Black is White 35

Black is White 35

“I do not want to hurt Frederic,” murmured

 

Yvonne. “I--I am sorry if------”

 

“You are hurting him dreadfully,” said Lydia, suddenly choking up with

emotion.

 

“He is not--not in love with me,” declared Yvonne,

 

“No,” said the girl, regaining control of herself, “he is not in love

with you. That is the whole trouble. He is in love with me. But--but

can’t you see?”

 

“You are a wise young woman to know men so well,” said the other

enigmatically. “I have never believed in St Anthony.”

 

“Nor I,” said Lydia, and was surprised at herself.

 

“I prefer to put my faith in the women who tempted him,” said Yvonne,

drawing a little closer to the girl.

 

“Perhaps you are right. They at least were not pretending.”

 

“I am not so sure of that. At any rate, they succeeded in making a saint

of him eventually.”

 

“I suppose you are undertaking a similar office in--in Frederic’s

behalf,” said Lydia with fine irony.

 

“Do you consider me to be a bad woman, Lydia?” Her lips trembled. There

was a suspicious quiver to her chin.

 

“No; I do not,” pronounced the girl flatly. “If I could only think that

of you it would explain everything, and I should know just how to treat

you. But I do not think it of you.”

 

With a long, deep sigh Yvonne crept closer and laid her head against

Lydia’s shoulder. The girl’s body stiffened, her brow grew dark with

annoyance.

 

“I am afraid you do not understand, Mrs Brood. The fact still remains

that you have not considered Frederic’s peace of mind.”

 

“Nor yours,” murmured the other.

 

“Nor mine,” confessed Lydia, after a moment.

 

“I did not know that you and Frederic were in love with each other until

I had been here for some time,” Mrs Brood explained, suddenly fretful.

 

Lydia stared hard at the soft white cheek that lay exposed below the

black crown of hair.

 

“What had that to do with it?”

 

“A great deal more than you can imagine,” said the other, looking up

into Lydia’s face with a curious gleam in her eyes.

 

“You admit, then, that you deliberately------”

 

“I admit nothing, except that I am sorry to have made you unhappy.”

 

“What kind of a woman are you?” burst out Lydia’s indignant soul. “Have

you no conception of the finer, nobler------”

 

Yvonne deliberately put her hand over the girl’s lips, checking the

fierce outburst. She smiled rather plaintively as Lydia tried to jerk

her head to one side in order to continue her reckless indictment.

 

“You shall not say it, Lydia. I am not all that you think I am. No, no;

a thousand times no. God pity me, I am more accursed than you may think

with the finer and nobler instincts. If it were not so, do you think

I should be where I am now--cringing here like a beaten child? No, you

cannot understand--you never will understand. I shall say no more. It

is ended. I swear on my soul that I did not know you were Frederic’s

sweetheart. I did not know------”

 

“But you knew almost immediately after you came here!” exclaimed Lydia

harshly. “It is not myself I am thinking of, Mrs Brood, but of Frederic.

Why have you done this abominable thing to him? Why?”

 

“I--I did not realise what it would mean to him,” said the other

desperately. “I--I did not count all the cost. But, dearest Lydia, it

will come out all right. Everything shall be made right again, I promise

you. I have made a horrible, horrible mistake. I can say no more.

Now let me lie here with my head upon your breast. I want to feel the

beating of your pure, honest heart--the heart I have hurt. I can tell

by its throbs whether it will ever soften toward me. Do not say anything

now--let us be still.”

 

It would be difficult to describe the feelings of

 

Lydia Desmond as she sat there with the despised, though to be adored,

head pillowed upon her breast, where it now rested in a sort of

confident repose, as if there was safety in the very strength of the

young girl’s disapproval. Yvonne had twisted her lithe body on the

_chaise longue_ so that she half faced Lydia. Her free arm, from which

the loose sleeve had fallen, leaving it bare to the shoulder, was about

the girl’s neck.

