Black is White 26

Black is White 26

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 I 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