Black is White 15

Black is White 15

Lydia was to continue as Brood’s amanuensis. He would not listen to any

other arrangement.

 

“Oh, I do hope you will come, Mrs Brood!” cried the girl earnestly. “My

piano will be here to-morrow, and you shall hear Frederic play. He is

really wonderful.”

 

“I’m the rankest duffer going, Yvonne,” broke in Frederic, but his eyes

were alight with pleasure.

 

“You play?” asked Mrs Brood, regarding him rather fixedly.

 

“He disappears for hours at a time,” said Lydia, speaking for him, “and

comes home humming fragments from--oh, but I am not supposed to tell!

Forgive me, Frederic. Dear me! What have I done?” She was plainly

distressed.

 

“No harm in telling Yvonne,” said he, but uneasily. “You see, it’s this

way: father doesn’t like the idea of my going in for music. He is

really very much opposed to it. So I’ve been sort of stealing a march

on him--going up to a chum’s apartment and banging away to my heart’s

content. It’s rather fun, too, doing it on the sly. Of course, if father

heard of it he’d--he’d--well, he’d be nasty about it, that’s all.”

 

“Nasty?”

 

“He got rid of our own piano a long time ago, just because he doesn’t

like music.”

 

“But he does like music,” said Yvonne, her voice a little huskier than

usual. “In Paris we attended the opera, the concerts. I am sure he likes

music.”

 

“I fancy it must have been my fault, then,” said Frederic wryly. “I was

pretty bad at it in those days.”

 

“He will not let you have a piano in the house?”

 

“I should say not!”

 

She gave them a queer little smile. “We shall see,” she said, and that

was all.

 

“I say, it would be great if you could get him to----”

 

“I am sure he would like Frederic’s music now, Mrs Brood,” Lydia broke

in eagerly.

 

“What do you play--what do you like best, Frederic?” inquired Yvonne.

 

“Oh, those wonderful little Hungarian things most of all; the plaintive

little melodies----”

 

He stopped as she began to hum lightly the strains of one of Ziehrer’s

jaunty waltzes.

 

“By Jove, how did you guess? Why, it’s my favourite. I love it, Yvonne!”

 

“You shall play it for me--to-morrow, Lydia?”

 

“Yes. The piano will be here in the morning.”

 

“But how did you guess----”

 

“Never mind! I am a witch, _aïe?_ Come! I must be off now, Frederic.

There are people coming to have tea with me.”

 

As they descended in the elevator Frederic, unable to contain himself,

burst out rapturously:

 

“By Jove, Yvonne, it will be fun, coming over here every day or so for a

little music, won’t it? I can’t tell you how happy I shall be.”

 

“It is time you were happy,” said she, looking straight ahead, and many

days passed before he had an inkling of all that lay behind her remark.

 

As they entered the house Jones met them in the hall.

 

“Mr Brood telephoned that he would be late, madam. He is at the customs

office about the boxes.”

 

She paused at the foot of the stairs.

 

“How long has he been out, Jones?”

 

“Since two o’clock, madam. It is now half-past four.”

 

“There will be five or six in for tea, Jones. You may serve it in Mr

Brood’s study.”

 

“Yes, madam.”

 

A look of surprise flitted across the butler’s impassive face. For a

moment he had doubted his hearing.

 

“And ask Ranjab to put away Mr Brood’s writing materials and

reference-books.”

 

“I shall attend to it myself, madam. Ranjab went out with Mr Brood.”

 

“Went out!” exclaimed Yvonne.

 

Frederic turned upon the butler.

 

“You must be mistaken, Jones,” he said sharply.

 

“I think not, sir. They went away together in the automobile. He has not

returned.”

 

A long look of wonder and perplexity passed between young Brood and his

stepmother.

 

She laughed suddenly and unnaturally. Without a word she started up the

stairs. He followed more slowly, his puzzled eyes fixed on the graceful

figure ahead. At the upper landing she stopped. Her hand grasped the

railing with rigid intensity.

 

Ranjab emerged from the shadows at the end of the hall. He bowed very

deeply.

 

“The master’s books and papers ‘ave been removed, madam. The study is in

order.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VII

 

The two old men, long since relegated to a somewhat self-imposed

oblivion, on a certain night discussed, as usual, the affairs of the

household in the privacy of their room on the third floor. Not, however,

without first convincing themselves that the shadowy Ranjab was nowhere

within range of their croaking undertones. From the proscribed regions

downstairs came the faint sounds of a piano and the intermittent chatter

of many voices. Someone was playing “La Paloma.”

 

These new days were not like the old ones. Once they had enjoyed, even

commanded, the full freedom of the house. It had been their privilege,

their prerogative, to enter into every social undertaking that was

planned. They had come to regard themselves as hosts, or, at the very

least, guests of honour on such occasions.

 

Not that the occasions were many where guests came to be entertained by

James Brood of old, but it seemed to be an accepted and quite agreeable

duty of theirs to convince the infrequent visitors that Brood’s house

was really quite a jolly place, and that it would pay them to drop

in oftener. They had a joyous way of lifting the responsibility of

conversation from everyone else; and, be it said to their credit, there

was no subject on which they couldn’t talk with decision and fluency,

whether they knew anything about it or not.

 

And nowadays it was different. They were not permitted to appear when

guests were in the house. The sumptuous dinners, of which they heard

something from the servants, were no longer graced by their presence.

They were amazed, and not a little irritated, to learn, by listening at

the head of the stairs, that the unfortunate guests, whoever they were,

always seemed to be enjoying themselves. They couldn’t understand how

such a condition was possible.

 

They dined, to dignify the function somewhat, at least an hour before

the guests arrived, and then shuffled off to their little back room,

where they affected cribbage but indulged in something a great deal more

acrimonious. They said many harsh things about the new mistress of the

house. They could not understand what had come over James Brood. There

was a time, said they, when no one could have led him around by the

nose, and now he was as spineless as an angleworm.

 

On nights when guests were expected they were not permitted to have a

drop of anything to drink, Mrs Brood declaring that she could not afford

to run the risk of having them appear in the drawing-room despite

the edict. They also had a habit of singing rather boisterously when

intoxicated, something about a girl in Bombay; or, when especially

happy, about a couple of ladies in Hottentot land who didn’t mind the

heat.

 

It was a matter of discretion, therefore, to lock up the spirits, and,

after a fashion, to lock up the old gentlemen as well.

 

As a concession they were at liberty to invade the “retreat,” and to

make themselves at home among the relics. Guests were seldom, if

ever, taken up to Brood’s room. Only the most intimate of friends were

admitted. Even the jade room, with all of its priceless treasures, was

closed to “outsiders,” for Brood had the idea that people as a rule did

not possess a great amount of intelligence. So it was usually quite

safe to allow Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs to run loose in the study, with the

understanding, of course, that they were not to venture beyond the top

of the stairs, and were not to smoke pipes.

 

Brood had been working rather steadily at his journal during the past

two or three weeks. He had reached a point in the history where his own

memory was somewhat vague, and had been obliged to call upon his old

comrades to supply the facts. For several nights they had sat with him,

going over the scenes connected with their earliest acquaintance; those

black days in Calcutta.

 

Lydia had brought over her father’s notes and certain transcripts of

letters he had written to her mother before their marriage. The four of

them were putting these notes and narratives into chronological order.

Brood, after three months of married life and frivolity, suddenly had

decided to devote himself almost entirely to the completion of the

journal.

 

He denied himself the theatre, the opera, and kindred features of

the passing show, and, as he preferred to entertain rather than to be

entertained, seldom found it necessary to go into the homes of other