A certain element of gaiety invaded the staid old house in these
days. The new mistress was full of life and the joy of living. She was
accustomed to adulation, she was used to the tumult of society. Her
life, since she left the convent school, evidently had been one in which
rest, except physical, was unknown.
Yvonne Lestrange, in a way, had been born to purple and fine linen. She
had never known deprivation of any description. Neither money, position,
nor love had been denied her during the few years in which her charm and
beauty had flashed across the great European capitals, penetrating even
to the recesses of royal courts.
It is doubtful if James Brood knew very much concerning her family when
he proposed marriage to her, but it is certain that he did not care. He
first saw her at the home of a British nobleman, but did not meet her.
Something in the vivid, brilliant face of the woman made a deep and
lasting impression on him. There was an instant when their eyes met
through an opening in the throng which separated them. He was not only
conscious of the fact that he was staring at her, but that she was
looking at him in a curiously penetrating way.
There was a mocking smile on her lips at the time. He saw it fade away,
even as the crowd came between. He knew that the smile had not been
intended for him, but for someone of the eager cavaliers who surrounded
her, and yet there was something singularly direct in the look she gave
him.
Later on he made inquiries of his host, with whom he had hunted big game
in Africa, and learned that she was a guest in the home of the Russian
ambassador. He did not see her again until they met in the south of
France a few months later. On this occasion they were guests at the same
house, and he took her into dinner. He had not forgotten her, and it
gratified him immensely to discover that she remembered him.
That single glance in the duke's house proved to be a fatal one for
both. They were married inside of a month. The virile, confident
American had conquered where countless suppliants of a more or less
noble character had gone down to defeat.
He asked but one question of her; she asked none of him. The fact that
she was the intimate friend and associate of the woman in whose home he
met her was sufficient proof of her standing in society, although that
would have counted for little so far as Brood was concerned.
She was the daughter of a baron; she had spent much of her life in
Paris, coming from St Petersburg when a young girl; and she was an
orphan with an independent fortune of her own.
Her home in Paris, where she had lived with some degree of permanence
for the past four or five years, was shared with an estimable, though
impoverished, lady of rank, the Countess de Rochambert, of middle age
and undeniable qualifications as a chaperon, even among those who are
prone to laugh at locksmiths. Such common details as these came to Brood
in the natural way and were not derived from any effort on his part to
secure information concerning Mlle Lestrange. Like the burned child, he
asked a question which harked back to an unforgotten pain.
“Have you ever loved a man deeply, devotedly, Yvonne--so deeply that
there is pain in the thought of him?”
She replied without hesitation.
“There is no such man, James. You may be sure of that.”
“I am confident that I can hold your love against the future, but no man
is vital enough to compete with the past. Love doesn't really die, you
know. If a man cannot hold a woman's love against all new-comers, he
deserves to lose it. It doesn't follow, however, that he can protect
himself against the man who appears out of the past and claims his own.”
“You speak as though the past had played you an evil trick,” she said.
He did not mince words.
“Years ago a man came out of the past and took from me the woman I loved
and cherished.”
“Your--your wife?” she asked in a voice suddenly lowered.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
She was silent for a long time.
“I wonder at your courage in taking the risk again,” she said.
“I think I wonder at it myself,” said he. “No, I am not afraid,” he went
on, as if convincing himself that there was no risk. “I shall make you
love me to the end, Yvonne. I am not afraid. But why do you not ask me
for all the wretched story?”
“It is not unlike all stories of its kind, my dear,” she said with an
indifference that amazed him. “They are all alike. Why should I ask?
The wife takes up with an old lover; she deceives her husband; the world
either does or does not find out about it; the home is wrecked; the
husband takes to drink; the wife pretends she is happy; the lover
takes to women; and the world goes on just the same in spite of them.
