Black is White 6

Black is White 6

“And I thought it was nothing but a shipwreck,” murmured Mr Riggs

plaintively.

 

Frederic hurried through breakfast. Lydia followed him into the library.

 

“Are you going out, dear?” she asked anxiously.

 

“Yes. I’ve got to do something. I can’t sit still and think of what’s

going to happen I’ll be back for luncheon.”

 

Half an hour later he was in the small bachelor apartment of two college

friends, a few blocks farther up-town, and he was doing the thing he did

nearly every day of his life in a surreptitious way. He sat at the cheap

upright piano in their disordered living-room and, unhampered by the

presence of young men who preferred music as it is rendered for the

masses, played as if his very soul was in his fingers.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER III

 

The next three or four days passed slowly for those who waited. A

spirit of uneasiness pervaded the household. Among the servants, from

Jones down, there was dismay. It was not even remotely probable that Mrs

Desmond would remain, and they confessed to a certain affection for her,

strange as it may appear to those who know the traits of servants who

have been well treated by those above them.

 

Frederic flatly refused to meet the steamer when she docked. As if

swayed by his decision, Dawes and Riggs likewise abandoned a plan

to greet the returning master and his bride as they came down the

gangplank. But for the almost peremptory counsel of Mrs Desmond, Brood’s

son would have absented himself from the house on the day of their

arrival. Jones and a footman went to the pier with the chauffeur.

 

It was half-past two in the afternoon when the automobile drew up in

front of the house and the fur-coated footman nimbly hopped down and

threw open the door.

 

James Brood, a tall, distinguished-looking man of fifty, stepped out of

the limousine. For an instant, before turning to assist his wife from

the car, he allowed his keen eyes to sweep the windows on the lower

floor. In one of them stood his son, holding the lace curtains apart and

smiling a welcome that seemed sincere. He waved his hand to the man on

the side-walk. Brood responded with a swift, almost perfunctory gesture,

and then held out his hand to the woman who was descending.

 

Frederic’s intense gaze was fixed on the stranger who was coming into

his life. At a word from Brood she glanced up at the window. The smile

still lingered on the young man’s lips, but his eyes were charged with

an __EXPRESSION__ of acute wonder. She smiled, but he was scarcely aware of

the fact. He watched them cross the side-walk and mount the steps.

 

He had never looked upon a more beautiful creature in all his life. A

kind of stupefaction held him motionless until he heard the door close

behind them. In that brief interval a picture had been impressed upon

his senses that was to last for ever.

 

She was slightly above the medium height, slender and graceful even in

the long, thick coat that enveloped her. She did not wear a veil. He had

a swift but enduring glimpse of dark, lustrous eyes; of long lashes that

drooped; of a curiously pallid, perfectly modelled face; of red lips and

very white teeth; of jet-black hair parted above a broad, clear brow

to curtain the temple and ear; of a firm, sensitive chin. Somehow he

received the extraordinary impression that the slim, lithe body was

never cold; that she expressed in some indefinable way the unvarying

temperature of youth.

 

He hurried into the hall, driven by the spur of duty. They were crossing

the vestibule. Jones, who had preceded them in a taxicab, was holding

open the great hall door. Dawes and Higgs, shivering quite as much

with excitement as from the chilly blast that swept in through the

storm-doors, occupied a point of vantage directly behind the butler.

They suggested a reception committee. Frederic was obliged to remain in

the background.

 

He heard his father’s warm, almost gay response to the greetings of the

old men, whose hands he wrung with fervour that was unmistakable. He

heard him present them to the new Mrs Brood as “the best old boys in

all the world,” and they were both saying, with spasmodic cackles of

pleasure, that she “mustn’t believe a word the young rascal said.”

 

He was struck by the calm, serene manner in which she accepted these

jocular contributions to the occasion. Her smile was friendly, her

handshake cordial, and yet there was an unmistakable air of tolerance,

as of one who is accustomed to tribute. The rather noisy acclamations of

the old adventurers brought no flush of embarrassment to her cheek; not

the flicker of an eyelid, nor a protesting word or frown. She merely

smiled and thanked them in simple, commonplace phrases.

