Black is White 9

Black is White 9

“Why do you stare at me?” she demanded.

 

“I beg your pardon,” cried the girl, blushing.

 

“I--I couldn’t help it, Mrs Brood. Why, you are young!” The exclamation

burst from her lips.

 

“Young?” queried the other, frowning.

 

“I--I expected----” began Lydia, and stopped in pretty confusion.

 

“I see. You expected a middle-aged lady? And why, pray, should James

Brood marry a middle-aged person?”

 

“I--I don’t know. I’m sorry if I have offended you.”

 

Mrs Brood smiled, a gay, pleased little smile that revealed her small,

even teeth.

 

“You haven’t offended me, my dear,” she said. “You offend my husband by

thinking so ill of him, that’s all.” She took the girl in from head to

foot with critical eyes. “He said you were very pretty and very lovable.

You are lovely. Isn’t it a horrid word? Pretty! No one wants to be

pretty. Yes, you are just what I expected.”

 

Lydia was the taller of the two women--a matter of two inches perhaps--and

yet she had the curious feeling that she was looking upward as she gazed

into the other’s eyes. It was the way Mrs Brood held herself.

 

“He has known me since I was a little girl,” she said, as if to account

for Brood’s favourable estimate.

 

“And he knew your mother before you were born,” said the other. “She,

too, is--shall I say pretty?”

 

“My mother isn’t pretty, Mrs Brood,” said Lydia, conscious of a sudden

feeling of resentment.

 

“She is handsome,” said Mrs Brood with finality. Sending a swift glance

around the room, she went on: “My husband delights in having beautiful

things about him. He doesn’t like the ugly things of this world.”

 

Lydia flinched, she knew not why. There was a sting to the words,

despite the languidness with which they were uttered.

 

Risking more than she suspected, she said:

 

“He never considers the cost of a thing, Mrs Brood, if its beauty

appeals to him.” Mrs Brood gave her a quizzical, half-puzzled look. “You

have only to look about you for the proof. This one room represents a

fortune.” The last was spoken hastily.

 

“How old are you, Miss Desmond?” The question came abruptly.

 

“I am nineteen.”

 

“You were surprised to find me so young. Will it add to your surprise if

I tell you that I am ten years older than you?”

 

“I should have said not more than three or four years.”

 

“I am twenty-nine-seven years older than my husband’s son.”

 

“It doesn’t seem credible.”

 

“Are you wondering why I tell you my age?”

 

“Yes,” said Lydia bluntly.

 

“In order that you may realise that I am ten years wiser than you,

and that you may not again make the mistake of under-estimating my

intelligence.”

 

The colour faded from Lydia’s face. She grew cold from head to foot.

Involuntarily she moved back a pace. The next instant, to her unbounded

surprise, Mrs Brood’s hands were outstretched in a gesture of appeal,

and a quick, wistful smile took the place of the imperious stare.

 

“There! I am a nasty, horrid thing. Forgive me. Come! Don’t be stubborn.

Shake hands with me and say that you’re sorry I said what I did.”

 

It was a quaint way of putting it, and her voice was so genuinely

appealing that Lydia, after a moment’s hesitation, extended her hands.

Mrs Brood grasped them in hers and gripped them tightly.

 

“I think I should like to know that you are my friend, Lydia. Has it

occurred to you that I am utterly without friends in this great city

of yours? I have my husband, that is all. Among all these millions of

people there is not one who knows that I exist. Isn’t it appalling? Can

you imagine such a condition? There is not one to whom I can give an

honest smile. Nor am I likely to have many friends here. Indeed, I shall

not lift my finger to gain them. You will know me better one day, Lydia,

and you will understand. But now--to-day, to-morrow--now--I must have

someone to whom I may offer my friendship and have something to hope for

in return.”

 

Lydia could hardly credit her ears.

 

“I am sure you will have many friends, Mrs Brood,” she began, vaguely

uncomfortable.

