CHAPTER TWO
Lady Brigit Mead was sitting on the hummocky sparse grass under an ancient olive-tree, looking seawards. She wore a blue frock without any collar, and her face and long, round neck were very sunburnt. Her face had hardened in the last four months, and there was a tense look about her upper lip, yet an artist would have preferred her face as it now was to what it was before she had become engaged. For now the nervous strain she was living under had told on her more material beauties, leaving more room for expression, as it seemed, to the others.
It was not that her face was better, but the suffering in it was less petty than the resentment that had formerly stamped it.
The dominant characteristic in it had hitherto been disdainful bearing of small annoyances; now it showed a grim endurance of a great suffering.
"Bicky, dear," Pam asked suddenly, coming up unheard, "what is it?"
She started. "What is what?"
"Your trouble. Oh, don't tell me if you don't want to, but I can see you are suffering, and—I used to tell the Duchess, long ago, and it always did me good."
"Did you tell the Duchess about—Mr. Peele, Pam?"
The elder woman smiled and sighed. "No, my dear, I didn't. But—he was her son-in-law."
"That wasn't why." Brigit had not moved, and Pam had seen no more than her profile as she sat down.
"No, it wasn't. But then I was particularly lonely, and literally had no one to tell. Whereas," she added with brisk good sense, "you have me."
For several minutes there was unbroken silence, and then Brigit said slowly, "I believe you're right. And I'll tell you. It's about—myself, of course; nothing else could upset me to this extent! You know I'm engaged to Théo Joyselle. Well—I love his father."
Her voice was defiant, as if deprecating in advance any cut-and-dried disapproval.
Pam did not answer for a moment. Then "Is his mother—I mean Théo's mother—alive?" she then asked, drawing up her knees and clasping them comfortably.
"Yes."
"That—is a pity."
"A pity! Aren't you shocked and frightened?"
"I'm sure I'm not shocked, and I don't think I am frightened. Brigit, does Théo know?"
Then Brigit turned, her face white under the sunburnt skin. "No. I am—afraid to tell him."
"Afraid?"
"Yes, afraid. If I broke the engagement, Joyselle would be furious, and come and scold me."
"Surely you aren't afraid of being scolded?"
"By him, yes. If we had a row—the whole thing would come out."
"I don't see why."
The girl frowned. "You are you, and I am I. When I lose my temper I lose my head and behave like a lunatic. I'd—let it all out as sure as we both live. And then——" She broke off with a shrug.
"But, Brigit dear, I don't quite understand. What does Théo think of your being here all the winter? And the father, doesn't he think it strange?"
"No. You see, Joyselle went away from England in November, and was detained for two months; his mother was ill. When I left, I told Théo I'd write to him once a week, but that I wanted a long rest before—before I saw him again. I lied, and said I wasn't well.
"Then when Joyselle came back he wrote to me, saying I must come home. I wrote him a disagreeable note, practically telling him to mind his own business. He was angry—and besides, he was working hard, and didn't write again until this morning."
"Oh, I see."
"Théo has been—fairly contented—and I have been trying to tide things over—no, I haven't, I've just funked it, Pam. I don't know what I'm to do. I've loved being here, for you and M. de Lensky are so good to me—but I'm afraid he might come——"
"Théo?"
"No," sharply, "Joyselle. He adores Théo and would hack me to pieces if it would do him any good. And—well, I'm afraid of him."
Pam, in like case, would have faced the whole family, successfully broken her engagement, protected her own secret, and done her hiding afterwards, but she was too wise to say so.
"I am sorry for Théo," she remarked presently.
"So am I. And for Tommy, too. Tommy has been staying in Golden Square ever since Joyselle came home, and he is so happy, poor child. It's—all hideous. Will you read his letter?"
There was no need for Pam to ask whose letter, as she took it, and felt Brigit's hot, dry fingers tremble against her own.
"My dear Daughter," she read, "you must come back to us. We want you. Théo says nothing, but I can see how he misses you, and surely it is but natural? And petite mère and I want you. Surely you have had enough of the South? It is unfitted for you, my beautiful one. You are too strong to like warm air in the winter. Come back and go out into the fog with me, and let the chill rain dampen your hair. Come back to your lover who sighs for you, to your old adoring Beau-papa who longs to see again the face of his beautiful child. Joyselle."
"Brigit—you must go."
Brigit poked at a clump of moss among the tangled roots of the tree under which they sat, and sulked.
"You must, dear. And—you must buck up and break the engagement. It isn't fair," continued Pam, energetically, "to go on stealing their love."
"I stealing their love!—I! And what has he done to me, pray? Do you know that I haven't slept more than an hour at a time, for months? Do you know that I cannot get away from the horrible, haunting thought of him? That a flower, a book, a snatch of music—anything that reminds me of him, turns me cold all over and takes my breath away, so that I simply cannot speak? You are an idiot, an utter fool, to talk that way. He has ruined my life, and you say I have stolen his love!" She gasped in very truth as she ceased, and stood with one hand on her heaving breast, her face white with anger.
"You have, my dear. The man seems really to love you as a father. And you certainly have no right to that kind of affection from him! You must break your engagement."
Suddenly, after a long pause, during which she gazed blindly at the brilliant sea, Brigit sat down, and turning, buried her face in her arms and burst out crying.
It was nervous, irregular sobbing, cut by moans and muttered words, broken by the convulsive movement of her shoulders. Pam was appalled, much as a man might have been, for she herself had never been hysterical, and this mixture of anguish and anger, given vent to so openly, was a strange and horrible thing to her.
However, she knew enough to let the storm pass without interruption, although it took nearly ten minutes for it to subside, and then, while Brigit, her face red and disfigured, sat up and smoothed back her hair and wiped her eyes, Pam spoke.
"It must be lunch-time," she said with great wisdom, and Brigit rose, with a nod.
"I'll go for a walk. Don't want any lunch."
"All right. Good-bye."
Then they separated, Pam going up the sunny slope to her husband and children, Brigit, down through the deserted garden of a long uninhabited house, to the lonely sea.