There came a day when Christina put her feet to the grimy pavement of
the street and walked slowly but without assistance to Dr. Merville's
car, borrowed through Beryl, for the afternoon.
It was a cold, clear day in January, the wind was in the east and the
gutters of Walter Street were covered with a thin film of ice.
A momentous occasion, for in addition to other wonders, Christina was
wearing her first hat! Evie had chosen and bought it. The woolen
costume was one from Mrs. Colebrook's wash-tub. Ambrose had provided
a gray squirrel coat. It had appeared at the last moment. But the
hat was a joy. Christina had worn it in bed all the morning, sitting
up with pillows behind her and a mirror in her hand.
"Lend me that powder-puff of yours, Evie," she said recklessly, "My
skin is perfect. I admit it. But I can't appear before the curious
eyes of the world wearing my own complexion. It wouldn't be decent."
"If you take my advice," suggested the wise Evie, "you'll put a dab
of rouge on your cheeks. Nobody will know."
"I am no painted woman," said Christina, "I am poor but I am
respectable. Ambrose would think I had a fever and send for the
osteopath. No, a little powder. My eyes are sufficiently languorous
without eyeblack, I think. It must be powder or nothing."
Ambrose did not accompany them, and Evie and Mrs. Colebrook were her
attendants in the drive to Hampstead.
Beryl saw them; she had arranged with Ambrose and the chauffeur that
the car should go past the house and she watched from behind a
curtained window.
So that was Evie; it was the first time she had seen her--no, not the
first time. She was the girl to whom Ronnie had been speaking that
holiday morning when she had passed them in the park. She was very
pretty and petite--the kind Ronnie liked. She lingered at the window
long after they had passed, loath to face an unpleasant interview.
She knew it would be unpleasant; her father had been so anxious to
please her at lunch; his nervousness was symptomatic. He wanted to
have a little talk with her that afternoon, he said; she guessed the
subject set for discussion.
Sitting before the drawing-room fire she was reading when he came in
rubbing his hands, and wearing a cheerful smile which was wholly
simulated.
"Ah, there you are, Beryl. Now we can have a chat. I get very
little time nowadays."
He poked the fire vigorously and sat down. "Beryl--" he seemed at
some loss for an opening, "I had a talk with Steppe the other day--we
were talking about you."
"Yes?"
"Steppe is very fond of you--loves you," Dr. Merville cleared his
throat. "Yes, he loves you, Beryl. A fine man, a little rough,
perhaps, but a fine man and a very rich man."
"Yes?" said Beryl again and he grew more agitated.
"I don't know why you say 'Yes, yes,'" he said irritably, "a young
girl doesn't as a rule hear such things without displaying
some--well, some emotion. How do you feel about the matter?"
"About marrying Mr. Steppe? I suppose you mean that? I can't marry
him: I don't wish to."
"I'm sure you would learn to love him, Beryl."
She shook her head. "Impossible. I'm sorry, father, especially if
you wished me to marry him. But it is impossible."
The doctor stared gloomily into the fire. "You must do as you wish.
I cannot conscientiously urge you to make any sacrifice--he is a
rough sort, and I'm afraid he will take your refusal badly. I don't
mind what he does--really. I've made a hash of things--it was
madness ever to invest a penny. I had a hundred and fifty thousand
when I came into this house. And now--!"
She listened with a cold feeling in her heart. "Do you mean--that
you depend upon the good will of Mr. Steppe--that if you were to
break your connection with him and his companies, your position would
be affected--?"
He nodded. "I am afraid that is how matters stand," he said, "but I
forbid you to take that into consideration." Yet he looked at her so
eagerly, so wistfully, that she knew his lofty statements to be so
many words by which he expressed principles, long since dead. The
form of his vanished code showed dimly through the emptiness of his
speech.
"I am a modern father--I believe that a girl's heart should go where
it will. Girls do not marry men to save their families, except in
melodrama, and fathers do not ask such a ghastly sacrifice. I should
have been glad if you had thought kindly of Steppe. It would have
made my course so much more smooth. However--" He got up, stooped
to poke the fire again, hung the poker tidily on the iron and
straightened himself.
"Let me think it over," she said, not looking at him. Not until he
was out of the room did he feel uncomfortable.
She had been prepared for this development. Steppe had been a
constant visitor to the house and his rare flowers filled the vases
of every room except hers. And her father had hinted and hinted.
That Dr. Merville was heavily in the debt of her suitor she could
guess. Steppe had told her months before that he had to come to the
rescue of the doctor. Only she had hoped that so crude an
alternative would not be placed before her, though she knew that such
arrangements were not altogether confined to the realms of melodrama.
At least two friends of hers had married for a similar reason. A
knightly millionaire bootmaker had married Lady Sylvia Frascommon and
had settled the Earl of Farileigh's bills at a moment when that noble
earl was dodging writs in bankruptcy. She could look at the matter
more calmly because she had come to a dead end. There was nothing
ahead, nothing. She did not count Ambrose Sault's love amongst the
tangibilities of life. That belonged to herself. Steppe would marry
that possession. It was as much of her, as hands and lips, except
that it was beyond his enjoyment. In the midst of her examination,
her father came in.
"There is one thing I forgot to say, dear--Ronnie, who is as fond of
you as any of us, thinks that you ought to marry--he says he'll be
glad to see you married to Steppe. I thought it was fine of Ronnie."
"Shut the door, father, please; there's a draught," said Beryl.
Dr. Merville returned to his study shaking his head. He couldn't
understand Beryl.
So Ronnie approved! She sat, cheek in hand, elbow on knee, looking
at the fire. Steppe did not seem so impossible after that. Ronnie!
He would approve, of course. What terrors he must have endured when
he discovered that Steppe was his rival! What mental agonies! An
idea came to her.
She went down to the hall where the telephone was and gave his number.
"Hello--yes."
"Is that you, Ronnie?"
"Yes--is that you, Beryl?" his voice changed. She detected an
anxious note. "How are you--I meant to come round yesterday. I
haven't seen you for an age."
"Father says that you think I ought to marry Steppe."
There was an interval. "Did you hear what I said?" she asked.
"Yes--of course it is heartbreaking for me--I feel terrible about it
all--but it is a good match, Beryl. He is one of the richest men in
town--it is for your good, dear."
She nodded to the transmitter and her lips twitched. "I can't marry
him without telling him, can I, Ronnie?" She heard his gasp.
"For God's sake, don't be so mad, Beryl! You're mad! What good
would it do--it would break your father's heart--you don't want to do
that, do you? It would be selfish and nothing good could come of
it--"
She was smiling delightedly at her end of the wire, but this he could
not know.
"I will think about it," she said.
"Beryl--Beryl--don't go away. You mustn't, you really mustn't--I'm
not thinking about myself--it is you--your father. You won't do such
a crazy thing, will you? Promise me you won't--I am entitled to some
consideration."
"I'll think about it," she repeated and left him in a state of
collapse.