The Halo Part 25

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 a 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."

Felicite'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 G.o.d, 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.

CHAPTER NINE

Brigit was not at all surprised when, early the next morning, a note from Joyselle was brought to her.

She had slept very badly, for she seemed to have reached a crisis in her relations with Joyselle; and lying awake in the heat that the storm had but increased, she pa.s.sed hours in unprofitable forecastings. What would he do, now that he knew? Would he make love to her? Or would he try to hurry on the wedding? Or----

Of course, what he did do proved an utter surprise to her.

"My dear Brigit," he wrote, "just a line to say good-bye to you for a time. I am accepting an offer to do two months' touring in the United States (which country I do not like, but which likes me), and shall come back laden with dollars with which to buy you a beautiful wedding present. What shall it be--diamonds? I hope you will say lace--yards and yards of exquisite lace of all kinds--it is so much more poetic than stones. So _au revoir_, my dear, and may all happiness be yours.

"Joyselle."

She sat up in bed and drew a long, uneven breath. She had not counted on the possibility of flight! And she could not bear it.

There had been some talk of his going to America, but he had disliked the idea, and she had not dreamed that he would even seriously consider it. There was not the slightest doubt that his decision was entirely due to the little scene of the evening before. That moment when his nervous horror of the lightning had impelled him to put his arms round her had, she knew, opened his eyes to his own danger. And it was characteristic of the man to act immediately and without hesitation. He would go--it was Sat.u.r.day, and very probably he would leave by the noon train for Liverpool. It was now eight.

She lay for a long time with her eyes shut, trying to realise what life would be like without him. And then her undisciplined, wayward mind revolted. It was unbearable; therefore she would not bear it. She would not let him go.

Half an hour later she was in a hansom, trying to decide the details relative to her decision. He should not go, but which of the several possible ways should she employ to prevent it?

Before she could decide on anything more than the great fact that, cost what it may, she would not let him go, the hansom drew up at the house, and she was about to get out when the front door opened and Joyselle himself appeared.

"You!" he cried, impetuously, and then stood still. "You got my note?"

he added a second later, sternly.

Her heart sank. He was very strong. Then he came towards her, his brows drawn down over his eyes, his nostrils dilated, and she lied.

"No--what note?"

Normans are quick to suspect deceit, and for a moment his expression did not change; then, for individually the man was as trustful as racially he was suspicious, he smiled. "I see. But why are you out so early? It is not yet nine."

"And you?" she returned deftly, her heart beating not only with the excitement of the duel, but with enjoyment of her own skill.

"I--well, I have business."

"Then get in and I'll take you wherever you want to go, I want to talk to you."

He hesitated, but she smiled at him and he succ.u.mbed, thinking to himself, she could see, that after all she knew nothing of what was going on in his mind.

As he took his place beside her the cabman opened his trap-door and asked with the hoa.r.s.eness of his kind:

"W'ere to, sir?"

Joyselle frowned. "To--Piccadilly. I'll tell you when we get to where I wish to stop."

Brigit suppressed a smile. Now he was thinking, she saw, that he would tell her of his intended departure before he gave the Cunard Company's address.