 

Frederic, who was given to forming swift impressions, most of which

sprang from his own varying moods and were seldom permanent, formed an

instant and rather startling opinion of the newcomer. She was either a

remarkable actress or a woman whose previous station in life had been

far more exalted than the one she now approached. He had an absurd

notion that he might be looking upon a person of noble birth.

 

Her voice was low-pitched and marked by huskiness that was peculiar in

that it was musical, not throaty. Frederic, on first seeing her, had

leaped to the conclusion that her English would not be perfect. He was

somewhat surprised to discover that she had but the faintest trace of an

accent.

 

The exchange of greetings at the door seemed to him unnecessarily

prolonged. He stood somewhat apart from the little circle, uncomfortable

and distinctly annoyed with the old men who, in their garrulous

gallantry, blocked the way in both directions. He awoke suddenly,

however, to the realisation that he had been looking into his new

stepmother’s eyes for a long time and that she was returning his gaze

with some intensity.

 

“And this?” she said, abruptly breaking in upon one of Danbury’s hasty

reminiscences, effectually ending it. “This is Frederic?”

 

She came directly toward the young man, her small, gloved hand extended.

Her eyes were looking into his with an intentness that disconcerted him.

There was no smile on her lips. It was as if she regarded this moment as

a pronounced crisis.

 

Frederic mumbled something fatuous about being glad to see her, and felt

his face burn under her steady gaze. His father came forward.

 

“Yes; this is Frederic, my dear,” he said, without a trace of warmth in

his voice. As she withdrew her hand from Frederic’s clasp James Brood

extended his. “How are you, Frederic?”

 

“Quite well, sir.”

 

They shook hands in the most perfunctory manner.

 

“I need not ask how you are, father,” said the son, after an instant’s

hesitation. “You never looked better, sir.”

 

“Thank you. I _am_ well. Ah, Mrs Desmond! It is good to be home again

with you all. My dear, permit me to introduce Mrs John Desmond. You have

heard me speak of my old comrade and----”

 

“I have heard you speak of Mr Desmond a thousand times,” said his wife.

There may have been a shade of emphasis on the prefix, but it was so

slight that no one remarked it save the widow of John Desmond, who had

joined the group.

 

“The best pal a man ever had,” said Mr Dawes with conviction. “Wasn’t

he, Riggs?”

 

“He was,” said Mr Riggs loudly, as if expecting someone to dispute it.

 

“Will you go to your room at once, Mrs Brood?” asked Mrs Desmond.

 

The new mistress of the house had not offered to shake hands with

her, as James Brood had done. She had moved closer to Frederic and was

smiling in a rather shy, pleading way, in direct contrast to her manner

of the moment before. The smile was for her stepson. She barely glanced

at Mrs Desmond.

 

“Thank you, no. I see a nice big fire, and--oh, I have been so cold!”

She shivered very prettily.

 

“Come!” cried her husband. “That’s just the thing.” No one spoke as they

moved toward the library. “We must try to thaw out,” he added dryly,

with a faint smile on his lips.

 

His wife laid her hand on Frederic’s arm. “It is cold outside,

Frederic,” she said; “very cold. I am not accustomed to the cold.”

 

If anyone had told him beforehand that his convictions, or his

prejudices, could be overthrown in the twinkling of an eye, he would

have laughed him to scorn. He was prepared to dislike her. He was

determined that his hand should be against her in the conflict that was

bound to come.

 

And now, in a flash, his incomprehensible heart proved treacherous. She

had touched some secret spring in the bottom of it, and a strange, new

emotion rushed up within him, like the flood which finds a new channel

and will not be denied by mortal ingenuity. A queer, wistful note of

sympathy in her voice had done the trick. Something in the touch of her

fingers on his arm completed the mystery. He was conscious of a mighty

surge of relief. The horizon cleared for him.

 

“We shall do our best to keep you warm,” he said quite gaily, and was

somewhat astonished at himself.

 

They had preceded the others into the library. James Brood was divesting

himself of his coat in the hall, attended by the leechlike old men. Mrs

Desmond stood in the doorway, a detached figure.

 

“You must love me, Frederic. You must be very, very fond of me, not for

your father’s sake, but for mine. Then we shall be great friends, not antagonists.”