François went after them, not unhappy to detach himself from a tense
and threatening atmosphere, his resentment against his employer
somewhat modified when he reached home, by a letter from his visiting
brother announcing the postponement of his departure from Switzerland.
Therefore it was Ronnie who answered the sharp ring of the bell.
When he saw the girl his jaw dropped.
"Really, Beryl! You place me in a most awkward position. Whatever
made you come? Steppe was here--suppose he came back? Why didn't
you bring somebody with you?"
He was flustered and scared. Steppe might return at any moment.
"I'm sorry I have outraged the proprieties," said Beryl with a little
smile. "Did that child from the druggist's have a chaperon?"
"Eh?" Ronnie was startled.
"I saw her come in and I saw her go out. I've been waiting for an
opportunity of seeing you. She's pretty, but, oh, Ronald, she's only
a baby!"
Ronnie made a quick recovery from his surprise. If she had seen
Evie, she had also seen Steppe and must be sure that he had gone.
She would probably know from her father what were their plans for the
night.
"I give you my word of honor, Beryl," said he earnestly, "that she
merely came to see me about her sister--you know her, Christina, I
think she is called. Evie is very anxious that I should help send
her abroad. As far as Evie is concerned, you can put your mind at
rest. I give you my solemn word of honor that I have never a& much
as held her hand."
She knew he was lying, but tonight of all nights she must accept his
word. She was in a fever: it was almost painful to hold fast to the
last shreds of her failing reserve.
"Ronald." Her voice was tremulous and he braced himself for a scene.
"You don't want me to marry Steppe?"
So that was it. And he had thought she had accepted the position so
admirably.
"Ronald, you know it would be--death to me--worse than death to me.
Can't you--can't you use your imagination?"
Her eyes avoided his: that alone helped to restore a little of his
poise. She had come as a suppliant, and would not be difficult to
handle. The old Beryl, polished, cynical mistress of herself and her
emotions, might have beaten him down; induced God knows what,
extravagant promises.
"I don't want to talk about what has happened. I am not reproaching
you or appealing to any sense of duty but--"
She stood there, her eyes downcast, twisting her gloves into tight
spirals. He said nothing, holding his arguments in reserve against
her exhaustion.
"You make it hard, awfully hard for me, Ronnie. You do know--Steppe
wants to marry me?"
He nodded.
"Do you realize what that means--to me, Ronnie?"
"He's not a bad fellow," protested Ronnie. "Really, Beryl, I never
dreamed you were going to take this line. Is it decent?"
"He's--he's awful, Ronnie, you know he's awful. He's hideous, he's
just animal all through. Animal with reasoning powers,
gross--horrible. You liked me, Ronnie," she was pleading now.
"Why--why don't you marry me? I love you--I must have loved you. I
could learn to respect you so easily. They say you're rotten, but
you're of my own kind. Ronnie, don't you know what it means to me to
say this--don't you know?"
She was gripping his arm with an intensity which made him wince.
Hysteria--suppose Steppe did come back? He went moist at the thought.
"Ronnie, why don't you?" she breathed. "It would save me. It would
save father, too. He would accept the accomplished fact, and be
relieved. Ronnie, it would save my soul and my body. I'd serve you
as faithfully as any woman ever served a man, I would Ronnie. I'd
be--I'd be as light as the lightest woman you know--don't you realize
what I am saying--?"
"My dear girl," he said, thoroughly alarmed, "I couldn't oppose
Steppe, he's a good fellow, really he is. I'm sure you'd be happy.
I'm awfully fond of you--"
"Then take me away! I'll go with you tonight--now, now! Take me.
Ronnie, I'll go--now--this very minute and I'll bless you. He
wouldn't want me then. I know him."
"I--I wish you wouldn't talk such rot," he quavered.
"Take me," she urged desperately. "There is a train tonight for
Ostende, take me. Take me, Ronald, I could love you--I could love
you in gratitude--save me from this gross man."
Ronnie, in a flurry of fear, pushed her away. "You don't know what
you're talking about," he said shrilly. "Steppe would kill me.
Beryl, I'm fond of you, but I can't cross Steppe."
That was the end, her last throw in the game. Ronnie was Ronnie.
That was all. She was very calm now; but for her pallor and the
uncontrollable tremor of her hands, her old self.
That she had humiliated herself did not bring her a moment's regret.
Stampeded--she had been stampeded by sheer physical fear.
"I think I'll go," she said, taking up her furs. "You need not get
me a cab--this time. And Moropulos cannot photograph me. I might
have forced you to do what I wished, playing on your fears. I
couldn't do that. What a coward--but I won't reproach you, Ronnie."
She held out her hand and he held it reluctantly. This time he took
no risks. He gave her a minute's start and then he, too, went out.
Madame Ritti was ever a place of refuge to Ronnie when his nerves
were jangled.