A fortnight passed. Yvonne held the destiny of three persons in her hand. They were like figures on a chess-board, and she moved them with the sureness, the unerring instinct of any skilled disciple of the philosopher's game. They were puppets; she ranged them about her stage in swift-changing pictures, and applauded her own effectiveness. There were no rehearsals. The play was going on all the time, whether tragedy, comedy, or chess.

Brood's uneasiness increased. His moody eyes were seldom lifted to meet the question that he knew lurked in hers. She had given him a tremendous shock. There was seldom a moment in which he was not making strange inquiries of himself.

Was it possible that she had spoken the truth about him? Could such a condition of mind exist without his knowledge? Was this love he professed to feel for her but the flame springing into life from those despised embers of long ago? Was it true that his inner self, his subconscious being, recognised no other claim to his love than the one held so insecurely by its original possessor? Was it true that his soul went back to her the instant slumber came to close up the gap of years?

This strange, new wife of his had uttered amazing words; she had spoken without rancour; she had called his dreams to life; she had told him how he lived while asleep!

He arose in the mornings, haggard from lack of reposeful sleep. In a way, he slept with one ear open, constantly striving to catch himself with the dream-name on his lips. He would awake with a start many times in the night, and always there seemed to be the vague, ghostlike whisper of a name dying away in the stillness that greeted his return to wakefulness.

Now he confessed to himself that his dreams were of Matilde, as they had been during all the years. Heretofore they had been mere impressions upon his intelligence, and seldom remembered. They did not represent pictures or incidents in which she appeared as a potent factor, but brief monodies, with her name as the single note, her face a passing, yet impressive, vision. He had not realised how frequent, how real these dreams were until now.

He sometimes lay perfectly still after these awakenings, wondering if Yvonne was listening at his closed door, straining his ears for the sound of a creaking board that would betray her presence as she stole back to her own bed.

What surprised and puzzled him most was her serenity in the face of these involuntary revelations. She did not appear to be disturbed by the fact that his dreams, his most secret thoughts, were of another woman. There was nothing in her manner to indicate that she suffered any of the pangs of jealousy, humiliation, dismay, or doubt that might reasonably have been expected under the circumstances. She seemed to put the matter entirely out of her mind as trivial, unimportant, unvexing. He found himself wondering what his own state of mind would be if the conditions were reversed and it was she who cried out in her sleep.

Frederic was alert, shifty, secretive. He knew himself to be the link in the chain that would offer the least resistance of any if it came to the question of endurance. He realised that the slightest tug at the chain would cause it to snap, and that the break would never be repaired. His stepmother for the present fortified the weak spot in the chain; but would her strength be sufficient to support the strain that was to be imposed upon both links in the end?

He watched her like a hawk, ever on the lookout for the slightest signs of commendation, reproof, warning, encouragement. She alone stood between him and what appeared to be the inevitable. The truce was a mask that hid none of the real features of the situation. When would it be discarded?

After that illuminating hour in her boudoir he saw himself in a far from noble position. The situation was no longer indefinite. He had taken a step that could not be recalled. His loyalty to Lydia had been tested, and the sickening truth came out—he was a traitor! He knew in his soul that he loved the girl. His conscience told him so. But his conscience suddenly had become an elastic thing that stretched over a pretty wide scope of emotions. These he tried to analyse and, failing to do so with credit to himself, settled back into a state of apathy better described as sullen self-pity. He even went so far as to blame his father for the new blight that had been put upon him.

Of the three, Lydia alone faced the situation with courage. She was young, she was good, she was inexperienced, but she saw what was going on beneath the surface with a clarity of vision that would have surprised an older and more practised person; and, seeing, was favoured with the strength to endure pain that otherwise would have been insupportable.

She knew that Frederic was infatuated. She did not try to hide the truth from herself. The boy she loved was slipping away from her, and only chance could set his feet back in the old path from which he blindly strayed. Her woman's heart told her that it was not love he felt for Yvonne. The strange mentor that guides her sex out of the ignorance of youth into an understanding of hitherto unpresented questions revealed to her the nature of his feeling for this woman.

He would come back to her in time, she knew, chastened; the same instinct that revealed his frailties to her also defended his sense of honour. The unthinkable could never happen!

