When the women had left the dining-room Carron got up from his place and
sat down by Joyselle, who looked at him with unconcealed astonishment.
He had never liked Carron, and knew that the man did not like him.
"When is your next concert to be, M. Joyselle?"
"The third of June."
"I--I always come. I have come for years, and last June I heard you in
Paris. You must like playing with Colonne."
"I do. He is a wonderful director. But--I did not know that you liked
music, Mr. Carron."
"I have always liked it. And no one plays the violin as you do."
He would not have hesitated to lie about the matter, had it been
necessary, but he happened to be telling the truth, and his weary voice
carried conviction.
Joyselle smiled. "I am glad," he said.
The two men eyed each other for a moment, and much was decided by their
gaze.
Carron broke the silence. "Did I not see you the other day in Chelsea. I
was motoring, and going very fast; but I think it was you."
"It is possible. I have a studio in Tite Street. I go there to
practise. It is very quiet there, at the top of the house, and I am very
nervous when I am working."
Carron nodded absently; this did not interest him. At the other end of
the table one of the Italian secretaries was talking about the Ascot
favourite to Freddy Fane, who had recently divorced his chorus girl and
stopped drinking, and who was supposed to be looked on with a favourable
eye by old Mrs. Banner, the aunt and chaperon of Lady Mary Sligo, the
prettiest of the season's _débutantes_.
"Is that man going to marry the beautiful girl I saw on the box-seat of
his coach the other day?" asked Joyselle, suddenly.
"I daresay. His mother died last month and left him pots of money.
Marmalade-pots--Peet's Peerless." After a moment Carron pursued, drawing
lines on the tablecloth with a fruitknife: "I have a very fine
violin--left me by my grandfather. It is a Strad, I believe. I wonder if
you'd care to see it?"
Joyselle pursed up his lips. "I should, but I warn you, it is probably
an imposture. Most cherished violins are--that are in the hands of
non-players."
"No doubt, but Sarasate has played on this one, and he believed it to be
genuine."
"Aha! When may I come?"
Carron named a near day, and then they went upstairs. He had obtained
his immediate object, and now there remained to him that evening a far
more difficult task.
Brigit was sitting by the window, fanning herself with a fan made of
eagle-feathers. She wore white and looked very tired.
"May I sit down here, Brigit?"
She turned at his voice, and then stared at him. "You look very ill,"
she said abruptly, "is your heart all right?"
Her face did not change as she spoke, and there was no friendliness in
her tone, but he thanked God that he was, and looked, ill.
"My heart is weak, I believe; nothing organic. It is very warm, and I
never can bear heat. You look tired yourself."
She nodded absently. "Yes, I have been away--at the Bertie Monson's.
Nelly Monson always gives me a headache, she talks so loud. And my room
was under the nursery. I do hate children."
Carron caught his breath. She was actually talking civilly to him. And,
then, remembering his request to her mother, he, for a second, hated
Lady Kingsmead with a bitter and senseless hatred. Was Brigit, after
all, only talking to him as a favour to her mother? But a second's
reflection showed him the folly of this idea. Had Brigit ever done
anything to please her mother? Never.
One of the two women-guests sat down at the piano and began to play,
very softly, an old song of Tosti's. Everybody listened. A hansom
jingled by and a bicycle's sharp bell was a loud noise in the
after-dinner silence.
Joyselle was standing by a table, absently balancing on his forefinger a
long, broad, ivory paper-knife. He was, Brigit remembered, curiously
adept in balancing, and once she had seen him go through, for Tommy's
amusement, a whole series of the kind, from the classic broomstick on
his chin, to blowing three feathers about the room at a time, allowing
none of them to fall. How quickly he had moved, in spite of his great
height, and how Tommy had laughed. But, for the past week, something had
gone wrong with the violinist. He had been away from the house one day
when she went, and that afternoon, when she "dropped in" on her way from
the station, he had hardly spoken. In his silence he seemed immeasurably
far from her, and she would have given worlds to read his thoughts.
During dinner he had been conventionally polite, but playing a _rôle_
was so foreign to him that even this laudable one of pretending to be
amused when he was bored sat gloomily and guiltily on him.
Carron sat by her for twenty minutes, but her eyes were fixed on
Joyselle, and her whole mind groping in the darkness for his.
