The parrot, whose name was Guillaume le Conquérant, was a magnificent,
fluffy, grey bird picked out with green. His eye was knowing, and swift
and deep his infrequent but never-to-be-forgotten bite.
"He is studying you--dear," explained Joyselle, as he stood before the
huge gilt cage with Brigit shortly after her appearance downstairs that
morning. "It is a severe test that everyone who comes here has to
undergo. He is writing his memoirs, too."
"It will be a sad day for you, papa, when his memoirs appear," put in
Théo, who was smoking a pipe and walking up and down the room just
because he was much too happy to sit still. "You have yet to see the
_real_ Victor Joyselle, Brigit. This polite being is the one we keep for
company."
Brigit laughed. "Is it true?" she asked the violinist.
"Yes," he returned unexpectedly, "you see now the happy Joyselle; the
Joyselle _père de famille_, domestic; the artist Joyselle, alas! is an
irritable, nervous, unpleasant person, who forgets to eat, and then
abuses his wife for giving him no dinner; an absent-minded idiot who
leaves his own old coat at the club and goes off wrapped in the Marquis
of St. Ive's sables; a swearing, smoking, wild-headed person, who
adores, nevertheless, his little Théo, and that little Théo's beautiful
_fiancée_."
At the end of this long speech his face, which had in the middle of it
been sombre with a sense of his own iniquity, suddenly cleared, until a
radiant smile transfigured it.
"My little brother adores you, M. Joyselle," said Brigit suddenly; "he
will be _so_ pleased. He calls your hair a halo!"
"A sad sinner's halo, then. The beautiful saints have others. And your
little brother, what is his name? And how old is he?"
"Tommy is his name, and he is twelve. He is music-mad, and such a dear!
Isn't he, Théo?"
Brigit had never been so happy. It was all like a dream, these
warm-hearted, simple-minded people, the father and mother so ready to
love her for the son's sake, the mental atmosphere so different from
that to which she was accustomed. She felt younger and, somehow, better
than ever before. And Théo would be very helpful to Tommy, and Tommy's
joy, in hearing Joyselle play, something very beautiful. She had sent a
wire to her mother the night before at the station, but her mother would
not answer it, and there were at least several hours between her and the
moment when she must leave Golden Square. The very name was beautiful!
It was raining hard, and the blurred windows seemed a kind of magic
barrier between her and the tiresome old world outside.
Then there came a ring at the door, and a moment later Toinon, the
red-elbowed maid-of-all-work, appeared, very much alarmed, carrying a
card, which she gave to Brigit.
"Oh, dear--it is poor Ponty!" ejaculated the girl, involuntarily turning
to Joyselle.
"Poor----"
"Lord Pontefract, Théo. Oh, how _tiresome_ of mother!"
Joyselle frowned. "Do not call your mother tiresome," he said shortly.
"But who is this gentleman?"
Théo stood silently looking on. It was plain that it seemed to him quite
fitting that his father should arrange the matter.
"Lord Pontefract--a friend of--of ours," stammered Brigit, abashed by
the reproof as she had not been abashed for years.
"And do you want to see him?"
"No, no; I certainly do _not_ want to see him."
"Then I will go and tell him so."
"No, no. I--I had better go, don't you think, Théo?"
Poor Pontefract seemed rather piteous to her as he was discussed, and
her note had been curt and unsympathetic.
Théo looked up from his work of filling his pipe.
"I don't know. I should do as papa says."
"No. I must see him. I shall be back in a minute."
She ran downstairs almost into Pontefract's arms, for he had been left
in the passage by the horrified Toinon.
"Oh--sorry!" she exclaimed. "Come in here, will you?" "Here" was the
unused "salon" of the house, and in its austere ugliness would have
attracted the girl's attention at any other time. But she had now before
her something she had never seen, a perfectly sober Pontefract. And
though red, a little puffy, and watery as to eye, the man looked what he
was, an English gentleman. Brigit felt as though she had returned to an
uncongenial home after a tour into some strange, delightful country.