 

For a long time Lydia stared straight before her, seeing nothing,

positively dumb with wonder, and acknowledging a sense of dismay over

her own disposition to submit to this extraordinary situation. She was

asking herself why she did not cast the woman away, why she lacked the

power to resent by deed as well as by thought.

 

At last she lowered her eyes, conquered by an impulse she had resisted

for many minutes. Her now perplexed gaze rested upon the gleaming white

arm, and then moved wonderingly to the smooth cheek and throat. She saw

the pulse beating in that slender neck. Fascinated, she watched it for a

long, long time.

 

Suddenly there ran through her heart a strange wave of tenderness. That

faint, delicate throb in the throat of this woman represented the

rush of life’s blood--the warm, sweet flood of a lovely living thing.

Yvonne’s eyes were closed. The long, dark lashes lay feathery above the

alabaster cheek; there were delicate blue lines in the lids. A faint,

almost imperceptible depression as of pain appeared between the

eyebrows. The black, glossy hair filled Lydia’s nostrils with its living

perfume.

 

Life--marvellous, adorable life rested there on her breast. This woman

had hurt her--had hurt her wantonly--and yet there came stealing over

her, subtly, the conviction that she could never hurt her in return. She

could never bring herself to the point of hurting this wondrous living,

breathing, throbbing creature who pleaded, not only with her lips and

eyes, but with the gentle heart--beats that rose and fell in her throat.

 

Like velvet was the smooth, glossy skin of her arm and breast. Never had

Lydia dreamed that flesh could be so soft and white and so aglow with

vitality. There was a sheen to it, a soft sheen that seemed fairly to

radiate light itself.

 

Still in a maze of wonder and something bordering on sheer delight, she

fell to studying the perfections that the cheek and lips revealed.

 

Scarlet, pensively drooping were the lips, and almost opalescent the

clear-cut cheek and chin. The delicate nostrils vibrated with the

quickened breath that stirred the firm, full breast which rose and fell

softly, gently; there were firm, hitherto invisible blue lines in the

gleaming skin. Slowly, resistlessly Lydia’s arm tightened about the

slender, seductive body.

 

After a long time, in which there was conflict, she suddenly pressed her

warm lips to Yvonne’s in a kiss that thrilled through every nerve in her

body--a kiss that lingered because it was returned with equal fervour

and abandon. They were clasped tightly in each other’s arms and their

eyes were closed as with pain.

 

Then, in an abrupt revulsion of feeling, in a desperate awakening,

Lydia relaxed. Her arms fell away from the warm, sweet body and her

eyes widened with something that passed for confusion, but which was in

reality shame. Almost roughly she pushed Yvonne away from her.

 

“I--I didn’t mean to do that!” she gasped.

 

The other withdrew her arm and straightened up slowly, all the time

regarding the girl with a strange, wondering look in her eyes--a look

that quickly resolved itself into sadness so poignant that the girl,

even in her confused state of mind, recognised it as such and was

abashed.

 

“I knew that you would,” said Yvonne in a very low voice, and shook her

head drearily.

 

“I am sorry,” murmured Lydia in great distress.

 

The other smiled, but it was a sad, plaintive effort on her part.

 

“I knew that you would,” she repeated.

 

Lydia sprang to her feet, her face suddenly flaming with embarrassment.

She felt unaccountably guilty of--she knew not what.

 

“I must see Mr Brood. I stepped in to tell him that------” she began,

trying to cover her confusion, but Yvonne interrupted.

 

“I know that you could not help it, my dear,” she said. Then, after a

pause: “You will let me know what my husband has to say about it?”

 

“To--to say about it?”

 

“About your decision to marry Frederic in spite of his objections.”

 

Lydia felt a little shiver race over her as she looked toward the door.

 

“You will help us?” she said tremulously, turning to Yvonne. Again she

saw the drawn, pained look about the dark eyes and was startled.

 

“You can do more with him than I,” was the response.