Black is White 41
CHAPTER XVII
When James Brood and Frederic left the diningroom, nearly an hour
prior to the departure of Mrs Desmond, there was in the mind of each the
resolution to make short work of the coming interview. Each knew that
the time had arrived for the parting of the ways, and neither had the
least desire to prolong the suspense.
Frederic, far from suspecting the ordeal in store for him, experienced
a curious sense of exaltation as he followed the master of the house up
the stairway. He was about to declare his freedom; the very thought of
it thrilled him. He had at last found the courage to revolt, and there
was cause for rejoicing in the prospect of a lively triumph over what he
was pleased to call oppression.
He would not mince matters! Oh, no; he would come straight to the point.
There wasn’t any sense in temporising. There were years of pent-up
grievances that he could fling at his father, but he would crystallise
them into a few withering minutes and have done with the business. He
knew he was as pale as a ghost and his legs were strangely weak, but
he was not cognisant of the slightest sensation of fear, nor the least
inclination to shrink from the consequences of that brief, original
challenge.
The study door was closed. James Brood put his hand on the knob, but
before turning it faced the young man with an odd mixture of anger and
pity in his eyes.
“Perhaps it will be better if we had nothing more to say to each other,”
he said with an effort.
“I have changed my mind. I cannot say the thing to you that I-----”
“Has it got anything to do with Yvonne and me?” demanded Frederic
ruthlessly, jumping at conclusions in his new-found arrogance.
Brood threw open the door.
“Step inside,” he said in a voice that should have warned the younger
man, it was so prophetic of disaster. Frederic had touched the open
sore with that unhappy question. Not until this instant had James Brood
admitted to himself that there was a sore and that it had been festering
all these weeks. Now it was laid bare and it smarted with pain. Nothing
could save Frederic after that reckless, deliberate thrust at the very
core of the malignant growth that lay so near the surface.
It had been in James Brood’s heart to spare the boy. An unaccountable
wave of compassion had swept through him as he mounted the stairs,
leading his victim to the sacrifice. He would have allowed him to go
his way in ignorance of the evil truth; he would have spared the son of
Matilde and been happier, far happier, he knew, for having done so. He
would have let him fare forth, as he elected to go, rejoicing in his
foolish independence, scorning to the end of his days, perhaps, the man
who posed as father to him.
But Frederic had touched the hateful sore, His chance was gone.
Hot words were on Frederic’s lips. Brood held up his hand, and there was
in the gesture a command that silenced the young man. He was somewhat
shocked to find that he still recognised the other’s right to command.
The older man went quickly to the door of the Hindu’s closet. He rapped
on the panel, and in an instant the door was opened. Ranjab stepped out
and quickly closed the door behind him. A few words, spoken in lowered
tones and in the language of the East, passed between master and man.
Frederic turned his back to them. Moved by a sudden impulse, he strode
to the window and pulled the curtains apart. A swift glance upward
showed him the drawn shades in Lydia’s bedroom windows. Somehow he was
glad that she was asleep. An impulse as strong as the other ordered him
to shift his glance downward to the little balcony outside of Yvonne’s
windows. Then he heard the door close softly behind him and turned to
face his father.
They were alone in the room. He squared his shoulders.
“I suppose you think I am in love with her,” he said defiantly. He
waited a moment for the response that did not come. Brood was regarding
him with eyes from which every spark of compassion had disappeared.
“Well, it may interest you to know that I intend to marry Lydia this
very day.”
Brood advanced a few steps toward him. In the subdued light of the room
his features were not clearly distinguishable. His face was gray and
shadowy; only the eyes were sharply defined. They glowed like points of
light, unflickering.
“I shall be sorry for Lydia,” he said levelly.
“You needn’t be,” said Frederic hotly. “She understands everything.”
“You were born to be dishonest in love.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It is my purpose to tell you precisely what I mean. Lydia understands
far more than you think. If she marries you it will be with her eyes
open; she will have no one to blame but herself for the mistake.”
