It is pleasant to wake to the sound of exquisite—and sufficiently distant—music. It is also pleasant to wake to the odour of good—and sufficiently distant—coffee.
The morning after her remarkable arrival in Golden Square Brigit Mead awoke to both these pleasant things. Somewhere downstairs someone was playing a simple, plaintive air on a violin, and still further away someone was making coffee—delicious coffee.
The girl for a moment could not remember where she was; the room, with its dark-grey paper and stiff black-walnut furniture, was foreign-looking, so were the coloured pictures of religious subjects on the walls. On the chimney-piece stood two blue glass vases filled with dried grasses, and the lace curtains flaunted their stiff cleanliness against otherwise unshaded windows.
Where was she?
And then, as the music broke off suddenly, she remembered, and smiled in delighted recollection of the evening before. Waking was usually such a bore; the thought of breakfast, always a severe test to the unsociable, was horrid to her. There would be either a solitary meal in the big dark dining-room, or what was worse, guests to entertain (for Lady Kingsmead never appeared until after eleven), and the disagreeable hurry and scurry contingent on the catching of different trains. But here she seemed to have escaped from what Tommy called Morning Horrors, and it was delightful to lie in her bed and wonder what, in this extraordinary house, was likely to happen next.
What did happen was, of course, quite unexpected; the door slowly opened and a small yellow dog appeared, a note tied to his collar.
A mongrel person, this dog, with suggestions of various races in him; his tail had intended to be long, but the hand of heredity had evidently shortened it, and the ears, long enough to lop, pricked slightly as his bright eyes smiled up at the girl, who laughed aloud as she took the note he had brought.
"Oh, you dear little monster!" she said to him. "I never saw anything so yellow as you in my life—except Lady Minturn's wig. I believe you're dyed!"
The note, written in a peculiarly dashing hand on thick mauve paper, was short:
"Ma Fille," it ran, "good morning to you—the first of many happy ones with us. Yellow Dog Papillon brings this to you. He is an angel dog, and loves you already, as does your Victor Joyselle,"Beau-Papa."
"Ma Fille," it ran, "good morning to you—the first of many happy ones with us. Yellow Dog Papillon brings this to you. He is an angel dog, and loves you already, as does your Victor Joyselle,
"Beau-Papa."
Yellow Dog Papillon, having come to stay, was sitting up, as if he never under any circumstances passed his time in another way. His rough, pumpkin-coloured front feet hung genteelly limp, and his tail slowly described a half circle on the highly polished floor.
Brigit laughed again, and patted his head. "Does he expect an answer?" she asked seriously; but before the dog could tell her what he thought the door opened, and Madame Joyselle entered, bearing a small lacquered tray, on which stood a tiny coffee-pot, cup and saucer, plate and cream-jug, of gleaming white porcelain, the edges of which glittered in a narrow gold line, and a tall glass vase containing a very large and faultless gardenia.
"I have brought you your coffee, Lady Brigit," said the little woman, showing her beautiful teeth in a cheery smile, "and 'ard-boiled eggs. Théo told me you like them 'ard-boiled. The gardenia is from my 'usband."
Her English was very bad, and the unusual exertion of speaking in the tongue which to her, in spite of twenty-five years' residence in the country of its birth, still remained "foreign," brought a pretty flush to her brown cheeks. "You sleep—well?"
As she ate her breakfast Lady Brigit studied this simple woman who was to be her mother-in-law. Madame Joyselle was, socially speaking, absolutely unpresentable, for she had remained in every respect except that of age what she had been born—a Norman peasant. She had acquired no veneer of any kind, and looked, as she stood with her plump hands folded contentedly on her apron-band, much less a lady than Mrs. Champion, the housekeeper at Kingsmead.
But one fault Brigit had not: she was no snob, and the least worthy thought roused in her as she contemplated her kindly hostess was that her mother would be very much annoyed when she met her daughter's future mother-in-law.
"Such delicious coffee," she said presently, "andthe rolls!"
"Oui, oui, pas mal; c'est moi qui les ai faits. I make myself——"
As she spoke there came a loud rap at the door, and Joyselle put in his head, crowned with a gold-tasselled red-velvet cap of archaic shape.
"You permit,ma fille?" Without awaiting an answer he came in, gorgeous from top to toe in a crimson garment between a dressing-gown and a smoking-costume, girdled round his waist with a gold cord.
"She eats, the most beautiful!" he cried joyously, "andpetite mèreand Yellow Dog look on! Is it not wonderful,ma vieille?"
Madame Joyselle smiled—sensibly. "It is delightful, my man, delightful. But I fear you should not have come in—she may not like it."
"Not like it? Of course she does. Why should not the old beau-papa visit his most beautiful while she breakfasts? You are a goose, Félicité!"
Brigit, vastly amused by their discussing her as if she were not present, gave a bit of roll to the dog.
"A quaint little dog," she observed to them both.
Joyselle laughed. "Yes, yes,il est bien drôle, ce pauvre. But-ter-fly. And the name, too,hein? Some day I will tell you the story of why I have had nine dogs all named 'But-ter-fly.' There is so much to tell you, so much."
He talked on, very rapidly, changing subjects with the rapidity of a child, using his square brown hands in vivid gesture, marching about the room, teasing the dog who, since his master had entered, had had eyes and ears for none but him.
"The concert, you know, yesterday, was a grand success. All the papers are full of it. Many play the violin to-day, you see, but there is only one Joyselle."
"There is also a Kubelik," suggested Brigit slily, to see what he would answer.
"My dear, yes; there is Kubelik, and there is Joachim still, thank God.Chacun dans son genre.But Kubelik is a boy, and he has 'violin hands'—fingers akilomètrelong. Look at my hands, and you will see why I am not his equal in execution. In other things——"
He looked gravely at his hands as he held them out to her. This was in its turn different from the childlike vanity of a minute past; he was a creature of a thousand moods, each one absolutely sincere.
Théo, she saw, was like his mother. From her he had his gentle voice and quiet ways; from his father only the splendid dark eyes.
Joyselle was a remarkably handsome man in his somewhat flamboyant way, and even the clear morning light failed to show lines in his brown face, though his silky, wavy hair was very grey about his brow. He could be compared to no one Brigit had ever seen; he was, even in his absurd velvet gown, head and shoulders above anyone she knew, temperamentally as well as physically. He could, she saw, go anywhere, among people of any class, and find there an at least momentary niche for himself. Gentleman? She would not answer her own mental question, but great artist, man of the world, good fellow, remarkable man, most certainly.
