Black is White 2

Black is White 2

He sequestered the child in a place where he could not be found, and

went his own way, grimly certain that he was making her pay! She died

when Frederic was twelve years old, without having seen him again after

that dreadful hour when, protesting her innocence, she had been turned

out into the night and told to go whither she would, but never to return

to the house she had disgraced. James Brood heard of her death when in

the heart of China, and he was a haggard wreck for months thereafter.

 

He had worshipped this beautiful Viennese. He could not wreak vengeance

upon a dead woman; he could not hate a dead woman. He had always loved

her. It was after this that he stood on the firing-line of many a

fiercely fought battle in the Orient, inviting the bullet that would rip

through his heart.

 

It was not courage, but cowardice, that put him in spots where the

bullets were thickest; it was not valour that sent him among the

bayonets and sabres of a fanatical enemy. It was the thing at the bottom

of his soul that told him she would come to him once more when the

strife was ended, and that she was waiting for him somewhere beyond

the border to hear his plea for pardon! Of such flimsy shreds is man’s

purpose made!

 

Five years after his return to New York he brought her son back to the

house in lower Fifth Avenue and tried, with bitterness in his soul,

to endure the word “father” as it fell from lips to which the term was

almost strange.

 

The old men, they who sat by the fire on this wind-swept night and

waited for the youth of twenty-two to whom the blue missive was

addressed, knew the story of James Brood and his wife Matilde, and they

knew that the former had no love in his heart for the youth who bore his

name. Their lips were sealed. Garrulous on all other subjects, they were

as silent as the grave on this.

 

They, too, were constrained to hate the lad. He made not the slightest

pretence of appreciating their position in the household. To him they

were pensioners, no more, no less; to him their deeds of valour were

offset by the deeds of his father; there was nothing left over for a

balance on that score. He was politely considerate; he was even kindly

disposed toward their vagaries and whims; he endured them because there

was nothing else left for him to do. But, for all that, he despised

them; justifiably, no doubt, if one bears in mind the fact that they

signified more to James Brood than did his long-neglected son.

 

The cold reserve that extended to the young man did not carry beyond him

in relation to any other member of the household so far as James Brood

was concerned. The unhappy boy, early in their acquaintance, came to

realise that there was little in common between him and the man he

called father. After a while the eager light died out of his own eyes

and he no longer strove to encourage the intimate relations he had

counted upon as a part of the recompense for so many years of separation

and loneliness.

 

It required but little effort on his part to meet his father’s

indifference with a coldness quite as pronounced. He had never known the

meaning of filial love; he had been taught by word of mouth to love the

man he had never seen, and he had learned as one learns astronomy--by

calculation. He hated the two old men because his father loved them.

 

In a measure, this condition may serve to show how far apart they stood

from each other, James Brood and Frederic. Wanderlust and a certain

feeling of unrest that went even deeper than the old habits kept James

Brood away from his home many months out of the year. He was not an old

man; in fact, he was under fifty, and possessed of the qualities that

make for strength and virility even unto the age of fourscore years.

While his old comrades, far up in the seventies, were content to sit

by the fire in winter and in the shade in summer, he, not yet so old as

they when their long stretch of intimacy began, was not resigned to the

soft things of life. He was built of steel, and the steel within him

called for the clash with flint. He loved the spark of fire that flashed

in the contact.

 

It was a harsh December night when the two old men sat guard over the

message from the sea, and it was on a warm June day that they had said

good-bye to him at the outset of his most recent flight.

 

The patient butler, Jones, had made no less than four visits to the

library since ten o’clock to awaken them and pack them off to bed. Each

time he had been ordered away, once with the joint admonition to “mind

his own business.”

 

“But it is nearly midnight,” protested Jones irritably, with a glance at

the almost empty decanter.

 

“Jones,” said Danbury Dawes with great dignity and an eye that deceived

him to such a degree that he could not for the life of him understand

why Jones was attending them in pairs, “Jones, you ought to be

in-hic-bed, damn you both of you. Wha’ you mean, sir, by coming in

hie-here thish time o’ night dis-disturbing---”

 

“You infernal ingrate,” broke in Mr Riggs fiercely, “don’t you dare to

touch that bottle, sir! Let it alone!”

 

“It’s time you were in bed,” pronounced Jones, taking Mr Dawes by the

arm.

