Black is White 44

Black is White 44

“_En bien, madame. La Provence. Il part demain. Je------_”

 

“Go at once!” cried the mistress, waving her hands excitedly.

 

“_Vous me renvoyez!_” And the little maid dashed out of the room.

 

As she descended the back stairs an amazing change came over her. Her

sprightly face became black with sullen rage and her eyes snapped with

fury. So violent was her manner when she accosted Jones in the servants’

hall that he fell back in some alarm. She was not long in making him

understand that she had been dismissed, however, and that she would

surely poison the diabolical creature upstairs if she remained in the

house another hour. Even the cook, who had a temper of her own, was

appalled by the exhibition; other servants were struck dumb.

 

Jones, perspiring freely, said something about calling in an officer,

and then Céleste began to weep bitterly. All she wanted was to get out

of the house before she did something desperate to the cruel tyrant

upstairs, and she’d be eternally grateful to Jones if he’d get her

trunks out of the storeroom as soon as------ But Jones was already on

his way to give instructions to the furnace-man.

 

Céleste took the occasion to go into hysterics, and the entire servant

body fell to work hissing “_Sh--h!_” in an agony of apprehension lest

the turmoil should penetrate the walls and reach the ears of the “woman

upstairs.” They closed all of the doors and most of the windows, and the

upstairs maid thought it would be a good idea to put a blanket over the

girl’s head.

 

Left alone, Yvonne turned her attention to the window across the

court and two floors above her the heavily curtained window in Brood’s

“retreat.” There was no sign of life there, so she hurried to the front

of the house to wait for the departure of James Brood and his man.

The two were going down the front steps. At the bottom Brood spoke to

Ranjab, and the latter, as imperturbable as a rock, bowed low and moved

off in an opposite direction to that taken by his master. She watched

until both were out of sight. Then she rapidly mounted the stairs to the

top floor.

 

Frederic was lying on the couch near the jade room door. She was able

to distinguish his long, dark figure after peering intently about the

shadowy interior in what seemed at first to be a vain search for him.

She shrank back, her eyes fixed in horror upon the prostrate shadow.

Suddenly he stirred and then half raised himself on one elbow to stare

at the figure in the doorway.

 

“Is it _you?_” he whispered hoarsely, and dropped back with a great sigh

on his lips.

 

Her heart leaped. The blood rushed back to her face. Quickly closing the

door, she advanced into the room, her tread as swift and as soft as a

cat’s.

 

“He has gone out. We are quite alone,” she said, stopping to lean

against the table, suddenly faint with excitement.

 

He laughed, a bitter, mirthless, snarling laugh.

 

“Get up, Frederic. Be a man! I know what has happened. Get up! I want to

talk it over with you. We must plan. We must decide now at once--before

he returns.” The words broke from her lips with sharp, staccato-like

emphasis.

 

He came to a sitting posture slowly, all the while staring at her with a

dull wonder in his heavy eyes.

 

“Pull yourself together,” she cried hurriedly. “We cannot talk here. I

am afraid in this room. It has ears, I know. That awful Hindu is always

here, even though he may seem to be elsewhere. We will go down to my

boudoir.”

 

He slowly shook his head and then allowed his chin to sink dejectedly

into his hands. With his elbows resting on his knees, he watched her

movements in a state of increasing interest and bewilderment. She turned

abruptly to the Buddha, whose placid, smirking countenance seemed to be

alive to the situation in all of its aspects. Standing close, her hands

behind her back, her figure very erect and theatric, she proceeded to

address the image in a voice full of mockery.

 

“Well, my chatterbox friend, I have pierced his armour, haven’t I? He

will creep up here and ask you, his wonderful god, to tell him what to

do about it, _aie?_ His wits are tangled. He doubts his senses. And

when he comes to you, my friend, and whines his secret doubts into your

excellent and trustworthy ear, do me the kindness to keep the secret I

shall now whisper to you, for I trust you, too, you amiable fraud.”

 

Standing on tiptoe, she put her lips to the idol’s ear and whispered.

Frederic, across the room, roused from his lethargy by the strange

words and still stranger action, rose to his feet and took several steps

toward her.

 

“There! Now you know everything. You know more than James Brood knows,

for you know what his charming wife is about to do next.” She drew back

and regarded the image through half-closed, smouldering eyes. “But he

will know before long--before long.”