"Your hair is very charming," he was saying as she came to the above conclusion; "it seems to love being yours—as what would not? The hair of many women looks as though it were trying hard—oh, so hard!—to get away from them; but yours clings and—what is the word?—tendrils round your head as if it loved you."
"Ordinary curly hair," she answered in French.
"But no—black hair is usually dry and like something burnt, or of an oiliness to disgust. Is it not so, Félicité—is her hair not adorable?"
"Oui, oui, Victor;oui, mon homme. But we must go, for Lady Brigit will be wishing to rise. Théo, too, awaits her downstairs."
The big man, who was crouching on the floor playing with the dog, rose hastily. "Good God!" he cried in English words, but obviously in the innocent French sense, "I quite forgot that unhappy child! Come, Félicité; come Papillon,m'ami—let us disturb Belle-Ange no longer."
As if he had long been struggling with their reluctance to go, he shepherded them out of the room, singing as he went downstairs, "Salut, demeure chaste et pure."
The parrot, whose name was Guillaume le Conquérant, was a magnificent, fluffy, grey bird picked out with green. His eye was knowing, and swift and deep his infrequent but never-to-be-forgotten bite.
"He is studying you—dear," explained Joyselle, as he stood before the huge gilt cage with Brigit shortly after her appearance downstairs that morning. "It is a severe test that everyone who comes here has to undergo. He is writing his memoirs, too."
"It will be a sad day for you, papa, when his memoirs appear," put in Théo, who was smoking a pipe and walking up and down the room just because he was much too happy to sit still. "You have yet to see therealVictor Joyselle, Brigit. This polite being is the one we keep for company."
Brigit laughed. "Is it true?" she asked the violinist.
"Yes," he returned unexpectedly, "you see now the happy Joyselle; the Joysellepère de famille, domestic; the artist Joyselle, alas! is an irritable, nervous, unpleasant person, who forgets to eat, and then abuses his wife for giving him no dinner; an absent-minded idiot who leaves his own old coat at the club and goes off wrapped in the Marquis of St. Ive's sables; a swearing, smoking, wild-headed person, who adores, nevertheless, his little Théo, and that little Théo's beautifulfiancée."
At the end of this long speech his face, which had in the middle of it been sombre with a sense of his own iniquity, suddenly cleared, until a radiant smile transfigured it.
"My little brother adores you, M. Joyselle," said Brigit suddenly; "he will besopleased. He calls your hair a halo!"
"A sad sinner's halo, then. The beautiful saints have others. And your little brother, what is his name? And how old is he?"
"Tommy is his name, and he is twelve. He is music-mad, and such a dear! Isn't he, Théo?"
Brigit had never been so happy. It was all like a dream, these warm-hearted, simple-minded people, the father and mother so ready to love her for the son's sake, the mental atmosphere so different from that to which she was accustomed. She felt younger and, somehow, better than ever before. And Théo would be very helpful to Tommy, and Tommy's joy, in hearing Joyselle play, something very beautiful. She had sent a wire to her mother the night before at the station, but her mother would not answer it, and there were at least several hours between her and the moment when she must leave Golden Square. The very name was beautiful!
It was raining hard, and the blurred windows seemed a kind of magic barrier between her and the tiresome old world outside.
Then there came a ring at the door, and a moment later Toinon, the red-elbowed maid-of-all-work, appeared, very much alarmed, carrying a card, which she gave to Brigit.
"Oh, dear—it is poor Ponty!" ejaculated the girl, involuntarily turning to Joyselle.
"Poor——"
"Lord Pontefract, Théo. Oh, howtiresomeof mother!"
Joyselle frowned. "Do not call your mother tiresome," he said shortly. "But who is this gentleman?"
Théo stood silently looking on. It was plain that it seemed to him quite fitting that his father should arrange the matter.
"Lord Pontefract—a friend of—of ours," stammered Brigit, abashed by the reproof as she had not been abashed for years.
"And do you want to see him?"
"No, no; I certainly donotwant to see him."
"Then I will go and tell him so."
"No, no. I—I had better go, don't you think, Théo?"
Poor Pontefract seemed rather piteous to her as he was discussed, and her note had been curt and unsympathetic.
Théo looked up from his work of filling his pipe.
"I don't know. I should do as papa says."
"No. I must see him. I shall be back in a minute."
She ran downstairs almost into Pontefract's arms, for he had been left in the passage by the horrified Toinon.
"Oh—sorry!" she exclaimed. "Come in here, will you?" "Here" was the unused "salon" of the house, and in its austere ugliness would have attracted the girl's attention at any other time. But she had now before her something she had never seen, a perfectly sober Pontefract. And though red, a little puffy, and watery as to eye, the man looked what he was, an English gentleman. Brigit felt as though she had returned to an uncongenial home after a tour into some strange, delightful country.
"I—I owe you an apology, I suppose," she said, so simply that he stared.
"No, you don't, Lady Brigit. You wrote me a—a very kind note. But I wanted to ask you to reconsider. I—I am unhappy."
There was a short pause, during which he looked at her unfalteringly, and then he went on with a certain dignity: "I have—drunk too much of late years, I know, but—I will never do so again. And I think I could make you happy."
"Did mother send you here?" asked the girl suddenly.
"No; I telephoned her this morning for your address. She would be glad—if you could make up your mind."
"I have made up my mind, Lord Pontefract. I am going to marry Théo Joyselle. And—I think I am going to be happy. I—like them all very much. And," holding out her hand, "I amverysorry to have hurt you."
As she spoke the sound of music—violin music—came down the stairs. They both started, for it was the Wedding March from "Lohengrin."
Brigit's small face went white with anger. "I—am sorry," she stammered; "it is—ghastly. It isn't Théo—it is his father. Oh,dogo!"
Pontefract nodded. "Yes, I'll go. And—never mind, Brigit. He doesn'tknow, the old chap!"
He left the room hastily, and she ran upstairs, her hands clenched.
It was as she expected: Théo had left the room, and Joyselle stood alone by the open door, his face radiant with malicious, delight. "Parti, hein? I thought he'd—What is the matter?" he ended hastily, staring at her.
She went straight to him, breathing hard, her brows nearly meeting. "Howcouldyou do such a thing? It was abominable—hideous!"
"What was abominable?"
"To play that Wedding March! Théo had told you about—about him, and you did it to hurt him. Oh, how couldanybodydo such a thing!"
Joyselle put his violin carefully into its case.
"You are rude, mademoiselle," he returned sternly; "very rude indeed. But you are—my guest."
And he left the room.
Brigit's temper was very violent, but she had seen in his set face signs of one much worse than her own, and, with the strange unexpectedness that seemed to characterise the man, his last move was as fully that of a gentleman as his trick with the Wedding March had been shocking.
