Black is White 39

Black is White 39

“Freddy, listen to me! You must wait until I------ Oh!” He had hung up

the receiver. She heard the whir of the open wire.

 

There was little comfort for her in the hope held out by her mother as

they sat far into the night and discussed the possibilities of the day

so near at hand. She could see nothing but disaster, and she could

think of nothing but her own lamentable weakness in shrinking from the

encounter that might have made the present situation impossible. Between

them mother and daughter constructed at random a dozen theories as to

the nature of the fresh complication that had entered into the already

serious situation, and always it was Lydia who advanced the most

sickening of conjectures.

 

Nor was it an easy matter for Mrs Desmond to combat these fears. In her

heart she felt that an irreparable break had occurred and that the final

clash was imminent. She tried to make light of the situation, however,

prophesying a calmer attitude for Frederic after he had slept over his

grievance, which, after all, she argued was doubtless exaggerated.

 

She promised to go with Lydia to see James Brood in the morning, and

to plead with him to be merciful to the boy she was to marry, no matter

what transpired. The girl at first insisted on going over to see him

that night, notwithstanding the hour, and was dissuaded only after the

most earnest opposition.

 

It was four o’clock before they went back to bed, and long after five

before either closed her eyes.

 

Mrs Desmond, utterly exhausted, was the first to awake. She glanced

at the little clock on her dressing-table and gave a great start of

consternation. It was long past nine o’clock. She arose at once and

hurried to her daughter’s door, half expecting to find the room empty

and the girl missing from the apartment.

 

But Lydia was lying there sound asleep. Mrs Desmond’s lips parted to

give voice to a gentle call, but it was never uttered. A feeling of

infinite pity for the tired, harassed girl came over her. For a long

time she stood there watching the gentle rise and fall of the sleeper’s

breast. Then she closed the door softly and stole back to her own room,

inspired by a sudden resolve.

 

While she was dressing the little maid-servant brought in her coffee and

toast and received instructions not to awaken Miss Lydia but to let

her have her sleep out. A few minutes later she left the apartment and

walked briskly around the corner to Brood’s home.

 

She had resolved to take the matter out of her daughter’s hands. As she

stood at the bedroom door watching Lydia’s sweet, troubled face, there

arose within her the mother instinct to fight for her young. It was not

unlikely that James Brood could be moved by Lydia’s pleading, in spite

of his declaration that Frederic should never marry her, but the mother

recognised the falseness of a position gained by such means.

 

Over Lydia’s head would hang the perpetual reminder that he had

submitted out of consideration for her, and not through fairness or

justice to Frederic; all the rest of her life she would be made to feel

that he tolerated Frederic for her sake. The girl would never know a

moment in which she could be free from that ugly sense of obligation.

God willing, Frederic would be her daughter’s husband. Lydia might spare

him the blow that James Brood could deal, but all of her life would be

spent in contemplation of that one bitter hour in which she went on her

knees to beg for mercy.

 

The mother saw all this with a foresightedness that stripped the

situation of every vestige of romance. Lydia might rejoice at the

outset, but there would surely come a time of heartache for her. It

would come with the full realisation that James Brood’s pity was hard to

bear.

 

Fearing that she might be too late, she walked so rapidly that she was

quite out of breath when she entered the house. Mr Riggs and Mr Dawes

were putting on their coats in the hall preparatory to their short

morning constitutional. They greeted her profusely, and with one accord

proceeded to divest themselves of the coats, announcing in one voice

their intention to remain for a good, old-fashioned chat.

 

“It’s dear of you,” she said hurriedly, “but I must see Mr Brood at

once. Why not come over to my apartment this afternoon for a cup of tea

and-----”

 

Mrs Brood’s voice interrupted her.

 

“What do you want, Mrs Desmond?” came from the landing above.

 

The visitor looked up with a start, not so much of surprise as

uneasiness. There was something sharp, unfriendly, in the low, level

tones.

 

Yvonne, fully dressed--a most unusual circumstance at that hour of the

day--was leaning over the banister-rail.

 

“I came to see Mr Brood on a very important-”

 

“He is occupied. Won’t I do as well?”

