The ensuing fortnight brought the expected changes in the household.
James Brood, to the surprise of not only himself, but others, lapsed
into a curious state of adolescence. His infatuation was complete. The
once dominant influence of the man seemed to slink away from him as the
passing days brought up the new problems of life. Where he had lived to
command he now was content to serve.
His friends, his son, his servants viewed the transformation with
wonder, not to say apprehension. It was not difficult to understand his
infatuation for the--shall we say enchantress? He was not the only one
there to fall under the spell. But it was almost unbelievable that he
should submit to thraldom with the complacency of a weakling.
Love, which had been lying bruised and unconscious within him for twenty
years and more, arose from its stupor and became a thing to play with,
as one would play with a child. The old, ugly vistas melted into
dreamy, adolescent contemplations of a paradise in which he could walk
hand-in-hand with the future and find that the ghosts of the past no
longer attended him along the once weary way.
It would not be true to say that the remarkable personality of the man
had suffered. He was still the man of steel, but re-tempered. The rigid
broadsword was made over into the fine, flexible blade of Toledo. He
could be bent but not broken.
It pleased him to submit to Yvonne's commands,
Not that they were arduous or peremptory; on the contrary, they were
suggestions in which his own comfort and pleasure appeared to be the
inspiration. He found something like delight in being rather amiably
convinced of his own shortcomings; in learning from her that his life up
to this hour had been a sadly mismanaged affair; that there were soft,
fertile spots in his heart where things would grow in spite of him. He
enjoyed the unique spectacle of himself in the process of being made
over to fit ideals that he would have scorned a few months before.
She was too wise to demand, too clever to resort to cajolery. She was
a Latin. Diplomacy was hers as a birthright. Complaints, appeals, sulks
would have gained nothing from James Brood. It would not have occurred
to her to employ these methods. From the day she entered the house she
was its mistress. She was sure of her ground, sure of herself, fettered
by no sense of doubt as to her position there, bound by no feminine
notion of gratitude to man, as many women are who find themselves
married. It might almost be said of her that she ruled without making a
business of it.
To begin with, she miraculously transferred the sleeping quarters of
Messrs Dawes and Riggs from the second floor front to the third floor
back without arousing the slightest sign of antagonism on the part of
the crusty old gentlemen who had occupied one of the choice rooms in
the house with uninterrupted security for a matter of nine or ten years.
This was a feat that James Brood himself would never have tried
to accomplish. They had selected this room at the first instant of
occupation, because it provided something of a view up and down the
street from the big bow window, and they wouldn't evacuate.
Mrs Brood explained the situation to them so graciously, so
convincingly, that they even assisted the servants in moving their
heterogeneous belongings to the small, remote room on the third floor,
and applauded her plan to make a large sitting-room of the chamber they
were deserting. It did not occur to them for at least three days that
they had been imposed upon, cheated, maltreated, insulted, and then it
was too late. The decorators were in the big room on the second floor.
Perhaps they would not have arrived at a sense of realisation even then
if it had not come out in the course of conversation that it was not to
be a _general_ sitting-room, but one with reservations. The discovery of
what they secretly were pleased to call duplicity brought an abrupt end
to the period of abstemiousness that had lasted since the day of her
arrival, when, out of courtesy to the bride, they had turned their backs
upon the tipple.
Now, however, the situation was desperate. She had tricked them with
her wily politeness. They had been betrayed by the wife of their bosom
friend. Is it small cause for wonder, then, that the poor gentlemen as
manfully turned back to the tipple and got gloriously, garrulously drunk
in the middle of the afternoon and also in the middle of the library,
where tea was to have been served to a few friends asked in to meet the
bride?
The next morning a fresh edict was issued. It came from James Brood, and
it was so staggering that the poor gentlemen were loath to believe their
ears. As a result of this new command they began to speak of Mrs Brood
in the privacy of their own room as “that woman.” Of course, it was
entirely due to her mischievous, malevolent influence that a spineless
husband put forth the order that they were to have nothing more to drink
while they remained in his house.
This command was modified to a slight extent later on. Brood felt sorry
for the victims. He loved them, and he knew that their pride was injured
a great deal more than their appetite. In its modified form the edict
allowed them a small drink in the morning and another at bedtime, but
the doses (as they sarcastically called them) were to be administered by
Jones the butler, who held the key to the situation and--the sideboard.