She judged Yvonne, too, in a spirit of fairness that was amazing, considering the lack of perspective that must have been hers to contend with. Despite a natural feeling of antagonism, present even before she saw the new wife of James Brood, and long before her influence affected Brood's son, Lydia found herself confronted by a curious faith in Yvonne's goodness of heart. It never entered the girl's mind to question the honour of this woman—no more than she would have questioned her own.

Vanity, love of admiration, the inherent fear of retrogression, greed for attention—any one of these might have been responsible for her conduct covering the past three months. There was certainly a reckless disregard for consequences on her part so far as others—notably Frederic—were concerned. She could not be blind to his plight, and yet it was her pleasure to drag him out beyond his depth where he might struggle or drown while she, sirenlike, looked on for the moment and then turned calmly to the more serious business of combing her hair.

Her mother saw the suffering in the girl's eyes, but saw also the proud spirit that would have resented sympathy from one even so close as she. Down in the heart of that quiet, reserved mother smouldered a hatred for Yvonne Brood that would have stopped at nothing had it been in her power to inflict punishment for the wrong that was being done. She, too, saw tragedy ahead, but her vision was broader than Lydia's. It included the figure of James Brood.

Lydia worked steadily, almost doggedly, at the task she had undertaken to complete for the elder Brood. Every afternoon found her seated at the desk in the study opposite the stern-faced man who laboured with her over the seemingly endless story of his life. Something told her that there were secret chapters which she was not to write. She wrote those that were to endure; the others were to die with him.

He watched her as she wrote, and his eyes were often hard. He saw the growing haggardness in her gentle, girlish face; the wistful, puzzled expression in her dark eyes. A note of tenderness crept into his voice and remained there through all the hours they spent together. The old-time brusqueness disappeared from his speech; the sharp, authoritative tone was gone. He watched her with pity in his heart, for he knew it was ordained that one day he, too, was to hurt this loyal, pure-hearted creature even as the others were wounding her now.

He frequently went out of his way to perform quaint little acts of courtesy and kindness that would have surprised him only a short time before. He sent theatre and opera tickets to Lydia and her mother. He placed bouquets of flowers at the girl's end of the desk, obviously for her alone. He sent her home—just around the corner—in the automobile on rainy or blizzardy days.

But he never allowed her an instant's rest when it came to the work in hand, and therein lay the gentle shrewdness of the man. She was better off busy. There were times when he studied the face of Lydia's mother for signs that might show how her thoughts ran in relation to the conditions that were confronting all of them. But more often he searched the features of the boy who called him father.

Not one of them knew that there were solemn hours in all the days when Yvonne sat shivering in her room and stared, dry-eyed and bleak, at the walls which surrounded her, seeing not them, but something far beyond. Often she sat before her long cheval-glass, either with lowering eyes or in a sort of wistful wonder, never removing her steady gaze from the face reflected there. There were other times when she stood before the striking photograph of her husband on the dressing-table, studying the face through narrowed lids, as if she searched for something that baffled, yet impressed her.

Always, always there was music in the house. Behind the closed doors of his distant study James Brood listened in spite of himself to the persistent thrumming of the piano downstairs. Always were the airs light and seductive; the dreamy, plaintive compositions of Strauss, Ziehrer, and others of their kind and place.

Frederic, with uncanny fidelity to the preferences of the mother he had never seen, but whose influence directed him, affected the same general class of music that had appealed to her moods and temperament. Times there were, and often, when he played the very airs that she had loved, and then, despite his profound antipathy, James Brood's thoughts leaped back a quarter of a century and fixed themselves on love-scenes and love-times that would not be denied.

And again there were the wild, riotous airs that she had played with Feverelli, her soft-eyed music-master! Accursed airs—accursed and accusing!

He gave orders that these airs were not to be played, but failed to make his command convincing for the reason that he could not bring himself to the point of explaining why they were distasteful to him. When Frederic thoughtlessly whistled or hummed fragments of those proscribed airs he considered himself justified in commanding him to stop on the pretext that they were disturbing, but he could not use the same excuse for checking the song on the lips of his gay and impulsive wife. Sometimes he wondered why she persisted when she knew that he was annoyed. Her airy little apologies for her forgetfulness were of no consequence, for within the hour her memory was almost sure to be at fault again.

