Black is White 42

Black is White 42

“I used to wonder why you never told me of my own mother. Long ago

I gave up wondering. Something warned me not to ask you about her.

Something told me it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. I never inquired

of anyone after I was old enough to think for myself. I was afraid to

ask, so I waited, hoping all the time that you would some day tell me

of her. But you’ve never breathed her name to me. I no longer wonder. I

know now that she must have hated you with all the strength of her soul.

God, how she must have hated to feel the touch of your hands upon

her body! Something tells me she left you, and if she did, I hope she

afterward found someone who--but no, I won’t say it. Even now I haven’t

the heart to hurt you by saying that.” He stopped, choking up with the

rush of bitter words. “Well, why don’t you say something?”

 

“I’m giving you your innings. Go on,” said Brood softly.

 

“She must have loved you once--or she wouldn’t have married you. She

must have loved you or I wouldn’t be here in this world. She------”

 

“Ha!” came sharply from Brood, “--didn’t find you out until it was too

late. She was lovely, I know. She was sweet and gentle and she loved

happiness. I can see that in her face, in her big, wistful eyes.

You------”

 

“What’s this?” demanded Brood, startled. “What are you saying?”

 

“Oh, I’ve got her portrait--an old photograph. For a month I’ve carried

it here in this pocket--case over my heart. I wouldn’t part with it for

all the money in the world. When I look at the dear, sweet, girlish face

and her eyes look back into mine, I know that _she_ loved me.”

 

“Her portrait?” said Brood, unbelieving.

 

“Yes--and I have only to look at it to know that she couldn’t have hurt

you--so it must have been the other way round. She’s dead now, I know,

but she didn’t die for years after I was born. Why was it that I never

saw her? Why was I kept up there in that damnable village------”

 

“Where did you get that photograph?” demanded Brood hoarsely. “Where, I

say? What interfering fool------”

 

“I wouldn’t be too nasty, if I were you,” said Frederic, a note of

triumph in his voice. “Yvonne gave it to me. I made her promise to say

nothing to you about it. She------”

 

“Yvonne? Are you------ Impossible! She could not have had------”

 

“It was lying under the marble top of that old bureau in her bedroom.

She found it there when the men came to take it away to storage. It

hadn’t been moved in twenty years or more.”

 

“In--her--bedroom?” murmured Brood, passing his hand over his eyes.

“The old bureau--marble top--good Lord! It was our bedroom. Let me see

it--give it to me this instant!”

 

“I can’t do that. It’s mine now. It’s safe where it is.”

 

“Yvonne found it? Yvonne? And gave it to you? What damnable trick of

fate is this? But------ Ah, it may not be a portrait of your--your

mother. Some old photograph that got stuck under the------”

 

“No; it is my mother. Yvonne saw the resemblance at once and brought it

to me. And it may interest you to know that she advised me to treasure

it all my life, because it would always tell me how lovely and sweet my

mother was--the mother I have never seen.”

 

“I insist on seeing that picture,” said Brood with deadly intensity.

 

“No,” said Frederic, folding his arms tightly across his breast. “You

didn’t deserve her then and you------”

 

“You don’t know what you are saying, boy!”

 

“Ah, don’t I? Well, I’ve got just a little bit of my mother safe here

over my heart--a little faded card, that’s all--and you shall not rob me

of that. I wish to God I had her here, just as she was when she had the

picture taken. Don’t glare at me like that. I don’t intend to give it

up. Last night I was sorry for you. I had the feeling that somehow you

have always been unhappy over something that happened in the past, and

that my mother was responsible. And yet when I took out this photograph,

this tiny bit of old cardboard--see, it is so small that it can be

carried in my waistcoat pocket--when I took it out and looked at the

pure, lovely face, I--by Heaven, I knew she was not to blame!”

 

“Have you finished?” asked Brood, wiping his brow. It was dripping.

 

“Except to repeat that I am through with you for ever. I’ve had all that

I can endure, and I’m through. My greatest regret is that I didn’t get

out long ago. But like a fool--a weak fool--I kept on hoping that you’d

change and that there were better days ahead for me. I kept on hoping

that you’d be a real father to me. Good Lord, what a libel on the name!”

