Brigit.
CHAPTER SIX


Number 57 Golden Square was dark when Joyselle's cab stopped in front of
it, and he, after tenderly depositing his violin-case under the little
portico, assisted Brigit to alight. "They are, of course, in the
kitchen," he remarked as he paid the cabby. "Come, _ma belle_."

She followed him as if she were in a dream, watching him open the door
with a latchkey, after a frantic search for that object in all his
pockets, tiptoeing after him as, a finger to his lips, a delighted,
boyish smile crinkling his eyelids, he led her down the narrow,
oilclothed passage.

"Why are they in the kitchen?" she asked, as excited as he.

"It is nearly eight; she is busy with supper."

Even in the dim light of the single gas burner Brigit caught at once the
predominating note of the house: its intense and wonderful cleanliness.
The walls, painted white, were snowy, the chequered oilcloth under her
feet as spotless as if it had that moment come from the shop, and the
slender handrail of the steep staircase glanced with polish, drawing an
arrow of light through the dusk.

Putting his violin-case on the table, Joyselle took off his hat and with
some difficulty pulled his arms out of his greatcoat sleeves. Then,
taking his guest by the arm, he very softly opened the door leading to
the basement, and started down the stairs, soft-footed as a great cat.
Could it possibly be she, Brigit Mead, creeping stealthily down a
basement staircase, her arm firmly held by a man to whom she had never
spoken until that afternoon?

The stairs turned sharply to the left half-way down, and at the turning
a flood of warm light met them, together with a smell of cooking.

"Ah, little mother, little mother," Theo's voice was saying, "just wait
till you _see_ her."

Joyselle's delight in the artistic timeliness of the speech found vent
in his putting his arm round his companion's slim waist and giving her a
hearty, paternal hug. Her whole face, in the darkness, quivered with
amusement. She had never in her whole life been so thoroughly and
satisfactorily amused. Then, having gone forward as far as his now
simply restraining hold would let her, she looked down into the kitchen.

It was a large room, snowy with whitewash as to walls and ceiling,
spotless as to floor. At the far end of it, opposite a pagoda-like and
beautiful but apparently unlighted modern English stove, was a huge,
deep, cavernous fireplace, unlike any the girl had ever seen. It was, in
fact, a perfect copy of a Norman fireplace, with stone seats at the
sides, an old-fashioned spit, and the fire burning lustily on the floor
of it, unhemmed by dogs or grate. On a long, sand-scoured table in the
middle of the room sat Theo, in his shirt-sleeves, deftly breaking eggs
into a big, green-lined bowl, while before the fire, gently swinging to
and fro over the flames a saucepan with an abnormally long
handle--Madame Joyselle. Her short, dark-clad figure, half-covered with
a blue apron, showed all its too-generous curves as she bent forward,
and when, at Theo's remark, she turned to him with a smile, she showed a
round, wrinkled, rosy face and small blue eyes that wrinkled with
sympathetic kindness. "She is beautiful, my little bit of cabbage?"

Theo broke the last egg, sat down the bowl, and got down from the table.
"Tannier--you remember him? The man who painted everybody last
winter--said she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen." The
pride in his voice was good to hear.

"_Tant mieux!_ Beauty is a quality like another. And--_voila mon petit_,
give me the eggs--she loves you?" As she put the question she took the
bowl and began beating the eggs violently yet lightly with a whisk. She
had turned the mixture into her hot saucepan and was holding it over the
fire before the young man answered. He stood, his hands in his
trousers-pockets, his head bent thoughtfully. Then he spoke, and his
words mingled with the hissing of the omelet. "I think she must," he
said with a certain dignified simplicity, "or she would not have
accepted me. But--not as I love her. That could not be, you know."

The eavesdroppers started apart guiltily, and for a second Brigit wanted
to rush up the stairs and out of the house. She had heard too much.

But Joyselle, gently pushing her out of his way, ran down the steps and
with a big laugh threw his arms round his boy and kissed him.

"_Voyons l'amoureux_," he cried, "show me thy face of a lover, little
boy, who only yesterday wore aprons and climbed on my knees to search
for sweets in my pockets!"

Madame Joyselle turned quietly, after having, with a dexterous twist of
her frying-pan, flopped her omelet to its other side. "Victor! And what
brings you back, my man?"

Her pleasant, placid face was a great contrast to his as he rushed at
her and kissed her hot cheek.

"_Va t'en_--you will make me drop Theo's omelet."

Joyselle took Theo's hands in his and looked solemnly at his son. "My
dear," he said, "my very dear son, God bless you and--her."

Again Brigit longed to flee, but she knew that if she tried, Joyselle
would be after her like a shot, and, she realised with an irrepressible
little laugh, probably pick her up and carry her down to the kitchen.

"Are you hungry, my man?" asked Madame Joyselle, slipping the omelet
onto a warmed platter, "there is some galantine de volaille truffee, and
this, and some cold veal."

Joyselle patted her affectionately on the back.

"_Oui, oui, my femme_, I am hungry. But--Theo--to-night I am a wizard. I
will grant you any wish you may have in your heart."

"Any wish----"

"_Pauvre petit_, tell him not that, Victor, my man. What would the poor
angel desire but the impossible?"

Theo stood silently looking at them. He was evidently in no mood for
farce, but as evidently he adored this noisy big father who towered
above his slender height like a giant, and tried to force himself to his
father's humour. "Dear papa," he murmured, "it is good that you have
come. I am so happy."

