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.