On the morning of Ambrose Sault's execution, Evie found a letter
awaiting her at the drug store. Whatever natural unhappiness of
feeling she may have had when she left her weeping mother, vanished
in the perusal of Ronnie's long epistle. The envelope bore the St.
John's Wood postmark, but this she would not have regarded as
significant, even if she had noticed it, which she did not.
Not a love letter in the strictest sense; it was too precise and
businesslike for that. It gave her certain dates to be cherished,
certain instructions to be observed. It went to the length of naming
Parisian dressmakers where she might be expeditiously fitted. She
was to bring nothing, only a suitcase with bare necessities. A
week's stay in Paris would give her all the time she needed to equip
herself. It was a trial to her that she would not see Ronnie for a
month, not until the great day--she caught her breath at the thought.
But he had stipulated this. Ronnie was too keen a student of women
to give her the opportunity of changing her mind. His letters could
not be argued with, or questioned.
And the month would quickly pass. Teddy Williams was a faithful
attendant and, although he could not be compared in any respect with
Ronnie, it was pleasant and flattering to extend her patronage to one
who hung upon her words and regarded her as an authority upon most
subjects.
She had imparted her views on marriage to Teddy, and that young man
had been impressed without being convinced.
Ronnie's letter was to be read and re-read. She expected another the
next day and, when it did not come, she was disappointed. Yet he had
not promised to write; in his letter he had said: "Until you are my
very own, I shall live the life of an anchorite."
She looked up "anchorite" and found that it meant "one who retires
from society to a desert or solitary place to avoid the temptations
of the world and to devote himself to religious exercises," and
accepted this as a satisfactory explanation, though she couldn't
imagine Ronnie engaging himself in religious exercises.
Life ran normally at home, now that Mr. Sault was dead. Evie had
felt very keenly the disgrace of having a lodger who was a murderer.
Only the fact that Ronnie knew him, too, and to some extent shared in
the general odium, prevented her from enlarging upon the scandal to
her mother and Christina. Beyond her comprehension was her sister's
remarkable cheerfulness. Christina didn't seem to care whether Mr.
Sault was alive or dead. She was her own caustic self and the shadow
of her proper woe failed to soften or sadden her.
A week of her waiting had passed before Christina even mentioned the
name of Ambrose Sault, and then it was in connection with the
disposal of his room. Apparently he had paid his rent for a long
period in advance, and Mrs. Colebrook refused to let the room again
until the tenancy had expired.
"Mother is being sentimental over Ambrose and his room," said
Christina, "but there is no reason why you shouldn't have the room,
Evie. You've been aching for privacy as long as I can remember."
Evie shuddered.
"I couldn't sleep there, I'd be afraid he'd haunt me."
"I should be afraid he wouldn't," said Christina, with a little
smile. "If you don't like the idea, I will have my bed put in there."
"No, no, please don't, Christina," begged the girl urgently, "I--I
prefer to sleep here if you don't mind. I want to be with you as
much as I can and I'm out all day."
"And home much earlier. Is it Ronnie or Teddy?"
"I'm seeing a lot of Teddy," replied Evie primly, "he is quite a nice
boy."
"And Ronnie?"
"Leave Ronnie alone," Evie turned a good-humored smile to her. "He
is too busy to meet me so often."
"Loud cheers," said the ironical Christina. "Evie--why don't you ask
him to call here? I should enjoy a chat with him."
"Here?" Evie was incredulous. "How absurd! Ronnie wouldn't dream
of coming here."
Christina laughed.
"I won't tease you any more, Evie. Does he ever say anything about
Ambrose? He was in the prison when Ambrose was executed."
Evie writhed.
"I wish you wouldn't talk about it, Christina--in such a cold-blooded
way--ugh!"
"Does he?"
"I haven't seen him since that--that awful day," she said, "and I'm
sure he wouldn't talk about it." Evie hesitated. "Do you think much
about Mr. Sault, Chris?"
Christina put down her knitting in her lap and nodded.
"All the time," she said, "he isn't out of my thoughts for a second.
Not his face, I mean, or his awkward-looking body, but the real. Do
you remember, Evie, how embarrassed I used to make him sometimes, and
how he'd rub his chin with the back of his hand? I always knew when
Ambrose was troubled. And how he used to sit on my bed and listen so
seriously to all my wails and whines?"
Evie looked for some evidence of emotion, but Christina's eyes were
dry--she appeared to be happy.
"Yes--Chris, do you think I ought to take these stockings back to the
store? They laddered the first time I put them on and I paid a
terrible price for them."
Christina took the stockings from the girl and there all talk of
Ambrose Sault came to an end.
A few afternoons later, returning from her early walk, she was met at
the door by her agitated mother.
"There's a gentleman called to see you, Christina, he's in the
kitchen."
"A gentleman?"
"A gentleman" might mean anything by Mrs. Colebrook's elastic
description.
"He's a friend of Miss Merville's named Mr. Morelle."
"What?" Christina could hardly believe her ears. Ronnie Morelle?
Had Evie conveyed her joking request to him? Even if she had, it was
not likely he would call for the pleasure of seeing her.
Mrs. Colebrook hustled her into the kitchen and closed the door on
them. She had all the respect of her class for the sanctity of
private conversation.