Sometimes the husband kills. It is of no moment. Sometimes the wife
destroys herself. It is a trifle. The whole business is like the
magazine story that is for ever being continued in our next. No, I do
not ask you for your story, James. Some time you may tell me, but not
to-day. I shouldn't mind hearing it if it were an original tale, but God
knows it isn't. It's as old as the Nile. But you may tell me more about
your son. Is he like you, or like his mother?”
Brood's lips were compressed.
“I can't say that he is like either of us,” he said shortly.
She raised her eyebrows slightly.
“Ah,” she said. “That makes quite a difference. Perhaps, after all,
I shall be interested in the story.” Her manner was so casual, so
serenely, matter-of-fact, that he could hardly restrain the sharp
exclamation of annoyance that rose to his lips.
He bit his lip and allowed the frank insinuation to go unanswered. He
consoled himself with the thought that she must have spoken in jest
without intention. He had the uncomfortable feeling that she would make
light of his story, too, when the time came for revelations. A curious
doubt took root in his mind: Would he ever be able to understand the
nature of this woman whom he loved and who appeared to love him so
unreservedly? As time went on the doubt became a conviction. She proved
to be utterly beyond Brood's comprehension.
The charm and beauty of the new mistress of James Brood's heart and home
was to become the talk of the town. Already, in the first month of her
reign, she had drawn to the old house the attention not only of the
parasites who feed on novelty, but of families that had long since given
up Brood as a representative figure in the circle into which he had been
born.
He had dropped out of their lives so completely in the passing years
that no one took the trouble to interest himself in the man's affairs.
His self-effacement had been complete. The story of his ill-fated
marriage was an almost forgotten page in the history of the town.
Old friends now cudgelled their brains to recall the details of the
break between him and the first Mrs Brood, who, they were bound to
remember, was also beautiful, fascinating, and an adornment to the
rather exclusive circle in which they moved. No one could point to the
real cause of the separation, however, for the excellent reason that the
true conditions were never revealed to anyone outside the four walls of
the house from which she was banished.
Memory merely brought to mind the fact that the young husband became a
wanderer on the face of the earth, and that his once joyous face was an
almost forgotten object.
Brood, in the full pride of possession, awoke to the astounding
realisation that he wanted people to envy him this wonderful creature.
He wanted men to covet her! He longed to have the world see her at
his side, and to feel that the world was saying: “She belongs to James
Brood.”
It was not the cheap, ordinary New York society, the insufferably rich
and vulgar of the metropolis that he sought to conquer, but the fine old
families with whom rests the real verdict. He knew that those families
were not many in these days of haste and waste, but he also knew that
the rush of frivolity had not weakened their position. Their word was
still the law. Serenely confident, he revealed his wife to the few, and
waited.
It cannot be said that she conquered, for that would be to imply design
on her part. Possibly she considered the game unworthy of the effort.
For, in truth, Yvonne Brood despised Americans. She made small pretence
of liking them. The rather closely knit circle of Parisian aristocracy
which she affected is known to tolerate, but not to invite, the society
of even the best of Americans.
She was no larger than her environment. Her views upon and her attitude
toward the Americans were not created by her but for her. The fact that
James Brood had reached the inner shrine of French self-worship no doubt
put him in a class apart from all other Americans, so far as she was
concerned. At least it may account for an apparent inconsistency, in
that she married him without much hesitation.
She welcomed the admiration and attention of the friends he brought to
the house by one means or another during the first few weeks. If she was
surprised to find them cultured, clever, agreeable specimens, she failed
to mention the discovery to him. They amused her and therefore served a
purpose. She charmed them in exchange for the tribute they paid to her.
Those whom she liked the least she took no pains to please; in fact, she
endured them so politely that while they may have secretly resented her
indifference, they could do no less than openly profess admiration for
her. She offended no one, yet she managed with amazing adroitness to
rid herself of the bores. It happened, however, that the so-called bores
were the very people that Brood particularly wanted her to cultivate.
She found them stupid, but respectable.
They were for ever telling her that she would like New York when she got
used to it.