He was her host, and—he had left her rather than forget that fact.
For the first time in her life she was utterly at a loss. What should she do?
She was still standing where he had left her when Madame Joyselle came in, perfectly serene, and closed the door.
"What is the matter?" she asked calmly, sitting down and folding her hands.
"I—M. Joyselle—hurt one of my friends—he was—rude. And then——"
"C'est ça. And thenyouwere rude. Never mind, he will not think of it again, and neither must you."
Brigit was silent, and stood looking at le Conquérant. Shehadbeen impolite, and Joyselle's discourtesy was, after all, more like a bit of schoolboy malice than the deliberate insult of a grown man. And his dignified rebuke to her had set her at once on the plane of a naughty child.
Were they both grown up, or both children? Or was he grown and she a child, or was she a grown-up and he a child? It was very puzzling and very absurd. She wanted to rage and she wanted to laugh.
She laughed. Because as she turned towards the disinterested spectator on the sofa, Joyselle came in, his face bearing such a reflection of the expression she felt to be in her own that she could not resist.
"Bon. It is laugh, then?" he cried, kissing her hands. "It appears Belle-Ange has a temper, too! Let us forget all about it. Félicité, my dear, bring us Hydromel, and we will drink forgetfulness." He opened the door of the cage, and William the Conqueror came mincing out, waddling on his inturned toes like some fat, velvet-clad dowager.
Hydromel is a Norman liqueur, thick and cloying. Brigit loathed it, but could not resist Joyselle, who, the parrot on his left wrist, poured the sweet stuff into little glasses and handed one to her.
"Item: forget that we both have bad tempers," he said, striking his glass against hers. "Item; remember that we are both good in our hearts; item, remember that father and daughter must be patient with each other."
As she drained her glass Théo came in and laughed as he saw what they were doing.
"A reconciliation already?" he cried. "Papa, what have you been up to?"
"We have both been correcting and being corrected.Bon, c'est fini!"
"My dear Gerald, anyone would thinkIwanted her to do it!" Lady Kingsmead's voice was very fretful, for Carron had done nothing but talk to her about Brigit for the last fortnight, and though she knew that his old love for herself was dead and buried, yet she enjoyed having an occasional flower of speech laid on its grave.
"I really believe you are in love with her," she went on after a pause, as he did not answer.
"Bosh!"
"But it certainly looks like it. You do nothing but talk about her."
Carron roused himself with an effort from the treadmill line of thought that had tortured him ever since Brigit's engagement. "My dear Tony, you are absurd. You know perfectly well that I have never loved any woman but you. You have led me a dog's life for years; you prevented my getting on in my career, because it amused you to have me dangling about——"
Lady K.Oh, Gerald, will you ever forget that horrible winter when you went to India?Carron(aloud). No, Tony! (In petto) Shecan'tlove the boy. That much is quite impossible!Lady K.The awful cables you used to send me? Heavens, how I cried every night, Gerry! And how horrid Kingsmead was that year!Sojealous.Carron(aloud). You were always such an abominable flirt! (In petto) If I only knewwhyshe hates me so! God! it's worse than hatred; it's loathing.Lady K.(reproachfully). That is unfair, dear. YouknowI never loved anyone but you!Carron(aloud). But you flirted, Tony; yes, you did. You nearly drove me mad with jealousy. (In petto) Hang it all! how can I get away and go for a walk? This is unbearable.
Lady K.Oh, Gerald, will you ever forget that horrible winter when you went to India?
Carron(aloud). No, Tony! (In petto) Shecan'tlove the boy. That much is quite impossible!
Lady K.The awful cables you used to send me? Heavens, how I cried every night, Gerry! And how horrid Kingsmead was that year!Sojealous.
Carron(aloud). You were always such an abominable flirt! (In petto) If I only knewwhyshe hates me so! God! it's worse than hatred; it's loathing.
Lady K.(reproachfully). That is unfair, dear. YouknowI never loved anyone but you!
Carron(aloud). But you flirted, Tony; yes, you did. You nearly drove me mad with jealousy. (In petto) Hang it all! how can I get away and go for a walk? This is unbearable.
And so on, and so on, all thetriste canzon. Lady Kingsmead's boudoir was a charming room done in white and pale corn-colour. There were many books, but Tommy had one day betrayed the limitations of their field of usefulness by asking his mother before several people, "Mother, where do you keep the books youread?"
There were many flowers, beautiful Turkey carpets, shaded lamps, overloaded little tables whose mission in life appeared to be the driving parlour-maids, however reluctant, to the process of dusting, and, in the darkest corner, where its faded gilding was supposed to lighten the gloom, a beautiful old harp. The harp belonged to Mr. Isaacs in Baker Street, but was supposed to have been played by the fair fingers of Lady Kingsmead's grandmother.
The furniture and hangings, all new, belonged to Messrs. Bampton in Piccadilly, as did the carpets. The pictures, belonging to the entail, were paid for. Lady Kingsmead lay on achaise-longueand played with a Persian kitten named Omar.
Carron sat opposite her in a low chair smoking cigarettes. It was just four o'clock.
"I suppose she'll curse me out for being here," Carron began suddenly, feeling that he deserved, after his hasty excursion into the churchyard of his ancient love, a short indulgence in his present feelings; "she's a good hater, that girl of yours."
"Yes, she has a very nasty temper. Now I, with all my faults"—(pause)—"with all my faults, never could stay angry more than five minutes. Besides, I was always so sensitive."
"Yes; oh, yes! What train does she come by, did you say?"
"The 4.27. Perhaps you'd like to go and meet her?"
He laughed, his blue eyes narrowing. "Thanks, no. And the others?"
"Oh,Idon't know. The list is there at your elbow. You are dull to-day, Gerald."
"I know I am. I think I'm in for an attack of flue, or something; feel shivery and all-overish. And I think you might be able to understand my hating to have your daughter make such a horriblemésalliance, Tony."
She was touched with the pathetic facility for being touched common to fading beauties. Rising, she laid her pretty hand on his shoulder. "Poor darling, I am sorry I was cross. It is dear of you to mind. I hated it, too, at first, for poor old Ponty is a gentleman, and he is awfully cut up. But after all, it may not be a bad thing. She's a very queer girl, Gerald, not at all easy to live with, and this boy Joyselle is really nice. Besides, he has plenty of money——"
"By the way," interrupted Carron, tossing the kitten to a soft chair, "where did he get the money? The fiddling chap can't have much. They say he's a great spendthrift——"
"No, it isn't that. I mean Isabel Clough-Hardy left it to him. You remember the moley one who died in Egypt?"
