Читать книгу Black is White - George Barr McCutcheon - Страница 7

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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. The eager, excited gleam vanished from Mrs Brood's lovely eyes. They narrowed slightly.

“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 herself.

“Is there a reason why he should dislike his son?” asked the other, regarding her fixedly.

“Of course not,” cried poor Lydia.

There was a moment of silence.

“Some day, Lydia, you will tell me about Mr Brood's other wife.”

“She died many years ago,” said the girl evasively.

“I know,” said Mrs Brood. “Still, I should like to hear more of the woman he could not forget in all those years—until he met me.”

She grew silent and preoccupied, a slight frown marking her forehead as she resumed her examination of the room and its contents.

It is quite impossible adequately to describe the place in which the two women met for the first time. Suffice to say, it was long, narrow, and, being next below the roof, low-ceilinged. The walls were hung with rich, unusual tapestries whose subdued tones seemed to lure one back to the undimmed glory of Solomon's days, to the even more remote realms of those gods and goddesses on whom our fancy thrives despite the myths they were.

Silks of a weight and lustre that taxed credulity; golden threads interweaving gems of the purest ray; fringe and galloons with the solemn waste of ages in their thin, lovely sheen; over all the soft radiance of an Arabian Night and the gentle touch of a Scheherazade. Here hung transported the fabulous splendours of Ind, the shimmering treasures of Ming, and the loot of the Forty Thieves.

The ceiling, for want of a better name, was no less than a canopy constructed out of a single rug of enormous dimensions and incalculable value, gleaming with the soft colours of the rainbow, shedding a serene iridescence over the entire room to shame the light of day.

The furniture, the trappings, the ornaments throughout were of a most unusual character. A distinctly regal atmosphere prevailed. No article there but had come from the palace of a ruler in the East, from the massive gold and lacquered table to the tiniest piece of bronze or the lowliest hassock. Chairs that had served as thrones, chests that had contained the treasures of potentates, robes that had covered the bodies of kings and queens, couches on which had nestled the favourites of sultans, screens and mirrors that had reflected the jewels of an empire—all were here to feed the senses with dreams imperial.

Great lanterns hung suspended beside the shrine at the end of the room, but were now unlighted. On the table at which Brood professed to work stood a huge lamp with a lacelike screen of gold. When lighted, a soft, mellow glow oozed through the shade to create a circle of golden brilliance over a radius that extended but little beyond the edge of the table, yet reached to the benign countenance of Buddha close by.

Over all this fairylike splendour reigned the serene, melting influence of the god to whom James Brood was wont to confess himself. The spell of the golden image dominated everything.

In the midst of this magnificence moved the two women—one absurdly out of touch with her surroundings, yet a thing of beauty; the other blending intimately with the warm tones that enveloped her. She was lithe, sinuous, with the grace of the most seductive of dancers. Her dark eyes reflected the mysteries of the Orient; her pale, smooth skin shone with the clearness of alabaster; the crimson in her lips was like the fresh stain of blood; the very fragrance of her person seemed to steal out of the unknown. She was a part of the marvellous setting, a gem among gems.

She had attired herself in a dull Indian-red afternoon gown of chiffon. The very fabric seemed to cling to her supple body with a sensuous joy of contact. Even Lydia, who watched her with appraising eyes, experienced a swift, unaccountable desire to hold this intoxicating creature close to her own body.

There were two windows in the room, broad openings that ran from near the floor almost to the edge of the canopy. They were so heavily curtained that the light of day failed to penetrate to the interior of the apartment. Mrs Brood approached one of these windows. Drawing the curtains apart, she let in an ugly gray light from the outside world. The illusion was spoiled at once.

“How cold and pallid the world really is!” she cried, a shiver passing over her slim body.

The sky above the housetops was bleak and drab in the waning light of late afternoon. Over the summits of loft-buildings to the south and west hung the smoke from the river beyond, smudgy clouds that neither drifted nor settled.

She looked down into a sort of courtyard and garden that might have been transplanted from distant Araby. Uttering an exclamation of wonder, she turned to Lydia.

“Is this New York or am I bewitched?”

“Mr Brood transformed the old carriage yard into a—I think Mr Dawes calls it a Persian garden. It is rather bleak in winter-time, Mrs Brood, but in the summer it is really enchanting. See, across the court on the second floor, where the windows are lighted, those are your rooms. It is an enormous house, you'll find. Do you see the little balcony outside your windows, and the vines creeping up to it? You can't imagine how sweet it is of a summer night with the moon and stars——”

“But how desolate it looks to-day, with the dead vines and the colourless stones! Ugh!”

She dropped the curtains. The soft, warm glow of the room came back, and she sighed with relief.

“I hate things that are dead,” she said.

At the sound of a soft tread and the gentle rustle of draperies, they turned. Ranjab, the Hindu, was crossing the room toward the small door which gave entrance to his closet. He paused for an instant before the image of Buddha, but did not drop to his knees, as all devout Buddhists do. Mrs Brood's hand fell lightly upon Lydia's arm. The man turned toward them a second or two later.

His dark, handsome face was hard set and emotionless as he bowed low to the new mistress of the house. The fingers closed tightly on Lydia's arm. Then he smiled upon the girl, a glad smile of devotion. His swarthy face was transfigured. A moment later he unlocked his door and passed into the other room. The key turned in the lock with a slight rasp.

“I do not like that man,” said Mrs Brood. Her voice was low and her eyes were fixed steadily on the closed door.