Mr Dawes fell ill. He ventured out one day when the winds of March were fierce and sharp, and, being an adventurer, caught the most dangerous sort of a cold. He came in shivering and considerably annoyed because Jones or Ranjab or some other incompetent servant had failed to advise him to wear an overcoat and galoshes. To his surprise Mrs Brood ordered a huge, hot drink of whisky and commanded him to drink it—“like a good boy.” Then she had him stowed away in bed with loads of blankets about him.

Just before dinner she came up to see him. He was still shivering. So was Mr Riggs, for that matter, but Mr Riggs failed to shiver convincingly and did not receive the treatment he desired. Their unexpected visitor felt the pulse and forehead of the sick man, uttered a husky little cry of dismay, and announced that he had a fever. Whereupon Mr Dawes said, rather shamefacedly, that he would be all right in the morning and that it was nothing at all.

“We will have the doctor at once, Mr Dawes,” said she, and instructed Mr Riggs to call Jones.

“I don't want a doctor,” said Mr Dawes stoutly.

“I know you don't,” said she, with her rarest smile; “but I do, you see.”

“They're no good,” said Mr Dawes.

“Better have one,” advised Mr Riggs with sudden solemnity.

“Never had one in my life,” said Mr Dawes. “Don't believe in 'em. I'll take a couple of stiff drinks before I go to bed and———”

“But you've gone to bed, you old dear,” cried she, stroking his burning hand gently.

He was too astonished to say a word.

“Jumping Jees——” began Mr Riggs, completely staggered. “I mean, what doctor, Mrs Brood?”

“Jones will know. Now, Mr Dawes, you must do just as I tell you to do. You are nothing but a child, you know. If———”

“Hey, Joe!” called out the sick man desperately, but his comrade was gone. “Don't let him call a—doctor, Mrs Brood; please don't!” he implored.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, holding his hand between her soft, cool palms, and smiled at him so tenderly that he stared for a moment in utter bewilderment and then gulped mightily. “Hush!” she said.

“I—I don't want to be sick here, bothering you and upsetting everything———” he blubbered.

“We will have you up and about in a day or two,” she said.

“But it's such an infernal nuisance. You oughtn't to be sitting here, either. It may be catching.”

“Nonsense! I'm not afraid.”

“It's—it's mighty good of you,” he muttered, his eyes blinking.

“What are friends for, Mr Dawes, if they can't be depended upon in times of sickness?”

“Friends?” he gasped.

“Certainly. Am I not your friend?”

“I—I—well, by gosh!” he exploded. “I—I must tell this to Joe. He'll—I beg your pardon, I guess I'm a little flighty. Maybe I'm worse than I think. Delirious or something like that. Say, you don't think it's—it's serious, do you?”

“Of course not. A heavy cold, that's all. The doctor will break it up immediately.”

“Maybe it's the grippe, eh?”

“Possibly.”

“What's my temperature?”

“You mustn't worry, Mr Dawes. It's all right.”

He was silent for a moment, steadfastly regarding the hand that stroked his wrinkled old paw so gently.

“If—if it should turn out to be pneumonia or lung fever, I wish you wouldn't let on to Joe,” said he anxiously. “It would worry him almost to death. He's not very strong, you see. Nothing like me. I'm as strong as a bull. Never been sick in my———”

“I know,” she said quietly. “He isn't half so strong as you, Mr Dawes. You are so strong you will be able to throw off this cold in a jiffy, as Jones would say. It won't amount to anything.”

“If I get much worse you'd better send me to a hospital. Awful nuisance having a sick man about the place. Spoils everything. Don't hesitate about sending me off, Mrs Brood. I wouldn't be a trouble to you or Jim for———”

“You poor old dear! You shall stay right where you are, no matter what comes to pass, and I shall take charge of you myself.”

“You?” She nodded her head briskly. “Well, by jiggers, I—I don't know what Joe'll say when I tell him this. Blast him; I'll bet my head he calls me a liar. If he does, blast him, I'll—oh, I beg your pardon! I don't seem to be able to get over the habit of———”

“Here is Mr Riggs—and my husband,” she interrupted, as the door opened and the two men strode into the room. “Is Jones telephoning?”

“Yes,” said Brood. “Why, what's gone wrong, old man?”