"I--I owe you an apology, I suppose," she said, so simply that he
stared.
"No, you don't, Lady Brigit. You wrote me a--a very kind note. But I
wanted to ask you to reconsider. I--I am unhappy."
There was a short pause, during which he looked at her unfalteringly,
and then he went on with a certain dignity: "I have--drunk too much of
late years, I know, but--I will never do so again. And I think I could
make you happy."
"Did mother send you here?" asked the girl suddenly.
"No; I telephoned her this morning for your address. She would be
glad--if you could make up your mind."
"I have made up my mind, Lord Pontefract. I am going to marry Théo
Joyselle. And--I think I am going to be happy. I--like them all very
much. And," holding out her hand, "I am _very_ sorry to have hurt you."
As she spoke the sound of music--violin music--came down the stairs.
They both started, for it was the Wedding March from "Lohengrin."
Brigit's small face went white with anger. "I--am sorry," she stammered;
"it is--ghastly. It isn't Théo--it is his father. Oh, _do_ go!"
Pontefract nodded. "Yes, I'll go. And--never mind, Brigit. He doesn't
_know_, the old chap!"
He left the room hastily, and she ran upstairs, her hands clenched.
It was as she expected: Théo had left the room, and Joyselle stood alone
by the open door, his face radiant with malicious, delight. "_Parti,
hein_? I thought he'd--What is the matter?" he ended hastily, staring at
her.
She went straight to him, breathing hard, her brows nearly meeting. "How
_could_ you do such a thing? It was abominable--hideous!"
"What was abominable?"
"To play that Wedding March! Théo had told you about--about him, and you
did it to hurt him. Oh, how could _anybody_ do such a thing!"
Joyselle put his violin carefully into its case.
"You are rude, mademoiselle," he returned sternly; "very rude indeed.
But you are--my guest."
And he left the room.
Brigit's temper was very violent, but she had seen in his set face signs
of one much worse than her own, and, with the strange unexpectedness
that seemed to characterise the man, his last move was as fully that of
a gentleman as his trick with the Wedding March had been shocking.
He was her host, and--he had left her rather than forget that fact.
For the first time in her life she was utterly at a loss. What should
she do?
She was still standing where he had left her when Madame Joyselle came
in, perfectly serene, and closed the door.
"What is the matter?" she asked calmly, sitting down and folding her
hands.
"I--M. Joyselle--hurt one of my friends--he was--rude. And then----"
"_C'est ça._ And then _you_ were rude. Never mind, he will not think of
it again, and neither must you."
Brigit was silent, and stood looking at le Conquérant. She _had_ been
impolite, and Joyselle's discourtesy was, after all, more like a bit of
schoolboy malice than the deliberate insult of a grown man. And his
dignified rebuke to her had set her at once on the plane of a naughty
child.
Were they both grown up, or both children? Or was he grown and she a
child, or was she a grown-up and he a child? It was very puzzling and
very absurd. She wanted to rage and she wanted to laugh.
She laughed. Because as she turned towards the disinterested spectator
on the sofa, Joyselle came in, his face bearing such a reflection of the
expression she felt to be in her own that she could not resist.
"_Bon._ It is laugh, then?" he cried, kissing her hands. "It appears
Belle-Ange has a temper, too! Let us forget all about it. Félicité, my
dear, bring us Hydromel, and we will drink forgetfulness." He opened the
door of the cage, and William the Conqueror came mincing out, waddling
on his inturned toes like some fat, velvet-clad dowager.
Hydromel is a Norman liqueur, thick and cloying. Brigit loathed it, but
could not resist Joyselle, who, the parrot on his left wrist, poured the
sweet stuff into little glasses and handed one to her.
"Item: forget that we both have bad tempers," he said, striking his
glass against hers. "Item; remember that we are both good in our hearts;
item, remember that father and daughter must be patient with each
other."
As she drained her glass Théo came in and laughed as he saw what they
were doing.
"A reconciliation already?" he cried. "Papa, what have you been up to?"
"We have both been correcting and being corrected. _Bon, c'est fini!_"