When Lady Kingsmead had spoken, he cleared his throat and began
hurriedly: "Antoinette--my--my wife is dead."

"Good Lord, Gerald, how you startled me! Is she really?"

"Yes, I--I saw her this morning."

"Drink?" asked Lady Kingsmead, pleasantly.

He frowned. "No. Cancer."

"How--horrid!"

She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

"You look ill, poor dear. What is the matter? _Your_ looks are a bit on
the blink, too, Gerry! You must buck up."

She sat down and dabbed gingerly at her eyes with a scrap of
handkerchief. "It _is_ rather tragic, in its very insignificance, isn't
it? Well--what is it? Is it Brigit?"

Mutely and miserably he bowed his head, until she saw the carefully
concealed thin place on his crown.

"I thought so. It's no good, Gerald--give me the cat, will you?--she
dislikes you."

"She loathes me. And I would be burnt to death for her to-morrow."

She started at something in his tone--something she had not heard for
years.

"Can't you get over it?"

"No."

"Then----"

"Oh, my God, Tony, _I_ don't know. Can't--can't you help me?"

"I!"

"Yes. She can't love that boy; he is utterly insignificant. She's
marrying him for his money."

"No. She likes him. But, of course, the money helped. But she wouldn't
marry you if you were a millionaire yourself. She loathes you. Always
has."

"I am going mad, I think. I haven't slept for months. Look at my hand,
how it shakes; anyone would think I was a drunkard! Look here, Tony,
couldn't you ask her to speak civilly to me, at least?"

She was almost frightened as she looked at his piteous face. He had
indeed changed appallingly in the last six or eight months, and there
was a tremulous movement about his well-cut mouth that was alarming.

"Yes, Gerald, I'll ask her. I--I am awfully sorry for you."

"Thanks. As far as that's concerned, everybody in the world ought to be
sorry for everybody else. We all have our little private hell. When is
the--is the wedding-day fixed?"

"Oh, no," she returned hastily, "dear me, no. She is in no hurry to
marry, and he is, of course, dough in her hands. You, at least, needn't
worry about that. Will you dine here?"

"Sorry----"

"She is to be here, and Joyselle. Théo is out of town."

Carron rose and hesitated. "Do you think she'd mind?" he asked
piteously. A sharp pang touched her worldly heart. If, years ago, she
had let him go? If she had not made him give up diplomacy because she
wanted him in England? He would, doubtless, have divorced his impossible
wife, and married, and this would not have come to him.

"Of course she won't mind. Does she know that you love her?"

He nodded. She stared, and then rang the bell. "Bring Mr. Carron a
brandy and soda, Fledge; he is not well."

She went to the window and stood looking out into the quiet street until
the man had returned and she heard Carron set down the empty glass.

Then, without looking at him, she came back. Her shallow soul was
dismayed.

"Dinner at 8.30?" he asked after a pause.

"Yuss. Good-bye till then, for I must fly and make some calls."

"Good-bye, Tony. You are sure that boy isn't coming? I--I am getting to
hate him----"

"Nonsense," she laughed harshly, for she was not merry; "he isn't even
invited. He is in the country, I tell you."

"Then, _au 'voir_."

"_Au 'voir_, Gerry."

He went away, feeling that his cause perhaps was not utterly hopeless.

And in her gaudy bedroom, in the caravanserai that had been her idea of
luxury, his wife lay dead.




CHAPTER EIGHT


When the women had left the dining-room Carron got up from his place and
sat down by Joyselle, who looked at him with unconcealed astonishment.
He had never liked Carron, and knew that the man did not like him.

"When is your next concert to be, M. Joyselle?"

"The third of June."

"I--I always come. I have come for years, and last June I heard you in
Paris. You must like playing with Colonne."

"I do. He is a wonderful director. But--I did not know that you liked
music, Mr. Carron."

"I have always liked it. And no one plays the violin as you do."