“Is this a dispensary?” wailed Mr Dawes in weak horror. “Are we to stand
in line and solicit the common necessities of life? Answer me, Riggs!
Confound you, don't stand there like a wax figure! Say something!”
Mr Riggs shook his head bleakly.
“Poor Jim,” was all that he said, and rolled his eyes heavenward.
Mr Dawes reflected. After many minutes the tears started down his
rubicund cheeks. “Poor old Jim,” he sighed. And after that they looked
upon Mrs Brood as the common enemy of all three.
The case of Mrs John Desmond was disposed of in a summary but tactful
manner.
“If Mrs Desmond is willing to remain, James, as housekeeper instead of
friend, all well and good,” said Mrs Brood, discussing the matter in the
seclusion of her boudoir. “I doubt, however, whether she can descend to
that. You have spoiled her, my dear.”
Brood was manifestly pained and uncomfortable.
“She was the wife of my best friend, Yvonne. I have never permitted her
to feel----”
“Ah,” she interrupted, “the wives of best friends! Nearly every man has
the wife of a best friend somewhere in his life's history.” She shook
her head at him with mock mournfulness.
He flushed. “I trust you do not mean to imply that----”
“I know what you would say. No, I do not mean anything of the sort.
Still, you now have a wife of your own. Is it advisable to have also the
wife of a best friend?”
“Really, Yvonne, all this sounds very suspicious and--unpleasant. Mrs
Desmond is the soul of----”
“My dear man, why should you defend her? I am not accusing her. I am
merely going into the ethics of the situation. If you can forget that
Mrs Desmond is the wife of your friend and come to regard her as a
servant in your establishment, no one will be more happy than I to have
her about the place. She is fine, she is competent, she is a lady. But
she is not my equal here. Can't you understand?”
He was thoughtful for a moment.
“I dare say you are right. The conditions are peculiar. I can't go
to her and say that she must consider herself as--oh, no, that would be
impossible.”
“I should like to have Mrs Desmond as my friend, not as my housekeeper,”
said his wife simply.
“By Jove, and that's just what I should like,” he cried.
“There is but one way, you know.”
“She must be one or the other, eh?”
“Precisely,” she said with firmness. “In my country, James, the wives of
best friends haven't the same moral standing that they appear to have in
yours. Oh, don't scowl so! Shall I tell you again that I do not mean to
reflect on Mrs Desmond's virtue--or discretion? Far from it. If she is to
be my friend, she cannot be your housekeeper. That's the point. Has she
any means of her own? Can she----”
“She has a small income, and an annuity which I took out for her soon
after her poor husband's death. We were the closest of friends----”
“I understand, James. You are very generous and very loyal. I quite
understand. Losing her position here, then, will not be a hardship?”
“No,” said he soberly.
“I am quite competent, James,” she said brightly. “You will not miss
her, I am sure.”
“It isn't that, Yvonne,” he sighed. “Mrs Desmond and Lydia have been
factors in my life for so long that---- But, of course, that is neither
here nor there. I will explain the situation to her to-morrow. She will
understand.”
“Thank you, James. You are really quite reasonable.”
“Are you laughing at me, darling?”
She gave him one of her searching, unfathomable glances, and she smiled
with roguish mirth.
“Isn't it your mission in life to amuse and entertain me?”
“I love you, Yvonne. Good God, how I love you!” he cried abruptly.
His eyes burned with a sudden flame of passion as he bent over her.
His face quivered; his whole being tingled with the fierce spasm of an
uncontrollable desire to crush the warm, adorable body to his breast in
the supreme ecstasy of possession.
She surrendered herself to his passionate embrace. A little later
she withdrew herself from his arms, her lips still quivering with the
fierceness of his kisses. Her eyes, dark with wonder and perplexity,
regarded his transfigured face for a long, tense moment.
“Is this love, James?” she whispered. “Is this the real, true love?”
“What else, in Heaven's name, can it be?” he cried. He was sitting upon
the arm of her chair, looking down at the strangely pallid face.
“But should love have the power to frighten me?”
“Frighten, my darling?”
“Oh, it is not you who are frightened,” she cried. “You are the man. But
I--ah, I am only the woman.”
He stared. “What an odd way to put it, dear.”
Then he drew back, struck by the curious gleam of mockery in her eyes.
