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 he _simply 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 being
_his_ daughter."

"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 it _was_ better, 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?"




CHAPTER THIRTEEN


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.

"_He_ will, 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 what _am_ I to _do_? Can I go on being engaged--can I _marry_ Théo
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 see _him_ again. 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 ever _see_ Théo? 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.




CHAPTER FOURTEEN


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.

"I _love_ it," 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.




CHAPTER FIFTEEN


Brigit went for a long walk that afternoon, as was her wont when she
wished to think. As she started from the house she met Carron. "Look
here, Brigit," he said roughly, "you slept with your mother last night.
Was it because you were afraid I might come back?"

She eyed him with great coolness from under the shadow of her felt hat.
"No, I was afraid, when I left--my little brother--that you might _have
come back_." And she took her walking-stick from its place.

"I--I beg your pardon," he returned sullenly, looking at her as she
stood in the faint autumn sunshine, her well-cut coat and skirt somehow
failing to take from her her curious Indian air. "I was a beast."

"You always are, Gerald. Once when I was a child a spider bit me--or do
spiders sting? Well, it made me a bit sick at first, and then I--forgot
it. Good-bye."

The man's nerves were evidently in a bad state, for at her insult his
face broke out into a cold perspiration and went very white. "Oh--I am a
spider, am I? All right, I am glad I kissed you. Glad I held you close
in my arms. You can't undo that, whatever you may say."

She stood quietly swinging her stick, a smile just touching her
disdainful mouth. She was purposely being maddening, and she knew to the
uttermost the value, as a means of torture to the trembling man before
her, of the slight lift of her upper lip as she looked at him.

"Quite finished?" she asked, as he paused. "Then perhaps you'll let me
go? _Good-bye._"

He watched her out of sight, and then wiping his face carefully with his
handkerchief, returned to the house.

Crossing the park by a footpath that was now half-buried in fallen
leaves, she came out on the high road, and turning to the left, took a
steep path leading to the downs.

She walked with unusual rapidity for a woman, climbing the path without
relaxing her gait or losing her breath. The sharp, damp air brought to
her face colour that Carron had been unable to call up. He was, poor
wretch, so utterly secondary to her, that he was as little important as
the long-forgotten spider. It was Joyselle who occupied her thoughts,
whom her mental eyes saw, as she walked steadily seawards, as plainly as
if he had been with her.

The next morning would begin a respite for her, in one sense, for he was
going away. His old mother was ill in Falaise, and he was going to see
her. "Then," he had added, "I must visit a friend in Paris. I shall not
be back before the last of November."

This information he had volunteered to her immediately after lunch,
having quite forgotten his resentment at her lack of response to his
offers of advice. His quick changes of humour were very puzzling, and
continually made her doubt whether she or anyone else knew him at all,
though she had too much discrimination to doubt the sincerity of any one
of his moods.

She had left him on the point of going to his room to play for Tommy,
and knew that her brother would probably unfold to him during the
afternoon his plan of becoming a violinist.

If the child had talent, Joyselle would, she believed, do his utmost to
help him, and this was another reason why she could not make up her mind
how to manage her own affairs.

Even if she wished to break her engagement and never see Joyselle again,
had she the right thus to take from her brother the chance of great
happiness and protection that seemed to have come to him?

"Joyselle would never speak to me again if I threw Théo over," she told
herself. "First, he would scold me violently, and then he'd lop us all
off, trunk and branch. And--he might be the making of Tommy. Théo is so
gentle and good, and he so splendid--I could have Tommy a lot
with--us----"

On the other hand, however, what if she went from bad to worse regarding
Joyselle? Would she be able to bear it?

Her thoughts turning the matter relentlessly over and over, as a
squirrel does his wheel, she came home, getting there just at tea-time.

Lady Kingsmead, very much bored with her guests, had her useful
headache, and the girl had to hurry into dry clothes, for the rain had
come on, and play hostess.

"Tea, M. Joyselle?"

