CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cromwell Mansions are a depressing pile of buildings not far from the Kensington High Street; they have lifts, uniformed hall-porters, house telephones and other modern inconveniences, and a restaurant.
The restaurant is, of course, the Mansions being inhabited chiefly by women, very bad indeed, but it obviates the necessity of cooks and kitchens in the, for the most part, diminutive flats into which the place is divided.
One day early in August Brigit Mead sat in the restaurant at a small table near an open window through which she caught an invigorating view of a brick court in the middle of which a woman was washing a cabbage at a pump.
It was a very warm day and the butter, more liquid than solid, seemed to be the last of a huge bundle of straws the weight of which threatened to break the girl's back.
That the cold beef was hard and tasteless was a detail to be borne with, but the butter seemed particularly insulting as it melted before her eyes.
"Going to thunder, I believe," observed a wan girl at the next table. "It would, of course, as I have tickets for Ranelagh!"
"Of course," agreed Brigit, absently.
She hated being so late in town, but the Lenskys, to whom she had been going, had wired to put her off, as Pammy had come down with measles. And the wire having come only that morning, she had as yet made no other plan for the rest of the month.
"Give me some cream, please," she said to the waiter, "without too much boracic acid powder in it."
There was no irony in her remark and the waiter accepted it in good faith. "It's the 'eat, my lady," he explained serenely. "It all goes sour if they don't put something in it."
Brigit ate a piece of fruit tart, a bit of cheese, and rose languidly.
"I see your mother has gone to the country, Lady Brigit," said a girl near the door, as she passed.
"Yes. She always goes on the 28th of July."
"I saw it in some paper. Are you staying on long?"
The story of her leaving her mother's house was, Brigit knew, common property, but this was the first time anyone had ventured to broach the matter to her.
"I suppose," went on the unlucky questioner, "that you will soon be joining her?"
"Do you?" asked Brigit.
"Do I what?"
"Suppose so?" And Miss M'Caw was alone, staring after the tall figure in the plain white frock, that for all its plainness looked so out of place in Cromwell Mansions.
Unlocking her door, Brigit went into her sitting-room and lit a cigarette. She had taken the flat from a friend who had been sent abroad by her doctor, and the whole place was absurdly unsuited to its present owner.
Maidie Conyers was blonde and small, so the room was pale blue and "cosy." There were embroidered pillows on the buttony Chesterfield, lace shades to the electric lights, and be-rosebudded liberty silk curtains.
Brigit hated the house, but it was cheap, and she had little money.
With a grunt of furious distaste she sat down in a satin chair, and leaning back began to smoke. The tables in the room were very bare, for the chief ornaments had been photographs—in very elaborate frames—of Maidie Conyers' friends, and Brigit, finding that she loathed Maidie Conyers' friends, had banished them one and all.
"Loathsome room," the girl said aloud, lighting a fresh cigarette, "disgusting curtains."
What she in reality felt mostly, though she did not know it, was the lack of room in the flat. Used all her life to the large rooms of Kingsmead, she felt, now that the unusual heat had come, cramped and restless.
It maddened her to have to make plans. Where should she go? How like that little wretch Pammy to go and have measles now.
She would go to Golden Square as soon as it got a little cooler and make Victor play to her. They might go for a drive later. Or she might make Théo take her for a walk in the park. Suddenly she heard a slight scratching noise in the entry, and rose. The porter, to save himself trouble, was letting some visitor in unannounced. She would murder that porter.
But when she saw the visitor she forgot the guilty official.
"Gerald!"
"Yes, Brigit. Do—do you mind?"
"I—yes, I mind, of course I do. Why have you come?"
Carron, who was very smartly dressed and who looked wretchedly ill, sank into a chair.
"It is nearly four months ago," he murmured. "I—I hoped you would have forgiven me."
"Well, I haven't. So please go."
Her ill-humour, accumulating ever since the receipt of the wire from the Lenskys, seemed about to burst. She looked exceedingly angry, and the poor wretch in the chair before her trembled as he looked at her.
"D—don't be so hard on me, Bicky."
"Don't call me Bicky. And please go. I don't want to be rude, but I shall lose my temper if you don't."
