Black is White 40

Black is White 40

“Permit me to echo your words.”

 

“You will never be able to understand me. And, after all, why should I

care? You are nothing to me. You are merely a good woman who has no real

object in life. You------”

 

“No real object in life?”

 

“Precisely. Sit down. We will wait here together, if you please. I--I

_am_ worried. I think I rather like to feel that you are here with me.

You see, the crisis has come.”

 

“You know, of course, that he turned one wife out of this house, Mrs

Brood,” said Mrs Desmond deliberately.

 

Something like terror leaped into the other’s eyes. The watcher

experienced an incomprehensible feeling of pity for her--she who had

been despising her so fiercely the instant before.

 

“He--he will not turn me out,” murmured Yvonne, and suddenly began

pacing the floor, her hands clenched. Stopping abruptly in front of the

other woman, she exclaimed: “He made a great mistake in driving that

other woman out. He is not likely to repeat it, Mrs Desmond.”

 

“Yes--I think he _did_ make a mistake,” said Mrs Desmond calmly. “But he

does not think so. He is a man of iron. He is unbending.”

 

“He is a wonderful man--a great, splendid man,” cried Yvonne fiercely.

“It is I--Yvonne Lestrange--who proclaim it to the world. I cannot bear

to see him suffer. I------”

 

“Then, why do you------”

 

“Ah, you would say it, eh? Well, there is no answer. Poof! Perhaps it

will not be so bad as we think. Come! I am no longer uneasy. See! I

am very calm. Am I not an example for you? Sit down. We will wait

together.”

 

They sat far apart, each filled with dark misgivings, though radically

opposed in their manner of treating the situation. Mrs Desmond was cold

with apprehension. She sat immovable, tense. Yvonne sank back easily in

a deep, comfortable chair and coolly lighted a cigarette. It would have

been remarked by a keen observer that her failure to offer one to her

visitor was evidence of an unwonted abstraction. As a matter of fact,

inwardly she was trembling like a leaf.

 

“I suppose there is nothing to do,” said Mrs Desmond in despair, after a

long silence. “Poor Lydia will never forgive herself.”

 

Yvonne blew rings of smoke toward the ceiling.

 

“I dare say you think I am an evil person, Mrs Desmond.”

 

“Curiously, Mrs Brood, I have never thought of you in that light. Your

transgressions are the greater for that reason.”

 

“Transgressions? An amiable word, believe me.”

 

“I did not come here, however, to discuss your actions.”

 

Yvonne leaned forward suddenly.

 

“You do not ask what transpired last night to bring about this crisis.

Why do you hesitate?”

 

Mrs Desmond shook her head slowly. “I do not want to know.”

 

“Well, it was not what you have been thinking it was,” said Yvonne

levelly. “I am relieved to hear it,” said the other rather grimly.

 

Mrs Brood flushed to the roots of her hair.

 

“I do not want to appear unfair to my husband, but I declare to you, Mrs

Desmond, that Frederic is fully justified in the attitude he has taken

this morning. His father humiliated him last night in a manner that made

forbearance impossible. That much I must say for Frederic. And permit

me to add, from my soul, that he is vastly more sinned against than

sinning.”

 

“I can readily believe that, Mrs Brood.”

 

“This morning Frederic came into the breakfast-room while we were having

our coffee. You look surprised. Yes, I was having breakfast with my

husband. I knew that Frederic would come. That was my reason. When I

heard him in the hall I sent the servants out of the dining-room. He had

spent the night with a friend. His first words on entering the room were

these--I shall never forget them: ‘Last night I thought I loved you,

father, but I have come home just to tell you that I hate you. I can’t

stay in this house another day. I’m going to get out. But I just wanted

you to know that I thought I loved you last night, as a son should love

his father. I just wanted you to know it.”

 

“He did not even look at me, Mrs Desmond. I don’t believe he knew I was

there. I shall never forget the look in James Brood’s face. It was as

if he saw a ghost or some horrible thing that fascinated him. He did not

utter a word, but stared at Frederic in that terrible, awe-struck way.”

 

“‘I’m going to get out,’ said Frederic, his voice rising. ‘You’ve

treated me like a dog all of my life, and I’m through. I shan’t even say

good-bye to you. You don’t deserve any more consideration from me than

I’ve received from you. I hope I’ll never see you again. If I ever have

a son I’ll not treat him as you’ve treated your son. You don’t deserve

the honour of being called father; you don’t deserve to have a son. I

wish to God I had never been obliged to call you father! I don’t know

what you did to my mother, but if you treated her as------’

 

“Just then my husband found his voice. He sprang to his feet, and

I’ve never seen such a look of rage. I thought he was going to strike

Frederic, and I think I screamed--just a little scream, of course. I

was so terrified. But he only said--and it was horrible the way he said

it-’You fool you bastard!’ And Frederic laughed in his face and cried

out, unafraid: ‘I’m glad you call me a bastard! I’d rather be one than

be your son. It would at least give me something to be proud of a real

father!’”

 

“Good Heaven!” fell from Mrs Desmond’s white lips.

 

Yvonne seemed to have paused to catch her breath. Her breast heaved

convulsively, the grip of her hands tightened on the arms of the chair.

 

Suddenly she resumed her recital, but her voice was hoarse and

tremulous.

 

“I was terribly frightened. I thought of calling out to Jones, but I--I

had no voice! Ah, you have never seen two angry men waiting to spring at

each other’s throats, Mrs Desmond. My husband suddenly regained control

of himself. He was very calm. ‘Come with me,* he said to Frederic.

‘This is not the place to wash our filthy family linen. You say you want

something to be proud of. Well, you shall have your wish. Come to my

study.’ And they went away together neither speaking a word to me--they

did not even glance in my direction. They went up the stairs. I heard

the door close behind them--away up there. That was half an hour ago.

I have been waiting, too--waiting as you are waiting now--to comfort

Frederic when he comes out of that room a wreck.”

 

Mrs Desmond started up, an incredulous look in her eyes.

 

“You are taking his side? You are against your husband? Oh, now I know

the kind of woman you are. I know------”

 

“Peace! You do not know the kind of woman I am. You will never know.

Yes, I shall take sides with Frederic.”

 

“You do not love your husband!”

 

A strange, unfathomable smile came into Yvonne’s face and stayed there.

Mrs Desmond experienced the same odd feeling she had had years ago on

first seeing the Sphinx. She was suddenly confronted by an unsolvable

mystery.

 

“He shall not drive me out of his house, Mrs Desmond,” was her answer to

the challenge.

 

A door slammed in the upper regions of the house. Both women started to

their feet.

 

“It is over,” breathed Yvonne with a tremulous sigh.

 

“We shall see how well they were able to take care of themselves, Mrs

Brood,” said Mrs Desmond in a low voice.

 

“We shall see--yes,” said the other mechanically. Suddenly she turned on

the tall, accusing figure beside her. “Go away! Go now! I command you to

go. This is _our_ affair, Mrs Desmond. You are not needed here. You were

too late, as you say. I beg of you, go!” She strode swiftly toward the

door. As she was about to place her hand on the knob it was opened from

the other side, and Ran jab stood before them.

 

“_Sahib_ begs to be excused, Mrs Desmond. He is just going out.”

 

“Going out?” cried Yvonne, who had shrunk back into the room.

 

“Yes, _sahibah_. You will please excuse, Mrs Desmond. He regret very

much.”

 

Mrs Desmond passed slowly through the door, which he held open for her.

As she passed by the Hindu she looked full into his dark, expressive

eyes, and there was a question in hers. He did not speak, but she read

the answer as if it were on a printed page. Her shoulders drooped.

 

She went back to Lydia.