Black is White 34
“I know,” she said, “I know why you said it. Because it _was_ Ranjab.”
She shivered slightly.
“I am afraid of that man, Lydia. He seems to be watching me all the
time. Day and night his eyes seem to be upon me.”
“Why, should he be watching you?” asked Lydia bluntly.
Yvonne did not notice the question.
“Even when I am asleep in my bed, in the dead hour of night, he is
looking at me. I can feel it. Oh, it is not a dream, for my dreams are
of something or someone else--never of him. And yet he is there, looking
at me. It--it is uncanny.”
“Imagination,” remarked Lydia quietly. “He never struck me as especially
omnipresent.”
“Didn’t you _feel_ him a moment ago?” demanded Yvonne irritably.
The other hesitated, reflecting.
“I suppose it must have been something like that.” They were still
facing the door, standing close together. “Why do you feel that he is
watching you?”
“I don’t know. I just feel it, that’s all. Day and night. He can read my
thoughts, Lydia, as he would read a book. Isn’t--isn’t it disgusting?”
Her laugh was spiritless, obviously artificial.
“I shouldn’t object to his reading my thoughts,” said Lydia.
“Ah, but you are Lydia. It’s different. I have thoughts sometimes, my
dear, that would not--but there! Let us speak of more agreeable things.
Take off your coat--here, let me help you. What a lovely waist I You
will pardon my costume, won’t you, or rather the lack of one? I shan’t
dress until dinner-time. Sit down here beside me. No tea? A cigarette,
then. No?”
“I never smoke, you remember,” said the other. She was looking at Yvonne
now with a curious, new-found interest in her serious eyes. “I came to
explain to Mr Brood how it happens that------”
“Poof! Never explain, my dear, never explain anything to a man!” cried
Yvonne, lighting a cigarette. The flare of the match in the partially
darkened room lit up her face with merciless candour. Lydia was
conscious once more of the unusual pallor and a certain haggardness
about the dark eyes.
“But he is so eager to complete the------”
“Do you forgive me for what I said to you last night?” demanded Yvonne,
sitting down beside the girl on the _chaise longue_. The interruption
was rude, perhaps, but it was impossible to resent it, so appealing was
the __EXPRESSION__ in the offender’s eyes.
“It was so absurd, Mrs Brood, that I have scarcely given it a moment’s
thought. Of course, I was hurt at the time. It was so unjust to Mr
Brood. It was------”
“It is like you to say that!” cried Yvonne. “You are splendid, Lydia.
Will you believe me when I tell you that I love you--that I love you
very dearly?”
Lydia looked at her in some doubt, and not without misgivings.
“I should like to believe it,” she said noncommittally.
“Ah, but you doubt it. I see. Well, I do not blame you. I have given you
much pain, much distress. When I am far away you will be glad you will
be happy. Is not that so?”
“But you are coming back,” said Lydia with a frank smile, not meant to
be unfriendly.
Yvonne’s face clouded.
“Yes, I shall probably come back. Nothing is sure in this queer world of
ours.” She threw her cigarette away. “I don’t like it to-day. Ugh! how
it tastes in my mouth!” She drew closer to the girl’s side. Lydia’s
nostrils filled with the strange, sweet perfume that she affected, so
individually hers, so personally Yvonne. “Oh, yes; I shall come back.
Why not? Is not this my home?-”
“You may call it your home, Mrs Brood,” said
Lydia, “but are you quite sure your thoughts always abide here? I mean
in the United States, of course.”
Yvonne had looked up at her quickly.
“Oh, I see. No; I shall never be an American.” Then she abruptly changed
the subject. “You have had a nice day with Frederic? You have been
happy, both of you?”
“Yes--very happy, Mrs Brood,” said the girl simply.
“I am glad. You must always be happy, you two. It is my greatest wish.”
Lydia hesitated for a moment.