He would not have hesitated to lie about the matter, had it been
necessary, but he happened to be telling the truth, and his weary voice
carried conviction.

Joyselle smiled. "I am glad," he said.

The two men eyed each other for a moment, and much was decided by their
gaze.

Carron broke the silence. "Did I not see you the other day in Chelsea. I
was motoring, and going very fast; but I think it was you."

"It is possible. I have a studio in Tite Street. I go there to
practise. It is very quiet there, at the top of the house, and I am very
nervous when I am working."

Carron nodded absently; this did not interest him. At the other end of
the table one of the Italian secretaries was talking about the Ascot
favourite to Freddy Fane, who had recently divorced his chorus girl and
stopped drinking, and who was supposed to be looked on with a favourable
eye by old Mrs. Banner, the aunt and chaperon of Lady Mary Sligo, the
prettiest of the season's _débutantes_.

"Is that man going to marry the beautiful girl I saw on the box-seat of
his coach the other day?" asked Joyselle, suddenly.

"I daresay. His mother died last month and left him pots of money.
Marmalade-pots--Peet's Peerless." After a moment Carron pursued, drawing
lines on the tablecloth with a fruitknife: "I have a very fine
violin--left me by my grandfather. It is a Strad, I believe. I wonder if
you'd care to see it?"

Joyselle pursed up his lips. "I should, but I warn you, it is probably
an imposture. Most cherished violins are--that are in the hands of
non-players."

"No doubt, but Sarasate has played on this one, and he believed it to be
genuine."

"Aha! When may I come?"

Carron named a near day, and then they went upstairs. He had obtained
his immediate object, and now there remained to him that evening a far
more difficult task.

Brigit was sitting by the window, fanning herself with a fan made of
eagle-feathers. She wore white and looked very tired.

"May I sit down here, Brigit?"

She turned at his voice, and then stared at him. "You look very ill,"
she said abruptly, "is your heart all right?"

Her face did not change as she spoke, and there was no friendliness in
her tone, but he thanked God that he was, and looked, ill.

"My heart is weak, I believe; nothing organic. It is very warm, and I
never can bear heat. You look tired yourself."

She nodded absently. "Yes, I have been away--at the Bertie Monson's.
Nelly Monson always gives me a headache, she talks so loud. And my room
was under the nursery. I do hate children."

Carron caught his breath. She was actually talking civilly to him. And,
then, remembering his request to her mother, he, for a second, hated
Lady Kingsmead with a bitter and senseless hatred. Was Brigit, after
all, only talking to him as a favour to her mother? But a second's
reflection showed him the folly of this idea. Had Brigit ever done
anything to please her mother? Never.

One of the two women-guests sat down at the piano and began to play,
very softly, an old song of Tosti's. Everybody listened. A hansom
jingled by and a bicycle's sharp bell was a loud noise in the
after-dinner silence.

Joyselle was standing by a table, absently balancing on his forefinger a
long, broad, ivory paper-knife. He was, Brigit remembered, curiously
adept in balancing, and once she had seen him go through, for Tommy's
amusement, a whole series of the kind, from the classic broomstick on
his chin, to blowing three feathers about the room at a time, allowing
none of them to fall. How quickly he had moved, in spite of his great
height, and how Tommy had laughed. But, for the past week, something had
gone wrong with the violinist. He had been away from the house one day
when she went, and that afternoon, when she "dropped in" on her way from
the station, he had hardly spoken. In his silence he seemed immeasurably
far from her, and she would have given worlds to read his thoughts.

During dinner he had been conventionally polite, but playing a _rôle_
was so foreign to him that even this laudable one of pretending to be
amused when he was bored sat gloomily and guiltily on him.

Carron sat by her for twenty minutes, but her eyes were fixed on
Joyselle, and her whole mind groping in the darkness for his.

There was a ball that night, so the party broke up early, but Joyselle
stayed, absently, as if he did not notice that the others were going. He
sat on a sofa and smoked cigarettes rapidly, rolling them himself, with
quick, nervous movements, and throwing them into a silver bowl before
they were half-burnt.