“It's all my fault,” groaned Mr Riggs, sitting down heavily on the opposite side of the bed. “I let him go out without his overcoat. He's not a strong man, Jim. Least breath of air goes right through——”

“See here, Riggs, you know better than that,” roared the sick man wrathfully. “I can stand more———”

“There, there!” cried Mrs Brood reprovingly. “It isn't fair to quarrel with Mr Riggs. He can't very well abuse you in return, Mr Dawes, can he?”

“You may be on your death-bed,” said Mr Riggs mournfully, as if that were reason enough for not abusing him.

“Nonsense,” said Brood; but it was an anxious look that he shot at Yvonne. Mr Dawes's face was fiery hot.

“I shall come back to see you immediately after dinner, Mr Dawes,” said she, and again stroked his hand.

The two old men stared after her rather blankly as she left the room. They couldn't believe their ears.

“She says she'll look after me herself,” murmured Mr Dawes hazily. Mr Riggs tucked the covers about his chin. “Don't do that, Joe! Leave things alone, darn you. She fixed 'em as they ought to be.” Mr Riggs obediently undid his work. “That's right. Now don't you do anything without askin' her, d'ye hear?”

“I was only trying to make you———”

“Well, don't do it. Leave everything to her.” The upshot of it all was that Mr Dawes came near to dying. Pneumonia set in at once, and for many days he fought what appeared to be a losing fight. Then came the splendid days of convalescence, the happiest days of his life. The amazing Mrs Brood did “look after him.” Nurses there were, of course, and doctors in consultation, but it was the much-berated mistress of the house who “pulled him through,” as he afterward and always declared in acrimonious disputes with Mr Riggs who, while secretly blessing the wife of Brood, could not be driven into an open admission that she had done “anything more than anybody else would have done under the circumstances,”—and not “half as much, for that matter, as he could have done had he been given a chance.”

It may be well to observe here that Mr Riggs was of no earthly use whatever during the trying days. Indeed, he gave up hope the instant the doctor said “pneumonia,” and went about the house saying “My God” to himself and everybody else in sepulchral whispers, all the while urging Heaven to “please do something.” He was too pathetic for words.

A new and totally unsuspected element in Yvonne's make-up came to light at this troublous period. She forsook many pleasures, many comforts in her eagerness to help the suffering old man who, she must have known, in his heart had long despised her. She did not interfere with the nurses, yet made herself so indispensable to old Mr Dawes in the capacity of “visiting angel” that his heart overflowed with gratitude and love. Even when death hung directly above his almost sightless eyes he saw her smile of encouragement in the shadows, and his spirit responded with what might justly have been called the battle-cry of life.

To Brood this new side to Yvonne's far from understandable character was most gratifying. Seeing her in the rÔle of good Samaritan was not so surprising to him as the real, unaffected sincerity with which she ministered to the wants of the querulous old man.

Even the nurses, habitually opposed to the good offices of “the family,” were won over by this woman whose unparalleled sweetness levelled them into a condition of respect and love that surprised not only themselves but the doctors. They were quite docile from the start, and seldom, if ever, spoke of Mr Dawes as “the patient” or of his state as “the case.” They got into the habit of alluding to him as the “dear old man,” and somehow envied each other the hours “on duty.” They were never sour.

And so, when it came time for Mr Dawes to thank the Lord for his escape, he refused to commit himself to anything so ridiculous! He even went so far as to declare that the doctor had nothing to do with it, a statement which rather staggered the nurses.

For hours Yvonne read to the blissful old chap. Sometimes she read to him in French, again in Russian, and occasionally in German. It was all one to him. He did not understand a word of it, but he was happy. He felt surprisingly young.

She gave up a month to him and he was prepared to give up his life to her. To his utter amazement, however, she did not exact anything so valuable as that. Indeed, when his recovery was quite complete, she calmly forgot his existence and he sank back into the oblivion from which calamity had dragged him; sank back to the unhappy level of Mr Riggs and all the others who failed to interest her; and there he dreamed of exalted days when she wanted him to live, contrasting them with these days in which he might just as well be dead for all she seemed to care! He was one of the “old men” again.

Mr Riggs, writhing with jealousy, repeatedly remarked, “I told you so,” and somehow felt revenged for the insolent orders she had given to Jones, depriving him of the right to even approach the door of the room in which his lifelong friend was dying. It had been a hard week for Mr Riggs. He hated her as he had never hated anyone in his life before. And yet he thanked God for her, and would have died for her! Nothing, nothing in the world would have given him more pleasure than to be critically ill for her!