 

“I don’t want them,” cried the other sharply. “Poof! Are friends to be

made in a day? No! Admirers, yes. Enemies, yes. But friends, no.

I shall have no real friends here. It isn’t possible. I am not like your

people. I cannot become like them. I shall know people and like them, no

doubt, but--poof! I shall not have them for friends.”

 

“I can’t understand why you want me for a friend,” said Lydia stiffly.

“My position here is not what----”

 

Mrs Brood had not released the girl’s hands. She interrupted her now by

dropping them as if they were of fire.

 

“You don’t want to be my friend?”

 

“Yes, yes--of course----”

 

“You are my husband’s friend?”

 

“Certainly, Mrs Brood. He is _my_ friend.”

 

“What is _your_ position here?”

 

Lydia’s face was flaming.

 

“I thought you knew. I am his secretary, if I may _be_ allowed to

dignify my----”

 

“And you are Frederic’s friend?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Despite your position?”

 

“I don’t understand you, Mrs Brood.”

 

Once more the warm, enchanting smile broke over the face of the other.

 

“Isn’t it perfectly obvious, Lydia?”

 

The girl could no more withstand the electric charm of the woman

than she could have fought off the sunshine. She was bewildered and

completely fascinated.

 

“It’s--it is very good of you,” she murmured, her own eyes softening as

they looked into the deep velvety ones that would not be denied. Even as

she wondered whether she could ever really like this magnetic creature,

she felt herself surrendering to the spell of her. “But perhaps you will

not like me when you know me better.”

 

“Perhaps,” said Mrs Brood calmly, almost indifferently, and dismissed

the subject. “What an amazing room! One can almost feel the presence

of the genii that created it at the wish of the man with the enchanted

lamp. As a rule, Oriental rooms are abominations, but this--ah, this is

not an Oriental room after all. It is a part of the East itself--of the

real East. I have sat in emperors’ houses out there, my dear, and I have

slept in the palaces of kings. I have seen just such things as these,

and I know that they could not have been transported to this room except

by magic. My husband is a magician.”

 

“These came from the palaces of kings, Mrs Brood,” said Lydia

enthusiastically. “Kings in the days when kings were real. This

rug----”

 

“I know,” interrupted the other. “It was woven by five generations of

royal weavers. Each of these borders represents the work of a lifetime.

It is the carpet of rubies, and a war was prolonged for years because an

emperor would not give it up to the foe who coveted it above all other

riches. His heart’s blood stains it to this day. His empire was wiped

out by the relentless foe, his very name effaced, but the heart’s blood

still is there, Lydia. That can never be wiped out. My husband told me

the story. It must have cost him a fortune.”

 

“It is worth a fortune,” said Lydia.

 

A calculating squint had come into Mrs Brood’s eyes while she was

speaking. To Lydia it appeared as if she were trying to fix upon the

value of the wonderful carpet.

 

“A collector has offered him--how much? A hundred thousand dollars, is

not that it? Ah, how rich he must be!”

 

“The collector you refer to----”

 

“I was referring to my husband,” said Mrs Brood, unabashed. “He is very

rich, isn’t he?” Lydia managed to conceal her annoyance. “I think not,

as American fortunes are rated.”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” said the other carelessly.

 

“I have my own fortune. And it is not my face,” she added with her

quick smile. “Now let us look farther. I must see all of these wonderful

things. We will not be missed, and it is still half an hour till

tea-time. My husband is now telling his son all there is to be told

about me--who and what I am, and how he came to marry me. Not, mind you,

how I came to marry him, but--the other way round. It’s the way with men

past middle age.” Lydia hesitated before speaking. “Mr Brood does not

confide in Frederic. I am afraid they have but little in common. Oh, I

shouldn’t have said that!”

 

Mrs Brood regarded her with narrowing eyes.

 

“He doesn’t confide in Frederic?” she repeated in the form of a

question. Her voice seemed lower than before.

 

“I’m sorry I spoke as I did, Mrs Brood,” said the girl, annoyed with