"So did I!" said Christina triumphantly, and drew a blue envelope
from her blouse.
"Written by the prison chaplain and dictated by Ambrose. Such a
typical letter--all about the kindness of everybody and a minute
description of the cell intended, I think, to show how comfortable he
is."
Christina had had a similar letter.
"Sir John Maxton is defending him," said Beryl. "That is what I have
come to tell you. He is a very great advocate."
They looked at one another, and each had the same thought.
"The best lawyer and the kindest judge and the most sympathetic jury
would not save Ambrose," said Christina, and they looked for a long
time into one another's eyes and neither saw fear.
Beryl did not stay long. They ran into a blind alley of conversation
after that: a time of long quietness.
Jan Steppe was waiting in the drawing-room when she returned. The
maid need not have told her: she sensed his presence before the door
was opened. She had seen very little of Steppe, remembering that she
had engaged herself to marry him. She did not let herself think much
about it: she had not been accurate when she told Christina that she
had no imagination. It was simply that she did not allow herself the
exercise of her gift. The same idea had occurred to Jan Steppe--he
had seen little of her. He was a great believer in clearing up
things as he went along. An unpleasant, but profitable, trait of his.
"Been waiting for you an hour: you might leave word how long you'll
be out, huh, Beryl?"
A foretaste, she thought, of the married man, but she was not
offended. That was just how she expected Steppe would talk: probably
he would swear at her when he knew her better. Nevertheless--
"I go and come as I please," she said without heat. "You must be
prepared to put me under lock and key if you expect to find me in any
given place, at any given time. And then I should divorce you for
cruelty."
He did not often show signs of amusement. He smiled now.
"So that's your plan. Sit down by me, Beryl, I want a little talk."
She obeyed: he put his arm about her, and looking down, she saw his
big hairy hand gripping her waist.
"Why are you shaking, Beryl? You're not frightened of me, huh?" he
asked, bending his swarthy face to hers.
"I--I don't know." Her teeth were chattering. She was frightened.
In a second all her philosophy had failed and her courage had gone
out like a blown flame. Every reserve of will was concentrated now
in an effort to prevent herself screaming. Training, education,
culture, all that civilization stood for, crashed at the touch of
him. She was woman, primitive and unreasoning: woman in contact with
savage mastery.
"God! What's the matter, huh? You expect to be kissed, don't you?
I'm going to be your husband, huh? Expect to be kissed then, don't
you? What is the matter with you?"
She got up from the sofa, her legs sagging beneath her.
Looking, he saw her face was colorless: Steppe was alarmed. He
wanted her badly. She had the appeal which other women lacked,
qualities which he himself lacked. And he had frightened her.
Perhaps she would break off everything. He expected to see the ring
torn from her trembling hand and thrown on the floor at his feet.
Instead of that:
"I am very sorry, Mr. Steppe--foolish of me. I've had rather a
trying day." She was breathless, as though she had been running at a
great pace.
"Of course, Beryl, I understand. I'm too rough with you, huh? Why,
it is I who should be sorry, and I am. Good friends, huh?"
He held out his hand, and shivering, she put her cold palm in his.
"Doctor coming back soon? That's fine. You haven't sent him on any
newspapers, huh? No, he could get them there."
Other commonplaces, and he left her to work back to the cause of her
fright.
With reason again enthroned (this was somewhere near four o'clock in
the morning) she could find no other reason than the obvious one.
She was afraid of Steppe as a man. Not because he was a man, but
because he was the kind of man that he was. He was a better man than
Ronnie, she argued. He had principles of sorts. Ronnie had none.
Perhaps she would get used to him: up to that moment it did not occur
to her to break her engagement, and curiously enough, she never
thought of her father. Steppe was sure in his mind that he held her
through Dr. Merville. That was not true. Neither sense of honor nor
filial duty bound her to her promise, nor was marriage an expiation.
She must wear away her life in some companionship. After, was
Ambrose Sault, in what shape she did not know or consider. She never
thought of him as an angel.