Black is White 5

Black is White 5

“She is a staunch ship, Frederic,” she said, without any other form of

greeting. “She will be late, but there’s really nothing to worry about.”

 

“I’m not worrying,” he said confusedly. “Lydia has told you the--the

news?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Rather staggering, isn’t it?” he said with a wry smile. In spite of

himself he watched her face with curious intentness.

 

“Rather,” she said briefly.

 

He was silent for a moment.

 

“I was instructed to inform you that he was married last Wednesday,”

he said, and his face hardened. “And to have the car meet them at the

dock.”

 

“It won’t be necessary, Frederic. I have given Jones his instructions.

You will not even have to carry out the orders.”

 

“I suppose you don’t approve of the way.”

 

“I know just how you feel, poor boy. Don’t try to explain. I know.”

 

“You always understand,” he said, lowering his eyes.

 

“Not always,” she said quietly. There was something cryptic in the

remark. He kept his eyes averted.

 

“Well, it’s going to play hob with everything,” he said, jamming his

hands deep into his pockets. His shoulders seemed to hunch forward and

to contract.

 

“I am especially sorry for Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs,” she said. Her voice

was steady and full of earnestness.

 

“Do they know?”

 

“They were up and about at daybreak, poor souls. Do you know, Freddy,

they were starting off in this blizzard when I met them in the hall!”

 

“The deuce! I--I hope it wasn’t on account of anything I may have said to

them last night,” he cried in contrition.

 

She smiled. “No. They had their own theory about the message. The storm

strengthened it. They were positive that your father was in great

peril. I don’t like to tell you this, but they seemed to think that you

couldn’t be depended upon to take a hand in--in--well, in helping him.

They were determined to charter a vessel of some sort and start off

in all this blizzard to search the sea for Mr Brood. Oh, aren’t they

wonderful?”

 

He had no feeling of resentment toward the old men for their opinion of

him. Instead, his eyes glowed with an honest admiration.

 

“By George, Mrs Desmond, they _are_ great! They are _men_, bless their

hearts. Seventy-five years old and still ready to face anything for a

comrade! It _does_ prove something, doesn’t it?”

 

“It proves that your father has made no mistake in selecting his

friends, my dear. My husband used to say that he would cheerfully die

for James Brood, and he knew that James Brood would have died for him

just as readily. There is something in friendships of that sort that we

can’t understand. We never have been able to test our friends, much less

ourselves. We----”

 

“I would die for you, Mrs Desmond,” cried Frederic, a deep flush

overspreading his face. “For you and Lydia.”

 

“You come by that naturally,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm.

“Blood will tell. Thank you, Frederic.” She smiled. “I am sure it will

not be necessary for you to die for me, however. As for Lydia, you must

live, not die, for her.”

 

“I’ll do both,” he cried impulsively.

 

“Before you go in to breakfast I want to say something else to you,

Frederic,” said she seriously. “Lydia has repeated everything you said

to her last night. My dear boy, my husband has been dead for twelve

years. I loved him, and he died loving me. I shall never marry another

man. I am still the wife of John Desmond; I still consider myself bound

to him. Can you understand?”

 

“I talked like a lunatic last night, I fear,” he confessed. “I might

have known. You, too, belong to the list of loyal ones. Forgive me.”

 

“There is nothing to forgive, dear,” she said simply. “And now, one more

word, Frederic. You must accept this new condition of affairs in the

right spirit. Your father has married again, after all these years. It

is not likely that he has done so without deliberation. Therefore, it is

reasonable to assume that he is bringing home with him a wife of whom he

at least is proud, and that should weigh considerably in your summing

up of the situation. She will be beautiful, accomplished, refined, and

good, Frederic. Of that you may be sure. Let me implore you to withhold

judgment until a later day.”

 

“I do not object to the situation, Mrs Desmond,” said he, the angry

light returning to his eyes, “so much as I resent the wording of that

telegram. It is always just that way. He loses no chance to humiliate

me. He----”

 

“Hush! You are losing your temper again.”