"Did she? He must have been a mere child when she died. You mean Hugh Hislip's daughter?"
"Yes. Oh, yes, it was years ago. They say she was in love with Victor Joyselle before she married."
"By Jove! Why didn't he marry her?"
"Because in this unenlightened land no man is allowed to have more than one wife at a time—Oh, Tommy, what have you been doing?"
Kingsmead, who had come in without knocking, sat down and stretched his thin legs over the arm of the chair. "Ratting."
"Oh, you nasty child! What a beastly thing!"
"Ratting, my dear mother, is a fine, manly, old-time sport. Most fellows of my age and appearance would be making love to their mothers' friends, but I bar women. Sport," he added solemnly, "for Thomas Edward, Earl of Kingsmead."
Carron, who had always disliked the boy, looked at him. "So you bar women? Many other 'men of your appearance' have said the same."
It was a nasty thrust, but Tommy, though he felt it, grinned cheerfully.
"Stung!" he cried, laying his hand on his heart in an absurd theatrical gesture. "Your bolt has gone home, my dear fellow. But experience may take the place of beauty at fifty."
Carron started. He loathed being fifty, he loathed Tommy, he loathed everything.
Tommy turned to the kitten and talked artless nonsense to it to fill up the pause that followed, and Lady Kingsmead powdered her nose with a bit of chamois skin that lived in a silver box full of Fuller's earth under thechaise-longuepillows.
"Glad Brigit's coming?" asked Tommy, turning with appalling suddenness to Carron, whose hatred for him increased tenfold as he tried to answer carelessly.
As he replied, Brigit came in, without a hat, but covered from head to foot with a rough tweed coat. Her wavy hair was very wet, and her gloves, as she pulled them off, dripped on the floor. In her pearly pale cheeks was a lovely pink tinge.
"What a day!" she cried. "I can't kiss you, mother—how d'ye do, Gerald? Tommy, you angel, come and be drowned in sister's fond embrace!"
They all stared at her. "It's such a jolly rain. I drove myself in the cart that had gone for Mr. Green. Green came in the brougham, poor dear! Well—what are you all staring at, souls?"
"You look so—so young, Bicky," answered Tommy, with an effort. "What a good time you must have had!"
Having taken off her coat and thrown her ruined gloves into the fire, she sat down by her brother and put her arm round him.
"Dear little boy! Iamyoung, Thomas, and I did have a good time. He is going to play for you, dear—all you want him to. He is a—a—what shall I say?" Her eyes crinkled with amusement as she sought for a word. "He really is a—ripper, Tommy. And he has a human dog named Papillon—But-ter-fly," she added, still smiling and obviously quoting, "also a parrot."
"And a wife," put in Carron sharply.
She looked at him, her face stiffening into its old expression of surly hauteur.
"You have seen her?"
"No. But a friend of mine has. Charley Masterson, Tony. He says she looks like a clean old peasant."
"That is exactly what she is—bravo, Charley Masterson! A clean old peasant. Joyselle, too, is a peasant. They come from near Falaise, and as a girl Madame Joyselle wore a cap. Is there no tea going?"
Lady Kingsmead, who hated rows unless she was one of the principals, rang the bell.
"How was Pam?" she asked hastily.
"As nice as ever. They both sent you their love, by the way. I had a heavenly week there, and they liked Théo so much. He came down for the week-end. Oh, mother," she went on as the man who had answered the bell closed the door, "please ask them down soon, will you? The clean old peasant won't come; she never leaves home, andheis—perfectly presentable."
Lady Kingsmead watched her daughter in amazement. Tommy, as usual, was right; Brigit looked, and seemed, years younger than she had done a fortnight ago.
"Yes, my dear, I'll write to-night," she said with the graciousness she used at will, and that was so charming. Then she added, "I might ask him when the Duchess comes. He is sure to love duchesses;thosekind of people always do."
"Yes, and as to duchesses,thosekind of people frequently like good music for nothing."
But there was no bitterness in her tone, and mother and daughter smiled at each other.
The Duchess did like good music for nothing, and when, a week later, she was told on her arrival that Joyselle was to be of the party, she was much pleased. She was only an ancient dowager, full of aches and pains and sad and merry memories, but she was a great favourite nevertheless, for her aches and pains and sad memories were kept safely in the background, whereas her merry and sometimes somewhat shocking recollections made her the very best of good company.
"A great man, my dear," she told Lady Kingsmead, "one of the finest artistes I ever heard. I remember once in Petersburg, heaven only knows how many centuries ago, hearing him play before the Czar. He was extraordinarily handsome then, a tall young fellow—he can't be much over forty now—very broad and strong-looking, with beautiful wavy brown hair and gorgeous black eyes. The Grand Duchess Anastasia-Katherine was very much in love with him, and he with her. She gave him a rose before everybody—a red rose—and he kissed it quite boldly before he put it into his coat. A remarkably dashing young man!"
"You have heard, I suppose, that my girl is going to marry his son?"
"Bless me, no! Has the creature a son? Men of that type ought never to marry and have sons. What is he like, the boy?"
"A delightful person, Duchess, and we are all so pleased about it. I had hoped for some time that she would take him—anyone could see how things were going withhim—but she was always so peculiar, and I rather feared at one time that she would say no," and so on, and so on. Lady Kingsmead did not know she was lying, and the Duchess, who was sleepy and had on a tight dress, did not care. When she had found out who the other guests were to be, and that dinner was at half-past eight, she waddled upstairs, looking remarkably like Guillaume le Conquérant in her grey dress, and went to sleep.
Lady Kingsmead had a cup of Bovril, which she had been told was excellent for the complexion (although as her complexion was always carefully concealed from the eye of man, also from the far more piercing one of woman, it may be asked why she considered it). Then she had her maid lock her dressing-room door, and give her an hour's facial massage.
At seven Joyselle arrived, and she was told that he had arrived.
"Ask Mr. Joyselle to come to my boudoir, Burton."
"Very good, my lady."
When Joyselle was ushered in he found a beautiful person in a lacy white tea-gown reading Maeterlinck on a satinchaise-longue.
He kissed her hand.
"I am glad to have an opportunity of seeing you, Lady Kingsmead," he began abruptly, fixing his dark eyes on hers. "Our little private correspondence has, I trust, been as pleasing to you as it has to me?"
"I have greatly enjoyed it."
"I am delighted. And they, thefiancés, know nothing of it?"
"Of course not, Monsieur Joyselle." Her ladyship bowed with some dignity as she spoke, for, besides being a very great artiste, this person with the quiet air of authority was also a peasant.