Carron's pinched face quivered. "I—I am very ill Brigit," he said in a hurried, deprecating way. "I—I am not sleeping at all, my nerves are—rotten. And I thought I'd die if I couldn't see you. Don't be any harder on me than—than necessary."
She sat down on the arm of a chair, and looked at him closely.
"You do look ill—very ill. And you look—I say, Gerald, are you taking anything?"
He gave a shrill, cackling laugh. "Taking anything. No. You mean morphine or something of that kind? Pas si bête, my dear. Oh, no, I have always had a perfect horror of anything like that. W—why?"
"Because—I think you are," she returned coolly. "Show me your left arm, Gerald."
"No, no, you are mad, my dear,—I assure you I don't. I give you my word of honour——"
She came to him, and taking his arm in her strong hands pushed up his sleeves and studied his emaciated arm for a few seconds in silence.
"I thought as much," she commented, as he almost whimpered in his helpless annoyance.
"You are so rough, Brigit. Tony always says you are so rough."
"Yes, I am. Well—I am sorry for you, Gerald. When did you begin?"
"Oh—long ago. But—I seem to need more of late."
"Took it at first to make you sleep, I suppose?"
"Yes. And then—well you see, I like it. And it's nobody's business," he finished defiantly.
"That's true. Would you like some tea?"
"Oh, yes, Brigit. You are kind. It is good of you to forgive me."
"I haven't forgiven you," she retorted, going to the tea table, "but I am sorry for you. Where have you been of late?"
"Oh, all about, as usual. I came up from Morecambe yesterday. Rotten party. Have you seen your mother?"
Brigit's lips tightened. "No."
"I saw her three weeks ago. She is very much hurt by your behaviour."
"Broken-hearted, I should think!"
"Well, she's queer enough, I grant you, and not over-motherly, but—she is your mother when all's said and done."
The girl watched the kettle boil and said nothing.
"Tommy is coming on wonderfully with his violin, isn't he?" pursued Carron.
"Yes."
"Does he come here often?"
She looked up, frowning. "You know perfectly well that he has never been here," she returned shortly. "Do you like your tea strong?"
"Yes, please, no milk. Well—you must miss him."
"And you know perfectly well that I see him twice a week at Joyselle's."
Carron took his cup with trembling hands and set it down carefully on the table.
"You needn't snap my head off," he observed.
"No. But why play comedy? Mother has told you all about it, so I can't see the use of this sort of humbug."
He was silent for a moment, and then began in a new voice. "Brigit, I—I really have something to say to you."
"What is it?"
"It's this. That day—the last time I saw you, you know, your mother was standing up for you when you came in. She—refused to believe me when I, when I——"
"I know. But when I came in she was——"
"She was simply being good to me. Look here, Brigit, really and truly, she was. She went for me when I said—that. And your coming in in a temper was what—upset the apple-cart."
Brigit raised her eyebrows.
"Right. Now let's talk about something else. When did you see Tommy?"
"A week ago. He is in town now."
"I know. I shall see him to-morrow."
"At Joyselle's?"
"Yes."
"Brigit—you can see what a wreck I am. Tell me. Are you going to marry that boy?"
"I am."
"When?"
"In October."
"Then——"
She rose. "I am a model of patience, Gerald, but you have asked enough questions."
"But—well, I am sorry I was such a beast. Can you endure seeing me once in a long time—say once a month? It—it may make life possible to me—don't say that you don't see the necessity for that! Brigit——"
"But it is so useless, Gerald, and so painful——"
"No. And I can tell you all kind of things about people—you must be lonely! Tommy is only a kid after all, and doesn't hear—By the way, why does he never come here?"
She hesitated. "Do you really not know?" Then, seeing sincerity in his eyes, she went on. "Well—Joyselle made me promise mother that."
"Made you!"
"Yes. He—you see he is old-fashioned. And—well, in two words he said that unless I promised he—he—would not teach Tommy or even see him!"
Carron whistled. "Well, I'll be damned!"
"Yes. Absurd, wasn't it? But—Oh, well, there's no use in explaining."
As she spoke she heard the introductory scraping at the keyhole again, and a moment later Tommy came in.