Black is White 8

Black is White 8

Brood stopped him with a gesture.

 

“She was Yvonne Lestrange before we were married, Mlle Lestrange; we met

some time ago at the house of a mutual friend in Paris. I assure you her

references are all that could be desired.” His tone was sarcastic.

 

Frederic flushed.

 

“I’m sorry I asked the questions, sir,” he said stiffly.

 

Brood suddenly laughed, a quiet laugh that had some trace of humour and

a touch of compunction in it.

 

“I beg your pardon, Frederic. Come up to my room and smoke a cigar with

me while I’m changing. I’ll tell you about her. She is wonderful.”

 

To his own surprise, and to Frederic’s astonishment, he linked his arm

in the young man’s and started toward the hall. Afterward he was to

wonder even more than he wondered then what it was that created the

sudden desire to atone for the hurt look he had brought into the eyes of

Matilde’s son and the odd longing to touch his arm gently.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV

 

Lydia met Brood and Frederic at the top of the stairs. She had received

the message through Jones and was on her way to dress for tea. The

master of the house greeted her most cordially. He was very fond of this

lovely, gentle daughter of John Desmond.

 

Into their association had stolen an intimate note that softened the

cold reserve of the man to a marked degree. There was something brave

and joyous in this girl that had always appealed to James Brood. He

seldom failed to experience a sense of complete relaxation when with

her; his hard eyes softened, his stern mouth took on the quiet smile of

contentment.

 

His chief joy was to chat with her over the work he was doing, and

to listen to her frank, honest opinions. There was no suggestion of

constraint in her manner. She was not afraid of him. That was the thing

about her, perhaps, that warmed his stone-cold heart, although he hardly

would have admitted it to be the case.

 

She regarded herself as his secretary, or his amanuensis, in the strict

way of speaking, but he considered her to be a friend as well, and

treated her with a freedom that was not extended to others.

 

A faint gleam of astonishment lurked in the girl’s eyes as she stood

before the two men. Never, in her experience, had there been such an

exhibition of friendliness between father and son. A curious throb of

joy rushed up from her heart and lodged in her throat. For the first

time she found it difficult to respond with composure to Brood’s lively

comments. Tears were lying close to the surface of her eyes; tears of

relief and gratitude. The buoyant __EXPRESSION__ in Frederic’s told a new

story. Her heart rejoiced.

 

“Nonsense!” said Brood, when she announced that she was going in to

change her gown. “You never looked so pretty, my dear, as you do at this

instant. I want Mrs Brood to see you for the first time just as you are.

You are a shirt-waist girl, Lydia. You couldn’t be lovelier than you are

now. Isn’t that true, Frederic?”

 

“You’ll spoil her, father,” said Frederic, his face glowing.

 

Her prettiest frown opposed them.

 

“But you, after all, you are not women,” she said. “Women don’t look at

each other through masculine eyes. They look at a girl not to see how

pretty she is, but to see what it is that makes her pretty.”

 

“But this is to be a family tea-party,” protested Brood. “It isn’t a

function, as the society reporter would say. Come just as you are to

please me.”

 

“A tea-party and an autopsy are very much alike, Mr Brood,” said she.

“One can learn a lot at either. Still, if you’d like to have Mrs Brood

see me as I really am, I’ll appear _sans_ plumage.”

 

“I’d like it,” said he promptly. “I am sure you will like each other,

Lydia.”

 

“I am glad you did not say we would admire each other,” said she

quaintly. “You look very happy, Mr Brood,” she went on, her eyes bright.

 

“I believe I _am_ happy,” said he.

 

“Then we shall all be happy,” was her rejoinder.

 

She returned to the jade room on the upper floor, where she had been at

work on the catalogue. Brood had a very large and valuable collection of

rare jade. A catalogue, she knew, would have but little significance, in

view of the fact that the collection was not likely to be exhibited

to public view. Still it was his whim, and she had found considerable

pleasure in carrying out his belated orders.

 

The jade room, so called, was little more than a large closet off

the remarkable room which James Brood was pleased to call his

“hiding-place,” or, on occasions, his “retreat.” No one ventured into

either of these rooms except by special permission.