“Was it like this twenty-five years ago?” she asked.
“Yvonne!”
“Did you love her--like this?”
He managed to smile. “Are you jealous?”
“Tell me about her.”
His face hardened. “Some other time, not now.”
“But you loved her, didn't you?”
“Don't be silly, dear.”
“And she loved you. If you loved her as you love me, she could not have
helped----”
“Please, please, Yvonne!” he exclaimed, a dull red setting in his cheek.
“You have never told me her name----”
He faced her, his eyes as cold as steel. “I may as well tell you now,
Yvonne, that her name is never mentioned in this house.”
She seemed to shrink down farther in the chair.
“Why?” she asked, an insistent note in her voice.
“It isn't necessary to explain.” He walked away from her to the window
and stood looking out over the bleak little courtyard. Neither spoke for
many minutes, and yet he knew that her questioning gaze was upon him and
that when he turned to her again she would ask still another question.
He tried to think of something to say that would turn her away from this
hated subject.
“Isn't it time for you to dress, dearest? The Gunnings live pretty
far up north and the going will be bad with Fifth Avenue piled up with
snow----”
“Doesn't Frederic ever mention his mother's name?” came the question
that he feared before it was uttered.
“I am not certain that he knows her name,” said he levelly. The knuckles
of his hands, clenched tightly behind his back, were white. “He has
never heard me utter it.”
She looked at him darkly. There was something in her eyes that caused
him to shift his own steady gaze uncomfortably. He could not have
explained what it was, but it gave him a curiously uneasy feeling, as
of impending peril. It was not unlike the queer, inexplicable, though
definite, sensing of danger that more than once he had experienced in
the silent, tranquil depths of great forests.
“But you loved her just the same, James, up to the time you met me. Is
not that true?”
“No!” he exclaimed loudly. “It is not true.”
“I wonder what could have happened to make you so bitter toward her,”
she went on, still watching him through half-closed eyes. “Was she
unfaithful to you? Was----”
“Good God, Yvonne!” he cried, an angry light jumping into his eyes--the
eyes that so recently had been ablaze with love.
“Don't be angry, dearest,” she cried plaintively. “We Europeans speak of
such things as if they were mere incidents. I forget that you Americans
take them seriously, as tragedies.”
He controlled himself with an effort. The pallor in his face would have
alarmed anyone but her.
“We must never speak of--of that again, Yvonne,” he said, a queer note
of hoarseness in his voice. “Never, do you understand?” He was very much
shaken.
“Forgive me,” she pleaded, stretching out her hand to him. “I am
foolish, but I did not dream that I was being cruel or unkind. Perhaps,
dear, it is because I am--jealous.”
“There is no one--nothing to be jealous of,” he said, passing a hand over
his moist brow. Then he drew nearer and took her hand in his. It was as
cold as ice.
“Your hand is cold, darling,” he cried.
“And yours, too,” she said, looking down at their clasped hands, a faint
smile on her lips. Suddenly she withdrew her fingers from his strong
grip. A slight shiver ran over her frame. “Ugh! I don't like cold
hands!”
He laughed rather desolately. “Suppose that I were to say the same to
you?”
“I am temperamental; you are not,” she replied coolly. “Sit down, dear.
Let us be warm again.”
“Shall I have the fire replenished----”
“No,” she said with her slow smile, “you don't understand.”
He lounged again on the arm of her chair. She leaned back and sighed
contentedly, the smile on her red lips growing sweeter with each breath
that she took. He felt his blood warming once more.
For a long time they sat thus, looking into each other's eyes without
speaking. He was trying to fathom the mystery that lurked at the bottom
of those smiling wells; she, on the other hand, deluded herself with the
idea that she was reading his innermost thought.
“I have been considering the advisability of sending Frederic abroad for
a year or two,” said he at last.
She started. She had been far from right in her reading.
“Now? This winter?”
“Yes. He has never been abroad.”
“Indeed? And he is half European, too. It seems--forgive me, James.
Really, you know, I cannot always keep my thoughts from slipping out.
You shouldn't expect it, dear.”
“How did you know that his--his mother was a European?” he inquired
abruptly.
“Dear me! What manner of woman do you think I am? Without curiosity? I
should be a freak. I have inquired of Mrs Desmond. There was no harm in
that.”
“What did she tell you? But no! It doesn't matter. We shan't discuss it.