“Oh, I haven’t tried to deceive her as to my prospects. She knows how
poor we will be at the------”
“Does she know that this love you profess for her is at the very outset
disloyal?”
Frederic was silent for a moment. A twinge shot through his heart.
“She understands everything,” he repeated stubbornly.
“Have you lied to her?”
“Lied? You’d better be careful how you------”
“Have you told her that you love her and no one else?”
“Certainly!”
“Then you _have_ lied to her.”
There was silence--tense silence.
“Do you expect me to strike you for that?” came at last from Frederic’s
lips, low and menacing.
“You have always considered yourself to be my son, haven’t you?” pursued
Brood deliberately. “Can you say to me that you have behaved of late as
a son should------”
“Wait! We’ll settle that point right now. I _did_ lose my head. Head, I
say, not heart. I shan’t attempt to explain--I can’t, for that matter.
As for Yvonne--well, she’s as good as gold. She understands me far
better than I understand myself. She knows that even honest men lose
their heads sometimes--and she knows the difference between love
and--the other thing. I can say to you now that I would sooner have cut
my own throat than do more than envy you the possession of someone you
do not deserve. I _have_ considered myself your son. I have no apology
to make for my--we’ll call it infatuation. I shall only admit that it
has existed and that I have despaired. So God is my witness, I have
never loved anyone but Lydia. I have given her pain, and the amazing
part of it is that I can’t help myself. Naturally, you can’t understand
what it all means. You are not a young man any longer. You cannot
understand.”
“Good God! *’ burst from Brood’s lips. Then he laughed
aloud--grotesquely.
“Yvonne is the most wonderful thing that has ever come into my life. She
has shown me that life is beautiful and rich and full of warmth. I
had always thought it ugly and cold. Something inside of me awoke the
instant I looked into her eyes something that had always been there, and
yet undeveloped. She spoke to me with her eyes, if you can believe such
a thing possible, and I understood. I adored her the instant I saw her.
I have felt sometimes that I knew her a thousand years ago. I have felt
that I loved her a thousand years ago.” A calm seriousness now attended
his speech, in direct contrast to the violent mood that had gone before.
“I have thought of little else but her. I confess it to you. But through
it all there has never been an instant in which I did not worship Lydia
Desmond. I--I do not pretend to account for it. It is beyond me.”
Brood waited patiently to the end.
“Your mother before you had a somewhat similar affliction,” he
said, still in the steady, repressed voice. “Perhaps it is a gift--a
convenient gift--this ability to worship without effort.”
“Better leave my mother out of it,” said Frederic sarcastically. A look
of wonder leaped to his eyes. “That’s the first time you’ve condescended
to acknowledge that I ever had a mother.”
“I shall soon make you regret that you were ever so blessed as to have
had one.”
“You’ve always made it easy for me to regret that I ever had a father.”
Brood’s smile was deadly.
“If you have anything more to say to me, you had better get it over.
Purge your soul of all the gall that embitters it. I grant you that
privilege. Take your innings.”
A spasm of pain crossed Frederic’s face.
“Yes, I am entitled to my innings. I’ll go back to what I said
downstairs. I thought I loved and honoured you last night. I would have
forgiven everything if you had granted me a friendly--friendly, that’s
all--just a friendly word. You denied------”
“I suppose you want me to believe that it was love for me that brought
you slinking to the theatre,” said the other ironically.
“I don’t expect you to believe anything. I was lonely. I wanted to be
with you and Yvonne. Curse you! Can’t you understand how lonely I’ve
been all my life? Can’t you understand how hungry I am for the affection
that every other boy I’ve known has had from his parents? I’ve never
asked you about my mother. I used to wonder a good deal. Every other boy
had a mother. I never had one. I couldn’t understand it. And they all
had fathers, but they were not like my father. Their fathers were kind
and loving, they were interested in everything their sons did--good or
bad. I used to love the fathers of all those other lucky boys at school.
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