Black is White 10

Black is White 10

“I know,” said Mrs Brood. “Still, I should like to hear more of the

woman he could not forget in all those years--until he met me.”

 

She grew silent and preoccupied, a slight frown marking her forehead as

she resumed her examination of the room and its contents.

 

It is quite impossible adequately to describe the place in which the two

women met for the first time. Suffice to say, it was long, narrow, and,

being next below the roof, low-ceilinged. The walls were hung with rich,

unusual tapestries whose subdued tones seemed to lure one back to the

undimmed glory of Solomon’s days, to the even more remote realms of

those gods and goddesses on whom our fancy thrives despite the myths

they were.

 

Silks of a weight and lustre that taxed credulity; golden threads

interweaving gems of the purest ray; fringe and galloons with the solemn

waste of ages in their thin, lovely sheen; over all the soft radiance of

an _Arabian Night_ and the gentle touch of a _Scheherazade._ Here hung

transported the fabulous splendours of Ind, the shimmering treasures of

Ming, and the loot of the _Forty Thieves_.

 

The ceiling, for want of a better name, was no less than a canopy

constructed out of a single rug of enormous dimensions and incalculable

value, gleaming with the soft colours of the rainbow, shedding a serene

iridescence over the entire room to shame the light of day.

 

The furniture, the trappings, the ornaments throughout were of a most

unusual character. A distinctly regal atmosphere prevailed. No article

there but had come from the palace of a ruler in the East, from the

massive gold and lacquered table to the tiniest piece of bronze or the

lowliest hassock. Chairs that had served as thrones, chests that had

contained the treasures of potentates, robes that had covered the bodies

of kings and queens, couches on which had nestled the favourites

of sultans, screens and mirrors that had reflected the jewels of an

empire-_all_ were here to feed the senses with dreams imperial.

 

Great lanterns hung suspended beside the shrine at the end of the room,

but were now unlighted. On the table at which Brood professed to work

stood a huge lamp with a lacelike screen of gold. When lighted, a

soft, mellow glow oozed through the shade to create a circle of golden

brilliance over a radius that extended but little beyond the edge of the

table, yet reached to the benign countenance of Buddha close by.

 

Over all this fairylike splendour reigned the serene, melting influence

of the god to whom James Brood was wont to confess himself. The spell of

the golden image dominated everything.

 

In the midst of this magnificence moved the two women--one absurdly

out of touch with her surroundings, yet a thing of beauty; the other

blending intimately with the warm tones that enveloped her. She was

lithe, sinuous, with the grace of the most seductive of dancers. Her

dark eyes reflected the mysteries of the Orient; her pale, smooth skin

shone with the clearness of alabaster; the crimson in her lips was like

the fresh stain of blood; the very fragrance of her person seemed to

steal out of the unknown. She was a part of the marvellous setting, a

gem among gems.

 

She had attired herself in a dull Indian-red afternoon gown of chiffon.

The very fabric seemed to cling to her supple body with a sensuous

joy of contact. Even Lydia, who watched her with appraising eyes,

experienced a swift, unaccountable desire to hold this intoxicating

creature close to her own body.

 

There were two windows in the room, broad openings that ran from

near the floor almost to the edge of the canopy. They were so heavily

curtained that the light of day failed to penetrate to the interior of

the apartment. Mrs Brood approached one of these windows. Drawing the

curtains apart, she let in an ugly gray light from the outside world.

The illusion was spoiled at once.

 

“How cold and pallid the world really is!” she cried, a shiver passing

over her slim body.

 

The sky above the housetops was bleak and drab in the waning light of

late afternoon. Over the summits of loft-buildings to the south and west

hung the smoke from the river beyond, smudgy clouds that neither drifted

nor settled.

 

She looked down into a sort of courtyard and garden that might have been

transplanted from distant Araby. Uttering an exclamation of wonder, she

turned to Lydia.

 

“Is this New York or am I bewitched?”

 

“Mr Brood transformed the old carriage yard into a--I think Mr Dawes

calls it a Persian garden. It is rather bleak in winter-time, Mrs Brood,

but in the summer it is really enchanting. See, across the court on the

second floor, where the windows are lighted, those are your rooms. It

is an enormous house, you’ll find. Do you see the little balcony outside

your windows, and the vines creeping up to it? You can’t imagine how

sweet it is of a summer night with the moon and stars----”

 

“But how desolate it looks to-day, with the dead vines and the

colourless stones! Ugh!”

