“Is there anything wrong with my hair, Mr Brood?” asked Lydia, with a nervous little laugh.

They were in the study, and it was ten o'clock of a wet night in April. Of late he had required her to spend the evenings with him in a strenuous effort to complete the final chapters of the journal. The illness of Mr Dawes had interrupted the work, and he was now in a fever of impatience to make up for the lost time. He had declared his intention to go abroad with his wife as soon as the manuscript was completed. The editor of a magazine, a personal friend, had signified his willingness to edit the journal and to put it into shape for publication during the summer months, against Brood's return in the fall of the year.

The master of the house spared neither himself nor Lydia in these last few weeks. He wanted to clear up everything before he went away. Lydia's willingness to devote the extra hours to his enterprise would have pleased him vastly if he had not been afflicted by the same sense of unrest and uneasiness that made incessant labour a boon to her as well as to him.

Her query followed a long period of silence on his part. He had been suggesting alterations in her notes as she read them to him, and there were frequent lulls when she made the changes as directed. Without looking at him she felt, rather than knew, that he was regarding her fixedly from his position opposite. The scrutiny was disturbing to her. She hazarded the question for want of a better means of breaking the spell. Of late he had taken to watching her with moody interest. She knew that he was mentally commenting on the changes he could not help observing in her appearance and her manners. This intense, though perhaps unconscious, scrutiny annoyed her. Her face was flushed with embarrassment, her heart was beating with undue rapidity.

Brood started guiltily.

“Your hair?” he exclaimed. “Oh, I see. You women always feel that something is wrong with it. I was thinking of something else, however. Forgive my stupidity. We can't afford to waste time in thinking, you know, and I am a pretty bad offender. It's nearly half-past ten. We've been hard at it since eight o'clock. Time to knock off. I will walk around to your apartment with you, my dear. It looks like an all-night rain.”

He went up to the window and pulled the curtains aside. Her eyes followed him.

“It's such a short distance, Mr Brood,” she said. “I am not afraid to go alone.”

He was staring down into the court, his fingers grasping the curtains in a rigid grip. He did not reply.

There was a light in the windows opening out upon Yvonne's balcony.

“I fancy Frederic has come in from the concert,” he said slowly. “He will take you home, Lydia. You'd like that better, eh?”

He turned toward her, and she paused in the nervous collecting of her papers. His eyes were as hard as steel, his lips were set.

“Please don't ask Frederic to———” she began hurriedly.

“They must have left early,” he muttered, glancing at his watch. Returning to the table he struck the big, melodious gong a couple of sharp blows. For the first time in her recollection it sounded a jangling, discordant note, as of impatience.

She felt her heart sink; an oppressing sense of alarm came over her.

“Good night, Mr Brood. Don't think of coming home with———”

“Wait, Frederic will go with you.” It was a command. Ranjab appeared in the doorway. “Have Mrs Brood and Mr Frederic returned, Ranjab?”

“Yes, sahib. At ten o'clock.”

“If Mr Frederic is in his room, send him to me.”

“He is not in his room, sahib.”

The two, master and man, looked at each other steadily for a moment. Something passed between them.

“Tell him that Miss Desmond is ready to go home.”

“Yes, sahib.” The curtains fell.

“I prefer to go home alone, Mr Brood,” said Lydia, her eyes flashing. “Why did you send———”

“And why not?” he demanded harshly. She winced, and he was at once sorry. “Forgive me. I am tired and—a bit nervous. And you, too, are tired. You've been working too steadily at this miserable job, my dear child. Thank Heaven, it will soon be over. Pray sit down. Frederic will soon be here.”

“I am not tired,” she protested stubbornly. “I love the work. You don't know how proud I shall be when it comes out, and—and I realise that I helped in its making. No one has ever been in a position to tell the story of Tibet as you have told it, Mr Brood. Those chapters will make history. I———”

“Your poor father's share in those explorations is what really makes the work valuable, my dear. Without his notes and letters I should have been feeble indeed.” He looked at his watch. “They were at the concert, you know—the Hungarian orchestra. A recent importation, 'Tzigane's' music. Gipsies.” His sentences as well as his thoughts were staccato, disconnected.