 

“Well, who wouldn’t? And here’s another thing, the very worst of all.

How is this new condition going to affect you, Mrs Desmond?” She was

silent for a moment.

 

“Of course, I shan’t stay on here, Frederic. I shall not be needed now.

As soon as Mrs Brood is settled here I shall go.”

 

“And you expect me to be cheerful and contented!” he cried bitterly.

 

“You are a man, Frederic. It is for you to say yea and nay; women must

say one or the other. A man may make his own bed, but he doesn’t always

have to lie in it.”

 

“Sounds rather like Solomon,” he said ruefully. “I suppose you mean

that if I’m not contented here I ought to get out and look for happiness

elsewhere, reserving the right to come back if I fail?”

 

“Something of the sort,” she said.

 

“My father objects to my going into business or taking up a profession.

I am dependent on him for everything. But why go into that? We’ve talked

it over a thousand times. I don’t understand, but perhaps you do. It’s a

dog’s way of living.”

 

“Your father is making a man of you.”

 

“Oh, he is, eh?” with great scorn.

 

“Yes. He will make you see some day that the kind of life you lead is

not the kind you want. Your pride, your ambition will rebel. Then you

will make something out of life for yourself.”

 

“I don’t think that is in his mind, if you’ll pardon me. I sometimes

believe he actually wants me to stay as I am, always a dependent.

Why, how can he expect me to marry and----” He stopped short, his face

paling.

 

“Go on, please.”

 

“Well, it looks to me as if he means to make it impossible for me to

marry, Mrs Desmond. I’ve thought of it a good deal.”

 

“And is it impossible?”

 

“No. I shall marry Lydia, even though I have to dig in the streets

for her. It isn’t that, however. There’s some other reason back of his

attitude, but for the life of me I can’t get at it.”

 

“I wouldn’t try to get at it, my dear,” she said. “Wait and see. Come,

you must have your coffee. I am glad you came down early. The old

gentlemen are at breakfast now. Come in.”

 

He followed her dejectedly, a droop to his shoulders.

 

Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs were seated at the table. Lydia, a trifle pale and

distrait, was pouring their third cup of coffee. The old men showed no

sign of their midnight experience. They were very wideawake, clear-eyed,

and alert, as old men will be who do not count the years of life left in

the span appointed for them.

 

“Good morning, Freddy,” said they, almost in one voice.

 

As he passed behind their chairs on his way to Lydia’s side, he slapped

each of them cordially on the back. They seemed to swell with relief and

gratitude. He was not in the habit of slapping them on the back.

 

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said he. Then he lifted Lydia’s slim fingers

to his lips. “Good morning, dear.”

 

She squeezed his fingers tightly and smiled. A look of relief leaped

into her eyes; she drew a long breath. She poured his coffee for

him every morning. Her hand shook a little as she lifted the tiny

cream-pitcher.

 

“I didn’t sleep very well,” she explained in a low voice.

 

His hand rested on her shoulder for a moment in a gentle caress. Then he

sat down in the chair Jones had drawn out for him.

 

“Well, gentlemen, when does the relief boat start?” he asked, with a

forced attempt at humour.

 

Mr Dawes regarded him with great solemnity.

 

“Freddy, it’s too late. A man can be saved from the scourge, tigers,

elephants, lions, snakes, and almost everything else in God’s world,

but, blast me, he can’t be protected against women! They are deadly.

They can overpower the strongest of men, sir. Your poor father is lost

for ever. I never was so sorry for anyone in my life.”

 

“If he had only called for help a week or so ago, we could have saved

him,” lamented Mr Riggs. “But he never even peeped. Lordy, Lordy, and

just think of it, he yelled like an Indian when that lion leaped on him

at Nairobi!”

 

“Poor old Jim!” sighed Mr Dawes. “He’ll probably have to ask us to pull

out, too. I imagine she’ll insist on making a spare bedroom out of our

room, so’s she can entertain all of her infernal relations. Jones, will