Her warmest friend and admirer--one might almost say slave--was Frederic
Brood. She had transformed him. He was no longer the silent, moody youth
of other days, but an eager, impetuous playmate, whose principal object
in life was to amuse her. If anyone had tried to convince him that
he could have regarded Mrs Desmond's dethronement and departure with
equanimity he would have protested with all the force at his command.
But that would have been a month ago!
When the time came for his old friend to leave the house over which she
had presided for ten of the gentlest years of his life, his heart was
sore and his throat was tight with pain, but he accepted the inevitable
with a resignation that once would have been impossible.
From the outset he realised that Mrs Desmond would have to go. At first
he rebelled within himself against the unspoken edict. Afterward he was
surprised to find that he regarded himself as selfish in even wishing
that she might stay, when it was so palpably evident that the situation
could not long remain pleasant for either Mrs Desmond or Mrs Brood. He
saw Lydia and her mother leave without the slightest doubt in his mind
that it was all for the best.
The Desmonds took a small apartment just around the corner from Brood's
home, in a side street, and in the same block. Their windows looked down
into the courtyard in the rear of Brood's home. Frederic assisted them
in putting their new home in order. It was great fun for Lydia and him,
this building of what they were pleased to call “a nest.”
Lydia may have seen the cloud in their sky, but he did not. To him the
world was bright and gladsome, without a shadow to mar its new beauty.
He was enthusiastic, eager, excited. She fell in with his spirit, but
her pleasure was shorn of some of its keenness by the odd notion that it
was not to endure.
He even dragged Yvonne around to the little flat to expatiate upon its
cosiness with visual proof to support his somewhat exaggerated claims.
Her lazy eyes took in the apartment at a glance and she was done with
it.
“It is very charming,” she said with her soft drawl. “Have you no
cigarettes, Lydia?”
The girl flushed and looked to Frederic for relief. He promptly produced
his own cigarettes. Yvonne lighted one and then stretched herself in the
Morris chair.
“You should learn to smoke,” she went on.
“Mother wouldn't like me to smoke,” said Lydia rather bluntly.
A faint frown appeared on Frederic's brow, only to disappear with
Yvonne's low, infectious laugh.
“And Freddy doesn't like you to smoke either, _aïe?_” she said.
“He may have changed his mind recently, Mrs Brood,” said the girl,
smiling so frankly that the edge was taken off of a rather direct
implication.
“I don't mind women smoking,” put in Frederic hastily. “In fact,
I rather like it, the way Yvonne does it. It's a very graceful
accomplishment.”
“But I am too clumsy to----” began Lydia.
“My dear,” interrupted the Parisienne, carelessly flicking the ash into
a _jardinière_ at her elbow, “it is very naughty to smoke, and clumsy
women never should be naughty. If you really feel clumsy, don't, for my
sake, ever try to do anything wicked. There is nothing so distressing as
an awkward woman trying to be devilish.”
“Oh, Lydia couldn't be devilish if she tried!” cried Frederic, with a
quick glance at the girl's half-averted face.
“Don't say that, Frederic,” she cried. “That's as much as to say that I
_am_ clumsy and awkward.”
“And you are not,” said Yvonne decisively. “You are very pretty and
graceful and adorable, and I am sure you could be very wicked if you set
about to do it.”
“Thank you,” said Lydia dryly.
“By the way, this window looks almost directly down into our courtyard,”
said Yvonne abruptly. She was leaning on her elbow, looking out upon the
housetops below. “There is my balcony, Freddy. And one can almost look
into your father's lair from where I sit.”
She drew back from the window suddenly, a passing look of fear in her
eyes. It was gone in a second, and would have passed unnoticed but
for the fact that Frederic was, as usual, watching her face with rapt
interest. He caught the curious transition and involuntarily glanced
below.
The heavy curtains in the window of his father's retreat were
drawn apart, and the dark face of Ranjab, the Hindu, was plainly
distinguishable.