He made a wry and very ludicrous face. "_Merci_, Lady Brigit!"

"French people always loathe tea, my dear," laughed the Duchess; "they
take it when they have colds, as we take quinine."

Miss Letchworth, who had been three times to Paris for a week at a time,
looked up from her embroidery. "Oh, _Duchess_! People of our class often
drink it," she protested, the only tea she had ever consumed in Paris
being that of her hotel or of Columbins, "don't they, mossoo?"

Joyselle's eyes drew down at the corners and he gave his big moustache a
martial, upward twist. "Ask others, mademoiselle," he retorted wickedly.
"I am not of your class!"

It was brutal, and there was a short silence. Brigit was annoyed. Last
night she had hoped for one of his outbursts, but now that it had come
she was ashamed for him. And she shivered as she realised that this
shame was a serious sign.

"Horrid speech," she remarked, looking into the teapot she had forgotten
to fill with water, "isn't it, Théo?"

But Théo only laughed and shrugged his shoulders. His father was his
father, and except in little matters, such as satin and too flamboyant
ties, not to be even mentally criticised.

"But it is true, my dear," continued Joyselle, the mischief suddenly
gone from his face, a shrewd look of inquiry taking its place. "You are
going to marry into a peasant family, you know." Another change of mood!
He was severe now and disapproving.

She held up her head. "No one could call Théo a peasant, could they,
Duchess?"

Joyselle understood, and with bewildering rapidity again changed.
"Bravo!" he cried, laughing heartily. "You are marrying the _son_, you
mean, not the father. _C'est vrai, c'est vrai!_"

His utter unconsciousness was a great blessing, no doubt, but at that
moment it nearly maddened her. Was he blind?

Apparently he was, as he drank some mineral water and talked to the
Duchess.

The arrival of Lady Brinsley's poor dear Mr. Smith, the vicar, was the
next mild event of the day, and as his head too was filled with coals
and blankets, the story of the abominable coal-dealer had again to be
listened to and lamented over.

"The very worst coals I ever saw in my life, positively, are they not,
Lady Brinsley?"

"Eh, yes, Mr. Smith, quite too shocking. Nothing but dust, Duchess,
positively."

"We are all dust," returned the Duchess, who was whispering to Joyselle
about the Grand Duchess Anastasia-Katherine, _dans le temps_. "Oh, no,
we are all worms, aren't we?"

"Positively, I _never_ saw such very inferior coals," went on the Vicar,
wondering what on earth she was talking about.

Brigit looked at him as he babbled on. He was a very thin man, who
always reminded her of a plucked bird. Soon he would ask her why he had
not had the pleasure of seeing her in church for so long. He would hope
that she had not had a cold.

He did both these things, poor man, for it was his _rôle_ in life always
to say and do the perniciously obvious.

It was a very trying hour, but at last, under the dutiful pretext of
going to look after her mother, Brigit escaped and flew to Tommy's room.

It was a strange apartment for a little boy, for it had been assigned to
him once when he was ill, as being sunny, and beyond his brass bedstead
and small boy hoards, contained nothing whatever that looked as if it
belonged to one of few years.

For it was hung in faded plum-coloured satin, the eighteenth-century
furniture was quaint and beautiful, and the narrow oval mirrors, set in
tarnished gilded frames like a frieze about its walls, presented to
Brigit's eye as she opened the door an infinite and bewildering number
of Tommies, bending studiously over a large sheet of writing-paper, that
he held on a book on his knees.

"Hello, Tommy, what are you up to?"

The boy looked up, his face full of ecstasy. "I say, Bick, he _will_!
He will help me learn to be a violinist! He's going to find a good
teacher for me, and then, when I have got over the first grind, you
know, he's going--oh, Bicky, darling--he's going to teach me himself, at
the same time. Isn't he an angel!"

She sat down. "Yes, Tommy. But what on earth are you writing?"