He laughed raucously. “I’m sick of calling you father. You did me the

honour downstairs of calling me ‘bastard.’ You had no right to call me

that; but, by Heaven, if it were not for this bit of cardboard here

over my heart, I’d laugh in your face and be happy to shout from the

housetops that I am no son of yours. But there’s no such luck as that!

I’ve only to look at my mother’s innocent, soulful face to------”

 

“Stop!” shouted Brood in an awful voice. His clenched hands were raised

above his head. “The time has come for me to tell you the truth about

this innocent mother of yours. Luck is with you. I am not your father.

You are------”

 

“Wait! If you are going to tell me that my mother was not a good woman,

I want to go on record in advance of anything you may say, as being glad

that I am her son no matter who my father was. I am glad that she loved

me because I was her child, and if you are not my father, then I

still have the joy of knowing that she loved some one man well enough

to------” He broke off the bitter sentence and with nervous fingers

drew a small leather case from his waistcoat pocket. “Before you go

any farther, take one look at her face. It will make you ashamed

of yourself. Can you stand there and lie about her after looking

into-------”

 

He was holding the window curtains apart, and a stream of light fell

upon the lovely face, so small that Brood was obliged to come quite

close to be able to see it. His eyes were distended.

 

“It is not Matilde--it is like her, but--yes, yes; it is Matilde! I must

be losing my mind to have thought------” He wiped his brow. “But it

was startling--positively uncanny.” He spoke as to himself, apparently

forgetting that he had a listener.

 

“Well, can you lie about her now?” demanded Frederic.

 

Brood was still staring, as if fascinated, at the tiny photograph.

 

“But I have never seen that picture before. She never had one so small

as that. It------”

 

“It was made in Vienna,” interrupted Frederic, not without a strange

thrill of satisfaction in his soul, “and before you were married, I’d

say. On the back of it is written ‘To my own sweetheart,’ in Hungarian,

Yvonne says. There! Look at her. She was like that when you married her.

How adorable she must have been. ‘To my own sweetheart’! O--ho!”

 

A hoarse cry of rage and pain burst from Brood’s lips. The world grew

red before his eyes.

 

“‘To my own sweetheart’!” he cried out. He sprang forward and struck

the photograph from Frederic’s hand. It fell to the floor at his feet.

Before the young man could recover from his surprise, Brood’s foot was

upon the bit of cardboard. “Don’t raise your hand to me! Don’t you dare

to strike me! Now I shall tell you who that sweetheart was!”

 

Half an hour later James Brood descended the stairs alone. He went

straight to the library, where he knew that he could find Yvonne.

Ranjab, standing in the hall, peered into his white, drawn face as he

passed, and started forward as if to speak to him. But Brood did not see

him. He did not lift his gaze from the floor. The Hindu went swiftly up

the stairs, a deep dread in his soul.

 

The shades were down. Brood stopped inside the door and looked dully

about the library. He was on the point of retiring when Yvonne spoke to

him out of the shadowy corner beyond the fireplace.

 

“Close the door,” she said huskily. Then she emerged slowly, almost like

a spectre, from the dark background formed by the huge mahogany

bookcases that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. “You were a long

time up there,” she went on.

 

“Why is it so dark in here, Yvonne?” he asked lifelessly.

 

“So that it would not be possible for me to see the shame in your eyes,

James.”

 

He leaned heavily against the long table. She came up and stood across

the table from him, and he felt that her eyes were searching his very

soul.

 

“I have hurt him beyond all chance of recovery,” he said hoarsely.

 

She started violently.

 

“You--you struck him down? He--he is dying?” Her voice trailed off into

a whisper.

 

“He will be a long time in dying. It will be slow. I struck him down,

not with my hand, not with a weapon that he could parry, but with words

words! Do you hear? I have crushed his soul with words!”

 

“Oh, you coward!” she cried, leaning over the table, her eyes blazing.

“I can understand it in you. You have no soul of your own. What have you

done to your son, James Brood?”

 

He drew back as if from the impact of a blow. “Coward? If I have crushed

his soul, it was done in time, Yvonne, to deprive you of the glory of

doing it.”

 

“What did he say to you about me?”

 

“You have had your fears for nothing. He did not put you in jeopardy,”

he said scornfully.

 

“I know. He is not a coward,” she said calmly.

 

“In your heart you are reviling me. You judge me as one guilty soul

judges another. Suppose that I were to confess to you that I left him

up there with all the hope, all the life blasted out of his eyes--with