Black is White 55

Black is White 55

The true story of the shooting had long been known to Lydia and her

mother. Brood confessed everything to them. He assumed all of the blame

for what had transpired on that tragic morning. He humbled himself

before them, and when they shook their heads and turned their backs upon

him he was not surprised, for he knew they were not convicting him of

assault with a deadly firearm. Later on the story of Thérèse was told

by him to Frederic and the girl. He did his wife no injustice in the

recital.

 

Frederic laid his hand upon the soft brown head at his knee and voiced

the thought that was in his mind.

 

“You are wondering, as I am, too, what is to become of Yvonne after

to--day,” he said. “There must be an end, and if it doesn’t come now,

when will it come? To--morrow we sail. It is certain that she is not

to accompany us. She has said so herself, and father has said so. So

to--day must see the end of things.”

 

“Frederic, I want you to do something for me,” said Lydia earnestly.

“There was a time when I could not have asked this of you, but now I

implore you to speak to your father in her behalf. I love her, Freddy

dear. I cannot help it. She asks nothing of any of us; she expects

nothing, and yet she loves all of us. If he only would unbend toward her

a little------”

 

“Listen, Lyddy dear. I don’t believe it’s altogether up to him. There is

a barrier that we can’t see, but they do, both of them. My mother stands

between them. You see, I’ve come to know my father lately, dear. He’s

not a stranger to me any longer. I know what sort of a heart he’s got.

He never got over loving my mother, and he’ll never get over knowing

that Yvonne knows that _she_ loved him to the day she died.

 

“We know what it was in Yvonne that attracted him from the first, and

she knows. He’s not likely to forgive himself so easily. He didn’t play

fair with either of them, that’s what I’m trying to get at. I don’t

believe he can forgive himself any more than he can forgive Yvonne for

the thing she set about to do.

 

“You see, Lyddy, she married him without love. She debased herself,

even though she can’t admit it even now. I love her, too. She’s the most

wonderful woman in the world. But she did give herself to the man she

hated with all her soul and well, there you are. He can’t forget _that_,

you know, and she can’t. She loves him for herself now, and that’s what

hurts both of them. It hurts because they both know that he still loves

my mother.”

 

“She’s his wife, however,” said Lydia, with a stubborn pursing of the

lips. “She didn’t wrong him, and, after all, she’s only guilty of--well,

she isn’t guilty of anything except being a sister of the girl _he_

wronged.”

 

“I’ll have a talk with him if you think best,” said he, an eager gleam

in his eyes.

 

“And I with Yvonne,” she said quickly. “You see, it’s possible she is

the one to be persuaded.”

 

“Of course, you’ve observed that they never see one another alone,”

said he. “They never meet except when someone else is about. He rather

resents the high--handed way in which she ordered him to stay away from

me until I was safely out of danger. He says she saved my life. He says

she performed a miracle. But he has never uttered a word of thanks or

gratitude or appreciation to her. I’m sure of that, for she has told me

so. And she is satisfied to go without his thanks.”

 

“I see what you mean,” she said with a sigh. “I suppose we just can’t

understand things.”

 

“You’ve no idea how beautiful you are to--day, Lyddy,” he cried

suddenly, and she looked up into his glowing eyes with a smile of

ineffable happiness. Her hand found his, and her warm, red lips were

pressed to its palm in a hot, impassioned kiss. “It’s great to be alive!

Great!”

 

“Oh, it is,” she cried, “it is!”

 

They might better have said that it is great to be young, for that is

what it all came to in the analysis.

 

Later on Brood joined them in the courtyard. He stood, with his hand on

his son’s shoulder, chatting carelessly about the coming voyage all the

while smiling upon the radiant girl to whom he was promising paradise.

She adored the gentle, kindly gleam in those one--time steady,

steel--like eyes. His voice, too, of late was pitched in a softer key,

and there was the ring of happiness in its every note. It was as if

he had discovered something in life that was constantly surprising and

pleasing him. He seemed always to be venturing into fresh fields of

exploration and finding there something that was of inestimable value to

his new estate.

 

Lydia left father and son after a few minutes, excusing herself on the

ground that she wished to have a good, long chat with Yvonne. She did

not delay her departure, but hurried into the house, having rather

adroitly provided Frederic with an opening for an intercession in behalf

of his lovely stepmother. Her meaning glance was not wasted on the young

man.

