Black is White 12

Black is White 12

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----”