He was looking up at the window in which Mrs Brood was sitting. Although
Frederic was far above, he could see the gleaming white of the man's
eyes. The curtains fell quickly together and the gaunt, brown face was
gone.
An odd feeling of uneasiness came over the young man. It was the feeling
of one who suddenly realises that he is being spied upon. He could
not account for the faint chill that ran through his body, leaving him
strangely cold and drear.
What was the meaning of that intense scrutiny from his father's window?
Was Ranjab alone in the room? How did he happen to expose himself at
the very instant Yvonne appeared in the window above? These and other
questions raced through Frederic's puzzled brain. Out of them grew a
queer, almost uncanny feeling that the Hindu had called to her in the
still, mysterious voice of the East, and, although no sound had been
uttered, she had heard as plainly as if he actually had shouted to her
across the intervening space.
He recalled the tales of the old men, in which they spoke of the
unaccountable swiftness with which news leaped across the unpopulated
deserts, far in advance of any material means of transmission. Along the
reaches of the Nile and in the jungles of India, weird instances of the
astonishing projection of thought across vast spaces were constantly
being reported. There was magic in the air. News travelled faster than
the swiftest steed, even faster than the engines of man, into the most
remote places, and yet there was no visible, tangible force behind the
remarkable achievement.
His father had said more than once that the Hindu and the Egyptian
possessed the power to be in two distinct places at the same time. He
was wont to establish his theory by reciting the single instance of a
sick dragoman who had been left behind in a village on the edge of the
desert, with no means of crossing the vast stretch. And yet, when the
caravan reached its destination after a long but record-breaking
march, the man himself met them on the outskirts of the town with the
astonishing report that he was quite well and strong after a two weeks'
rest in his own house just inside of the city gates.
How he had passed them on the desert, and how he had reached his home a
fortnight ahead of them, was one of the greatest mysteries James Brood
had ever sought to unravel. The man's presence there created no surprise
among the native members of the caravan. To them it was a most ordinary
thing.
Again, in the depths of an Indian jungle Brood expressed the wish that
he had brought with him a certain rifle he had left at home. Not a man
left the camp, and yet at the end of the week a strange Hindu appeared
with the rifle, having traversed several hundred miles of practically
unexplored country in the time that would have been required to get the
message to Lahore by horse alone.
James Brood, a sensible man, was a firm believer in magic.
This much Frederic knew of Ranjab: if James Brood needed him, no matter
what the hour or the conditions, the man appeared before him as if out
of nowhere and in response to no audible summons.
Was there, then, between these two, the beautiful Yvonne and the silent
Hindu, a voiceless pact that defied the will or understanding of either?
He had not failed to note a tendency on her part to avoid the Hindu as
much as possible. She even confessed to an uncanny dread of the man, but
could not explain the feeling. Once she requested her husband to dismiss
the faithful fellow. When he demanded the reason, however, she could
only reply that she did not like the man and would feel happier if he
were sent away. Brood refused, and from that hour her fear of the Hindu
increased.
Now she was speaking in a nervous hurried manner to Lydia, her back
toward the window. In the middle of a sentence she suddenly got up from
the chair and moved swiftly to the opposite side of the room, where she
sat down again as far as possible from the window.
Frederic found himself watching her face with curious interest. All the
time she was speaking her eyes were fixed on the window. It was as
if she expected something to appear there. There was no mistaking
the expression. After studying her face in silence for a few minutes,
Frederic himself experienced an irresistible impulse to turn toward the
window. He half expected to see the Hindu's face there, looking in upon
them, a perfectly absurd notion when he remembered that they were at
least one hundred feet above the ground.
Presently she arose to go. No, she could not wait for Mrs Desmond's
return.
“It is charming here, Lydia,” she said, surveying the little
sitting-room with eyes that sought the window again and again in furtive
darts. “Frederic must bring me here often. We shall have cosy times
here, we three. It is so convenient, too, for you, my dear. You have
only to walk around the corner, and there you are--at your place of
business, as the men would say.”
