CHAPTER TWELVE
There was to be no Bridge that evening, and by unspoken consent everyone sat in the hall. It was a cold night, and the roaring fire was pleasant to hear, and in the expressive slang of the time, "things went."
Everyone was amused; for the time being, the bores had ceased from boring, and the bored were at rest. Brigit, who loved to look into wet and be dry, to look into cold and be warm, sat in the one plain glass window in the place (its coloured predecessor had been broken by a Roundhead cannon-ball and for vainglorious Family Reasons never been replaced), so that she could look alternately into the storm and at the comfortable, cheery scene within.
She wore white, and in her hair a tiny wreath of green enamel bay-leaves. And to her beauty was, as the Duchess had so plainly felt, added the great graces of good humour and simplicity.
"After all," thought the wise old lady, watching her, "all happy women are simple."
Tommy, big with his splendid secret, roamed about the room, his hands in his pockets, his chin poked up thoughtfully.
It was all very well to be an earl if one wanted to rule one's mother and get one's own way generally, but when one wants to be a violinist, then an earldom is distinctly a bore. He had never heard of a British peer who at the same time was a great musician, but which of the two positions precluded the other he could not decide.
He wished, naturally, to begin work at once. He would have to have a serious talk with his mother to-night. If these people ever went to bed!
Bicky looked heavenly to-night. My word! what a sister for any fellow to have!
And Joyselle—he was far too great a person to be "Mistered." Fancy Mr. Beethoven, or Mr. Paderewski! Joyselle the Great and Glorious would help him. The mater appeared to like him. It was strange, for she had been in a terrible rage the first day or two—but she certainly was as pleased as Punch now.
Joyselle had crossed the room and was sitting by Bicky now. By Jove, he was patting her hand! And before everybody!
Suddenly he rose, she smiled up into his dark face, and he called Tommy.
"Tommy, will you go to my room and bring me my Amati?"
Why Tommy did not then and there burst with joy, that enraptured little boy never knew. When he put the violin into the master's hand the child trembled so that the master saw it. "When I have played one thing, you are to go to bed," he said gravely. "You are tired."
And the spoiled and headstrong Tommy, he whose word was law to his mother and many other people, nodded obediently. "I will play again for you alone to-morrow," added Joyselle.
Then he went and stood near the fire, the red light flashing on him, and played.
The first thing, plainly for Tommy, was a Norman cradle-song, very slow and monotonous, and full of strange harmonies. When it was over, Tommy quietly withdrew. To-morrow was to be his day.
Brigit Mead had stayed at the house in Golden Square for a full week, and during that week she had heard her future father-in-law play a dozen times or more.
He had played in the crimson velvet dressing-gown, in morning clothes, in evening dress, once even in the fur-lined coat. Yet it seemed to her, as she watched and listened now, in the great hall of the house of her fathers, that she had never heard quite this same man play.
At home he had been "Beau-papa," noisy and demonstrative, or solemn with artistic responsibility and reverence, but always the oldish man playing to his family. Now, in some way, he was metamorphosed. He was now "Joyselle"; he was, as she listened and watched, an unusually handsome, not yet middle-aged gentleman, playing the violin as an artist, but indisputably a gentleman.
She recalled, with a shudder, his awful lack of taste displayed the day Pontefract called; she remembered her amusement on his insisting on wearing a pale blue satin tie one day when he was lunching at a club to meet a great pianist, and Théo's subsequent search among his belongings for other similar horrors.
She remembered his over-loud laugh and his too-ready gesture. She smiled, however, as she told herself that he was a peasant.
As she listened, her love for music quite subordinated to her strange interest in the mere man, Théo leant forward and whispered quietly: "Brigit, do you really care a little for me?"
"Yes." She smiled affectionately at him, for was it not he who made her so happy?
And then the poor girl drew a long, shuddering breath, and leant back behind the curtain, for she had suddenly realised that it was not Théo who made her happy. It was the fact that he was Victor Joyselle's son.
And it was the big man with the violin who—who—who made her happy.
It was a miserable end to her childish dream of felicity, for she was brave enough to admit to herself without the least hesitation what it was that had happened.
And when Joyselle at length stopped playing and came back to sit by her, she smiled at him in very good imitation of her own smile of half an hour before.
But he was not satisfied.
"You did not like it?" he asked simply.
"Of course I did—it was splendid."
"Yet I could not hold you," he persisted, his vanity evidently a little hurt. He could not hold her!
"Didn't we like it, Théo?" she urged, turning to the young man.
"To tell the truth, I didn't hear a note," he admitted, not in the least shamefacedly. "I was looking at you."
"Lucky young beggar," laughed Joyselle, "small wonder! You two make a very pleasant picture," he added, "and in a year or two——"
"Father," protested Théo, blushing scarlet in quick French sympathy for the strange susceptibilities of his English fiancée, "don't!"
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?"