Black is White 18

Black is White 18

Riggs swallowed hard--a gulping sound.

 

“Freddy’s the kind of a feller who’ll kill himself, Danny. He’s as high

strung as a harp. Something will snap. I hate to think of it. Poor lad!

It--it ain’t his fault that things are not as they ought to be.”

 

“If Jim Brood ever tells him he’s no son of his, he’ll break the boy’s

heart.”

 

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Riggs sagely. “Sometimes I think Freddy

would be darned glad to know it.”

 

The curtains parted and Yvonne looked in upon the wretched Frederic.

There was a look of mingled pain and commiseration in her wide-open

eyes. For a moment she stood there regarding him in silence. Then

she swiftly crossed the room to the couch in the corner, where he sat

huddled up, his shoulders still shaking with the misery that racked him.

 

Her eyes darkened into the hungry, yearning look of one who would gladly

share or assume all of the suffering of another whose happiness was dear

to her--the look of a gentle mother. The mocking, seductive gleam was

gone, and in its place was the glow of infinite pity. Her hand went out

to touch the tousled hair, but stopped before contact. Slowly she drew

back, with a glance of apprehension toward the door of the Hindu’s

closet. An odd __EXPRESSION__ of alarm crept into her eyes.

 

“Frederic,” she said softly, almost timorously.

 

He lifted his head quickly and then sprang to his feet. His eyes were

wet and his lips were drawn. Shame possessed him. He tried to smile, but

it was a pitiful failure.

 

“Oh, I’m so ashamed of--of----” he began in a choked voice.

 

“Ashamed because you have cried?” she said quickly. “But no! It is good

to cry; it is good for men to cry. But when a strong man breaks down and

sheds tears, I am--oh, I am heartbroken. A woman’s tears mean nothing,

but a man’s? Oh, they are terrible! But come! You must compose yourself.

The others will be here in a few minutes. I ran away from them on the

pretext that I--but it is of no consequence. It is enough that I am

here. You must go to your * room and bathe your face. Go at once. Your

father must not know that you have cried. He------”

 

“Curse him!” came from between Frederic’s clenched teeth.

 

“Hush!” she cried, with another glance at Ranjab’s door. She would have

given much to know whether the Hindu was there or still below-stairs.

“You must not say such----”

 

“I will say it, Yvonne--I’ll say it to his face! I don’t care if the

others do see that I have been crying. I want them to know how he hurts

me, and I want them to hate him for it.”

 

“For my sake, Frederic, calm yourself. I implore you to go to your room.

Come back later, but go now.”

 

He was struck by the seriousness in her voice and manner. An ugly,

crooked smile writhed about the corners of his mouth.

 

“I suppose you’re trying to smooth it over so that they won’t consider

him a brute. Is that it?”

 

“Hush! Please, please! You know that my heart aches for you, _mon ami_.

It was cruel of him, it was cowardly--yes, cowardly! Now I have said

it!” She drew herself up and turned deliberately toward the little door

across the room.

 

His eyes brightened. The crooked sneer turned into an imploring smile.

 

“Forgive me, Yvonne! You must see that I’m beside myself. I--I------”

 

“But you must be sensible. Remember he is your father. He is a strange

man. There has been a great deal of bitterness in his life. He------”

 

“Have I been the cause of a moment’s bitterness to him?” cried Frederic.

“Why should he hate me? Why------”

 

“You are losing control of yourself again, Frederic.”

 

“But I can’t go on the way things are now. He’s getting to be worse

than ever. I never have a kind word from him, seldom a word of any

description. Never a kind look. Can’t you understand how it goads me

to------”

 

“Yes, yes! You’ve said all this before, and I have listened to you when

I should have reminded you that he is my husband,” she said impatiently.

 

“By Heaven, I don’t see how you can love him!” he cried boldly.

“Sometimes I wonder if you do love him. He is as selfish, as unfeeling

as oh, there’s no word for it. Why, in the name of God, did you ever

marry such a man? You couldn’t have loved him.” Something in her

__EXPRESSION__ brought him up sharply. Her eyes had narrowed; they had the

look of a wary, hunted thing that has been driven into a corner. He

stared. “Forgive me, Yvonne. I--I------”

 

“You don’t know what you are saying,” she panted. “Are you accusing me?”

 

“No, no! What a coward, what a dog I am!” he cried abjectly.

