Black is White 7

Black is White 7

He was helping her with her coat.

 

“I confess I looked forward to you with a good deal of animosity,” he

said.

 

“It was quite natural,” she said simply. “A stepmother is not of one’s

own choosing, as a rule.”

 

“She’s usually resented,” said he.

 

“But I shall not be a stepmother,” she said quickly. Her eyes were

serious for an instant, then filled with a luminous smile. “I shall be

Yvonne to you, and you Frederic to me. Let it be a good beginning.”

 

“You are splendid,” he cried. “It’s not going to be at all bad.”

 

“I am sure you will like me,” she said composedly.

 

Brood joined them at the fireside.

 

“My dear, Mrs Desmond will show you over the house when you are ready.

You will be interested in seeing the old place. Later on I shall take

you up to my secret hiding-place, as they say in books. Ranjab will

have the rooms in order by this evening. Where is your daughter, Mrs

Desmond?”

 

“She is at work on the catalogue, Mr Brood, in the jade room. In your

last letter you instructed her to finish that----”

 

“But this is a holiday, Mrs Desmond,” said he, frowning. “Jones, will

you ask Miss Lydia to join us for tea at half-past four?”

 

“You will adore Lydia,” said Frederic to Mrs Brood.

 

Apparently she did not hear him, for she gave no sign. She was looking

about the room with eyes that seemed to take in everything. For the

moment her interest appeared to be centred on the inanimate, to the

complete exclusion of all other objects. Frederic had the odd notion

that she was appraising her new home with the most calculating of minds.

 

Even as he watched her he was struck by the subtle change that came into

her dark eyes. It lingered for the briefest moment, but the impression

he got was lasting. There was something like dread in the far-away look

that settled for a few seconds and then lifted. She caught him looking

at her, and smiled once more, but nervously. Then her glance went

swiftly to the face of James Brood, who was listening to something

that Mrs Cesmond was saying. It rested there for a short but intense

scrutiny, and the smile began to die.

 

“I am sure I shall be very happy in this dear old house,” she said

quietly. “Your own mother must have loved it, Frederic.”

 

James Brood started. Unnoticed by the others, his fingers tightened on

the gloves he carried in his hand.

 

“I never knew my mother,” said the young man. “She died when I was a

baby.”

 

“But of course this was her home, was it not?”

 

“I don’t know,” said Frederic uncomfortably. “I suppose so. I--I came

here a few years ago, and----”

 

“But even though you never knew her, there must still be something here

that--that--how shall I say it? I mean, you must feel that she and you

were here together years and years ago. One may never have seen his

mother, yet he can always feel her. There is something--shall I say

spiritual, in----”

 

Her husband broke in upon these unwelcome reflections. His voice was

curiously harsh.

 

“Mrs Desmond is waiting, Yvonne.”

 

She drew herself up.

 

“Are you in such great haste, Mrs Desmond?” she asked in a voice that

cut like a knife. Instinctively she glanced at Frederic’s face. She saw

the muscles of the jaw harden and an angry light leap into his eyes.

Instantly her arrogance fell away. “I beg your pardon, Mrs Desmond. I

have many bad habits. Now will you kindly show me to my room? I prefer

that you and not one of the servants should be my guide. _Au revoir_,

Frederic. Till tea-time, James.”

 

Her eyes were sparkling, her husky voice once more full of the appealing

quality that could not be denied. The flush of injured pride faded from

Mrs Desmond’s brow and a faint look of surprise crept into her eyes. She

was surprised at her own inclination to overlook the affront, and not

by the change in Mrs Brood’s manner. She smiled an unspoken pardon and

stood aside for the new mistress to pass in front of her. To her further

amazement the younger woman laid a hand upon her arm and gave it a

gentle, friendly pressure.

 

The men watched them in silence as they left the room side by side.

A moment later they heard the soft laughter of the two women as they

mounted the stairs.

 

Frederic drew a long breath.

 

“She’s splendid, father,” he said impulsively.

 

Brood’s face was still clouded. He did not respond to the eager tribute.

 

Mr Dawes cleared his throat and cast a significant glance toward the

dining-room.