"As I said, I rather doubted the wisdom of writing to you, but Théo is a baby regarding money, and as you, of course, must consider the matter as not altogether advantageous in the point of birth—for we have no birth, my wife and I, we were just born,"—he smiled delightfully—"I thought it only just to reassure your"—he was on the point of saying "mother's heart," but thought better of it, and hastily substituted the word "mind,"—"on this point of money. Théo, by the will of my dear friend, Lady Isabel Clough-Hardy, does not come of age until he is twenty-five, in something less than three years' time. But you now understand that I, as guardian, am prepared to do all I can for the two dear children."
Hewashandsome, the Duchess was right. And he was beautifully dressed. And he would play for her guests after dinner.
Lady Kingsmead held out her jewelled hand.
"I am very glad that it happened," she said sweetly. "Théo's a dear boy, and seems to make my little girl very happy."
"Yes, they seem happy. Ah—is this Tommy?"
It was. A spick-and-span Tommy, with very wet hair and a nervous smile; a Tommy with cold hands and a curious twitching behind his knees. For he had come to Olympus to see a god.
Joyselle held out his big, strong hand and Tommy's disappeared in it. Thus, sometimes, are friendships made.
"I say—youcanplay," stammered the boy. "I—it is glorious."
"You love music, Brigitte says."
"Don't I just! She says you'll play for me some time."
Tommy's small, greenish eyes were wet with irrepressible tears of adoration.
Joyselle rose. "Come with me to my room now, Tommy, and I will play for you.Vous permettez, madame?"
Lady Kingsmead bowed graciously, but when the door closed, frowned with disgust, and putting Maeterlinck on the table, drew Claudine from under an embroidered pillow and began to read.
Tommy, treading on air, accompanied Joyselle to his room, and sitting on the floor as the easiest place in which to contain almost unbearable rapture, listened.
Joyselle as he played recalled another little boy who, years before, had listened in much the same way to another man playing the violin, and the comparison is not so far-fetched as it seems, for although the blind fiddler of the sunny day in Normandy had been only a third-rate scraper of the bow, and Joyselle one of the world's very greatest artists, yet in one thing they joined issue. Each of them gave to the listening child before him his very best.
Dinner that night was a very grand affair. Fledge inspired awe by his majestic mien—Fledge liked duchesses—and Burton and William, the recently promoted, with their heads striped with grease and powder, looked to the enraptured eyes of the female servants their very best.
There were crimson roses in beautiful silver vases on the table, and in the centre stood a particularly hideous but very valuable silver ship—"given," as Tommy once gravely explained to a guest, "by somebody or other—a king, or an admiral, I think—to one of my ancestors, in the seventeenth century, who did something or other rather well."
Lady Kingsmead, under the Duchess' influence, was suffering from one of her attacks of thinking Tommy "quaint," so, by the old lady's suggestion, the boy was allowed to sit at the foot of his own table, pretending, as he had told his sister he should find it necessary to do, to be as young as his mother's guests.
The Duchess, greatly diverted by his demeanour, and reinforced on her other side by an amusing, sad dog of thirty, who wrote wicked novels, thoroughly enjoyed her dinner. There are so many reasons for enjoying one's dinner; some people do because they like to meet their fellow-creatures; some because they like being seen at certain houses; some because they have beauty to display or stories to tell; and some because they enjoy eating and drinking simply as eating and drinking. The Duchess, in that she enjoyed dining for all the reasons above cited, except that of bothering her ancient head about whose house she was seen at, was extremely pleased with her entertainment. She wagged her old head—white now, quite frankly, after many years of essays in difficult tints—whispered to her novelist, and made love to Tommy quite shamelessly.
"You look like an Eastern potentate, you are so silent and serious," she told him once. "Do I bore you so horribly, or is it Miss Letchworth?"
"I am not bored at all, Duchess," answered the boy simply; "I am thinking."
"And what are you thinking about?"
Tommy hesitated. Under her frivolous manner he knew the Duchess had a heart, and very human sympathies.
"I want to be a violinist," he said slowly, after a pause during which the Duchess, with a little shriek, rescued her salad, which William had pounced upon.
"A violinist!"
"Hush! Please don't tell."
"Of course I'll not tell, but——"
"Have you heard him play?"
"Joyselle? Of course I have."
"Well?" asked Tommy in quiet triumph. What more could anyone say?
The old woman smiled sweetly at him. She, too, had been young, and remembered. And there was in this little, plain boy a certain strain of blood that she loved; his grandmother had been a Yeoland.
"So you really love it that much, do you? It means hard work, Tommy."
"I know," nodded the boy gravely.
And his mother, seeing his gravity, feared that he was not being sufficiently quaint to amuse the old lady, and screamed down the table at him to tell the Duchess the story of the jibbing pony at the Irish race meeting. The story was not told.
On her right hand Lady Kingsmead had the local M.F.H., a dull man with his head full of hounds, as she expressed it. But on her left sat Joyselle, and as a guest he was certainly perfect. Lady Kingsmead in pale pink and pearls was good enough to look at, and feeling that she wished to be made love to, he made love to her, as was his duty. And he did it well, for he was an artist. He was not conspicuous, or over-impassioned, or over-adoring (very few women like unmixed adoration), but he was amusing, a trifle outrageous, admiring, and tactful. He was also amazingly handsome.
Down to her left Lady Kingsmead could see Carron being bored to death by the wife of the M.F.H., who, someone said, if he hadhishead full of hounds and foxes, certainly had hers full of coals and blankets. For the vicar was a bachelor, and poor Lady Brinsley hated hounds and foxes, and really loved helping the poor. And being of the simple-minded who talk to strangers out of the fulness of their hearts, she was telling him sadly of the shameful way in which the coal-dealer had cheated poor, dear Mr. Smith.
Mentally damning poor, dear Mr. Smith and his friend, as well as the whole race of coal-dealers, Carron watched Brigit as she talked to Théo and her other neighbour, Pat Yelverton, who watched her in quite evident surprise.
"May I be rude and make a personal remark?" he asked her presently. She smiled. "Yes." Yelverton hesitated, and then said slowly: "You have changed wonderfully since I last saw you, Lady Brigit."
"You mean that I am not so disagreeable?"
"I mean——"
"I know. And you are right, Mr. Yelverton. I was very horrid, and now I am—nicer—because I am very happy. It's a selfish reason, but I hope I can use it as—as a kind of means to a good end."
Yelverton held his breath. Was it possible that the mere fact of being engaged to a sweet-natured youth like Théo Joyselle could cause such a miracle as this before his eyes? What was the boy to change Brigit from a sullen, caustic woman into a charming, lovely young girl?