 

“What are you doing, Yvonne?” demanded Frederic unsteadily.

 

She whirled about and came toward him, her hands still clasped behind

her back.

 

“Come with me,” she said, ignoring his question.

 

“He--he thinks I am in love with you,” said he, shaking his head.

 

“And are you not in love with me?”

 

He was startled. “Good Lord, Yvonne!”

 

She came quite close to him. He could feel the warmth that travelled

from her body across the short space that separated them. The

intoxicating perfume filled his nostrils; he drew a deep breath, his

eyes closing slowly as his senses prepared to succumb to the delicious

spell that came over him. When he opened them an instant later she was

still facing him, as straight and fearless as a soldier, and the light

of victory was in her dark, compelling eyes.

 

“Well,” she said deliberately, “I am ready to go away with you.”

 

He fell back stunned beyond the power of speech. His brain was filled

with a thousand clattering noises.

 

“He has turned you out,” she went on rapidly. “He disowns you. Very

well; the time has come for me to exact payment of him for that and for

all that has gone before. I shall go away with you. I------”

 

“Impossible!” he cried, finding his tongue and drawing still farther

away from her.

 

“Are you not in love with me?” she whispered softly.

 

He put his hands to his eyes to shut out the alluring vision.

 

“For God’s sake, Yvonne--leave me. Let me go my way. Let me------”

 

“He cursed your mother! He curses you! He damns you--as he damned her.

You can pay him up for everything. You owe nothing to him. He has killed

every------”

 

Frederic straightened up suddenly and, with a loud cry of exultation,

raised his clenched hands above his head.

 

“By Heaven, I will break him! I will make him pay! Do you know what

he has done to me? Listen to this: he boasts of having reared me to

manhood, as one might bring up a prize beast, that he might make me pay

for the wrong that my poor mother did a quarter of a century ago. All

these years he has had in mind this thing that he has done to-day. All

my life has been spent in preparation for the sacrifice that came an

hour ago. I have suffered all these years in ignorance of------”

 

“Not so loud!” she whispered, alarmed by the vehemence of his reawakened

fury.

 

“Oh, I’m not afraid!” he cried savagely. “Can you imagine anything more

diabolical than the scheme he has had in mind all these years? To pay

back my mother--whom he loved and still loves--yes, by Heaven, he still

loves her--he works to this beastly end! He made her suffer the agonies

of the damned up to the day of her death by refusing her the right to

have the child that he swears is no child of his. Oh, you don’t know

the story you don’t know the kind of man you have for a husband--you

don’t------”

 

“Yes, yes; I do know!” she cried violently, beating her breast with

clenched hands. “I _do_ know! I know that he still loves the poor girl

who went out of this house with his curses ringing in her ears a score

of years ago, and who died still hearing them. And I had almost come

to the point of pitying him--I was failing--I was weakening. He is

a wonderful man. I--I was losing myself. But that is all over. Three

months ago I could have left him without a pang--yesterday I was afraid

that it would never be possible. To-day he makes it easy for me. He has

hurt you beyond all reason, not because he hates you, but because he

loved your mother.”

 

“But you do love him!” cried Frederic in stark wonder. “You don’t

care the snap of your fingers for me. What is all this you are saying,

Yvonne? You must be mad. Think! Think what you are saying.”

 

“I have thought--I am always thinking. I know my own mind well enough.

It is settled: I am going away, and I am going with you.”

 

“You can’t be in earnest!”

 

“I am desperately in earnest. You owe nothing to him now. He says you

are not his son. You owe nothing but hatred to him, and you should pay.

You owe vengeance for your mother’s sake for the sake of her whose face

you have come to love, who loved you to the day she died, I am sure. He

will proclaim to the world that you are not his son, he will brand you

with the mark of shame, he will drive you out of New York. You are the

son of a music-master, he shouts from the housetops! Your mother was a

vile woman, he shouts from the housetops! You cannot remain here. You

_must_ go. You must take me with you. Ah, you are thinking of Lydia!

Well, are you thinking of dragging her through the mire that he will

create? Are you willing to give her the name he declares is not yours to

give? Are you a craven, whipped coward who will not strike back when the

chance is offered to give a blow that will------”

 

“I cannot listen to you, Yvonne!” cried Frederic, aghast. His heart was