Ronnie was sitting in the chair where Ambrose had so often sat, as
Mrs. Colebrook reminded her at least three times a day. He rose as
she entered and stood surveying her.
It was the first time she had seen him close at hand, and her first
impression was one of admiration. She had never met so good-looking
a man and instantly she absolved Evie for her infatuation. He did
not offer his hand at first, and it was not until she was about to
speak that it came out to her shyly. It was a strong hand and the
warmth of the grip surprised her.
"Christina!" he said softly and she felt herself go red.
"That is my name. You are Ronnie Morelle? I have heard a great deal
about you from Evie."
"From Evie?--yes, why of course! Your mother is looking well. She
works very hard--too hard I think. Women ought not to do such heavy
work."
She sat, tongue-tied, could only point to the chair from which he had
risen.
"I had to come to see you--but I have been rather occupied and
selfish. I have been reading a great deal--a sheer delight. You
will understand that? And poor François has had a lot of trouble,
his brother developed appendicitis. We have had an anxious time."
Ronnie Morelle! And he was talking gravely of the anxious time he
had had because the brother of his servant--it was incredible.
She never dreamed that he was this kind of man; all her preconceived
ideas and more than half of her prejudice against him, were swept
away in a second. He was sincere; she knew it. Absolutely sincere.
This was no pose of his.
"You haven't seen Evie--oh, yes, you have! She told you I wanted to
see you, Mr. Morelle. I do, although I was only joking when I
suggested your coming. Are you very fond of Evie?"
"Yes, she is a nice child. A little thoughtless and perhaps a little
selfish. Young girls are that way, especially if they are pretty. I
am fond of young people, all young things have an appeal for me.
Kittens, puppies, chicks--I can watch them for hours."
This was Ronnie Morelle. She had to tell herself all the time. He
was the man whom Ambrose Sault had described as "foul" and Ambrose
was so charitable in his judgments; the man who had taken Beryl
Merville.
"I am glad you spoke of Evie," he went on. "She must not be hurt.
At her age men make a profound impression and color the whole of
after-life. It is so easy to sour the young. It is hard to improve
on the old texts," he smiled. "I wonder why I try. 'As the twig is
bent, so is the tree inclined.' I never think that it is wise to
reason with a girl in love--fascinated is a better word. _Aegrescit
mendeno_! The disease thrives on remedies. I don't know where I
picked up that phrase--it is Latin, isn't it?"
He went red again, was painfully embarrassed.
She fell back against the wall, white as death. Only by an effort of
will did she arrest the scream that arose in her throat.
In his distress he was rubbing his chin with his knuckle!
"Oh, my God!" cried Christina, wide-eyed. Springing up she took both
his hands and looked into his face.
"Don't you _know_!" she breathed.
A smile dawned slowly in the handsome face of Ronnie Morelle.
"I know it is very good to see you, Christina," he said.
"Don't you--know? Look at me--Ronnie!"
Then as suddenly she released his hands and held on to the table.
"Get me some water, please."
She watched him as he went unerringly into the scullery. There were
two taps, one connected with a rain-water cistern that her father had
made; the other was the drinking water.
He turned the right tap, found a glass where it was invariably hidden
on a shelf behind a cretonne curtain, and brought it back to her.
She drank greedily.
"Sit down--Ronnie. I want you to tell me something. You went to the
execution--I know it hurts you, my dear, but you must tell me. How
did he die?"
She waited, holding her breath.
"It was--terrible," he said in a low voice, "he was so afraid!"
"Afraid!" she whispered.
"I don't remember much. Every thought seemed to have gone out of my
mind. Afterwards I was so numbed--why, I didn't even recognize my
own car or know that I had a car."
"Did you touch him--look at him, then, did you, Ronnie?"
Ronald Morelle answered with a gesture.
"Did you--?"
"I looked at him, but only for a second. He was reciting a poem.
Henley's. I was reading it today, trying to recall things. That was
all, I just looked into his eyes and I was feeling hateful toward
him, Christina. And that was all. He began to moan and cry out. I
was terribly distressed."
She said no more. She wanted to be alone with her mad thoughts.
When he rose to go, she was glad.
"I'll come again on Wednesday," he said, but corrected his promise.
"No, Wednesday is wash-day. Your mother will not want me here."
"How do you know, Ronnie, that it is mother's wash-day?" She was
addressing him as if he were a child from whom information must be
coaxed.
"I don't know. Evie may have told me--of course it is Wednesday,
Christina!"
She nodded.
"Yes, it is Wednesday."
Mrs. Colebrook, consonant with her principles, had effaced herself so
effectively that Christina had to seek her in her hiding-place. She
was sitting in Sault's room and sniffed suspiciously when the girl
called her.
"Mother, you have often told me about something Ambrose did when you
were very ill. Will you tell me again?"
Mrs. Colebrook was happy to tell, embellishing the story with
footnotes and interpolations descriptive of her own impressions on
that occasion.
"Thank you, Mother."
"What did he want? I didn't like to come down whilst he was
here--not in this old skirt. Did he know poor Mr. Sault? A
la-did-da sort of fellow, but very polite. He quite flustered me, he
was so friendly."
She relieved the girl from the necessity for replying by supplying
her own answers.
At the foot of the stairs Mrs. Colebrook heard the snick of a key as
Christina locked the door of her room. Mrs. Colebrook sighed.
Christina was getting more and more unsociable.