Lydia turned very cold. She dreaded the scene that now seemed unavoidable. Frederic would come in response to his father's command, and then———

Someone began to play upon the piano downstairs. She knew, and he knew, that it was Frederic who played. For a long time they listened. The air, no doubt, was one he had heard during the evening, a soft, sensuous waltz that she had never heard before. The girl's eyes were upon Brood's face. It was like a graven image.

“God!” fell from his stiff lips. Suddenly he turned upon the girl. “Do you know what he is playing?”

“No,” she said, scarcely above a whisper.

“It was played in this house by its composer before Frederic was born. It was played here on the night of his birth, as it had been played many times before. It was written by a man named Feverelli. Have you heard of him?”

“Never,” she murmured, and shrank, frightened by the deathlike pallor in the man's face, by the strange calm in his voice. The gates were being opened at last! She saw the thing that was to stalk forth. She would have closed her ears against the revelations it carried. “Mother will be worried if I am not at home———”

“Guido Feverelli. An Italian born in Hungary. Budapest, that was his home, but he professed to be a gipsy. Yes, he wrote the devilish thing. He played it a thousand times in that room down——— And now Frederic plays it, after all these years. It is his heritage. God, how I hate the thing! Ranjab! Where is the fellow? He must stop the accursed thing. He———”

“Mr Brood! Mr Brood!” cried Lydia, appalled. She began to edge toward the door.

By a mighty effort Brood regained control of himself. He sank into a chair, motioning for her to remain. The music had ceased abruptly.

“He will be here in a moment,” said Brood. “Don't go.”

They waited, listening. Ranjab entered the room; so noiseless was his approach that neither heard his footsteps.

“Well?” demanded Brood, looking beyond.

“Master Frederic begs a few minutes' time, sahib. He is putting down on paper the music, so that he may not forget. He writes the notes, sahib. Madame assists.”

Brood's shoulders sagged. His head was bent, but his gaze never left the face of the Hindu.

“You may go, Ranjab,” he said slowly.

“Ten minutes he asks for, sahib, that is all.” The curtains fell behind him once more.

“So that he may not forget!” fell from Brood's lips. He was looking at the girl, but did not address his words to her. “So that he may not forget! So that I, too, may not forget!”

Suddenly he arose and confronted the serene image of the Buddha. For a full minute he stood there with his hands clasped, his lips moving as if in prayer. No sound came from them.

The girl remained transfixed, powerless to move. Not until he turned toward her and spoke was the spell broken. Then she came quickly to his side. He had pronounced her name.

“You are about to tell me something, Mr Brood,” she cried in great agitation. “I do not care to listen. I feel that it is something I should not know. Please let me go now. I———”

He laid his hands upon her shoulders, holding her off at arm's length.

“I am very fond of you, Lydia. I do not want to hurt you. Sooner would I have my tongue cut out than it should wound you by a single word. Yet I must speak. You love Frederic. Is not that true?”

She returned his gaze unwaveringly. Her face was very white.

“Yes, Mr Brood.”

“I have known it for some time, although I was the last to see. You love him, and you are just beginning to realise that he is not worthy.”

“Mr Brood!”

“Your eyes have been opened.” She stared, speechless. “My poor girl, he was born to prove that honest love is the rarest thing in all this world.”

“Oh, I beg of you, Mr Brood, don't———”

“It is better that we should talk it over. We have ten minutes. No doubt he has told you that he loves you. He is a lovable boy, he is the kind one must love. But it is not in his power to love nobly. He loves lightly as”—he hesitated, and then went on harshly—“as his father before him loved.”

Anger dulled her understanding; she did not grasp the full meaning of his declaration. Her honest heart rose to the defence of Frederic.

