Brigit went for a long walk that afternoon, as was her wont when she
wished to think. As she started from the house she met Carron. "Look
here, Brigit," he said roughly, "you slept with your mother last night.
Was it because you were afraid I might come back?"
She eyed him with great coolness from under the shadow of her felt hat.
"No, I was afraid, when I left--my little brother--that you might _have
come back_." And she took her walking-stick from its place.
"I--I beg your pardon," he returned sullenly, looking at her as she
stood in the faint autumn sunshine, her well-cut coat and skirt somehow
failing to take from her her curious Indian air. "I was a beast."
"You always are, Gerald. Once when I was a child a spider bit me--or do
spiders sting? Well, it made me a bit sick at first, and then I--forgot
it. Good-bye."
The man's nerves were evidently in a bad state, for at her insult his
face broke out into a cold perspiration and went very white. "Oh--I am a
spider, am I? All right, I am glad I kissed you. Glad I held you close
in my arms. You can't undo that, whatever you may say."
She stood quietly swinging her stick, a smile just touching her
disdainful mouth. She was purposely being maddening, and she knew to the
uttermost the value, as a means of torture to the trembling man before
her, of the slight lift of her upper lip as she looked at him.
"Quite finished?" she asked, as he paused. "Then perhaps you'll let me
go? _Good-bye._"
He watched her out of sight, and then wiping his face carefully with his
handkerchief, returned to the house.
Crossing the park by a footpath that was now half-buried in fallen
leaves, she came out on the high road, and turning to the left, took a
steep path leading to the downs.
She walked with unusual rapidity for a woman, climbing the path without
relaxing her gait or losing her breath. The sharp, damp air brought to
her face colour that Carron had been unable to call up. He was, poor
wretch, so utterly secondary to her, that he was as little important as
the long-forgotten spider. It was Joyselle who occupied her thoughts,
whom her mental eyes saw, as she walked steadily seawards, as plainly as
if he had been with her.
The next morning would begin a respite for her, in one sense, for he was
going away. His old mother was ill in Falaise, and he was going to see
her. "Then," he had added, "I must visit a friend in Paris. I shall not
be back before the last of November."
This information he had volunteered to her immediately after lunch,
having quite forgotten his resentment at her lack of response to his
offers of advice. His quick changes of humour were very puzzling, and
continually made her doubt whether she or anyone else knew him at all,
though she had too much discrimination to doubt the sincerity of any one
of his moods.
She had left him on the point of going to his room to play for Tommy,
and knew that her brother would probably unfold to him during the
afternoon his plan of becoming a violinist.
If the child had talent, Joyselle would, she believed, do his utmost to
help him, and this was another reason why she could not make up her mind
how to manage her own affairs.
Even if she wished to break her engagement and never see Joyselle again,
had she the right thus to take from her brother the chance of great
happiness and protection that seemed to have come to him?
"Joyselle would never speak to me again if I threw Théo over," she told
herself. "First, he would scold me violently, and then he'd lop us all
off, trunk and branch. And--he might be the making of Tommy. Théo is so
gentle and good, and he so splendid--I could have Tommy a lot
with--us----"
On the other hand, however, what if she went from bad to worse regarding
Joyselle? Would she be able to bear it?
Her thoughts turning the matter relentlessly over and over, as a
squirrel does his wheel, she came home, getting there just at tea-time.
Lady Kingsmead, very much bored with her guests, had her useful
headache, and the girl had to hurry into dry clothes, for the rain had
come on, and play hostess.
"Tea, M. Joyselle?"