Lady Kingsmead tried to talk to him, but finding that, though he
answered her politely enough, his thoughts were elsewhere, gave him up
and took up a book, casting an impatient look at her daughter.

Carron had gone early, too restless to stay quiet, and afraid to rouse
Brigit out of her curious lethargic state.

For a long time the three people sat in silence, and then Lady Kingsmead
rose. "I think I'll go upstairs," she said, "but if you two enjoy
sitting as mute as fish, there is no reason why you shouldn't continue
to do so. Good-night, Joyselle."

He rose and kissed her hands, and a moment later he and Brigit were
alone. It was the first time it had happened, for weeks, the girl
realised suddenly.

He stood where Lady Kingsmead had left him, the light falling directly
on his head in a way that showed up very plainly the curious halo-like
effect caused by the silver greyness of the hair about his brow.

"What is wrong, Master?" she asked softly, using Tommy's name for him.
He started. "The matter? Nothing that bears talking about, Brigit. But I
am in its clutches and I will go."

A cold terror came over her. Was it--some woman? "Do not go," she said,
her cheeks burning. "I don't mind your being silent."

He looked at her inquiringly, raising his eyebrows. It was clear that he
noticed something strange in her voice; also that he did not know what
it meant. But he sat down and began rolling a fresh cigarette. The flat
silver box in which he carried his tobacco lay on the table beside him,
and she idly took it up. "Rose-Marie à Victor," she saw engraved on it.
"What a pretty name! The box is old, isn't it?"

"Yes. Or pretends to be. I have had it for years."

"And--she? Rose-Marie?"

"I don't know. It was twenty years ago--in Paris."

Félicité's story recurred to Brigit, the "bad time" in Paris; "how he
loved them all for the time."

He was smoking fitfully, and frowning to himself. She was again
forgotten. It was very warm, and the curtains swayed in irregular puffs
of wind; then came a rumble of thunder. Joyselle started nervously.

"_Un orage_," he said; "I--I hate thunder."

"Do you? I like it." Together they went to the window and looked up at
the threatening sky. A whirl of dust met them, and they drew quickly
back, his sleeve brushing against her shoulders. "It will be bad," he
said, broodingly.

"Yes."

She felt breathless and welcomed the coming storm as suiting her mood.

"I--you asked me what is the matter," Joyselle began, speaking very
quickly. "I will tell you. It is this. There is in me a god, and I
refuse to give him speech. I have genius and I waste it; I have a soul
and I am crushing it. I am a most unworthy and miserable being!"

Absolutely sincere in every word he said, his dramatic temperament gave
force and a kind of rhythm to his confession that made it very poignant,
and his face very white, his big eyes glowed tragically as he stood
looking over his hearer's head.

"A most miserable being."

He groaned, and throwing himself into a chair, buried his face in his
hands.

Outside one or two carriages hurried past, and the darkness was streaked
with quick recurring flashes of lightning.

Brigit looked long at Joyselle, and then, irresistibly drawn to him,
laid her hand with great gentleness on his head. "You are tired, and the
storm has got on your nerves."

"No, no! I am not tired. There is for my great good-for-nothingness not
that excuse. I am--a wastrel of my gifts." It was, she saw, one of the
crises of despair under which many artists suffer, but its intensity was
most painful. "You are good to me, Brigitte," he said, brokenly, taking
her left hand and holding it to his forehead, which was cold and damp.
"You are an angel!"

As he spoke a terrific zigzag of fire crossed the windows, and the house
shook in the almost immediate crash. Like a child Joyselle threw his
arms round Brigit and hid his face against the embroidery on her
corsage, holding her tight. It seemed to her an eternity before either
of them moved, and when, abruptly, he let her go, and rose, his face had
changed.