 

“What do you say to a drink to the bride, Jim?” he said, somewhat

explosively. He had been silent for a longer period than usual. It

wasn’t natural for him to be voiceless, even when quite alone.

 

“Good idea,” added Mr Riggs. “I was just thinking of it myself. A health

to the bride, my boy, and good luck to you both.”

 

“A glass to prosperity,” said Mr Dawes, with a wave of his hand.

 

“And two for posterity,” added Mr Riggs in an ecstasy of triumph.

 

 

A flush mounted to Brood’s cheek. Young Frederic abruptly turned away.

 

“Thank you, my friends,” said Brood, after a moment. “I’ll leave the

bumpers to you, if you don’t mind. It isn’t meet that the groom should

drink to himself, and that’s what you are suggesting. Go and have your

drinks, gentlemen, but leave me out.”

 

They looked disappointed, aggrieved.

 

“I said posterity,” expostulated Mr Riggs. “No harm in your drinking to

_that_, is there?”

 

“Shut up, Riggs,” hissed Mr Dawes, nudging him with some violence.

 

“Oh!” said his friend, with a quick look at Frederic. Then, as

if inspired: “Come on, Freddy. Join us. Come and drink to the--to

your--er--stepmother.” He floundered miserably. “My God!” he gasped under

his breath.

 

“Thank you, Mr Riggs. I’m not drinking,” said Frederic.

 

Dawes conducted Riggs to the dining-room door. There he turned and

remarked:

 

“Stick to that resolution, Freddy. See what old man Riggs has come to!

If it wasn’t for me and your father he’d be in the gutter.”

 

“That’s right, Freddy,” agreed Mr Riggs with rare amiability. He felt

that he owed something to Frederic in the way of apology.

 

Father and son faced each other after the old men had disappeared. They

were a striking pair, each in his way an example of fine, clean manhood.

The father was taller by two inches than the son, and yet Frederic

was nearly six feet in his stockings. Both were spare men, erect and

gracefully proportioned.

 

Brood gave out the impression of great strength, of steel sinews, of

invincible power; Frederic did not suggest physical strength, and yet he

was a clean-limbed, well-built fellow. He had a fine head, a slim body

whose every movement proclaimed nervous energy, and a face that denoted

temperament of the most pronounced character. His hair was black and

straight, growing thickly above the forehead and ears; his eyes were of

a deep gray, changeable at the dictates of his emotions. A not unhealthy

pallor lay on the surface of his skin, readily submissive to the

sensations which produce colour at the slightest provocation. His

eyebrows were rather thick, but delicately arched, and the lashes

were long. It was not a strong face, nor was it weak; it represented

character without force.

 

On the other hand, James Brood’s lean, handsome face was full of power.

His gray eyes were keen, steady, compelling, and seldom alight with

warmth. His jaw was firm, square, resolute, and the lines that sank

heavily into the flesh in his cheeks were put there not by age but by

the very vigour of manhood. His hair was quite gray.

 

Frederic waited for his father to speak. He had ventured a remark before

the departure of the old men and it had been ignored. But James Brood

had nothing to say.

 

“She is very attractive, father,” said the young man at last, almost

wistfully. He did not realise it, but he was groping for sympathy. Brood

had been in the house for a quarter of an hour, after an absence of

nearly a year, and yet he might have been away no longer than a day for

all that he revealed in his attitude toward his son. His greeting had

been cold, casual, matter-of-fact. Frederic expected little more than

that; still he felt in a vague way that now, if never again, the ice of

reserve might be broken between them, if only for a moment. He was ready

and willing to do his part.

 

Brood was studying the young man’s face with an intensity that for the

moment disconcerted him. He seemed bent on fixing certain features in

his mind’s eye, as if his memory had once played him false and should

not do so again. It was a habit of Brood’s, after prolonged separations,

to look for something in the boy’s face that he wanted to see and yet

dreaded, something that might have escaped him when in daily contact

with him. Now, at the end of the rather offensive scrutiny, he seemed to

shake his head slightly, although one could not have been sure.

 

“And as charming as she is attractive, Frederic,” he said, with a faint

flush of the enthusiasm he suppressed.

 

“Who is she?” asked his son, without realising the bluntness of his

question.