Joyselle seized the opportunity, such as it was, and turning to the open
door, called out in a voice trembling with pleasure and mischief, "Fairy
Princess, come forth."

And the disdainful, bored, too often frankly ill-humoured Lady Brigit
stepped out of the darkness into the homely light of the simple scene.

For a moment Theo plainly did not believe his eyes, and then as she
advanced, scarlet with a quite unusual embarrassment and sense of
intrusion, he gathered himself together and met her, his hands held out,
his face glowing.

"Victor--oh, Victor--this is terrible," Madame Joyselle burst out,
scarlet with shyness, all her serenity gone. "You should not have
brought her to the _kitchen! Mon Dieu, mon Dieu_, a countess' daughter!"

But Theo led his _fiancee_ straight to his mother, and his instinctive
good taste saved the situation. "Mamma--here she is. Lady Brigit, this
is my mother--the best mother in the world."

The little roundabout woman wiped her hand on her apron, and taking the
girl's in hers, looked mutely up at her with eyes so full of timid
sweetness that Brigit, touched and pleased, bent and kissed her.

"_Voyons, voyons_," cried Joyselle, rubbing his hands and executing a
few steps by the fire, "here we are all one family. Felicite, my old
woman, is she not wonderful?"

Madame Joyselle, the flush dying from her fresh cheeks, bowed. "She is
indeed. And now--Theo, call Toinon--we must go to the dining-room."
Nobody else, even Brigit, who had never beheld that cheerless apartment,
wished to leave the kitchen, but Madame Joyselle's will was in such
matters law, and the little party was soon seated round the table
upstairs. And the omelet was delicious.

*      *      *      *      *

An hour later Brigit found herself sitting in a big red-leather
armchair, in a highly modern and comfortable, if slightly gaudy
apartment--Joyselle's study. There was a small grate-fire with a red
club-fender, a red, patternless carpet, soft, well-draped curtains, and
tables covered with books and smoking materials.

There was also a baby-grand piano, covered with music, and a huge grey
parrot in a gilded and palatial cage.

It was Joyselle's translation of an English gentleman's room, even to
the engravings and etchings on the wall. One thing, however, the girl
had never before seen. One end of the room was glassed in as if in a
huge oak frame, and the wall behind it was literally covered with signed
photographs.

"Most of 'em are royalties," Joyselle explained with a certain naif
pride, "beginning with your late Queen. I used to play Norman folk-songs
to her. There is the Kaiser's, the late Kaiser's, the Czar's, Umberto's,
Margarita's, who loves music, more than most--and _toute la boutique_.
Then there are also those of all the musicians, and--but you will see
to-morrow."

He had brought his violin-case upstairs, and now opened it and took out
his Amati. "I will play for you, _ma chere fille_," he declared.

And he played. Brigit watched him, amazed. Where was the rowdy,
loud-voiced, amusing and almost ridiculously boyish middle-aged man with
whom she had come to town?

This man's face was that of a priest adoringly performing the rites of
his religion. His head thrown back, his fine mouth set in lines of
ecstatic reverence, he played on and on, his eyes unseeing, or rather
the eyes of one seeing visions.

He was a creature of no country, no age. His grey hair failed to make
him old, big unwrinkled face failed to make him young. And as he
played--to _her_, she knew--years of imprisonment and sorrow seemed to
drop from the girl; she forgot all the bitterness, all the resentment
that had spoiled her life hitherto, and she felt as she leaned back in
her chair and listened as if she had at last come to a haven and found
youth awaiting her there.




CHAPTER SEVEN


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."


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.
Theo 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, "_and_ the 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, "and _petite mere_
and 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, Felicite!"

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 drole, 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 a _kilometre_ long. 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.

Theo, 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, Felicite--is her hair not adorable?"

"_Oui, oui_, Victor; _oui, mon homme_. But we must go, for Lady Brigit
will be wishing to rise. Theo, 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,
Felicite; 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._"




CHAPTER EIGHT


The parrot, whose name was Guillaume le Conquerant, 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
Theo, 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 the
_real_ Victor 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
Joyselle _pere 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 Theo, and that little Theo's beautiful
_fiancee_."

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 be _so_ pleased. 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, Theo?"

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 Theo 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, Theo. Oh, how _tiresome_ of mother!"

Joyselle frowned. "Do not call your mother tiresome," he said shortly.
"But who is this gentleman?"

Theo 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 do _not_ want to see him."

"Then I will go and tell him so."

"No, no. I--I had better go, don't you think, Theo?"

Poor Pontefract seemed rather piteous to her as he was discussed, and
her note had been curt and unsympathetic.

Theo 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 Theo
Joyselle. And--I think I am going to be happy. I--like them all very
much. And," holding out her hand, "I am _very_ sorry 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 Theo--it is his father. Oh, _do_ go!"

Pontefract nodded. "Yes, I'll go. And--never mind, Brigit. He doesn't
_know_, the old chap!"

He left the room hastily, and she ran upstairs, her hands clenched.

It was as she expected: Theo 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. "How
_could_ you do such a thing? It was abominable--hideous!"

"What was abominable?"

"To play that Wedding March! Theo had told you about--about him, and you
did it to hurt him. Oh, how could _anybody_ do 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 ca._ And then _you_ were rude. Never mind, he will not think of
it again, and neither must you."

Brigit was silent, and stood looking at le Conquerant. She _had_ been
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. Felicite, 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 Theo 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!_"




CHAPTER NINE


"My dear Gerald, anyone would think _I_ wanted 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_) She _can't_
love the boy. That much is quite impossible!