"I am very glad for you," he said presently, "and for him. I'm a sorry old stager, Lady Brigit, but it is good to see two young things like you and Joyselle find each other—in time."
As so often happens, his mood was answering hers, and she remembered some story she had heard long ago about him and some girl who had drowned herself.
"Thank you," she said very gently, and turned to Théo, for she had a manlike fear of intruding on people's secrets. But Yelverton was one of those unfortunate beings who, when they turn to their sentimental past, must turn not to the memory of one face, but to a kind of romantic mosaic of many faces that in time takes on the horrid semblance of a composite photograph. So it is to be feared that the sad little story of the girl who drowned herself because he who loved her, made casual and, so to speak, duty-love to a married woman, had not occurred to him, as Brigit in her new-found kindliness of supposition, took for granted.
It was a wonderful dinner to the girl; wonderful in the indulgence that had come over her regarding herconvives, and in the interesting things she found it possible to glean from the snatches of talk she caught from time to time. Alert, bright-eyed, an unwonted smile ever hovering on her mouth, she listened, and young Joyselle watched her in a fearful ecstasy of joy.
He felt, in his innocent youth, so old, so wicked, so world-worn for this radiant angel who had given, herself to him. It was too good to be true, and he trembled at the thought. But after dinner, when he had at last been able to fly to the drawing-room, the Duchess had a beautiful word to say to him. "Mr. Joyselle," the old woman began abruptly, beckoning to him, "come here for a second, I want to congratulate you."
"Thank you, Duchess. I—I am indeed to be congratulated, for she is the most perfect——"
"Tà, tà, tà, I don't mean that at all! I mean I want to congratulate you on what you have been able to do for her in so short a time."
"I? To do for her?" He was honestly puzzled.
"Yes, you. Do you suppose she has always been what she is now? Not a bit of it. The last time I saw Brigit Mead—it was at Ascot—she was a very good-looking, of course—oh, unbelievably beautiful, if you prefer it, but an ill-tempered, black-faced young minx, who should have been put on bread and water for a month to correct her manner."
"Her manners!" shouted Théo, unable to believe his ears.
"No. Her manners were always all right, but her manner was atrocious. And you have made her most delightful, as well as ten times lovelier than I would have thought possible. There, now, you may go to her." And Théo wasted no time.
"Love is a strange thing, isn't it?" went on the old woman to her neighbour, without looking to see who he was, for it is a remark that may safely be addressed to anybody.
"It is a damnable thing," growled the afflicted Carron, for it was he who chanced, for his sins, to have paused just then under the pretence of lighting a cigarette.
"Exactly," assented the Duchess briskly. "It has led you an awful life, Gerald, hasn't it?"
"The absurdity of calling that boy's feelings for Brigit by the same word that must express——"
"Yours for her mother, eh? Go away, you immoral thing!"
There was to be no Bridge that evening, and by unspoken consent everyone sat in the hall. It was a cold night, and the roaring fire was pleasant to hear, and in the expressive slang of the time, "things went."
Everyone was amused; for the time being, the bores had ceased from boring, and the bored were at rest. Brigit, who loved to look into wet and be dry, to look into cold and be warm, sat in the one plain glass window in the place (its coloured predecessor had been broken by a Roundhead cannon-ball and for vainglorious Family Reasons never been replaced), so that she could look alternately into the storm and at the comfortable, cheery scene within.
She wore white, and in her hair a tiny wreath of green enamel bay-leaves. And to her beauty was, as the Duchess had so plainly felt, added the great graces of good humour and simplicity.
"After all," thought the wise old lady, watching her, "all happy women are simple."
Tommy, big with his splendid secret, roamed about the room, his hands in his pockets, his chin poked up thoughtfully.
It was all very well to be an earl if one wanted to rule one's mother and get one's own way generally, but when one wants to be a violinist, then an earldom is distinctly a bore. He had never heard of a British peer who at the same time was a great musician, but which of the two positions precluded the other he could not decide.
He wished, naturally, to begin work at once. He would have to have a serious talk with his mother to-night. If these people ever went to bed!
Bicky looked heavenly to-night. My word! what a sister for any fellow to have!
And Joyselle—he was far too great a person to be "Mistered." Fancy Mr. Beethoven, or Mr. Paderewski! Joyselle the Great and Glorious would help him. The mater appeared to like him. It was strange, for she had been in a terrible rage the first day or two—but she certainly was as pleased as Punch now.
Joyselle had crossed the room and was sitting by Bicky now. By Jove, he was patting her hand! And before everybody!
Suddenly he rose, she smiled up into his dark face, and he called Tommy.
"Tommy, will you go to my room and bring me my Amati?"
Why Tommy did not then and there burst with joy, that enraptured little boy never knew. When he put the violin into the master's hand the child trembled so that the master saw it. "When I have played one thing, you are to go to bed," he said gravely. "You are tired."
And the spoiled and headstrong Tommy, he whose word was law to his mother and many other people, nodded obediently. "I will play again for you alone to-morrow," added Joyselle.
Then he went and stood near the fire, the red light flashing on him, and played.
The first thing, plainly for Tommy, was a Norman cradle-song, very slow and monotonous, and full of strange harmonies. When it was over, Tommy quietly withdrew. To-morrow was to be his day.
Brigit Mead had stayed at the house in Golden Square for a full week, and during that week she had heard her future father-in-law play a dozen times or more.
He had played in the crimson velvet dressing-gown, in morning clothes, in evening dress, once even in the fur-lined coat. Yet it seemed to her, as she watched and listened now, in the great hall of the house of her fathers, that she had never heard quite this same man play.
At home he had been "Beau-papa," noisy and demonstrative, or solemn with artistic responsibility and reverence, but always the oldish man playing to his family. Now, in some way, he was metamorphosed. He was now "Joyselle"; he was, as she listened and watched, an unusually handsome, not yet middle-aged gentleman, playing the violin as an artist, but indisputably a gentleman.
She recalled, with a shudder, his awful lack of taste displayed the day Pontefract called; she remembered her amusement on his insisting on wearing a pale blue satin tie one day when he was lunching at a club to meet a great pianist, and Théo's subsequent search among his belongings for other similar horrors.
She remembered his over-loud laugh and his too-ready gesture. She smiled, however, as she told herself that he was a peasant.
As she listened, her love for music quite subordinated to her strange interest in the mere man, Théo leant forward and whispered quietly: "Brigit, do you really care a little for me?"
"Yes." She smiled affectionately at him, for was it not he who made her so happy?
And then the poor girl drew a long, shuddering breath, and leant back behind the curtain, for she had suddenly realised that it was not Théo who made her happy. It was the fact that he was Victor Joyselle's son.