"Good-bye--I must go--I beg your pardon----"

He stammered piteously, and did not look at her, but stood holding the
lapels of his coat as if he was trying to tear them off. Then, without
another word, he was gone, out into the storm.




CHAPTER NINE


Brigit was not at all surprised when, early the next morning, a note
from Joyselle was brought to her.

She had slept very badly, for she seemed to have reached a crisis in her
relations with Joyselle; and lying awake in the heat that the storm had
but increased, she passed hours in unprofitable forecastings. What would
he do, now that he knew? Would he make love to her? Or would he try to
hurry on the wedding? Or----

Of course, what he did do proved an utter surprise to her.


"My dear Brigit," he wrote, "just a line to say good-bye to you
for a time. I am accepting an offer to do two months' touring in the
United States (which country I do not like, but which likes me), and
shall come back laden with dollars with which to buy you a beautiful
wedding present. What shall it be--diamonds? I hope you will say
lace--yards and yards of exquisite lace of all kinds--it is so much more
poetic than stones. So _au revoir_, my dear, and may all happiness be
yours.
"Joyselle."


She sat up in bed and drew a long, uneven breath. She had not counted
on the possibility of flight! And she could not bear it.

There had been some talk of his going to America, but he had disliked
the idea, and she had not dreamed that he would even seriously consider
it. There was not the slightest doubt that his decision was entirely due
to the little scene of the evening before. That moment when his nervous
horror of the lightning had impelled him to put his arms round her had,
she knew, opened his eyes to his own danger. And it was characteristic
of the man to act immediately and without hesitation. He would go--it
was Saturday, and very probably he would leave by the noon train for
Liverpool. It was now eight.

She lay for a long time with her eyes shut, trying to realise what life
would be like without him. And then her undisciplined, wayward mind
revolted. It was unbearable; therefore she would not bear it. She would
not let him go.

Half an hour later she was in a hansom, trying to decide the details
relative to her decision. He should not go, but which of the several
possible ways should she employ to prevent it?

Before she could decide on anything more than the great fact that, cost
what it may, she would not let him go, the hansom drew up at the house,
and she was about to get out when the front door opened and Joyselle
himself appeared.

"You!" he cried, impetuously, and then stood still. "You got my note?"
he added a second later, sternly.

Her heart sank. He was very strong. Then he came towards her, his brows
drawn down over his eyes, his nostrils dilated, and she lied.

"No--what note?"

Normans are quick to suspect deceit, and for a moment his expression did
not change; then, for individually the man was as trustful as racially
he was suspicious, he smiled. "I see. But why are you out so early? It
is not yet nine."

"And you?" she returned deftly, her heart beating not only with the
excitement of the duel, but with enjoyment of her own skill.

"I--well, I have business."

"Then get in and I'll take you wherever you want to go, I want to talk
to you."

He hesitated, but she smiled at him and he succumbed, thinking to
himself, she could see, that after all she knew nothing of what was
going on in his mind.

As he took his place beside her the cabman opened his trap-door and
asked with the hoarseness of his kind:

"W'ere to, sir?"

Joyselle frowned. "To--Piccadilly. I'll tell you when we get to where I
wish to stop."

Brigit suppressed a smile. Now he was thinking, she saw, that he would
tell her of his intended departure before he gave the Cunard Company's
address.

He was pale, but to her surprise looked younger rather than older than
usual. His mental disturbance had left traces on his face, and they
were, as it was, young in their nature. He had fallen in love, and the
youth in him, both physical and mental, flared up responsively to the
call of the emotion.

Suddenly she saw her line of action clearly marked out for her, and
without an instant's hesitation took it. If he suspected that she loved
him, nothing in the world could keep him by her. So he must not know. In
all her dreams and reflections about their relations, she had never
taken into account the possibility of things turning out as they had.
She had always tacitly taken for granted that it would be by her will
that the man should be waked up to the real state of his own mind. Even
after the evening of the dragon-skin frock he had not known the real
explanation of his amazement on her entrance, and had, she knew, merely
advanced in his perilous path to the point of realising that she was,
although his future daughter, an amazingly desirable woman.

