Lady Kingsmead, who was going to the Newlyns' ball later, was having
dinner in her little sitting-room when Carron came rushing in, nearly
treading on the heels of the afflicted Fledge, who did like to have a
chance to announce visitors properly.
"Good Lord, Gerald!--what is the matter?"
"Matter enough. Brigit is Victor Joyselle's mistress."
He sank into a chair and pressed his thin hands together until the bones
cracked.
"Gerald!"
"She is! she _is_! I have just come from his studio in Chelsea. Followed
her there. She was alone with him for over an hour. And when she came
out----"
Lady Kingsmead rose and went to him.
"Now listen to me," she said firmly. "You have either been drinking or
you are mad. I don't care where you have been or where you saw Brigit.
This story is--rot!"
Lady Kingsmead was not a clever woman, but this move on her part, the
result not of a virtuous belief in virtue or of a sudden swing of her
mental pendulum towards the effective, such as some women have--was
amazing in its effect, because it was spontaneous and sincere.
"Will you have something to drink?" she asked.
It was a curious scene; the dainty little room with the swivel-table
laid for one, the pretty, well-preserved woman, looking down with real
pity but something very near scorn at the broken, haggard, untidy man
sprawling in a rose-coloured chair.
"You are a fool, Tony," he said roughly. "I tell you I know."
"Bosh. You know perfectly well that I was never silly about my children.
Well--I don't care what you say about Brigit, I _know_ she is all right.
As yet, anyway," she added.
"She loves that--that brute," he stammered, wiping the perspiration from
his face with a crumpled handkerchief. "I saw her face as she left his
studio."
Lady Kingsmead pursed her mouth thoughtfully.
"That may be," she admitted. "I've thought for some time that something
was in the air----"
Breaking off, she glanced hastily at him. The old habit of telling him
her thoughts as they came to her was still strong, but this was not her
Gerald Carron. This was a new man of whom she knew little. For this much
wisdom she had learned: that every new love makes a new man of a man.
And this Carron, with his wild eyes, was no person to confide in.
"Come, buck up, old thing," she said, with an affectation of brusque
good-humour: "you haven't been sleeping. Isn't that it?"
"Yes. I'll never sleep any more."
"And you're taking--Veronal?"
"Yes, sometimes. Oh, don't bully me, Tony! I'm--done."
"I should think you were, to come and tell a woman beastly stories about
her own daughter! You'll be sorry to-morrow. Did you tell _her_ this
beautiful idea by way of making yourself engaging?"
"I told her--yes."
"And she didn't knock you down? Upon my word, I am surprised. Now look
here, Gerald; you must go. I'm going to dress. We are going to the
Cassowary's ball. You'd better go to bed and try to sleep _without any
Veronal_. Will you? Will you, Gerry, poor old boy?"
His nerves were in such a condition that this unmerited and unexpected
kindness broke him down utterly. Suddenly, to her horror, the poor
wretch burst into tears, sobbing like a child.
"Gerry, don't--oh, for Heaven's sake, don't!" she cried, laying her hand
on his head. "You--you _mustn't_. Gerry, Gerry dear----"
"Yes, pat his head and call him dear!" cried Brigit furiously from the
open door. "He insults me in the most abominable way, the vile little
beast, and then you pet him. Bah! mother, you do really make me ill!"
Lady Kingsmead turned, amazed. "You are off your head, too! Can't you
see he is _ill_?"
But Brigit's anger, nursed all during the drive home, burst out afresh.
All her life she and her mother had quarrelled; there had never been
implanted in her even an idea of the common decency of filial respect,
or of its semblance. Her mother's gusty, fitful temper had always, when
roused, been given instant vent in a torrent of vituperation, and the
girl, while too sulky to be so spontaneous even in the unpleasant sense
of the word, had early acquired the habit of speaking to her mother as
she would have to a greatly disliked sister.
So now, when her rage with Carron burst its bounds, and she found, as
she thought, her mother taking his part, she gave free rein to her
temper, and its eloquent bitterness struck Lady Kingsmead for the moment
dumb.
Carron sat still, his face hidden in his hands. When at last Brigit's
arraignment ceased, Lady Kingsmead's turn came, and more feebly, less
effectively, but to the best of her powers, she gave back abuse for
abuse.
It was not a pleasant sight. Unbridled rage never is, even when in a
good cause, and these two undisciplined women had lost all dignity and
said very bad things to each other.
Brigit's one excuse was her mistaken assumption that her mother had
believed Carron's story, and when Lady Kingsmead had shrieked out
everything else that she thought might hurt her daughter, she added, "I
believed in you, you little brute, though he said he _saw_ you there. I
might have known he wouldn't have dared to make up such a tale."
Brigit, who had stood quite still, now spoke. "Then--you believe him
now?"
"Yes, I _do_!" lied Lady Kingsmead, goaded by the sneer on her
daughter's fierce mouth.
There was a long pause, and then Brigit Mead went to the door.
"I am sorry I lost my temper and made such a beast of myself," she said
slowly, "and--I will never speak to you again as long as I live."
She closed the door gently and went upstairs to her room.
It was done now, decided, her boats were burnt. From this day henceforth
she would be spoken of as the queer Mead girl who doesn't live with her
mother.
While she dressed for dinner she laid her plans with the quickness
native to her. She would dine and dance at the Newlyns, and then she
would go to the Joyselles' for the night.
The next day she would go and talk to a girl friend who had a flat in
huge and horrible "Mansions" out Kensington way. She would live alone
with a maid; and she would have to pinch and scrape--but that would not
matter. And then--Joyselle would come to see her, and very probably some
day they would lose their heads, and it would be her mother's fault.
There was much satisfaction in this reflection, for she ignored the fact
that in all probability the crisis had been only precipitated by her
mother's speech.
There was Tommy. Well, Joyselle would be good to him for her sake. And
even if Tommy should elect to come and live with her, her mother could
not prevent his doing so. She would fuss and cry and tell all her
friends how ungrateful her children were, but in the end Tommy's
firmness would prevail.
She laughed as she got out of the carriage at the Newlyns. By great good
luck Joyselle was dining there, and Théo coming only to the dance.
"I will tell him," she thought, and her heart gave a great throb and
then sank warmly into its place at the thought of seeing him. "He will
turn slowly and hold his shoulders stiffly and try to look indifferent,"
she thought, "but oh--his eyes!"