And it was the big man with the violin who—who—who made her happy.
It was a miserable end to her childish dream of felicity, for she was brave enough to admit to herself without the least hesitation what it was that had happened.
And when Joyselle at length stopped playing and came back to sit by her, she smiled at him in very good imitation of her own smile of half an hour before.
But he was not satisfied.
"You did not like it?" he asked simply.
"Of course I did—it wassplendid."
"Yet I could not hold you," he persisted, his vanity evidently a little hurt. He could not hold her!
"Didn't we like it, Théo?" she urged, turning to the young man.
"To tell the truth, I didn't hear a note," he admitted, not in the least shamefacedly. "I was looking at you."
"Lucky young beggar," laughed Joyselle, "small wonder! You two make a very pleasant picture," he added, "and in a year or two——"
"Father," protested Théo, blushing scarlet in quick French sympathy for the strange susceptibilities of his English fiancée, "don't!"
Brigit rose slowly. "I must go and say good night to Tommy," she said. "I shall be down in a few minutes."
Tommy was in bed, reading a very large book by the light of an electric lamp.
"What have you got there?" his sister asked, lying down by him and pressing her face to the cool pillow.
"Oh, nothing. I just thought I ought to know something about—Amatis. It's very interesting," he returned solemnly, and then burst out: "Oh, Bick, isn't hesimply glorious!"
"Yes, Tommy."
"There was never anyone like him. Not only the fiddling, but—everything. Don't you think so? Don't you, Bicky?" he persisted anxiously.
"Yes, Tommy, dear."
"I do think you the luckiest girl in the whole world. Just fancy beinghisdaughter."
"Yes, Tommy."
Her head whirled, her heart beat hard, her hands were as cold as ice. This, she told herself, was the plunge; it would be better shortly. And when itwasbetter, then she could begin to fight. For she would fight. It was a monstrous thing, a nightmare, and she would fight it down.
"Brigit."
"Yes, Tommy?" With an effort she roused herself and sat up.
Tommy had closed the book and put it away. He now sat hunched in bed, his thin arms in their pale blue sleeves clasping his knees. "Brigit, do you think a peer could ever be a really great violinist?"
A sleepless night is always a bad thing, but it is full of horror when its victim is haunted by an ever-recurring thought.
Brigit Mead went to her room, dismissed what her brother called her half of Amélie, the French maid, put on a dressing-gown, and sat down by the fire to think.
Her room was very exposed, and the wind howled dismally round the corner of the house, while the rain fell in violent gusts against the ancient panes. It was a comfort to hear the storm, for it made the fire welcome, and a fire is comforting.
The girl huddled close to it, and according to her wont began uttering her thoughts in a whisper.
"It is that. There's no doubt. And that is why I was so happy. He doesn't know, that's one comfort. Only—what on earth am I to do? I wonder if it will get worse or better, the more I see him? If only he would make some more horrible blunders, or—or what? It isn't what he does, it's what he is. It isn't even the playing. I barely heard him to-night. And Théo—poor Théo! He must never suspect. But then, he never would, unless I shouted it in his ear!"
She paused and put another log on the fire.
"Hewill, though, unless I am very careful. He isn't old at all, forty-two is young nowadays, and I'm sure he likes women. I daresay, if I hadn't been engaged to Théo, he would have liked me. Most of 'em do. And I never looked better in my life than I looked to-night. Vain beast!"
Presently she got up, and roamed aimlessly about the room. The door leading into her little sitting-room was open, and she went in and switched on the light. "He wants to come in here to-morrow, and see where I live.Live! He wants to see my books. I'll hide those French ones; they'd shock Beau-papa, I suppose, though they aren't very bad. But whatamI todo? Can I go on being engaged—can ImarryThéo while I—love his father? Would marrying Théo cure me, or make it worse? And suppose he fell in love with me after we were married! And she—Gerald's 'clean old peasant,' wouldn't she be horrified? Poor old thing, she is very nice, but—and Tommy wanting to be a violinist! A nice family party, upon my word!"
She laughed harshly and pulled her dressing-gown closer about her. It was cold in here.
"I suppose I'd better tell Théo the truth—or, no, just that I've changed my mind. No, I can't do that, for I'd never seehimagain. I want to see him; there's no danger; he'll never suspect me."
Up and down the two rooms she paced, her two long black plaits hanging over her shoulders and accentuating the red-Indian character of her face. "How Gerald would gloat!" she thought suddenly, clenching her hands. "The beast!"
The stable clock struck one. She had thought that wretched old Duchess would never want to go to bed.
"I wish I could tell Pam. According to the Duchess, Pam is a mine of wisdom. But I know what she did about that Peele man, and I haven't the courage to do that. Oh, why did I everseeThéo? Then I'd have married Ponty, and—what's that?" Wheeling fiercely, she faced the door leading from her sitting-room into the passage. It opened noiselessly and Carron came in, dressed as she had last seen him. "Hush! don't be frightened, Brigit. I saw your light and——"
"Well—and?" She looked as if she were about to spring at his throat, and he closed the door quietly and entered her bedroom.
"My good child, don't be melodramatic! I only wanted to tell you that—that I am sorry I was rude to you the day you left——"
"Rude, were you? I had quite forgotten it. Now go!"
"No, thanks. I will sit down for a moment. Brigit, you are a very foolish woman. Hush, I will tell you why. Firstly, because you are going to marry the son of that musical mountebank; and secondly, because you seem bound to make an enemy of me."
"Threats?"
She stood looking down at him with a smile as disagreeable, though not as evil, as his own. "Don't you be melodramatic! And please go. If you don't, I'll ring for Amélie."
"I don't mind."
And she knew that he did not. She, on the other hand did, for she had always disliked and distrusted the Frenchwoman. "If you prefer one of the men?"
"They won't hear you; men-servants never do. And, besides, I'm going in a minute. Listen, Brigit; you have, during the past year, done everything you could to hurt me. Do you think it's fair, all things considered?"
"Fair or unfair, your—attentions annoy me."
"Well—your attitude annoys me, and unless you change it, I'll—get even with you. Now, there's plain English for you." He rose. "That's all I wanted to say. Rather pretty, your room."
"Very good," she sneered. "In the language of your favourite branch of dramatic art, 'do your worst.'"
"And you intend to continue to torture me till—till I can't bear it?" His face whitened, and there was real agony in his voice. After all, he was suffering too, and suddenly, for the first time, she pitied him.
"I am sorry, Gerald," she said, bending towards him and laying her hand on his shoulder. "I——"
"Hush!" reaching out his hand he switched off the light, for they had both heard slow footsteps coming softly down the passage.