So far she had read him correctly. But that something outside her own
personal sway should open his eyes she had not anticipated.

This had, however, happened, and with the acute intuition of a woman
fighting for her life, she understood what she must do to prevent his
flight.

So, turning towards him, she smiled amusedly.

"_Eh, b'en_, Beau-papa? Got over your fright? You big baby!"

He stared, and she went on without a pause, but speaking slowly, to give
an idea of leisure, "To think that you of all people should be afraid of
_thunder_! It was lucky you had your valorous daughter to shield you."

He gave a short, nervous laugh. "Yes, it is very idiotic, I know, but----"

"And then to bolt away into the very thick of it! That was because you
were _ashamed_! I shall tell _petite mère_ and Théo. But it was an awful
storm, and so fearfully warm afterwards, wasn't it? I couldn't sleep at
all--that's why I'm up so early. I came over to ask you to go up to
Hampstead with me to get some real air. This London extract of air is a
very poor substitute, isn't it? Now don't say no to a poor daughter
whose young man is out of town!"

As she talked, looking casually at the passers-by, she could, so tense
were her nerves, almost hear him think. "She is quite unsuspecting," he
was telling himself, "there is no danger for her, and--it doesn't matter
about _me_. And I am strong and need never betray myself----"

She talked on, the kind of unconcerned nonsense that was, her strange,
new instinct told her, best calculated to quite his vibrant nerves.
"Little child, little child," he returned mutely, "how little you know!
Well--as you are so innocent, why should not I snatch this fearful joy
while I may? It harms no one but myself, and such pain is better than
any happiness on earth----"

"Yes, _ma fille_," he said at length, as she pointed to a barrow of
nodding daffodils, "we will go to Hampstead; it is a good idea. But
first I must send a wire or two. And--you must promise to return to me,
unopened, the note you will find in Pont Street."

Her wandering stare was admirable. "Return unopened? But why? Was
it--cross?"

He laughed aloud, his brilliant teeth flashing. "_Si, si_, that is it.
Cross! You know how stupid I was last night? The coming storm--well--it
was a silly note, and you will return it."

"Oh, of course, if you wish me to," she answered carelessly, but
clenching her hands. "_C'est une boutade comme une autre!_"

He laughed again. His spirits were flying upwards like those of a
criminal unexpectedly reprieved.

"Yes--just a fad. Hi, cab_bee_, stop here, will you?"

While he was in the telegraph-office Brigit allowed her muscles to relax
and her face to express her hitherto rigidly concealed triumph.

He was not going. He would stay; she should continue to see him, and the
world was full of joy. "Heavens, how I can lie," she whispered softly,
"and now we shall both have to lie. We both know about him; he thinks I
don't know; and he doesn't know about me! It is a comedy. Oh, Victor,
Victor, Victor!"

He came out a moment later, seeming to fill the world with his giant
bulk and his astounding radiation of joy. Two narrow-chested city clerks
stood still to stare at him, their pallid little faces blank with
amazement. A red-nosed flower-girl thrust a great bunch of yellow roses
up at him with certainty of sale written all over her. "Roses? Of
course. How much?"

He laughed aloud as he gave her some money and then got into the hansom.

"Hampstead Heath, cabby. At Falaise there are millions of these
roses--see, with the outside leaves wrinkled and red. Oh, Brigit,
Brigit, what a day!"




CHAPTER TEN


If it be true that everything is in the eye of the beholder, then
Joyselle's and Brigit Mead's eyes must have been full of beauties that
day.

For to them Hampstead Heath was the most marvellously lovely place on
earth.

His light-heartedness, chiefly due to his faculty for ignoring
side-issues and enjoying the present, was of course magnified as well by
the fact that it followed close on the heels of one of his despairing
black fits. Yesterday he had been, because of an unsatisfactory
morning's work in Chelsea, in the very depths, honestly despising
himself as an artist, sincerely loathing his incorrigible love of
amusement and consequent wasting of time.

