Black is White 27

Black is White 27

“You would marry him?”

 

“Yes, yes!”

 

“Knowing that he is a scoundrel?”

 

“How dare you say that, Mr Brood?”

 

“Because,” said he levelly, “he _thinks_ he is my son.” Voices were

heard on the stairs, Frederic’s and Yvonne’s. “He is coming now, my

dear,” he went on, and then, after a pause fraught with significance,

“and my wife is with him.”

 

Lydia closed her eyes, as if in dire pain. A dry sob was in her throat.

 

A strange thing happened to Brood, the man of iron. Tears suddenly

rushed to his eyes.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XII

 

Yvonne stopped in the doorway. Ranjab was holding the curtains aside

for her to enter. The tall figure of Frederic loomed up behind her, his

dark face glowing in the warm light that came from the room. She had

changed her dress for an exquisite orchid-coloured tea-gown of chiffon

under the rarest and most delicate of lace. For an instant her gaze

rested on Lydia, and then went questioningly to Brood’s face. The girl’s

confusion had not escaped her notice. Her husband’s manner was but

little less convicting. Her eyes narrowed.

 

“Ranjab said you were expecting us,” she said slowly, with marked

emphasis on the participle. She came forward haltingly, as if in doubt

as to her welcome. “Are we interrupting?”

 

“Of course not,” said Brood, a flush of annoyance on his cheek. “Lydia

is tired. I sent Ranjab down to ask Frederic to----”

 

Frederic interrupted, a trifle too eagerly. “I’ll walk around with you,

Lydia. It’s raining, however. Shall I get the car out, father?”

 

“No, no!” cried Lydia, painfully conscious of the rather awkward

situation. “And please don’t bother, Freddy. I can go home alone. It’s

only a step.” She moved toward the door, eager to be away.

 

“I’ll go with you,” said Frederic decisively. He stood between her and

the door, an embarrassed smile on his lips. “I’ve got something to say

to you, Lydia,” he went on, lowering his voice.

 

“James dear,” said Mrs Brood, shaking her finger at her husband, and

with an exasperating smile on her lips, “you are working the poor girl

too hard. See how late it is! And how nervous she is. Why, you are

trembling, Lydia! For shame, James.”

 

“I am a little tired,” stammered Lydia. “We are working so hard, you

know, in order to finish the------” *

 

Brood interrupted, his tone sharp and incisive.

 

“The end is in sight. We’re a bit feverish over it, I suppose. You

see, my dear, we have just escaped captivity in Thassa. It was a bit

thrilling, I fancy. But we’ve stopped for the night.”

 

“So I perceive,” said Yvonne, a touch of insolence in her voice. “You

stopped, I dare say, when you heard the tread of the vulgar world

approaching the inner temple. That is what you broke into and

desecrated, wasn’t it?”

 

“The inner temple at Thassa,” he said coldly.

 

“Certainly. The place you were escaping from when we came in.”

 

It was clear to all of them that Yvonne was piqued, even angry. She

deliberately crossed the room and threw herself upon the couch, an act

so childish, so disdainful, that for a full minute no one spoke, but

stared at her, each with a different emotion.

 

Lydia’s eyes were flashing. Her lips parted, but she withheld the angry

words that rose to them.

 

Brood’s __EXPRESSION__ changed slowly from dull anger to one of incredulity,

which swiftly gave way to positive joy. His wife was jealous!

 

Frederic was biting his lips nervously. He allowed Lydia to pass him on

her way out, scarcely noticing her, so intently was his gaze fixed upon

Yvonne. When Brood followed Lydia into the hall to remonstrate, the

young man sprang eagerly to his stepmother’s side.

 

“Good Lord, Yvonne!” he whispered, “that was a nasty thing to say.

What will Lydia think? By gad, is it possible that you are jealous? Of

Lydia?”

 

“Jealous?” cried she, struggling with her fury. “Jealous of that girl?

Poof! Why should I be jealous of her? She hasn’t the blood of a potato!”

 

“I can’t understand you,” he said in great perplexity. “You--you told me

to-night that you are not sure that you really love him. You------”

 

She stopped him with a quick gesture. Her eyes were smouldering. “Where

is he? Gone away with her? Go and look; do.”

 

“They’re in the hall. I shall take her home* never fear. I fancy he’s

trying to explain your insinuating------”

 

She turned on him furiously. “Are you lecturing me? What a tempest in a

teapot!”

 

“Lydia’s as good as gold. She------”

 

“Then take her home at once,” sneered Yvonne. “This is no place for

her.”

 

Frederic paled. “You’re not trying to say my father would--good

Lord, Yvonne, you must be crazy! Why, that is impossible! If--if I

thought------” He clenched his fists and glared over his shoulder,

missing the queer little smile that flitted across her face.

 

“You do love her then,” she said, her voice suddenly soft and caressing.

 

He stared at her in complete bewilderment.

 

“I--I--Lord, you gave me a shock!” He passed his hand across his moist

forehead. “It can’t be so. Why, the very thought of it------”

 

“I suppose I shall have to apologise to Lydia,” said she calmly. “Your

father will exact it of me, and I shall obey. How does it sound, coming

from me? ‘I am sorry, Lydia.’ Do I say it prettily?”

 

“I don’t understand you at all, Yvonne. I adore you, and yet, by Heaven,

I--I actually believe I hated you just now. Listen to me. I’ve been

treating Lydia vilely for a long, long time, but--she’s the finest,

best, dearest girl in the world. You--even you, Yvonne--shall not utter

a word against------”

 

“_Aïe!_ What heroics!” she cried ironically.

 

“You are splendid when you are angry, my son. Yes, you are almost as

splendid as your father. He, too, has been angry with me. He, too,

has made me shudder. But he, too, has forgiven me, as you shall this

instant. Say it, Freddy. You do forgive me? I was mean, nasty, ugly,

vile--oh, everything that’s horrid. I take it all back. Now be nice to

me!”

 

She laid her hand on his arm, an appealing little caress that conquered

him in a flash. He clasped her fingers fiercely in his and mumbled

incoherently as he leaned forward, drawn resistlessly nearer by the

strange magic that was hers.

 

“You--you are wonderful,” he murmured. “I knew you’d regret what you

said. You couldn’t have meant it.”

 

She smiled, patted his hand gently, and allowed her swimming eyes to

rest on his for an instant to complete the conquest. Then she motioned

him away. Brood’s voice was heard in the doorway. She had, however,

planted an insidious thing in Frederic’s mind, and it would grow.

 

Her husband re-entered the room, his arm linked in Lydia’s. Frederic was

at the table lighting a cigarette.

 

“You did not mean all that you said a moment ago, Yvonne,” said Brood

levelly. “Lydia misinterpreted your jest. You meant nothing unkind,

I am sure.”

 

He was looking straight into her rebellious eyes. The last gleam of

defiance died out of them as he spoke.

 

“I am sorry, Lydia darling,” she said, and reached out her hand to the

girl who approached reluctantly, uncertainly. “I confess that I was

jealous. Why shouldn’t I be jealous? You are so beautiful, so splendid.”

She drew the girl down beside her. “Forgive me, dear.”

 

Lydia, whose honest heart had been so full of resentment the moment

before, could not withstand the humble appeal in the voice of the

penitent.

 

She smiled, first at Yvonne, then at Brood, and never quite understood

the impulse that ordered her to kiss the warm, red lips that so recently

had offended.