"Well, you see, he--he says I must be educated. I had to promise him to
go in for Latin and all that rot. It's--a bore, but he says a musician
must be educated----"

She started. And he himself, was he educated? Did he know the ordinary
things known, colloquially speaking, by everybody? She did not know. It
had never occurred to her before.

"Yes, dear, but--what is that paper?"

Tommy blushed.

"Well, he's so keen on it, you know, I thought I'd advertise for a--a
tutor."

"Advertise for a tutor!"

"Yes. There is no good in wasting time, is there? And _she_ would potter
about asking people their advice, etc., so I--I have just drawn up this.
You won't tell?"

She shook her head with much gravity and then read what he had written:

"Wanted, by the Earl of Kingsmead, a tutor. Oxford man preferred.
Must be fond of sport, particularly ratting and cricket."

"Do you think it's all right?" he asked, as he read it.

"Y--yes--only there isn't any 'k' in 'particularly.' But I think we'd
better--ask someone, little brother. I don't imagine that children
usually advertise for their own tutors."

"But there isn't any 'usually' about me, Bick. And certainly _mother_
isn't 'usual,' nor you. And if she got a man I'd be sure to loathe him.
Think of that chap Baker that she thought such a lot of. Why, he read
poetry!"

"Poetry isn't any worse than music, is it?"

Tommy's mouth, as he smiled, was its most fawn-like. "_Music!_ Rather
different, my dear Brigit. Well--can you lend me some money for my ad?"

She was silent for a moment, and then answered in a kind of desperate
impatience, "Oh, dear! Suppose you go and ask _him_ what to do."




CHAPTER SIXTEEN


The Duchess, that evening, watched Brigit with dismayed surprise. What
had happened to the girl? Where were her happy expression and youthful
spirits?

Théo had not changed; that they had not quarrelled was quite evident,
for when she spoke to him there was something of the gentleness of the
day before in her manner; but this exception excepted, the girl had
reverted to her old air of silent, resentful indifference, and her
strange beauty was to the watchful old woman as repellent as she had
ever seen it.

Once, when Carron spoke to her, Brigit answered without turning her
head, and with her narrowed eyes and slow-moving lips looked almost
venomous.

If she had produced a knife and plunged it into him, the Duchess told
herself she would not have been surprised.

"An uncommonly unpleasant young person," thought the old lady, "with the
temper of a fiend. I wonder where she got it; poor Henry had no temper
at all, and her mother is at worst a spitfire."

Yelverton, too, noticed the disquieting change that had come over Lady
Brigit, and observed with some amusement that she had noticed his
observation and did not care about it, one way or the other.

Théo, seeing his love with the rosiest of spectacles, asked her gently
what was the matter, and was told in a quiet voice that she was cross.
"I have an abominable temper, poor boy," she said.

And possibly because it was the simple truth, it never occurred to him
to believe her, and he set this remark down as an example of her divine
humility.

Her mother, glaring at her toward the end of dinner, shrugged her
shoulders.

"Cross again," she thought; "what an infernal temper she has. I'm glad I
haven't, it makes so many wrinkles."

But Brigit had some reason for looking tragic, for she had made up her
mind, while dressing, to break her engagement. Perhaps, after all,
Joyselle would prove large-minded enough to continue to see Tommy, and
even if he did not, she must end matters.

Regarding herself, the girl had a curious prescience, and the vague
foreboding she had felt ever since her realisation of her love for
Joyselle had, as she sat before her glass while her maid dressed her
hair, suddenly developed into a definite terror. She knew that something
dreadful would happen if she continued to see Joyselle, and the fact
that he was quite innocent, and unsuspecting of the threatened danger,
gave her the sensation of one who sees a child playing with a poisonous
snake. _He_ was in danger as well as she, and not only they two, but his
son and his wife. Her beauty was so great, and she was so accustomed to
see its effect on men, that there was no vanity at all in her suddenly
awakened solicitude for him. At any moment he might see her with the
eyes of a man, instead of, as he had hitherto done, with those of a
father.