CHAPTER EIGHT

Joyselle closed the door, and, to her surprise, turned the key. Then he faced her.

"Brigit," he said, clearing his throat, "do you love me?"

"Love you?" she faltered. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that for thirty-six hours I have doubted you, and that I have been----" He broke off short, his vivid face intensely expressive.

"But why? Thirty-six hours? That means that--but I did not even see you yesterday!"

He stood, his arms hanging by his sides, looking at her without a word.

Then, when the pause had grown unbearable, he returned slowly: "The night before last I saw you with Theo--on the lawn."

A painful blush burnt her face, and, unwontedly abashed, she turned away. It seemed to her almost monstrous that Joyselle should have witnessed the little scene in the moonlight.

"You--you saw him kiss me?" she faltered.

"Yes. But that was not the worst. He held open his arms to you, and--you went to him as if--as if you were giving yourself to him."

"I was, Victor. Surely you understand. He is so good, Theo--so very good. And I have promised to marry him, and he has been patient, and I have treated him horribly. The longer I know him the better--I like him. Surely you can't mind that?"

Joyselle did not raise his hand. He was, she saw with a curious sensation of detachment, undergoing a severe struggle.

"Mind? I--the situation is--horrible," he began, after a pause. "G.o.d knows I love my son, and I should hate you if you hurt him----"

"I know that," she interrupted quickly, and he looked up.

"Perhaps that is why----"

"Why? No. Ah, Victor, you know that I love you. You must know that. And yet I have promised to marry him. What are we to do?"

Through the open windows came the sounds of laughter and loud talk, and someone was playing s.n.a.t.c.hes of a waltz on a violin.

Brigit, feeling that things outside her own control had hastened an inevitable crisis, stood waiting with the immobility of one consciously in the hands of Fate.

At last Joyselle came to her and took her in his arms. "Tell me that you love me," he whispered, "and then--I can bear anything."

His unexpected resignation came, as so often is the case, rather as a shock to her. It was true that she had of late, during the reign of peace that had followed the last quarrel, been unusually happy, and that the thought of marrying Theo had become more bearable than she would have believed possible; the future had taken on an aspect of happy family life with Joyselle and Felicite, in which Theo's part had been pleasantly subordinate; more or less, although her mind had not formulated it, that of a brother.

Yet now Joyselle's resigned att.i.tude did not please her.

"Then--you don't mind my marrying--another man?" she retorted quickly, instinctively using words that would hurt him.

He wiped his forehead, which was covered with small drops of perspiration.

"Don't mind! But, _ma cherie_, you must not torture me. The situation as it now is, is absolutely impossible. You don't understand. I love my son, G.o.d knows! Yet I am not made of stone, and before the love paternal He created the love of man for woman. I believe, as He hears me, that you were meant for me; that you are my woman, and I your man; that you were meant for me and I for you. But--I was born too soon or you too late. I cannot, must not, have you, without outraging certain laws which must be respected. The only thing, then, is to bow to these laws. I belong to a generation older than yours, and before I knew that you existed my boy had chosen--and won--you. So you must be his. We have dreamed, my Brigit, through the last few months, and now we must awaken.

You must marry Theo, and he will take you away for a few months, and when you come back as his--wife, I shall--I _will_ have learned to love you in the only way I can love you without shame--as my daughter."

It is curious, but strictly according to the laws of the feminine logic, that as he made this speech, haltingly, painfully, but with resolution in every word of it, Brigit's mind should slowly change to a feeling of resentment.

She herself had made up her mind to marry Theo, and she had seen plainly that this was fitting and wise; yet Joyselle's acceptance of these facts stirred her to rebellion, and once more she protested against his voicing of her own determination. "You are quite right," she said coldly; "it is only a pity that we did not see all this before!"

And in his turn he winced.

"We have been very mad," she continued, her old barbaric love of seeing him suffer returning. Then in her own pain: "But from this moment on I shall do my part, as you suggest. No doubt in a month's time we shall both be laughing at our little tragic comedy."

He did not answer, but his brown face slowly changed colour and he closed his eyes for a second.

"No doubt. As for me--there is no fool like an old fool, they say.

However, we have come to our senses in time--thank G.o.d!" The last two words came with a sharp, spasmodic sound, and when he had said them he took from his pocket the silver box, with Marie-Rose engraved on it, and taking from it paper and tobacco, began to roll a cigarette.

Brigit was dumfounded as well as deeply hurt. His strength filled her with terror. That he could bow to Fate, she had not expected, and forgetting, as women do, that men's training from early boyhood teaches them, as nothing ever teaches women, the trick of momentary self-control, a wild doubt of his love flashed through her and took her breath away.

"You are angry," she ventured, hoping, though subconsciously and without cruelty, to break down his resolution. But he smiled sadly, for he was sincere.

"No, my dear, I am not angry. I am sad, because I love you--as yet--far more than I should, but--from this moment on I shall bend all my strength to the conquering of that love. You must help me. You will know how, for women always know. Now--will you shake hands with me and bid G.o.d bless me? It is to be a hard struggle for me, but I will win, for my will is strong, and the cause is good--Is that you, Theo?"

"Yes, father." Theo was trying the door. "Anything wrong?" he added.

Joyselle turned the key. "No," he said quietly as his son entered, "but we were tired of the good company. I will go now, my dear. Stay and talk to your _fiancee_."

CHAPTER NINE

An hour later Brigit slowly mounted the stairs at the inn. She was desperately tired, and as unhappy as she was tired. Joyselle's att.i.tude, although she was bound in common justice to acknowledge its correctness, hurt her to an almost incredible degree. Nothing had ever so wounded her, and she felt the longing common to reserved people to hide her pain from everybody.

So she had escaped from the Rue Victor Hugo under pretext of a headache, and, bidding Felicite and Theo good-night, hastened back here, not allowing the young man to accompany her, as he desired.

"I am very seedy," she told him, "and my head aches; I shall be better alone."

So Theo, with the biddableness that was an integral and to her rather annoying quality of his character, had said no more, and returned to the other guests. The gaily attired chambermaid, bearing a small jug destined to strike dismay to some British admirers of the Conqueror, met the girl on the stairs.

"_Bon soir_, mademoiselle," she said; "there's a telegram for you in your _salon_."

Brigit stood still. A telegram! Bad news probably. And such was her mental turmoil that at the thought she shrugged her shoulders. Almost anything that would change the nature of her trouble would be welcome.

But the contents of the telegram were bad.

"Tommy very ill. Diphtheria. Wants you.

"Mother."