 

She dropped the curtains. The soft, warm glow of the room came back, and

she sighed with relief.

 

“I hate things that are dead,” she said.

 

At the sound of a soft tread and the gentle rustle of draperies, they

turned. Ranjab, the Hindu, was crossing the room toward the small door

which gave entrance to his closet. He paused for an instant before the

image of Buddha, but did not drop to his knees, as all devout Buddhists

do. Mrs Brood’s hand fell lightly upon Lydia’s arm. The man turned

toward them a second or two later.

 

His dark, handsome face was hard set and emotionless as he bowed low

to the new mistress of the house. The fingers closed tightly on Lydia’s

arm. Then he smiled upon the girl, a glad smile of devotion. His swarthy

face was transfigured. A moment later he unlocked his door and passed

into the other room. The key turned in the lock with a slight rasp.

 

“I do not like that man,” said Mrs Brood. Her voice was low and her eyes

were fixed steadily on the closed door.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER V

 

The ensuing fortnight brought the expected changes in the household.

James Brood, to the surprise of not only himself, but others, lapsed

into a curious state of adolescence. His infatuation was complete. The

once dominant influence of the man seemed to slink away from him as the

passing days brought up the new problems of life. Where he had lived to

command he now was content to serve.

 

His friends, his son, his servants viewed the transformation with

wonder, not to say apprehension. It was not difficult to understand his

infatuation for the--shall we say enchantress? He was not the only one

there to fall under the spell. But it was almost unbelievable that he

should submit to thraldom with the complacency of a weakling.

 

Love, which had been lying bruised and unconscious within him for twenty

years and more, arose from its stupor and became a thing to play with,

as one would play with a child. The old, ugly vistas melted into

dreamy, adolescent contemplations of a paradise in which he could walk

hand-in-hand with the future and find that the ghosts of the past no

longer attended him along the once weary way.

 

It would not be true to say that the remarkable personality of the man

had suffered. He was still the man of steel, but re-tempered. The rigid

broadsword was made over into the fine, flexible blade of Toledo. He

could be bent but not broken.

 

It pleased him to submit to Yvonne’s commands,

 

Not that they were arduous or peremptory; on the contrary, they were

suggestions in which his own comfort and pleasure appeared to be the

inspiration. He found something like delight in being rather amiably

convinced of his own shortcomings; in learning from her that his life up

to this hour had been a sadly mismanaged affair; that there were soft,

fertile spots in his heart where things would grow in spite of him. He

enjoyed the unique spectacle of himself in the process of being made

over to fit ideals that he would have scorned a few months before.

 

She was too wise to demand, too clever to resort to cajolery. She was

a Latin. Diplomacy was hers as a birthright. Complaints, appeals, sulks

would have gained nothing from James Brood. It would not have occurred

to her to employ these methods. From the day she entered the house she

was its mistress. She was sure of her ground, sure of herself, fettered

by no sense of doubt as to her position there, bound by no feminine

notion of gratitude to man, as many women are who find themselves

married. It might almost be said of her that she ruled without making a

business of it.

 

To begin with, she miraculously transferred the sleeping quarters of

Messrs Dawes and Riggs from the second floor front to the third floor

back without arousing the slightest sign of antagonism on the part of

the crusty old gentlemen who had occupied one of the choice rooms in

the house with uninterrupted security for a matter of nine or ten years.

This was a feat that James Brood himself would never have tried

to accomplish. They had selected this room at the first instant of

occupation, because it provided something of a view up and down the

street from the big bow window, and they wouldn’t evacuate.

 

Mrs Brood explained the situation to them so graciously, so

convincingly, that they even assisted the servants in moving their

heterogeneous belongings to the small, remote room on the third floor,

and applauded her plan to make a large sitting-room of the chamber they

were deserting. It did not occur to them for at least three days that

they had been imposed upon, cheated, maltreated, insulted, and then it

was too late. The decorators were in the big room on the second floor.

 

Perhaps they would not have arrived at a sense of realisation even then

if it had not come out in the course of conversation that it was not to

be a _general_ sitting-room, but one with reservations. The discovery of

what they secretly were pleased to call duplicity brought an abrupt end

to the period of abstemiousness that had lasted since the day of her

arrival, when, out of courtesy to the bride, they had turned their backs

upon the tipple.

 

Now, however, the situation was desperate. She had tricked them with