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.”
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 Desmond 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.
“Who _is_ she?” repeated his father, raising his eyebrows slightly. “She
is Mrs James Brood.”
“I--I beg your pardon,” stammered Frederic. “I didn't mean to put it in
that way. Who was she? Where did you meet her, and--oh, I want to
know all there is to tell, father. I've heard nothing. I am naturally
curious.”
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.