 

“It is really quite serious, Mrs Brood. I am afraid it would be of no

avail to--to take it up with you.”

 

“Have you been sent here by someone else?” demanded Mrs Brood.

 

“I have not seen Frederic,” fell from the other’s lips before she

thought.

 

“I dare say you haven’t,” said the other with ominous clearness. “He has

been here since seven this morning, waiting for a chance to speak to his

father in private.”

 

“Heaven help me! I--I am too------”

 

“Unless he spent the night in your apartment, I fancy you haven’t seen

him,” went on Yvonne languidly.

 

She was descending the stairs slowly, almost lazily as she uttered the

remark.

 

“They are together now?” gasped Mrs Desmond.

 

“Will you come into the library? Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you

may enjoy your long walk.”

 

Mrs Desmond followed her into the library. Yvonne closed the door

almost in the face of Mr Riggs, who had opened his mouth to accept the

invitation to tea, but who said he’d “be blasted” instead, so narrow was

his escape from having his nose banged. He emphasised the declaration by

shaking his fist at the door.

 

The two women faced each other. For the first time since she had known

Yvonne Brood, Mrs Desmond observed a high touch of colour in her cheeks.

Her beautiful eyes were alive with an excitement she could not conceal.

Neither spoke for a moment.

 

“You are accountable for this, Mrs Brood,” said Lydia Desmond’s mother

sternly, accusingly. She expected a storm of indignant protest. Instead,

Yvonne smiled slightly.

 

“It will not hurt my husband to discover that Frederic is a man and not

a milksop,” she said, but despite her coolness there was a perceptible

note of anxiety in her voice.

 

“You know, then, that they are--that they will quarrel?”

 

“I fancy it was in Frederic’s mind to do so when he came here this

morning. He was still in his evening clothes, Mrs Desmond.”

 

“Where are they now?”

 

“I think he has them on,” said Yvonne lightly.

 

Mrs Desmond regarded her for a moment in perplexity. Then her eyes

flashed dangerously.

 

“I do not think you misunderstood me, Mrs Brood. Where are Frederic and

his father?”

 

“I am not accustomed to that tone of voice, Mrs Desmond.”

 

“I am no longer your housekeeper,” said the other succinctly. “You do

not realise what this quarrel may mean. I insist on going up to them

before it has gone too far.”

 

“My husband can take care of himself, thank you.”

 

“I am not thinking of your husband, but of that poor boy who is------”

 

“And if I am to judge by Frederic’s manner this morning, he is also able

to take care of himself,” said Yvonne coolly. Her voice shook a little.

 

Mrs Desmond shot a quick glance of comprehension at the speaker.

 

“You are worried, Mrs Brood. Your manner betrays you. I command you to

tell me how long they have been upstairs together. How long------”

 

“Will you be so good, Mrs Desmond, as to leave this house instantly?”

cried Yvonne angrily.

 

“No,” said the other quietly. “I suppose I am too late to prevent

trouble between those two men, but I shall at least remain here to

assure Frederic of my sympathy, to help him if I can, to offer him the

shelter of my home.”

 

A spasm of alarm crossed Yvonne’s face.

 

“Do you really believe it will come to that?” she demanded nervously.

 

“If what I fear should come to pass, he will not stay in this house

another hour. He will go forth from it cursing James Brood with all the

hatred that his soul can possess. And now, Mrs Brood, shall I tell you

what I think of you?”

 

“No. It isn’t at all necessary. Besides, I’ve changed my mind. I’d like

you to remain. I do not want to mystify you any farther, Mrs Desmond,

but I now confess to you that I am losing my courage. Don’t ask me to

tell you why, but------”

 

“I suppose it is the custom with those who play with fire. They shrink

when it burns them.”

 

Mrs Brood looked at her steadily. The rebellious, sullen __EXPRESSION__ died

out of her eyes. She sighed deeply, almost despairingly.

 

“I am sorry you think ill of me, but yet I cannot blame you for

considering me to be a--a------ I’ll not say it. Mrs Desmond, I--I wish

I had never come to this house.”