So this sunny, rather windy morning, Brigit by his side, and his newly
awakened conscience stilled for the moment, was to him as near Paradise
as anything he could imagine.

They lunched somewhere--neither of them could ever remember where--on
very tough cold ham and insufficiently cooled beer, but they were both
too happy to mind, or even to observe the faults of the _menu_. And as
neither of them had ever before set eyes on the Heath, it was full of
surprises, as well as of beauties. Yielding to some unexplained
instinct, they both took off their hats (what is it that induces people
to uncover their heads in high places?), and the warm sun shone down on
their hair.

"Your hair must be very long, Brigitte?" observed Joyselle once, as he
looked at her silky plaits that covered her crown in disregard of the
laws of fashion.

"It is. Comes to my knees. Oh, look!"

Two people, a man and a girl, sat in the shade of an isolated tree only
a few yards below the place where they stood. They were evidently
enjoying an unlawful holiday, for they were workers--factory hands,
probably, and they were as palpably rejoicing in their freedom.

The girl, whose brilliant red hair was pulled out at the sides until her
head was as big as a bushel basket, wore a pink blouse and a green
skirt. The youth, stunted and pale, was gorgeous only as to tie, but
quite evidently she considered him her complement. For they were busy
drinking beer from a bottle, turn about, and kissing each other
delightedly between swallows. Joyselle started, drawing a deep breath,
and Brigit, without moving her head, looked at him sideways, as the
so-called Fornarina looks in the Uffizi, in Florence.

"They are cheery, aren't they?" she asked hastily, and he, nodding,
turned away. For a few moments he was silent, and then he began to talk
rather loudly about nothing in particular, and in a few moments was
himself--the Joyselle of that particular day. Brigit realised that their
stronghold of reserves and lies had been dangerously threatened by his
mounting emotion. If he had broken down in his _rôle_--and she knew
that the playing of any kind of a _rôle_ was foreign to his nature, and
therefore perilous--she would have lost him.

His mind, of course, except in certain moments when it all unconsciously
was subjugated by her will, was a closed book to her.

For he was not only a man (and no woman can ever wholly understand any
man's mind), but he was nearly twenty years older than she, and he was a
Norman--a race very complicated, in its mixture of shrewd cunning and
simplicity, and difficult for even other French people to comprehend.
But groping in the dark though she was, the girl had grasped two
essential facts: if Joyselle learned that she loved him, he would go
away if it killed him; and if, though remaining in ignorance of her
love, he was led to betray his, the result would be the same.

So her aim must be to keep him well under his own control, and to avoid
betraying her personal feelings in the very least degree.

It was easy that first day. He was still more or less dazed and taken up
with his discovery that he loved her, and therefore not so shrewd as
usual. The future, she knew, would be harder.

But that one day was a delight to them both. He told her about his
youth--as truthful an account as his wife's, but oh, how infinitely more
picturesque and interesting.

His acquisition of the Amati was recounted with a wealth of detail that
enchanted her, and she closed her eyes the better to see the little
dark shop on the _quai_ at Rouen, and the old man who would not sell his
treasure, even for a good price, until he had heard the would-be
purchaser play on it. "And then, my dear, I tuned it, and played. It was
a bit from Tschaikovsky's Pathetic Symphony--the adagio movement. It was
dark in the shop, with the velvety darkness old places get on a sunny
day, and on the other side of the street lay the sunshine like gold. He
sat, _le vieux_, in his chair away from the light, for his eyes were
bad, and listened. And I played well, for I was playing for the greatest
price I had ever commanded!"

"And then?" she asked softly, stroking her cheek with some young
beech-leaves.

"And then he kissed me, and--I took out my cheque-book," returned
Joyselle simply.

It was after four, and the wind had gone down, freeing the common from