Black is White 43

Black is White 43

“You poor fool!” she cried, her eyes glittering.

 

“Sometimes I have doubted my own reason,” he went on, as if he had not

heard her scathing remark. “Sometimes I have felt a queer gripping

of the heart when I was harshest toward him. Sometimes, his eyes-_her

eyes_-have melted the steel that was driven into my heart long ago,

his voice and the touch of his hand have gently checked my bitterest

thoughts. Are you listening?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You ask what I have done to him. It is nothing in comparison to what he

would have done to me. It isn’t necessary to explain. You know the thing

he has had in his heart to do. I have known it from the beginning. It is

the treacherous heart of his mother that propels that boy’s blood along

its craven way. She was an evil thing--as evil as God ever put life

into.”

 

“Go on.”

 

“I loved her as no woman was ever loved before or since. I thought she

loved me; I believe she did. He--Frederic had her portrait up there to

flash in my face. She was beautiful; she was as lovely as--but no more

I I was not the man. She loved another. You may have guessed, as others

have guessed, that she betrayed me. Her lover was that boy’s father.”

 

Dead silence reigned in the room, save for the heavy breathing of

the man. Yvonne was as still as death itself. Her hands were clenched

against her breast.

 

“That was years ago,” resumed the man hoarsely.

 

“You--you told him this?” she cried, aghast.

 

“He stood before me up there and said that he hoped he might some day

discover that he was not my son.”

 

“You told him _then?_”

 

“He cursed me for having driven his mother out of my house.”

 

“You told him?”

 

“He uttered the hope that she might come back from the grave to torture

me for ever--to pay me back for what I had done to her.”

 

“Then you told him!”

 

“He said she must have loathed me as no man was ever loathed before.

Then I told him.”

 

“You told him because you knew she did _not_ loathe you!”

 

“Yvonne! You are laughing!”

 

“I laugh because after he had said all these bitter things to you, and

you had paid him back by telling him that he was not your son, it was

you--not he--who was sorry!”

 

“I did not expect sympathy from you, but--to have you laugh in my face!

I------”

 

“Did you expect sympathy from him?” she cried.

 

“I told him in the end that as he was not my son he need feel no

compunction in trying to steal my wife away from me. I------”

 

“And what did he say to that?” she broke in shrilly.

 

“Nothing! He did not speak to me after that. Not one word!”

 

“Nor should I speak to you again, James Brood!”

 

“Yvonne--I--I love you. I------”

 

“And you loved Matilde--God pity your poor soul! For no more than I have

done, you drove her out of your house. You accuse me in your heart when

you vent your rage on that poor boy. Oh, I know! You suspect _me!_ And

you suspected the other one. I swear to you that you have more cause to

suspect me than Matilde. She was not untrue to you. She could not have

loved anyone else but you. I know--I know! Don’t come near me! Not now!

I tell you that Frederic is your son. I tell you that Matilde loved no

one but you. You drove her out. You drive Frederic out. _And you will

drive me out!_”

 

She stood over him like an accusing angel, her arms extended. He shrank

back, glaring.

 

“Why do you say these things to me? You cannot know--you have no right

to say------”

 

“I _am_ sorry for you, James Brood,” she murmured, suddenly relaxing.

Her body swayed against the table, and then she sank limply into the

chair alongside.

 

“Yvonne!”

 

“You will never forget that you struck a man who was asleep, absolutely

asleep, James Brood. That’s why I am sorry for you.”

 

“Asleep!” he murmured, putting his hand to his eyes. “Yes, yes--he was

asleep! Yvonne, I--I have never been so near to loving him as I am now.

I--I------”

 

“I am going up to him. Don’t try to stop me. But first let me ask you

a question. What did Frederic say when you told him his mother was was

what you claim?”

 

Brood lowered his head.

 

“He said that I was a cowardly liar.”

 

“And it was then that you began to feel that you loved him. Ah, I

see what it is that you need, James. You are a great, strong man, a

wonderful man in spite of all this. You have a heart--a heart that still

needs breaking before you can ever hope to be happy.”

 

“As if my heart hasn’t already been broken,” he groaned.

 

“Your head has been hurt, that’s all. There is a vast difference. Are

you going out?”

 

He looked at her in dull amazement. Slowly he began to pull himself

together.

 

“Yes. I think you should go to him. I--I gave him an hour to--to------”

 

“To get out?”

 

“Yes. He must go, you see. See him, if you will. I shall not oppose you.

Find out what he expects to do.”

 

She passed swiftly by him as he started toward the door. In the hall,

which was bright with the sunlight from the upper windows, she turned to

face him. To his astonishment her cheeks were aglow and her eyes bright

with eagerness. She seemed almost radiant.

 

“Yes; it needs breaking, James,” she said, and went up the stairs,

leaving him standing there dumbfounded. Near the top she began to hum a

blithe tune. It came down to him distinctly--the weird little air that

had haunted him for years Feverelli’s!

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVIII

 

To Brood’s surprise she came half--way down the steps again, and,

leaning over the railing, spoke to him with a voice full of irony.

 

“Will you be good enough to call off your spy, James?”

 

“What do you mean?” He had started to put on his light overcoat.

 

“I think you know,” she said briefly.

 

“Do you consider me so mean, so infamous as------” he began hotly.

 

“Nevertheless, I feel happier when I know he is out of the house. Call

off your dog, James.”

 

He smothered an execration and then called out harshly to Jones:

 

“Ask Ranjab to attend me here, Jones. He is to go out with me,” he said

to the butler a moment later.

 

Yvonne was still leaning over the banister, a scornful smile on her

lips.

 

“I shall wait until you are gone. I intend to see Frederic alone,” she

said, with marked emphasis on the final word.

 

“As you like,” said he coldly.

 

She crossed the upper hall and disappeared from view down the corridor

leading to her own room. Her lips were set with decision; a wild,

reckless light filled her eyes, and the smile of scorn had given way

to one of exaltation. Her breath came fast and tremulously through

quivering nostrils as she closed her door and hurried across to the

little vine-covered balcony.

 

“The time has come--the time has come, thank God!” she was saying to

herself, over and over again. The French doors stuck. She was jerking

angrily at them when her maid hurried in from the bedroom, attracted by

the unusual commotion.

 

“_Que faites vous, madame?_” she cried anxiously.

 

Her mistress turned quickly.

 

“Listen! Go downstairs at once and tell them that I have dismissed you.

At once, do you hear?”

 

“_Oui madame!_” cried Céleste, her eyes dancing with a sudden,

incomprehensible delight.

 

“You are to leave the house immediately. I dismiss you. You have been

stealing from me, do you understand?”

 

“_Oui, madame. Je comprendes parfaitement, madame!_” cried the maid,

actually clapping her hands.

 

“You will pack two steamer-trunks and get them out of the house before

five o’clock. You are going back to Paris. You are dismissed.”

 

The little Frenchwoman beamed.

 

“_Certainement, madame! Par le premier bateau. Je comprend_.”

 

“The first boat for Havre--do you know the hour for sailing? Consult the