The Halo Part 13

Why Tommy did not then and there burst with joy, that enraptured little boy never knew. When he put the violin into the master's hand the child trembled so that the master saw it. "When I have played one thing, you are to go to bed," he said gravely. "You are tired."

And the spoiled and headstrong Tommy, he whose word was law to his mother and many other people, nodded obediently. "I will play again for you alone to-morrow," added Joyselle.

Then he went and stood near the fire, the red light flas.h.i.+ng on him, and played.

The first thing, plainly for Tommy, was a Norman cradle-song, very slow and monotonous, and full of strange harmonies. When it was over, Tommy quietly withdrew. To-morrow was to be his day.

Brigit Mead had stayed at the house in Golden Square for a full week, and during that week she had heard her future father-in-law play a dozen times or more.

He had played in the crimson velvet dressing-gown, in morning clothes, in evening dress, once even in the fur-lined coat. Yet it seemed to her, as she watched and listened now, in the great hall of the house of her fathers, that she had never heard quite this same man play.

At home he had been "Beau-papa," noisy and demonstrative, or solemn with artistic responsibility and reverence, but always the oldish man playing to his family. Now, in some way, he was metamorphosed. He was now "Joyselle"; he was, as she listened and watched, an unusually handsome, not yet middle-aged gentleman, playing the violin as an artist, but indisputably a gentleman.

She recalled, with a shudder, his awful lack of taste displayed the day Pontefract called; she remembered her amus.e.m.e.nt on his insisting on wearing a pale blue satin tie one day when he was lunching at a club to meet a great pianist, and Theo's subsequent search among his belongings for other similar horrors.

She remembered his over-loud laugh and his too-ready gesture. She smiled, however, as she told herself that he was a peasant.

As she listened, her love for music quite subordinated to her strange interest in the mere man, Theo leant forward and whispered quietly: "Brigit, do you really care a little for me?"

"Yes." She smiled affectionately at him, for was it not he who made her so happy?

And then the poor girl drew a long, shuddering breath, and leant back behind the curtain, for she had suddenly realised that it was not Theo who made her happy. It was the fact that he was Victor Joyselle's son.

And it was the big man with the violin who--who--who made her happy.

It was a miserable end to her childish dream of felicity, for she was brave enough to admit to herself without the least hesitation what it was that had happened.

And when Joyselle at length stopped playing and came back to sit by her, she smiled at him in very good imitation of her own smile of half an hour before.

But he was not satisfied.

"You did not like it?" he asked simply.

"Of course I did--it was _splendid_."

"Yet I could not hold you," he persisted, his vanity evidently a little hurt. He could not hold her!

"Didn't we like it, Theo?" she urged, turning to the young man.

"To tell the truth, I didn't hear a note," he admitted, not in the least shamefacedly. "I was looking at you."

"Lucky young beggar," laughed Joyselle, "small wonder! You two make a very pleasant picture," he added, "and in a year or two----"

"Father," protested Theo, blus.h.i.+ng scarlet in quick French sympathy for the strange susceptibilities of his English fiancee, "don't!"

Brigit rose slowly. "I must go and say good night to Tommy," she said.

"I shall be down in a few minutes."

Tommy was in bed, reading a very large book by the light of an electric lamp.

"What have you got there?" his sister asked, lying down by him and pressing her face to the cool pillow.

"Oh, nothing. I just thought I ought to know something about--_Amatis_.

It's very interesting," he returned solemnly, and then burst out: "Oh, Bick, isn't he _simply glorious_!"

"Yes, Tommy."

"There was never anyone like him. Not only the fiddling, but--everything. Don't you think so? Don't you, Bicky?" he persisted anxiously.

"Yes, Tommy, dear."

"I do think you the luckiest girl in the whole world. Just fancy being _his_ daughter."

"Yes, Tommy."

Her head whirled, her heart beat hard, her hands were as cold as ice.

This, she told herself, was the plunge; it would be better shortly. And when it _was_ better, then she could begin to fight. For she would fight. It was a monstrous thing, a nightmare, and she would fight it down.

"Brigit."

"Yes, Tommy?" With an effort she roused herself and sat up.

Tommy had closed the book and put it away. He now sat hunched in bed, his thin arms in their pale blue sleeves clasping his knees. "Brigit, do you think a peer could ever be a really great violinist?"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A sleepless night is always a bad thing, but it is full of horror when its victim is haunted by an ever-recurring thought.

Brigit Mead went to her room, dismissed what her brother called her half of Amelie, the French maid, put on a dressing-gown, and sat down by the fire to think.

Her room was very exposed, and the wind howled dismally round the corner of the house, while the rain fell in violent gusts against the ancient panes. It was a comfort to hear the storm, for it made the fire welcome, and a fire is comforting.

The girl huddled close to it, and according to her wont began uttering her thoughts in a whisper.

"It is that. There's no doubt. And that is why I was so happy. He doesn't know, that's one comfort. Only--what on earth am I to do? I wonder if it will get worse or better, the more I see him? If only he would make some more horrible blunders, or--or what? It isn't what he does, it's what he is. It isn't even the playing. I barely heard him to-night. And Theo--poor Theo! He must never suspect. But then, he never would, unless I shouted it in his ear!"

She paused and put another log on the fire.

"_He_ will, though, unless I am very careful. He isn't old at all, forty-two is young nowadays, and I'm sure he likes women. I daresay, if I hadn't been engaged to Theo, he would have liked me. Most of 'em do.

And I never looked better in my life than I looked to-night. Vain beast!"

Presently she got up, and roamed aimlessly about the room. The door leading into her little sitting-room was open, and she went in and switched on the light. "He wants to come in here to-morrow, and see where I live. _Live!_ He wants to see my books. I'll hide those French ones; they'd shock Beau-papa, I suppose, though they aren't very bad.

But what _am_ I to _do_? Can I go on being engaged--can I _marry_ Theo while I--love his father? Would marrying Theo cure me, or make it worse?

And suppose he fell in love with me after we were married! And she--Gerald's 'clean old peasant,' wouldn't she be horrified? Poor old thing, she is very nice, but--and Tommy wanting to be a violinist! A nice family party, upon my word!"