"If I do, they will say that I am in love with some man who either won't
have me, or is already married, or that I am forced to, by my debts. If
I don't--then this will go on indefinitely, and some fine day I shall
jump into the carp-pond and drown in four feet of nasty, slimy water."
Brigit Mead stood behind the heavy curtains by an open window and
whispered the above reflections to herself. It was a trick she had in
moments of intense concentration, and the sharp, hissing sound of the
last words was so distinct that she involuntarily turned to see that she
had not been overheard.
No, it was all right, everyone was busy with the preparations for the
evening's work, except Joyselle, who sat at the piano and was playing,
very softly, a little thing of Grieg's.
The great hall looked almost empty in spite of its nine occupants, and
the electric lamps threw little pools of light on the polished floor.
It might have been a cheerless place enough, for one unintelligent
Georgian Kingsmead had added to its austerity of church-like painted
windows a very awful row of glossy marble pillars, that stood as if
aware of their own ugliness, holding up a quite unnecessary and
appallingly hideous gallery.
Luckily, however, the late Lord Kingsmead, while not possessing enough
initiative to do away with the horrors perpetuated by his ancestors, was
a man of some taste, and had, by the means of gorgeous Eastern carpets,
skilful overhead lighting, and some fine hangings, transformed the place
into a very comfortable and livable one.
A huge fire burned under the splendid carved chimney-piece, and Brigit,
turning from the cool moonlight to the interior, watched it with a
certain sense of artistic pleasure. It was a dear old house, Kingsmead,
and with money--oh, yes, oh, yes, money! When Tommy was grown, what kind
of a man would he be? She shuddered.
And there, staring at her across a table on which he was leaning to
perfect his not quite faultless balance, stood Pontefract, money, so far
as she was concerned, personified.
He owned mines in Cornwall, a highly successful motor-factory, a big
London newspaper, a house in Grosvenor Square, and Pomfret Abbey.
Also he owned an ever-thirsting palate, a fat red neck, red-rimmed eyes,
and a bald head.
She looked at him with the absent-minded deliberation that so annoyed
many people. He was rather awful in many ways, but he was a kind man,
his temper was good, and he would doubtless be an amiable, manageable
husband.
"Brigit,--let's go out, I,--there is something I want to tell you." His
voice shook a little with real emotion, and though he had undoubtedly
drunk more than was good for him, there was about the man a certain
dignity, compounded of his breeding, his respect for her, and his
sincerity.
She did not move, and her small, narrow face went white. He would take
her--wherever she asked him; she would be able to fly away from her
mother and her mother's friends. After a long pause, which he bore well,
she bowed her head slowly. "Yes, I will get a scarf," and leaving him
she left the room. Her face was set and a little sullen as she came back
with a long silk scarf on her arm. Carron met her near the door. "Made
up your mind, have you?" he asked, with deliberate insolence. "Better
wait till to-morrow, my dear--he's half drunk."
She hated Carron. Hated him with an intensity that few women know. At
that moment she would have liked to kill him. But knowing a better
weapon, and rejoicing in her cruelty, she used it. "Poor old Gerald,"
she said, smiling at him, "no man over fifty can afford the luxury of
jealousy."
Then she joined Pontefract.
He made his proposal succinctly and well, and without any confusion she
accepted him. "No--you may not kiss me to-night," she added. "You may
come for that--to-morrow. Now would you mind going? I--I want to be
alone."
Quite humbly, hardly daring to believe in his good fortune, he left her,
and she wandered aimlessly over the grass towards the carp-pond. "Nasty,
slimy water," she said aloud, "you have lost me!"
Joyselle had stopped playing, and through the open windows only a very
subdued murmur of voices came. Even Bridge has its uses. The night was
perfect, and the serene moon sailed high under a scrap of cloud like a
wing. The old house, most beautiful, looked, among its surrounding
trees, secluded and protected.
"It looks like a home," thought the girl bitterly.
And then young Joyselle joined her.
"May I come? Shall I bother you?"
"You may come; and you never bother me."
His youthful face was pleasant to look at; the dominating expression of
it was one of sunny sweetness. Would Tommy grow to be as nice a young
man?
Tommy, that old person, was, she knew, perched astride a chair near the
Bridge table, picking up, with uncanny shrewdness, all sorts of tips
about the great game, as he picked up knowledge about everything that
came his way. Up to this, his varied stock of information had not hurt
him. Later--who could tell?
"Where is Tommy?" she asked miserably.
"Watching the Bridge. Why are you unhappy?" His dark eyes were bent
imploringly on hers. "I--I can't bear to see you suffer."
"Oh, _mon Dieu, je ne souffre pas_! That is saying far too much. I----"
"Was it Pontefract?"
"No, oh, no. Ponty and I are very good friends," she returned absently.
And then she remembered. She was going to marry Ponty!
"Let's walk to the sun-dial and see what time it is by the moon," she
suggested abruptly.
But at the sun-dial he insisted further, always gentle and apologetic,
but always bent on having an answer to his question.
"You are not going to marry him?" he asked.
"Who told you I was?"
"No one."
"Oh!"
"Well, _are_ you?"
His head fairly swam as he looked at her in the full moonlight. "What
made you think of it?" she returned.
"Tommy--told me not to interrupt you--and him."
"Well--it's true."
He was young, and French, and she was beautiful and he was desperately
in love with her. Kneeling suddenly on the damp grass, he buried his
face in his arms as they lay limply across the sun-dial. There was a
long pause. He did not sob, he was quite still, but every line of him
proclaimed unspeakable agony.
"Poor boy," she said gently.
Then he rose. "I am not a boy," he declared, his chin twitching but his
voice firm, "and I love you. He is old and--_c'est un vieux roué_. I at
least am young and I have lived a clean life."
He asked her no question, but she paused to consider. "I know, I
understand," he continued, "you hate this life, you are bored and sick
of it all; you do not love your mother. _Mon Dieu, ne pas pouvoir aimer
sa mère!_ And you want to get away. Then--marry me instead. I am not so
rich, but I am rich. And, ah, I love you--_je t'aime_."
Poor Pontefract, leaning back in his big Mercedes trying to realise his
bliss, was jilted before Brigit had spoken a word. Like a flash, his
image seemed to stand before her, beside the delightful boy-man whose
youth and niceness pleaded so strongly to her. She did not consider that
breaking her word was not fair play, she had no thought of pity for
Pontefract. She loved nobody, and therefore thought solely of herself.
This boy was right. She would be happier with him than with poor, old,
fat Ponty. So poor, old, fat Ponty went to the wall, and putting her
hands into Joyselle's, she said slowly:
"Very well--I will. I will marry you. Only--you must know that I am an
odious person, selfish and moody, and----"
But she could not finish her sentence, because Joyselle had her in his
arms and was kissing her.
"I will be your servant and your slave," he told her, with very bad
judgment but much sincerity. "I will serve you on my knees."
"Now you must--buck up--and not let them see to-night. Mother will be
cross at first. And--I must write Ponty before we tell."
Her practical tone struck chill on Joyselle's glowing young ear, but he
followed her obediently to the house. As they reached the door the
opening bar of Mendelssohn's Wedding March rang out, played with a
mastery of the pianola that, in that house, only Kingsmead was capable
of.
On entering, Brigit's face was scarlet. She knew that her brother was
welcoming the wrong bridegroom. And it suddenly occurred to her that it
was awkward to be engaged to two men at once.
"I say----" began Tommy as he saw Joyselle, and she interrupted him
hastily. "Play something of Sinding's, dear," she said, and the boy
complied. But his eye was horribly knowing, and hard to bear.