 

Mr Dawes sagged heavily in his chair and grinned triumphantly. He was a

short, very fat old man.

 

“People who live in-hic-glass houses--------” he began amiably, and then

suddenly was overtaken by the thought of the moment before. “Take your

hand off of me, confoun’ you! D’ you sup-supposh I can go to bed with

my bes’ frien’ out there-hic-in the mid-middle of Atlan’ic Oc-o-shum,

sinking in four miles of wa-wa’er and calling f-far help?”

 

“Take him to bed, Jones,” said Mr Riggs firmly. “He’s drunk and-and

utterly useless at a time like this. Take him along.”

 

“Who the dev-hic-il are you, sir?” demanded Mr Dawes, regarding Mr Riggs

as if he had never seen him before.

 

“You are both drunk,” said Jones succinctly. Mr Riggs began to whimper.

 

“My bes’ frien’ is drawnin’ by inches, and you come in here and tell me

I’m drunk. It’s most heartless thing I ever heard of. Isn’t it, Danbury,

ol’ pal? Isn’t it, damn you? Speak up!”

 

“Drawnin’ by inches-hic-in four miles of wa-water,” admitted Mr Dawes

miserably. “My God, Jo-Jones, do you know how many-hic--inches there are

in four miles?”

 

Moved by the same impulse, the two old men struggled to their feet and

embraced each other, swayed by an emotion so honest that all sense of

the ludicrous was removed. Even Jones, though he grinned, allowed a note

of gentleness to creep into his voice.

 

“Come along, gentlemen, like good fellows. Let’s go to bed. I’m sure the

message to Mr Frederic is not as bad as you----”

 

Mr Riggs, who was head and shoulders taller than Mr Dawes, made a

gesture of despair with both arms, forgetting that they encircled his

friend’s neck, with the result that both of his bony elbows came in

violent contact with Mr Dawes’s ears, almost upsetting him.

 

“Don’t argue, Jones,” he interrupted dismally. “I know it’s bad news. So

does Mr Dawes. Don’t you, Danbury?”

 

“What d’ you mean by-hic-knockin’ my hat off?” demanded Mr Dawes

furiously, shaking his fist at Mr Riggs from rather close quarters-so

close, in fact, that Mr Riggs suddenly clapped his hands to his stomach

and emitted a surprised groan.

 

Jones inserted his figure between them.

 

“Come, come, gentlemen; don’t forget yourselves. What now, Mr Riggs?”

 

“I’m lookin’ for the gentleman’s hat, sir,” said Mr Riggs impressively

from a stooping posture.

 

“His hat is on the rack in the hall,” said Jones sharply.

 

“Then I shan’t ex-expect an-hic-’pology,” said Mr Dawes magnanimously.

 

Mr Riggs opened his mouth to retort, but as he did so his eyes fell upon

the blue envelope.

 

“Poor old Jim--poor old Jim Brood!” he groaned. “We mustn’t lose

a minute, Danbury. He needs us, old pal. We must start relief

exp’ition’ fore mornin’. Not a minute to be lost, Jones--not a----”

 

The heavy front door closed with a bang at that instant, and the sound

of footsteps, came from the hall--a quick, firm tread that had decision

in it.

 

Jones cast a furtive, nervous glance over his shoulder.

 

“I’m sorry to have Mr Frederic see you like this,” he said, biting his

lip. “He hates it so.”

 

The two old men made a commendable effort to stand erect, but no effort

to stand alone. They linked arms and stood shoulder to shoulder.

 

“Show him in,” said Mr Riggs magnificently.

 

“Now we’ll fin’ out wass in telegram off briny deep,” said Mr Dawes,

straddling his legs a little farther apart in order to declare a staunch

front.

 

“It’s worth waiting up for,” said Mr Riggs.

 

“Abs’lutely,” said his staunch friend.

 

Frederic Brood appeared in the door, stopping short just inside the

heavy curtains. There was a momentary picture, such as a stage-director

would have arranged. He was still wearing his silk hat and top-coat, and

one glove had been halted in the process of removal. Young Brood stared

at the group of three, a frank stare of amazement. A crooked smile came

to his lips.

 

“Somewhat later than usual, I see,” he said, and the glove came off with

a jerk. “What’s the matter, Jones? Rebellion?”