Black is White 22

Black is White 22

“You drove her out of your house, James.”

 

“I have said that we cannot discuss------”

 

“But I choose to discuss it,” she said firmly. “The truth, please. You

drove her out?”

 

“She made her bed, Yvonne,” said he huskily. “Did you warn her

beforehand?”

 

“It--it wasn’t necessary.”

 

“What was her crime?”

 

“Good God, Yvonne! I can’t allow------”

 

“Was it as great as mine?” she persisted.

 

“Oh, this is ridiculous. I------”

 

“Did she leave you cheerfully, gladly, as I would go if I loved another,

or did she plead with you--oh, I know it hurts! Did she plead with you

to give her a chance to explain? Did she?”

 

“She was on her knees to me,” he said, the veins standing out on his

temples.

 

“On her knees to you? Begging? For what? Forgiveness?”

 

“No! She was like all of her kind. She was innocent! Ha, ha!”

 

Yvonne arose. She stood over him like an accusing angel.

 

“And to this day, James Brood, to this very hour, you are not certain

that you did right in casting her off!”

 

“Oh, I say!” He sprang to his feet.

 

“You have never really convinced yourself that she was untrue to you, in

spite of all that you said and did at the time.”

 

“You are going too far! I------”

 

“All these years you have been trying to close your ears to the voice

of that wretched woman, and all these years you have been

wondering--wondering--wondering! You have been mortally afraid, my

husband.”

 

“I tell you, I was certain--I was sure of------”

 

“Then why do you still love her?”

 

He stared at her open-mouthed, speechless.

 

“Why do you still love her?”

 

“Are you mad?” he gasped. “Good God, woman, how can you ask that

question of me, knowing that I love you with all my heart and soul?

How------”

 

“With all your heart, yes! But with your soul? No! That other woman has

your soul. I have heard your soul speak, and it speaks of her--yes, to

her!”

 

“In God’s name, what------”

 

“Night after night, in your sleep, James Brood, you have cried out to

‘Matilde.’ You have sobbed out your love for her, as you have been doing

for twenty years or more. In your sleep your soul has been with her.

With me at your side, you have cried on ‘Matilde’! You have passed your

hand over my face and murmured ‘Matilde’! Not once have you uttered the

word ‘Yvonne’! And now you come to me and say: ‘We will come straight

to the point’! Well, now you may come straight to the point. But do not

forget, in blaming me, that you love another woman!”

 

He was petrified. Not a drop of blood remained in his face.

 

“Is this true, this that you are telling me?” he cried, dazed and

shaken.

 

“You need not ask. Call upon your dreams for the answer, if you must

have one.”

 

“It is some horrible, ghastly delusion. It cannot be true. Her name has

not passed my lips in twenty years. It is not mentioned in my presence.

I have not uttered that woman’s name------”

 

“Then how should I know her name? Her own son does not know it, I firmly

believe. No one appears to know it except the man who says he despises

it.”

 

“Dreams! Dreams!” he cried scornfully. “Shall I be held responsible for

the unthinkable things that happen in dreams?”

 

“No,” she replied significantly; “you should not be held accountable.

She must be held accountable. You drove out her body, James, but not her

spirit. It stands beside you every instant of the day and night. By day

you do not see her; by night--ah, you tremble! Well, she is dead, they

say. If she were still alive I myself might tremble, and with cause.”

 

“Before God, I love you, Yvonne. I implore you to think nothing of my

maunderings in sleep. They--they may come from a disordered brain. God

knows there was a time when I felt that I was mad, raving mad. These

dreams are----”

 

To his surprise she laid her hand gently on his arm.

 

“I pity you sometimes, James. My heart aches for you. You are a man--a

strong, brave man, and yet you shrink and cringe when a voice whispers

to you in the night. You sleep with your doubts awake. Yes, yes, I

believe you when you say that you love me. I am sure that you do; but

let me tell you what it is that I have divined. It is Matilde that you

are loving through me. When you kiss me there is in the back of your

mind somewhere the thought of kisses that were given long ago. When you

hold me close to you it is the body of Matilde that you feel, it is her

breath that warms your cheeks. I am Matilde, not Yvonne, to you. I am

the flesh on which that starved love of yours feeds; I represent the

memory of all that you have lost; I am the bodily instrument.”

 

“This is--madness!” he exclaimed, and it was not only wonder that filled

his eyes. There was a strange fear in them, too.

 

“I do not expect you to admit that all this is true, James,” she went

on patiently. “You will confess one day that I am right, however; to

yourself, if not to me. If the time should ever come when I give to you

a child------” She shivered and turned her eyes away from his.

 

He laid an unsteady hand upon the dark head. “There, there,” he murmured

brokenly.

 

“It would be Matilde’s child to you,” she concluded, facing him again

without so much as a quaver in her voice, she spoke calmly, as if the

statement were the most commonplace remark in the world.

 

“Good Heaven, Yvonne!” he exclaimed, drawing back in utter dismay. “You

must compose yourself. This is------”

 

“I am quite myself, James,” she said coolly. “Can you deny that you

think of her when you hold me in your arms? Can you------”

 

“Yes!” he almost shouted. “I can and do deny!”

 

“Then you are lying to yourself, my husband,” she said quietly.

 

He fairly gasped.

 

“Good God! What manner of woman are you?” he cried hoarsely. “A

sorceress? A--but no, it is not true!”

 

She smiled. “All women are sorceresses. They feel. Men only think. Poor

Frederic! You try to hate him, James, but I have watched you when you

were not aware. You search his face intently, almost in agony--for

what? For the look that was his mother’s--for the __EXPRESSION__ you loved

in------”

 

He burst out violently.

 

“No! By Heaven, you are wrong there! I am not looking for Matilde in

Frederic’s face.”

 

“For his father, then?” she inquired slowly.

 

The perspiration stood out on his brow. He made no response. His lips

were compressed.

 

“You have uttered her name at last,” she said wonderingly, after a long

wait for him to speak.

 

Brood started. “I--I--oh, this is torture!”

 

“We must mend our ways, James. It may please you to know that I shall

overlook your mental faithlessness to me. You may go on loving Matilde.

She is dead. I am alive. I have the better of her there, _aïe?_ The

day will come when she will be dead in every sense of the word. In the

meantime, I am content to enjoy life. Frederic is quite safe with me,

James; very much safer than he is with you. And now let us have peace,

Will you ring for tea?”

 

He sat down abruptly, staring at her with heavy eyes. She waited for a

moment and then crossed over to pull the old--fashioned bell-cord.

 

“We will ask Lydia and Frederic to join us, too,” she said. “It shall be

a family party, the five of us.”

 

“Five?” he muttered.

 

“Yes,” she said, without a smile.