Part 6 (1/2)
Inspired to a dramatic act totally foreign to her nature, impelled by his sheer strength of imagination and his buoyant personality, Lady Brigit Mead threw back her veil.
”Theo is engaged--to me,” she answered.
CHAPTER FIVE
Joyselle stared at her, his eyes like two lamps. Then rus.h.i.+ng at her, he took her hands in his and bent over her. ”Good G.o.d! Good G.o.d!” he cried rapidly in French, ”_you_ are Lady Brigit Mead? You--you Diana--you _splendeur de femme_? But I dream--I dream!”
”Indeed, no, I am Brigit Mead, M. Joyselle,”--she was laughing, laughing with delightful amus.e.m.e.nt. He was too delicious! Then she added hastily, ”You are crus.h.i.+ng my hands!”
Sitting down by her, he patted her reddened fingers tenderly. ”_Chere enfant, chere enfant_, forgive an old papa--_qui t'a fait bobo_--and you are actually going to marry my Theo?”
”I am.”
”Then,” with a solemnity that was as overwhelming as his joy, he returned, bowing his head as if in church, ”_il a une sacree chance_. He is--the luckiest boy in the world.”
Brigit had forgotten what boredom meant. This spontaneous, warm-hearted person with--oh, horror,--a white satin tie, and a low, turned-down collar, filled her with the gentlest and most affectionate amus.e.m.e.nt.
And as he was to be her father-in-law, why not enjoy him? ”It is kind of you to be so pleased,” she said, ”it is very interesting, our meeting like this----”
”Interesting! It is--romance, my dear, romance, of the most unusual. And you are so beautiful that I cannot look away from you. He told me you were beautiful--yes--but I had pictured to myself a pink and white miss with a head as big as a pumpkin--and, just Heaven--a 'drawing-room voice.' Tell me, oh, tell me, _fille adoree_, that you do not sing!”
His anxiety was perfectly sincere, and she hastened to rea.s.sure him.
”Indeed, I do not.”
”Nor play--not even 'simple little things,' and 'c.o.o.n-songs'?”
”Nothing.”
”G.o.d be praised!” he returned with a sort of whimsical reverence, in French. ”Then you are perfect.”
”Indeed I am not. Oh, I _really_ am not!” Before she knew what he was about to do, he had kissed her forehead, and then, as the train stopped, he rushed at the window.
”But where are you going?” he cried, so rapidly that she hardly understood him. ”Why are you--why are we both--going away from London?
We must go _home_--to my house--to my wife.”
”I am going to make a visit----”
”_Mais non, mais non, mais non_--come, there is a train going to London--hurry, we will go back. You will telegraph your friends. This evening--the betrothal evening, you must spend with us. Come, hurry, or we shall be too late.”
”But I cannot, it is impossible,” she protested weakly, as, he took her dressing-case and umbrella from the seat, after scrambling into his furry coat. ”My friend is expecting me!”
”Ta, ta, ta, ta, ta! Come, _ma fille, bella signorina_, the train is just there--I will telegraph your friend. Let me help you, _comme ca, ca y est_!”
And almost before she knew what had happened, they were in the other train speeding back to town.
”Theo is at home--he went to tell his mother,” Joyselle said, nearly braining an old lady with his violin-case as he swung round to speak.
”And they will be sitting by the fire, and I--who was going to spend the night at the Duke of c.u.mberland's--will appear, and after we have embraced, hey, presto--I produce you--Diana--his _adoree_--my daughter.”