Captains of Souls
Edgar Wallace
9781465548269
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
She stopped writing and looked round. "Come in." The maid was straightening her face as she entered. "That gentleman, miss, Mr. Sault, has called." Beryl tapped her lips with the feathered penholder. "Did you tell him that the doctor was out?" "Yes, miss. He asked if you were in. I told him I'd go and see." Something about the visitor had amused the girl, for the corners of her lips twitched. "Why are you laughing, Dean?" Beryl's manner was unusually cold and her grave eyes reproving. For no reason that she could assign, she felt called upon to defend this man, against the ridicule which she perceived in the maid's attitude. "Oh, miss, he was so strange! He said: 'Perhaps she will see me.' 'Do you mean Miss Merville?' says I. 'Merville!' he says in a queer way, 'of course, Beryl Merville,' and then he said something to himself. It sounded like 'how pitiful'. I don't think he is quite all there, miss." "Show him up, please," said Beryl quietly. She recognized the futility of argument. Dean and her type found in the contemplation of harmless lunacy a subject for merriment—and Dean was the best maid she had had for years. She sat waiting for the man, uncertain. Why did she want to see him? She was not really curious by nature and the crude manners of the class to which he belonged usually rubbed her raw. The foulness of their speech, the ugliness of their ideals and their lives; the gibberish, almost an unknown language to her, of the cockney man and woman, all these things grated. Perhaps she was a neurotic after all; Ronnie was quite sure of his judgment in most matters affecting her. Ambrose Sault, standing in the doorway, hat in hand, saw her bite her lower lip reflectively. She looked around with a start of surprise and, seeing him, got up. He was a colored man! She had not realized this before, and she was unaccountably hurt; just colored and yet his eyes were gray! "I hope I haven't disturbed you, mademoiselle," he said. His voice was very soft and very sweet. Mademoiselle? A Creole—a Madagascan—an octoroon? From one of the French foreign territories, perhaps. He spoke English without an accent, but the "mademoiselle" had come so naturally to his lips. "You are French, Mr. Sault—your name of course?" She smiled at him questioningly and wondered why she troubled to ask questions at all. "No, mademoiselle," he shook his great head and the mask of a face did not relax. "I am from Barbadoes, but I have lived in Port de France, that is, in Martinique, for many years. I was also in Noumea, in New Caledonia, that is also French." There was an awkward silence here. Yet he was not embarrassed and displayed no incertitude of his position. Her dilemma came from the fact that she judged men by her experience and acquaintance with them, and the empirical method fails before the unusual—Ambrose Sault was that. "My father will be home very soon, Mr. Sault. Won't you please sit down?" As he chose a chair with some deliberation it occurred to her that she would find a difficulty in explaining to the fastidious Dr. Merville, why she had invited this man to await him in the drawing-room. Strangely enough, she herself felt the capacity of entertaining and being entertained by the visitor and she had no such spasm of dismay as had come to her, when other, and more presentable, visitors, had settled themselves for a lengthy call. This fact puzzled her. Ambrose Sault was—an artisan perhaps, a messenger, more likely. The shabbiness of his raiment and the carelessness of his attire suggested some menial position. One waistcoat button had been fastened into the wrong buttonhole, the result was a little grotesque.
