answer the question frankly if any answer could be framed. But she had no ultimate wish. Her dreams of Ambrose Sault were unfinishable. Their ends ran into unfathomable darkness.
"I wonder if he is very fond of that red-haired girl?" she asked her mirror. Contemplating such a possibility she experienced a pang of jealousy and hated herself for it.
Jan Steppe came back from Paris on the eve of her birthday. He called at the house the next morning, before she was down, and interviewed Dr. Merville; when Beryl went in to breakfast, two little packages lay on her plate. The first was a diamond shawl pin.
"You are a dear, daddy!" She went round the table and kissed him. "It is beautiful and I wanted one badly."
She hurried back to her place. Perhaps Ronnie had remembered—?
She picked up the card that was enclosed and read it. "Mr. Steppe?"
Her father shot a quick glance at her. "Yes—bought it in Paris. He came in person to present it, but left when he found that you were not down—rather pretty." This was an inadequate description of the beautiful plaque that flashed and glittered from its velvet bed.
"It is lovely," she said, but without warmth. "Ought I accept—it is a very expensive present!"
"Why not? Steppe is a good friend of ours; besides, he likes you," said the doctor, not looking up from his plate. "He would be terribly hurt if you didn't take it—in fact, you cannot very well refuse."