The room was dark now but for the fire which had died down, and luckily they stood in the shadow. The soft footsteps, heavy, though they would have been noiseless at any other hour than this most quiet one, approached slowly and deliberately. Instinctively the girl clung to the man, and he put his arms round her for the first time since she was a little child. Even in their mutual fright she felt his heart give a wild throb.
Then the door opened gently and on the threshold appeared—Tommy, sound asleep, hugging to his unconscious breast the volume of the Encyclopædia Britannica, in which he had been reading about the Amati.
Slowly the boy crossed the room and disappeared into the sitting-room.
"Go," whispered Brigit, desperately; "he mustn't be waked up—go this way——"
But Carron had lost his head, and kissed her, breathlessly, hungrily, and then, just as the little blue-clad figure again appeared in the one doorway, he disappeared by the other.
The girl stood quite still, not daring to scream, so angry that only the unconscious presence of Tommy prevented her rushing after the man she hated, to try to kill him with her two hands.
And Tommy, after a moment's hesitation, made his slow way back to his room and to bed. When she had tucked him up in safety she went to her mother's room.
"Sorry to wake you, mother," she said, her voice shaky, "but might I sleep with you? I have had such a bad dream and am nervous."
Lady Kingsmead luckily liked to have her vanity played upon by such requests. It pleased her to have her daughter turn to her. "Of course, darling," she said sleepily.
Carron was late for breakfast the next morning, and when he came in found Brigit sitting in her mother's place, laughing and talking with Sir Henry Brinsley, who, much pleased by the manner in which his dull and endless stories were received, subsequently declared that it was all rot calling that handsome girl of Lady Kingsmead's dull; very intelligent girl indeed, as a matter of fact.
But for all her composure, Brigit never quite lost her that-morning-conceived hatred of people who have two goes at ham and eggs; and an infantile remark of Tommy's that eggs should be eaten only out of the shell, because they "bled all over the plate," recurred to her again and again as she watched the worthy baronet satisfy his enormous appetite.
"Mornin', Brigit." "Morning, Gerald." She nodded, and he went to a side table for some fish.
Théo, who sat opposite Brigit for the excellent reason that his father had insisted on sitting by her, took some marmalade. "What are we to do this morning?" he asked.
She frowned with sudden impatience. It was a horrible question. Would he always ask it at breakfast?
Then she smiled at him, for his fresh happy face was good to look at. "Oh, nothing—or anything you like. Why?"
"Because I thought it might be well, if you can spare the time, to take papa for a spin in the motor. He did not sleep well."
She turned to Joyselle. "It is true. I am one of the best sleepers in the world, but last night I had a bad dream, and it got on my nerves and I lay awake for nearly two hours," He spoke with an air of only half-amused grievance.
"I am sorry," she murmured perfunctorily, rising to shake hands with Miss Letchworth, whom she had always disliked as being one of those people who are jocund in the morning. Then, as Yelverton proceeded to provide food for the unfortunate jocund one (who was really as inclined to matutinal depression as any of her betters, but considered it her duty to be "cheery"), Brigit realised that she was not sorry Joyselle had slept badly; she was glad.
"My dream, Brigitte," he went on, his thought answering hers, "was about you. You were so unhappy, poor child, and I was trying to help you, but could not reach you. It was very dreadful, for I could hear you call to me."
"How—pathetic," she answered, with stiffening lips. "But—would you like to go motoring?" He nodded delightedly, for his mouth was full of toast.
"Iloveit," he went on, a moment later, "I love to go fast, fast, fast. It is wonderful. What is your car?"
"It is mother's; nothing very remarkable in the way of speed, I fear. Would you care to go for a drive, Lady Brinsley?"
But Lady Brinsley had letters to write, and no one else volunteering for the excursion, half-past eleven found Brigit and Joyselle in the tonneau of the car, and Théo sitting with the chauffeur.
"Go to Kletchley, Hubbard."
It was a cold, grey day, with a steely sky and a wind that threatened to be high later on. Brigit's cap was tied on firmly with a strong green veil, but she wore nothing over her face, and the chill air made her feel better. She had not slept at all, and was tired, although nothing in her aspect betrayed the fact. All night her mind had been busy with its new-found problem, and the unusual presence of her mother had made her very nervous. But—she had not dared return to her room, for fear of finding Carron there.
If only she had had a father——
"Vous etes roublée, ma fille," said Joyselle, suddenly taking one of her hands in his befurred ones; "what has happened? Can you not think of me as your old papa, and tell me?"
She started, half-frightened, half angry. "I am not troubled, M. Joyselle," she returned, in French. "I—have a headache, that is all."
Oh, time-honoured evasion; oh, classic lie, thou who hast served, surely, since Eve's day, used without doubt by Helen of Troy, Cleopatra and all the other unsaintly women, ancient and modern, whose stories are so much more entertaining than those of the unco' guid—oh, Splendid Mendax, where should we all be without you?
"A headache?" Joyselle's magnificent eyes looked kindly but searchingly into hers. "No. Not that." Then, asking no further question, he leaned back in his place and looked out over the fields on his left.
"Daughter—father—child—old man——" she told herself with set jaw, "that is what he thinks. He is eight years younger than that brute Gerald, too."
The road climbed dully up for half an hour, and then with a quick turn stretched out over splendid downs, beyond which lay a narrow glittering strip of grey sea. "There is the sea," announced Brigit, perfunctorily. It was not intrinsically beautiful, the scene, but as some chord in the human breast almost invariably vibrates in response to a view of salt water, this point was considered, at Kingsmead, to be a particularly important one, and as the motor flew on Brigit Mead wondered how many hundred times she had brought people there with the same curt introduction, "There is the sea."
Théo, perfectly happy, turned occasionally to look at the other two, but spoke little. It filled him with joy to see his beloved and his father together, and his engagement was still so young that he had not got used to it, and loved to think about it.
Joyselle, too, was unusually silent for a long time. Then at last he turned to Brigit, his face grave as she had hitherto seen it only when he was playing.
"I will not intrude again, Brigitte," he said, his deep voice very gentle; "but when—if—you ever care to come to me for help or advice—of any kind, I shall always be at your service."
"Thank you," she said, and could say no more, for fear of breaking down. Then her sense of humour, never very keen, did for once come to the rescue, and in an absurd mental flash-light she pictured his face if she should suddenly put her head down on his knees and wail out the truth: "Yes, dear Beau-papa, advise and help me, for I am to be your daughter, my children are to be your grandchildren, and—I love you!"
Something in her face hurt him, and for the rest of the drive he quite simply and frankly sulked.