CHAPTER ELEVEN
The weather had changed suddenly, and although it was only the 14th of September, it was cold and cheerless that afternoon.
Brigit, who had been sent out for a walk, tramped steadily down the road towards the village, her hands in her jacket pockets, her chin buried in her little boa.
Tommy was very ill; the London doctor had confirmed old Dr. Long's opinion: an over-developed mind in an under-developed body. These words in themselves were not very alarming, but Brigit's heart had sunk as Sir George uttered them.
"Is he—is he going to die?" she asked abruptly. Sir George hesitated. "We scientists are supposed to be atheists, my dear young lady," he returned, looking at his watch, "but I believe in God. And in all reverence I can say in this case that only He can tell. Lord Kingsmead is very weak, and I greatly dislike the abnormal activity of his brain, but—God is good. So let us hope."
Then the great man had gone.
By the 5.10 express Joyselle was coming. He had been out of town the day before, and the delay had been maddening. But now he was coming, and Brigit pinned her faith to the effects of his presence with savage fanaticism.
"He must help him," she repeated over and over again; "he loves him so."
The darkness of the day was congenial to her; sunshine would have seemed an insult. She reached the village, with its little straight street and modern red-brick inn, and passing through it turned to the left towards the station. It was only three, and Joyselle could not arrive for two hours; yet she felt that she was going towards him.
A motor rushed past her, covering her with dust and causing her to clench her hands in anger. "Beastly thing!" she said aloud.
Then out of the cloud of dust emerged—Joyselle, on foot, his violin-case in his hand.
"You!"
"Yes. I—couldn't wait, so I cut an engagement and took the 1.45, Brigit—how is he?"
He was flushed with the effort of rapid walking in a long coat and his hat was on one side. He was smoking, and forgot to ask her leave to continue. Small things were swept from his mind by his evident anxiety.
"He is—very bad. But—oh, it was good of you to bring your violin!"
"Of course I did. If anything on earth can quiet him, that will. What is the trouble now that the throat is better?"
"I don't know. He thinks and thinks, and can't sleep, and the fever will not go. In a grown person I suppose they'd call it brain-fever."
"Poor little boy."
They had passed the village and struck out on the straight road by the park.
"I—I have missed you, Victor," she burst out suddenly, looking round and laying her gloved hand on his arm.
"Hush!" he answered in a stern voice.
A second later he broke the silence by asking her if Tommy drank milk.
"No," she returned sullenly, "he hates it."
"That is a pity."
When they reached the gate and turned into the avenue she found to her surprise that her eyes were full of tears. She had slept very little for nights, and her nerves were upset. She wanted a personal word from him, a look, but he gave her none.
"Théo sent you his love," he announced presently. "He is coming down to-morrow. How is your mother?"
"All right. Victor—are you glad to see me?"
She stood still as she spoke, but he walked on, and she had to rejoin him as he answered in a matter-of-fact voice:
"Of course I am, my dear child."
His mouth she saw was set and determined. Feeling as though he had struck her, she went on in silence, and the silence remained unbroken until they had reached the house.
"I may go to him at once?" Joyselle asked her, as Burton helped him take off his coat.
"Yes."
They went upstairs together, and outside the door of the boudoir he paused and took the violin out of its case.
Tommy, who was talking very loud about Alexander the Great, stared at him without recognition.
"Allô, Tommy; here I am," Joyselle began, taking the boy's hand. "Come to scold you for being ill and worrying us all."
"I don't want you—not that it isn't very kind of you to come. I want—him. And he won't come."
Joyselle frowned at Brigit, who was about to speak. "Well—I am going to play for you, and it may amuse you till he does come."
He tuned his violin and began to play.
Brigit sat down by the bed and laid her hand in Tommy's.
It was a simple nursery melody that Joyselle played:
"Il etait une bergère, hé ron ron ron, petit pa-ta-pon——" She had known it all her life, but to Tommy, who had always sternly refused to have anything to do with the French governesses his mother had got for him, it was new.
He listened with an intent frown, the fingers of his left hand curled inwards and moving as though he were trying to follow the air on imaginary strings.
Then as Joyselle went on to the delightful Pont d'Avignon, his hand relaxed, and he closed his eyes for a moment.
The room was nearly dark, and rain beat in gusts on the windows.
"Fais dodo," sang the fiddle softly, "fais dodo."
"I like that. Play it again. Ah, Master—it is you. I am so glad——"
Joyselle did not stop, but he smiled down at the boy as he played on very softly. "Of course it is I. I am delighted to see you so much better. Do you know 'Ma Normandie'? This is it——"
Tommy moved a little and settled his head more comfortably.
The boudoir was in an angle of the house opposite to which, a floor higher, was the gallery. As he played, someone in the picture-gallery turned on the electric lights, and one long shaft, coming through the window, shone down on the player's head.
"See the Halo, Bicky?" asked the boy in a natural voice. "Isn't he splendid?" Then he added, with the frown she so dreaded: "Take me away before they begin to clap, will you?"
"No clapping allowed, Tommy," Joyselle assured him quietly. "Know this?"
And he played on.
His face, full of tender solicitude, was, Brigit thought, almost divinely beautiful as she watched it. And by some curious freak of the down-falling light only his head and shoulders were visible, and seemed almost to be floating in the gloom. Never had he been so handsome, and never so pitilessly remote. He had forgotten her; he had forgotten love; he was not even the Musician—he was a Healer, a being miles above and beyond her and her weak human longing.
Tommy's eyes had closed, and the low music went on and on. The room was now quite dark, save for the light that encircled Joyselle's head. It was like a wonderful picture, and the innate nobility of the man obliterated for the time all else from his fine face.
Tommy was asleep, and still the music went on.
"Salut demeure chaste et pure," he was playing now, and Brigit recalled with a great heart throb the evening she had met him in the train. "Salut demeure——" The high note, pure and thrilling, lingered long, and then, as it had come, the light went, and it was dark.
The music ceased, and there was a long pause. Then, without a word, Joyselle left the room, closing the door softly behind him.