 

Ranjab, his Indian servant, slept in an adjoining room, and it was

whispered about the house that not even James Brood had viewed its

interior. This silent, unapproachable man from the mysterious heart of

India locked his door when he entered the room and locked it when he

came out. No one, not even the master, thought of entering. Mr Dawes in

his cups, or out of them, was responsible for the impression that

the man kept deadly serpents there. As a matter of fact, Ranjab was a

peaceable fellow and desperately afraid of snakes.

 

Lydia loved the feel of the cold, oily lumps of jade. There were a few

pieces of porcelain of extreme rarity and beauty as well, and several

priceless bits of cloisonné, but it was the jade she loved. There were

two or three hundred objects of various sizes and colours, and all

were what might be called museum pieces. To each was attached a tag

disclosing certain facts concerning its origin, its history, and the

date of its admission to the Brood collection. It appeared to be Lydia’s

task to set down these dates and facts in chronological order. Her

imagination built quaint little stories about each of the ancient

figures. She believed in fairies.

 

She had been at work for half an hour or longer when a noise in the

outer room attracted her attention. She had the odd feeling that someone

was looking at her through the open door, and swiftly turned.

 

Except when occupied by Brood, the room was darkened by means of heavy

window-hangings; the effect was that produced by the gloaming just

before the stars appeared. Objects were shadowy, indistinct, mysterious.

The light from the jade room door threw a diverging ray across the full

length of the room. In the very centre of this bright strip sat a

placid effigy of Buddha that Brood had found in a remote corner of Siam,

serenely stolid on top of its thick base of bronze and lacquer, with a

shining shrine for a background.

 

In the dim edge of the shadow, near the door at the far end of the room,

Lydia made out the motionless, indistinct figure of a woman. The faint

outlines of the face were discernible, but not so the features. For a

moment the girl stared at the watcher and then advanced to the door.

 

“Who is it?” she inquired, peering.

 

A low, husky voice replied, with a suggestion of laughter in the tones.

 

“I am exploring the house.”

 

Lydia came forward at once.

 

“Oh, it is Mrs Brood. I beg your pardon. Shall I switch on the lights?”

 

“Are there such awful things as electric lights in this wonderful room?”

cried the other, disappointed. “I can’t believe it of my husband. He

couldn’t permit anything so bizarre as that.”

 

“They are emergency lights,” laughed Lydia. “He never uses them, of

course. They are for the servants.”

 

“You are Lydia?”

 

“Yes, Mrs Brood.”

 

“I have been prowling everywhere. Your good mother deserted me when

my maid arrived with Ranjab a short time ago. Isn’t this the dread

_Bluebeard room?_ Shall I lose my head if I am discovered by the ogre?”

 

The girl felt the spell stealing over her. The low voice of the woman in

the shadow was like a sensuous caress. She experienced a sudden longing

to be closer to the speaker, to listen for the very intake of her

breath.

 

“You have already been discovered by the ogre, Mrs Brood,” said Lydia

gaily, “and your head appears to be quite safe.”

 

“Thank you,” rather curtly, as if repelling familiarity. It was like a

dash of cold water to Lydia’s spirits. “You may turn on the lights. I

should like to see _you_, Miss Desmond.”

 

The girl crossed the room, passing close to the stranger in the house.

The fragrance of a perfume hitherto unknown to her separated itself

from the odour of sandalwood that always filled the place; it was soft,

delicate, refreshing. It was like a breath of cool, sweet air filtering

into a close, stuffy enclosure. One could not help drawing in a long,

full breath, as if the lungs demanded its revivifying qualities.

 

A soft, red glow began to fill the room as Lydia pulled the cord near

the door. There was no clicking sound, no sharp contact of currents; the

light came up gradually, steadily, until the whole space was drenched

with its refulgence. There were no shadows. Every nook and corner seemed

to fill with the warm, pleasant hue of the setting sun, and yet no

visible means appeared.

 

As the light grew brighter and brighter the eyes of the stranger swept

the room with undisguised wonder in their depths.

 

“How extraordinary!” she murmured, and then turned swiftly toward the

girl. “Where does it come from? I can see no lights. And see! There are

no shadows, not even beneath the table yonder. It--it is uncanny--but, oh,

how lovely!”

 

Lydia was staring at her with wide-open eyes, frankly astonished.