 

A queer little smile stole into her face. It was even more baffling than

the __EXPRESSION__ it displaced.

 

“I am your friend,” she said slowly. “Is this the way to reward me?”

 

He dropped to his knees and covered her hands with kisses, mumbling his

plea for forgiveness.

 

“I am so terribly unhappy,” he said over and over again. “I’d leave this

house to-night if it were not that I can’t bear the thought of leaving

you, Yvonne. I adore you. You are everything in the world to me.

I------”

 

“Get up!” she cried out sharply. He lifted his eyes in dumb wonder

and adoration, but not in time to catch the look of triumph that swept

across her face.

 

“You will forgive me?” he cried, coming to his feet. “I--I couldn’t help

saying it. It was wrong--wrong! But you _will_ forgive me, Yvonne?”

 

She turned away, walking slowly toward the door. He remained rooted to

the spot, blushing with shame and dismay.

 

“Where are you going? To tell _him?_” he gasped.

 

She did not reply at once, but drew the _portières_ apart and peered

down the stairs beyond, her attitude one of tense anxiety. As she faced

him a smile of security was on her lips. She leaned gracefully against

the jamb of the door, her arms dropping to her sides.

 

“Yes, I will forgive you,” she said calmly, and he realised in a

flash that the verdict would have been different if there had been

the remotest chance that his declaration was overheard. She would have

denied him.

 

“I adore you, Yvonne,” he cried in low tones, striding swiftly toward

her, only to halt as he caught the smile of derision in her eyes. “I

don’t mean it in the way you think. You are so good to me. You have

given me so much joy and happiness, and--and you understand me so well.

I could die for you, Yvonne. I _would_ die for you. It’s not the kind of

love you are in the habit of commanding, you who are so glorious and so

beautiful. It’s the love of a dog for his master.”

 

She waited an instant, and then came toward him. He never could have

explained the unaccountable impulse that forced him to fall back a few

steps as she approached. Her eyes were gazing steadily into his, and her

red lips were parted.

 

“That is as it should be,” she was saying, but he was never sure that he

heard the words. His knees grew weak. He was in the toils! “Now you must

pull yourself together,” she went on, in such a matter-of-fact tone that

he straightened up involuntarily. “Come! Wipe the tear-stains from your

cheeks.”

 

He obeyed, but his lip still quivered with the rage that had been

checked by the ascendancy of another and even more devastating emotion.

She was standing quite close to him now, her slender figure swaying

slightly as if moved by some strange, rhythmic melody to which the heart

beat time.

 

Her eyes were soft and velvety again, her smile tender and appealing.

The vivid white of her arms* and shoulders seemed to shed a soft light

about her, so radiant was the sheen of the satin skin. Her gown was of

black velvet, cut very low, and with scarcely any ornamentation save

the great cluster of rabies at the top of her corsage. They gleamed like

coals of fire against the skin, which appeared to absorb and reflect

their warmth.

 

There was a full red rose in her dark hair. She wore no ear-rings,

no finger-rings except the narrow gold band on her left hand. A wide,

exquisitely designed gold bracelet fitted tightly about her right

forearm, as if it had been welded to the soft white flesh. Yvonne’s

ears were lovely; she knew better than to disfigure them. Her hands were

incomparably beautiful; she knew their full value unadorned.

 

She moved closer to him and with deft fingers applied her tiny lace

handkerchief to his flushed cheeks and eyes, laughing audibly as she did

so; a low gurgle of infinite sweetness and concern.

 

He stood like a statue, scarcely breathing, the veins in his throat

throbbing violently.

 

“There!” she said, and deliberately touched the _mouchoir_ to her own

smiling lips before replacing it in her bodice next to the warm, soft

skin. “Lydia must not see that her big baby sweetheart has been crying,”

she went on, and if there was mockery in her voice it was lost on him.

He could only stare as if bereft of all his senses.

 

“I have been thinking, Frederic,” she said, suddenly serious, “perhaps

it would be better if we were not alone when the others come up. Go at

once and fetch the two old men. Tell them I expect them here to witness

the magic. It appears to be a family party, so why exclude them? Be

quick!”

 

He dashed off to obey her command. She lighted a cigarette at the table,

her unsmiling eyes fixed on the door to the Hindu’s closet. Then, with

a little sigh, she sank down on the broad couch and stretched her supple

body in the ecstasy of complete relaxation.

 

The scene at the dinner-table had been most distressing. Up to the