“Mr Brood, I do care for Frederic,” she flamed, standing very erect before him. “He is not himself, he has not been himself since she came here. Oh, I am fully aware of what I am saying. He is not to be blamed for this thing that has happened to him. No one is to blame. It had to be. I can wait, Mr Brood. Frederic loves me. I know he does. He will come back to me. You have no right to say that he loves lightly, ignobly. You do not know him as I know him. You have never tried to know him, never wanted to know him. You—oh, I beg your pardon, Mr Brood. I—I am forgetting myself.”

“I am afraid you do not understand yourself, Lydia,” said he levelly. “You are young, you are trusting. Your lesson will cost you a great deal, my dear.”

“You are mistaken. I do understand myself,” she said gravely. “May I speak plainly, Mr Brood?”

“Certainly. I intend to speak plainly to you.”

“Frederic loves me. He does not love Yvonne. He is fascinated, as I also am fascinated by her, and you, too, Mr Brood. The spell has fallen over all of us. Let me go on, please. You say that Frederic loves like his father before him. That is true. He loves but one woman. You love but one woman, and she is dead. You will always love her. Frederic is like you. He loves Yvonne as you do—oh, I know it hurts! She cast her spell over you, why not over him? Is he stronger than you? Is it strange that she should attract him as she attracted you? You glory in her beauty, her charm, her perfect loveliness, and yet you love—yes, love, Mr Brood—the woman who was Frederic's mother. Do I make my meaning plain? Well, so it is that Frederic loves me. I am content to wait. I know he loves me.”

Through all this Brood stared at her in sheer astonishment. He had no feeling of anger, no resentment, no thought of protest.

“You—you astound me, Lydia. Is this your own impression, or has it been suggested to you by—by another?”

“I am only agreeing with you when you say that he loves as his father loved before him—but not lightly. Ah, not lightly, Mr Brood.”

“You don't know what you are saying,” he muttered.

“Oh, yes, I do,” she cried earnestly. “You invite my opinion; I trust you will accept it for what it is worth. Before you utter another word against Frederic, let me remind you that I have known both of you for a long, long time. In all the years I have been in this house I have never known you to grant him a tender, loving word. My heart has ached for him. There have been times when I almost hated you. He feels your neglect, your harshness, your—your cruelty. He———”

“Cruelty!”

“It is nothing less. You do not like him. I cannot understand why you should treat him as you do. He shrinks from you. Is it right, Mr Brood, that a son should shrink from his father as a dog cringes at the voice of an unkind master? I might be able to understand your attitude toward him if your unkindness was of recent origin, but———”

“Recent origin?” he demanded quickly.

“If it had begun with the advent of Mrs Brood,” she explained frankly, undismayed by his scowl. “I do not understand all that has gone before. Is it surprising, Mr Brood, that your son finds it difficult to love you? Do you deserve———”

Brood stopped her with a gesture of his hand.

“The time has come for frankness on my part. You set me an example, Lydia. You have the courage of your father. For months I have had it in my mind to tell you the truth about Frederic, but my courage has always failed me. Perhaps I use the wrong word. It may be something very unlike cowardice that has held me back. I am going to put a direct question to you first of all, and I ask you to answer truthfully. Would you say that Frederic is like—that is, resembles his father?” He was leaning forward, his manner intense.

Lydia was surprised.

“What an odd thing to say! Of course he resembles his father. I have never seen a portrait of his mother, but———”

“You mean that he looks like me?” demanded Brood.

“Certainly. What do you mean?”

Brood laughed, a short, ugly laugh—and then fingered his chin nervously.

“He resembles his mother,” he said.

“When he is angry he is very much like you, Mr Brood. I have often wondered why he is unlike you at other times. Now I know. He is like his mother. She must have been lovely, gentle, patient———”

“Wait! Suppose I were to tell you that Frederic is not my son?”

“I should not believe you, Mr Brood,” she replied flatly. “What is it that you are trying to say to me?”

He turned away abruptly.

“I will not go on with it. The subject is closed. There is nothing to tell—at present.”

