A sleepless night is always a bad thing, but it is full of horror when
its victim is haunted by an ever-recurring thought.
Brigit Mead went to her room, dismissed what her brother called her half
of Amélie, the French maid, put on a dressing-gown, and sat down by the
fire to think.
Her room was very exposed, and the wind howled dismally round the corner
of the house, while the rain fell in violent gusts against the ancient
panes. It was a comfort to hear the storm, for it made the fire welcome,
and a fire is comforting.
The girl huddled close to it, and according to her wont began uttering
her thoughts in a whisper.
"It is that. There's no doubt. And that is why I was so happy. He
doesn't know, that's one comfort. Only--what on earth am I to do? I
wonder if it will get worse or better, the more I see him? If only he
would make some more horrible blunders, or--or what? It isn't what he
does, it's what he is. It isn't even the playing. I barely heard him
to-night. And Théo--poor Théo! He must never suspect. But then, he never
would, unless I shouted it in his ear!"
She paused and put another log on the fire.
"_He_ will, though, unless I am very careful. He isn't old at all,
forty-two is young nowadays, and I'm sure he likes women. I daresay, if
I hadn't been engaged to Théo, he would have liked me. Most of 'em do.
And I never looked better in my life than I looked to-night. Vain
beast!"
Presently she got up, and roamed aimlessly about the room. The door
leading into her little sitting-room was open, and she went in and
switched on the light. "He wants to come in here to-morrow, and see
where I live. _Live!_ He wants to see my books. I'll hide those French
ones; they'd shock Beau-papa, I suppose, though they aren't very bad.
But what _am_ I to _do_? Can I go on being engaged--can I _marry_ Théo
while I--love his father? Would marrying Théo cure me, or make it worse?
And suppose he fell in love with me after we were married! And
she--Gerald's 'clean old peasant,' wouldn't she be horrified? Poor old
thing, she is very nice, but--and Tommy wanting to be a violinist! A
nice family party, upon my word!"
She laughed harshly and pulled her dressing-gown closer about her. It
was cold in here.
"I suppose I'd better tell Théo the truth--or, no, just that I've
changed my mind. No, I can't do that, for I'd never see _him_ again. I
want to see him; there's no danger; he'll never suspect me."
Up and down the two rooms she paced, her two long black plaits hanging
over her shoulders and accentuating the red-Indian character of her
face. "How Gerald would gloat!" she thought suddenly, clenching her
hands. "The beast!"
The stable clock struck one. She had thought that wretched old Duchess
would never want to go to bed.
"I wish I could tell Pam. According to the Duchess, Pam is a mine of
wisdom. But I know what she did about that Peele man, and I haven't the
courage to do that. Oh, why did I ever _see_ Théo? Then I'd have married
Ponty, and--_what's that_?" Wheeling fiercely, she faced the door
leading from her sitting-room into the passage. It opened noiselessly
and Carron came in, dressed as she had last seen him. "Hush! don't be
frightened, Brigit. I saw your light and----"
"Well--and?" She looked as if she were about to spring at his throat,
and he closed the door quietly and entered her bedroom.
"My good child, don't be melodramatic! I only wanted to tell you
that--that I am sorry I was rude to you the day you left----"
"Rude, were you? I had quite forgotten it. Now go!"
"No, thanks. I will sit down for a moment. Brigit, you are a very
foolish woman. Hush, I will tell you why. Firstly, because you are going
to marry the son of that musical mountebank; and secondly, because you
seem bound to make an enemy of me."
"Threats?"
She stood looking down at him with a smile as disagreeable, though not
as evil, as his own. "Don't you be melodramatic! And please go. If you
don't, I'll ring for Amélie."
"I don't mind."
And she knew that he did not. She, on the other hand did, for she had
always disliked and distrusted the Frenchwoman. "If you prefer one of
the men?"
"They won't hear you; men-servants never do. And, besides, I'm going in
a minute. Listen, Brigit; you have, during the past year, done
everything you could to hurt me. Do you think it's fair, all things
considered?"
"Fair or unfair, your--attentions annoy me."
"Well--your attitude annoys me, and unless you change it, I'll--get even
with you. Now, there's plain English for you." He rose. "That's all I
wanted to say. Rather pretty, your room."
"Very good," she sneered. "In the language of your favourite branch of
dramatic art, 'do your worst.'"
"And you intend to continue to torture me till--till I can't bear it?"
His face whitened, and there was real agony in his voice. After all, he
was suffering too, and suddenly, for the first time, she pitied him.
"I am sorry, Gerald," she said, bending towards him and laying her hand
on his shoulder. "I----"
"Hush!" reaching out his hand he switched off the light, for they had
both heard slow footsteps coming softly down the passage.
The room was dark now but for the fire which had died down, and luckily
they stood in the shadow. The soft footsteps, heavy, though they would
have been noiseless at any other hour than this most quiet one,
approached slowly and deliberately. Instinctively the girl clung to the
man, and he put his arms round her for the first time since she was a
little child. Even in their mutual fright she felt his heart give a wild
throb.
Then the door opened gently and on the threshold appeared--Tommy, sound
asleep, hugging to his unconscious breast the volume of the Encyclopædia
Britannica, in which he had been reading about the Amati.
Slowly the boy crossed the room and disappeared into the sitting-room.
"Go," whispered Brigit, desperately; "he mustn't be waked up--go this
way----"
But Carron had lost his head, and kissed her, breathlessly, hungrily,
and then, just as the little blue-clad figure again appeared in the one
doorway, he disappeared by the other.
The girl stood quite still, not daring to scream, so angry that only the
unconscious presence of Tommy prevented her rushing after the man she
hated, to try to kill him with her two hands.
And Tommy, after a moment's hesitation, made his slow way back to his
room and to bed. When she had tucked him up in safety she went to her
mother's room.
"Sorry to wake you, mother," she said, her voice shaky, "but might I
sleep with you? I have had such a bad dream and am nervous."
Lady Kingsmead luckily liked to have her vanity played upon by such
requests. It pleased her to have her daughter turn to her. "Of course,
darling," she said sleepily.