"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.