She placed herself in front of him, resolute and determined.

“I insist, Mr Brood. The time has come for you to be frank. You must tell me what you meant by that remark.”

“Has your mother never told you anything concerning my past life?” he demanded.

“What has my mother to do with your past life?” she inquired, suddenly afraid.

“I refer only to what she may have heard from your father. He knew more than any of them. I confided in him to a great extent. I had to unburden myself to someone. He was my best friend. It is not improbable that he repeated certain parts of my story to your mother.”

“She has told me that you—you were not happy, Mr Brood.”

“Is that all?”

“I—I think so.”

“Is that all?” he insisted.

“When I was a little girl I heard my father say to her that your life had been ruined by—well, that your marriage had turned out badly,” she confessed haltingly.

“What more did he say?”

“He said—I remember feeling terribly about it—he said you had driven your wife out of this very house.”

“Did he speak of another man?”

“Yes. Her music-master.”

“You were too young to know what that meant, eh?”

“I knew that you never saw her after—after she left this house.”

“Will you understand how horrible it all was if I say to you now that—Frederic is not my son?”

Her eyes filled with horror.

“How can you say such a thing, Mr Brood? He is your son. How can you say———”

“His father is the man who wrote the accursed waltz he has just been playing! Could there be anything more devilish than the conviction it carries? After all these years, he———”

“Stop, Mr Brood!”

“I am sorry if I hurt you, Lydia. You have asked me why I hate him. Need I say anything more?”

“You have only made me love him more than ever before. You cannot hurt me through Frederic.”

“I am sorry that it has come to such a pass as this. It is not right that you should be made to suffer, too.”

“I do not believe all that you have told me. He is your son. He is, Mr Brood.”

“I would to God I could believe that!” he cried in a voice of agony. “I would to God it were true!”

“You could believe it if you chose to believe your own eyes, your own heart.” She lowered her voice to a half whisper. “Does—does Frederic know? Does he know that his mother—oh, I can't believe it!”

“He does not know.”

“And you did drive her out of this house?” Brood did not answer. “You sent her away and and kept her boy, the boy who was nothing to you? Nothing!”

“I kept him,” he said, with a queer smile on his lips.

“All these years? He never knew his mother?”

“He has never heard her name spoken.”

“And she?”

“I only know that she is dead. She never saw him after—after that day.”

“And now, Mr Brood, may I ask why you have always intended to tell me this dreadful thing?” she demanded, her eyes gleaming with a fierce, accusing light.

He stared. “Doesn't—doesn't it put a different light on your estimate of him? Doesn't it convince you that he is not worthy of———”

“No! A thousand times no!” she cried. “I love him. If he were to ask me to be his wife tonight I would rejoice—oh, I would rejoice! Someone is coming. Let me say this to you, Mr Brood: you have brought Frederic up as a butcher fattens the calves and swine he prepares for slaughter. You are waiting for the hour to come when you can kill his very soul with the weapon you have held over him for so long, waiting, waiting, waiting! In God's name, what has he done that you should want to strike him down after all these years? It is in my heart to curse you, but somehow I feel that you are a curse to yourself. I will not say that I cannot understand how you feel about everything. You have suffered. I know you have, and I—I am sorry for you. And knowing how bitter life has been for you, I implore you to be merciful to him who is innocent.”

The man listened without the slightest change of expression. The lines seemed deeper about his eyes, that was all. But the eyes were bright and as hard as the steel they resembled.

“You would marry him?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Knowing that he is a scoundrel?”

“How dare you say that, Mr Brood?”

“Because,” said he levelly, “he thinks he is my son.” Voices were heard on the stairs, Frederic's and Yvonne's. “He is coming now, my dear,” he went on, and then, after a pause fraught with significance, “and my wife is with him.”

Lydia closed her eyes, as if in dire pain. A dry sob was in her throat.

A strange thing happened to Brood, the man of iron. Tears suddenly rushed to his eyes.