Lydia was to continue as Brood's amanuensis. He would not listen to any
other arrangement.
“Oh, I do hope you will come, Mrs Brood!” cried the girl earnestly. “My
piano will be here to-morrow, and you shall hear Frederic play. He is
really wonderful.”
“I'm the rankest duffer going, Yvonne,” broke in Frederic, but his eyes
were alight with pleasure.
“You play?” asked Mrs Brood, regarding him rather fixedly.
“He disappears for hours at a time,” said Lydia, speaking for him, “and
comes home humming fragments from--oh, but I am not supposed to tell!
Forgive me, Frederic. Dear me! What have I done?” She was plainly
distressed.
“No harm in telling Yvonne,” said he, but uneasily. “You see, it's this
way: father doesn't like the idea of my going in for music. He is
really very much opposed to it. So I've been sort of stealing a march
on him--going up to a chum's apartment and banging away to my heart's
content. It's rather fun, too, doing it on the sly. Of course, if father
heard of it he'd--he'd--well, he'd be nasty about it, that's all.”
“Nasty?”
“He got rid of our own piano a long time ago, just because he doesn't
like music.”
“But he does like music,” said Yvonne, her voice a little huskier than
usual. “In Paris we attended the opera, the concerts. I am sure he likes
music.”
“I fancy it must have been my fault, then,” said Frederic wryly. “I was
pretty bad at it in those days.”
“He will not let you have a piano in the house?”
“I should say not!”
She gave them a queer little smile. “We shall see,” she said, and that
was all.
“I say, it would be great if you could get him to----”
“I am sure he would like Frederic's music now, Mrs Brood,” Lydia broke
in eagerly.
“What do you play--what do you like best, Frederic?” inquired Yvonne.
“Oh, those wonderful little Hungarian things most of all; the plaintive
little melodies----”
He stopped as she began to hum lightly the strains of one of Ziehrer's
jaunty waltzes.
“By Jove, how did you guess? Why, it's my favourite. I love it, Yvonne!”
“You shall play it for me--to-morrow, Lydia?”
“Yes. The piano will be here in the morning.”
“But how did you guess----”
“Never mind! I am a witch, _aïe?_ Come! I must be off now, Frederic.
There are people coming to have tea with me.”
As they descended in the elevator Frederic, unable to contain himself,
burst out rapturously:
“By Jove, Yvonne, it will be fun, coming over here every day or so for a
little music, won't it? I can't tell you how happy I shall be.”
“It is time you were happy,” said she, looking straight ahead, and many
days passed before he had an inkling of all that lay behind her remark.
As they entered the house Jones met them in the hall.
“Mr Brood telephoned that he would be late, madam. He is at the customs
office about the boxes.”
She paused at the foot of the stairs.
“How long has he been out, Jones?”
“Since two o'clock, madam. It is now half-past four.”
“There will be five or six in for tea, Jones. You may serve it in Mr
Brood's study.”
“Yes, madam.”
A look of surprise flitted across the butler's impassive face. For a
moment he had doubted his hearing.
“And ask Ranjab to put away Mr Brood's writing materials and
reference-books.”
“I shall attend to it myself, madam. Ranjab went out with Mr Brood.”
“Went out!” exclaimed Yvonne.
Frederic turned upon the butler.
“You must be mistaken, Jones,” he said sharply.
“I think not, sir. They went away together in the automobile. He has not
returned.”
A long look of wonder and perplexity passed between young Brood and his
stepmother.
She laughed suddenly and unnaturally. Without a word she started up the
stairs. He followed more slowly, his puzzled eyes fixed on the graceful
figure ahead. At the upper landing she stopped. Her hand grasped the
railing with rigid intensity.
Ranjab emerged from the shadows at the end of the hall. He bowed very
deeply.
“The master's books and papers 'ave been removed, madam. The study is in
order.”