 

He lost no time in following up the advantage.

 

“See here, father, I don’t like the idea of leaving Yvonne out in the

cold, so to speak. It’s pretty darned rough, don’t you think? Down in

your heart you don’t blame her for what she started out to do, and,

after all, she’s only human. Whatever happened in the past we--well,

it’s all in the past. She------”

 

Brood stopped him with a gesture.

 

“My son, I will try to explain something to you. You may be able to

understand things better than I. I fell in love with her once because an

influence that was not her own overpowered me. There was something of

your mother in her. She admits that to be true, and I now believe it.

Well, that something, whatever it was, is gone. She is not the same.

Yvonne is Thérèse. She is not the woman I loved two months ago.”

 

“Nor am I the boy you hated two months ago,” argued Frederic. “Isn’t

there a parallel to be seen there, father? I am your son. She is your

wife. You------”

 

“There was never a time when I really hated you, my son. I tried to, but

that is all over. We will not rake up the ashes. As for my wife--well,

I have tried to hate her. It is impossible for me to do so. She is a

wonderful woman. But you must understand, on the other hand, that I do

not love her. I did when she looked at me with your mother’s eyes and

spoke to me with your mother’s lips. But she is not the same.”

 

“Give yourself a chance, dad. You will come to love her for herself if

only you will let go of yourself. You are trying to be hard. You------”

 

Again Brood interrupted. His face was pale, his eyes grew dark with

pain.

 

“You don’t know what you are saying, Frederic. Let us discontinue the

subject.”

 

“I want you to be happy, I want------”

 

“I shall be happy. I am happy. Have I not found out the truth? Are you

not my beloved son? Are------”

 

“And who convinced you of all that, sir? Who is responsible for your

present happiness, and mine?”

 

“I know, I know!” exclaimed the father in some agitation.

 

“You’ll regret it all your life if you fail her now, dad. Why, hang it

all, you’re not an old man! You are less than fifty. Your heart hasn’t

dried up yet. Your blood is still hot. And she is glorious. Give

yourself a chance. You know that she’s one woman in a million, and she’s

yours! She has made you happy, she can make you still happier.”

 

“No, I am not old. I am far younger than I was fifteen years ago. That’s

what I am afraid of this youth I really never possessed till now. If I

gave way to it now I’d--well, I would be like putty in her hands. She

could go on laughing at me, trifling with me, fooling me to------”

 

“She wouldn’t do that!” exclaimed his son hotly.

 

“I don’t blame you for defending her. It’s right that you should. You

are forgetting the one important condition, however. She can never

reconcile herself to the position you would put her in if I permitted

you to persuade me that------”

 

“I can tell you one thing, father, that you ought to know, if you are so

blind that you haven’t discovered it for yourself. She loves you.”

 

“You are very young, my boy.” Brood shook his head and smiled faintly.

 

“What’s to become of her? You are leaving her without a thought for her

future. You------”

 

“I fancy she is quite capable of arranging her future. As a matter of

fact, she had arranged it pretty definitely before this thing happened.

Leave it to her, Frederic. It is impossible for me to take her away with

us. It is not to be considered.”

 

“All right, but bear this in mind: Lydia loves Yvonne, and she’s

heart--broken. Now we’ll talk about her, if you like.”

 

Lydia had as little success in her rather more tactful interview with

Yvonne.

 

“Thank you, dear, I am satisfied,” said she. “Everything has turned out

as it should. The wicked enchantress has been foiled and virtue

triumphs. Don’t be unhappy on my account, Lydia. It will not be easy to

say good--bye to you and Frederic, but-_là! là!_ What are we to do? Now

please don’t speak of it again. Hearts are easily mended. Look at my

husband-_aïe!_ He has had his heart made over from top to bottom--in a

rough crucible, it’s true, but it’s as good as new, you’ll admit. In a

way, I am made oyer, too. I am happier than I’ve ever been in my life.

I’m in love with my husband, I’m in love with you and Frederic, and I am

more than ever in love with myself. So there! Don’t feel sorry for me. I

shall have the supreme joy of knowing that not one of you will ever

forget me or my deeds, good and bad. Who knows? I am still young, you

know. Time has the chance to be very kind to me before I die.”