There was a ball that night, so the party broke up early, but Joyselle
stayed, absently, as if he did not notice that the others were going. He
sat on a sofa and smoked cigarettes rapidly, rolling them himself, with
quick, nervous movements, and throwing them into a silver bowl before
they were half-burnt.
Lady Kingsmead tried to talk to him, but finding that, though he
answered her politely enough, his thoughts were elsewhere, gave him up
and took up a book, casting an impatient look at her daughter.
Carron had gone early, too restless to stay quiet, and afraid to rouse
Brigit out of her curious lethargic state.
For a long time the three people sat in silence, and then Lady Kingsmead
rose. "I think I'll go upstairs," she said, "but if you two enjoy
sitting as mute as fish, there is no reason why you shouldn't continue
to do so. Good-night, Joyselle."
He rose and kissed her hands, and a moment later he and Brigit were
alone. It was the first time it had happened, for weeks, the girl
realised suddenly.
He stood where Lady Kingsmead had left him, the light falling directly
on his head in a way that showed up very plainly the curious halo-like
effect caused by the silver greyness of the hair about his brow.
"What is wrong, Master?" she asked softly, using Tommy's name for him.
He started. "The matter? Nothing that bears talking about, Brigit. But I
am in its clutches and I will go."
A cold terror came over her. Was it--some woman? "Do not go," she said,
her cheeks burning. "I don't mind your being silent."
He looked at her inquiringly, raising his eyebrows. It was clear that he
noticed something strange in her voice; also that he did not know what
it meant. But he sat down and began rolling a fresh cigarette. The flat
silver box in which he carried his tobacco lay on the table beside him,
and she idly took it up. "Rose-Marie à Victor," she saw engraved on it.
"What a pretty name! The box is old, isn't it?"
"Yes. Or pretends to be. I have had it for years."
"And--she? Rose-Marie?"
"I don't know. It was twenty years ago--in Paris."
Félicité's story recurred to Brigit, the "bad time" in Paris; "how he
loved them all for the time."
He was smoking fitfully, and frowning to himself. She was again
forgotten. It was very warm, and the curtains swayed in irregular puffs
of wind; then came a rumble of thunder. Joyselle started nervously.
"_Un orage_," he said; "I--I hate thunder."
"Do you? I like it." Together they went to the window and looked up at
the threatening sky. A whirl of dust met them, and they drew quickly
back, his sleeve brushing against her shoulders. "It will be bad," he
said, broodingly.
"Yes."
She felt breathless and welcomed the coming storm as suiting her mood.
"I--you asked me what is the matter," Joyselle began, speaking very
quickly. "I will tell you. It is this. There is in me a god, and I
refuse to give him speech. I have genius and I waste it; I have a soul
and I am crushing it. I am a most unworthy and miserable being!"
Absolutely sincere in every word he said, his dramatic temperament gave
force and a kind of rhythm to his confession that made it very poignant,
and his face very white, his big eyes glowed tragically as he stood
looking over his hearer's head.
"A most miserable being."
He groaned, and throwing himself into a chair, buried his face in his
hands.
Outside one or two carriages hurried past, and the darkness was streaked
with quick recurring flashes of lightning.
Brigit looked long at Joyselle, and then, irresistibly drawn to him,
laid her hand with great gentleness on his head. "You are tired, and the
storm has got on your nerves."
"No, no! I am not tired. There is for my great good-for-nothingness not
that excuse. I am--a wastrel of my gifts." It was, she saw, one of the
crises of despair under which many artists suffer, but its intensity was
most painful. "You are good to me, Brigitte," he said, brokenly, taking
her left hand and holding it to his forehead, which was cold and damp.
"You are an angel!"
As he spoke a terrific zigzag of fire crossed the windows, and the house
shook in the almost immediate crash. Like a child Joyselle threw his
arms round Brigit and hid his face against the embroidery on her
corsage, holding her tight. It seemed to her an eternity before either
of them moved, and when, abruptly, he let her go, and rose, his face had
changed.
"Good-bye--I must go--I beg your pardon----"
He stammered piteously, and did not look at her, but stood holding the
lapels of his coat as if he was trying to tear them off. Then, without
another word, he was gone, out into the storm.