“Frederic asked me to be his wife--tomorrow,” she said, and her heart
began to thump queerly. She felt that she was approaching a crisis of
some sort.
“To-morrow?” fell from Yvonne’s lips. The word was drawn out, as if in
one long breath. Then, to Lydia’s astonishment, an extraordinary change
came over the speaker.
“Yes, yes; it should be--it must be to-morrow. Poor boy--poor, poor boy!
You will marry, yes, and go way at once, _aïe?_” Her voice was almost
shrill in its intensity, her eyes were wide and eager and--anxious.
“I------ Oh, Mrs Brood, is it for the best?” cried Lydia. “Is it the
best thing for Frederic to do? I--I feared you might object. I am sure
his father will refuse permission------”
“But you love each other--that is enough. Why ask the consent of anyone?
Yes, yes, it is for the best. I know--oh, you cannot realise how well I
know. You must not hesitate.” The woman was trembling in her eagerness.
Lydia’s astonishment gave way to perplexity.
“What do you mean? Why are you so serious--so intent on this------”
“Frederic has no money,” pursued Yvonne, as if she had not heard Lydia’s
words. “But that must not deter you--it must not stand in the way. I
shall find a way; yes, I shall find a way. I------”
“Do you mean that you would provide for him for us?” exclaimed Lydia.
“There is a way, there is a way,” said the other, fixing her eyes
appealingly on the girl’s face, to which the flush of anger was slowly
mounting.
“His father will not help him--if, that is what you are counting upon,
Mrs Brood,” said the girl coldly.
“I know. He will not help him; no.”
Lydia started.
“What do you know about--what has Mr Brood said to you?” Her heart was
cold with apprehension. “Why are you going away next week? What has
happened?”
Brood’s wife was regarding her with narrowing eyes.
“Are you attributing my motives to something that my husband has said to
me? Am I expected to say that he has--what you call it--that he has put
his foot down?”
“I am sorry you misunderstood my------”
“Oh, I see now. You think my husband suspects that Frederic is too
deeply interested in his beautiful stepmother; is not that so? Poof!
It has nothing to do with it.” Her eyes were sullen, full of resentment
now. She was collecting herself.
The girl’s eyes expressed the disdain that suddenly took the place of
apprehension in her thoughts. A sharp retort leaped to her lips, but she
suppressed it.
“Mr Brood does not like Frederic,” she said instead, and could have cut
out her tongue the instant the words were uttered. Yvonne’s eyes
were glittering with a light that she had never seen in them before.
Afterward she described it to herself as baleful.
“So! He has spoken ill--evil--of his son to you?” she said, almost in
a monotone, “He has hated him for years--is not that so? I am not the
original cause, _aie?_ It began long ago--long, long ago?”
“Oh, I beg of you, Mrs Brood------” began
Lydia, shrinking back in dismay.
“You are free to speak your thoughts to me. I shall not be offended.
What has he said to you about Frederic--and me?”
“Nothing, I swear to you; nothing!” cried the girl.
“But you have the power of observation. You do not have to be told in so
many words. You have been with him a great deal, alone. His manner
tells you what his lips hold back. Tell me.” Lydia resolved to take the
plunge. Now was the time to speak plainly to this woman of the thing
that was hurting her almost beyond the limits of endurance. Her voice
was rather high-pitched. She had the fear that she would not be able to
control it.
“I should be blind not to have observed the cruel position in which you
are placing Frederic. Is it surprising that your husband has eyes
as well as I? What must be his thoughts, Mrs Brood?” She expected an
outburst, a torrent of indignation, an angry storm of words, and was
therefore unprepared for the piteous, hunted __EXPRESSION__ that came
swiftly into the lovely eyes, bent so appealing upon her own, which were
cold and accusing. Here was a new phase to this extraordinary creature’s
character. She was a coward, after all, and Lydia despised a coward. The
look of scorn deepened in her eyes, and out from her heart rushed
all that was soft and tender in her nature, leaving it barren of all compassion.
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