We----”
“She told me little or nothing,” she broke in quickly. “You may rest
quite easy, James.”
“Upon my word, Yvonne, I don't understand----”
“Let us speak of Frederic.”
“I suppose it is only natural that you should inquire,” he said
resignedly.
“Of my servants,” she added pointedly.
He flushed slightly. “I dare say I deserve the rebuke. It will not be
necessary to pursue that line of inquiry, however. I shall tell you the
story myself some day, Yvonne. Will you not bear with me?”
She met the earnest appeal in his eyes with a slight frown of annoyance.
“Who is to tell me the wife's side of the story?”
The question was like a blow to him. He stared at her as if he had not
heard aright. Before he could speak she went on coolly.
“I dare say there are two sides to it, James. It's usually the case.”
He winced. “There is but one side to this one,” he said, a harsh note in
his voice.
“That is why I began my inquiries with Mrs Desmond,” she said
enigmatically. “But I shan't pursue them any farther. You love _me_;
that is all I care to know--or that I require.”
“I _do_ love you,” he said, almost imploringly. She stroked his gaunt
cheek. “Then we may let the other woman--go hang, eh?”
He felt the cold sweat start on his brow. Her callous remark slashed his
finer sensibilities like the thrust of a dagger. He tried to laugh, but
only succeeded in producing a painful grimace.
“And now,” she went on, as if the matter were fully disposed of, “we
will discuss something tangible, eh? Frederic.”
“Yes,” said he, rather dazedly. “Frederic.”
“I am very, very fond of your son, James,” she said. “How proud you must
be to have such a son.”
He eyed her narrowly. How much of the horrid story did she know? How
much of it had John Desmond told to his wife?
“I am surprised at your liking him, Yvonne. He is what I'd call a
difficult young man.”
“I haven't found him difficult.”
“Morbid and unresponsive.”
“Not by nature, however. There is a joyousness, a light-heartedness in
his character that has never got beyond the surface until now, James.”
“Until now?”
“Yes. And you talk of sending him away. Why?”
“He has wanted to go abroad for years. This is a convenient time for him
to go.”
“But I am quite sure he will not care to go at present--not for a while,
at least.”
“And why not, may I ask?”
“Because he is in love.”
“In love!” he exclaimed, his jaw setting hard.
“He is in love with
Lydia.”
“I'll put a stop to that!”
“And why, may I ask?” she mimicked.
“Because--why----” he burst out, but instantly collected himself. “He is
not in a position to marry, that's all.”
“Financially?”
He swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Poof!” she exclaimed, dismissing the obstacle with a wave of her slim
hand. “A cigarette, please. There is another reason why he shouldn't
go--an excellent one.”
“The reason you've already given is sufficient to convince me that he
ought to go at once. What is the other one, pray?”
She lighted a cigarette from the match he held. “What would you say if I
were to tell you that I object to his going away--at present?”
“I should ask the very obvious question.”
“Because I like him, I want him to like me, and I shall be very lonely
without him,” she answered calmly.
“You are frank, to say the least,” said he, laughing.
“And serious. I don't want him to go away at present. Later on, yes; but
not now. I shall need him, James.”
“You will be lonely, you say.”
“Certainly. You forget that I am young.”
“I see,” said he, a sudden pain in his heart. “Perhaps it would be more
to the point if you were to say that I forget that I am old.”
She laughed. It was a soft, musical laugh that strangely stilled the
tumult in his breast.
“You are younger than Frederic,” she said. “Unless we do something to
prevent it, your son will be an old man before he is thirty. Don't send
him away now, James. Let me have him for a while. I mean it, dear. He is
a lonely boy, and I know what it is to be lonely.”
“You?” he cried. “Why, you've never known anything but----”
“One can be lonely even in the heart of a throng,” she said cryptically.
“No, James, I will not have him sent away.”
He resented the imputation. “Why do you say that I am sending him away?”
“Because you are,” she replied boldly.
He was silent for a moment. “We will leave it to Frederic,” he said.
Her face brightened. “That is all I ask. He will stay.”
There was another pause. “You two have become very good friends,
Yvonne.”
“He is devoted to me.”
“Don't spoil him in making him over,” he said dryly.
She blew cigarette--smoke in his face and laughed. There was a knock at
the door.
“Come in!” she called.
Frederic entered.