When James Brood and Frederic left the dining-room, nearly an hour
prior to the departure of Mrs Desmond, there was in the mind of each the
resolution to make short work of the coming interview. Each knew that
the time had arrived for the parting of the ways, and neither had the
least desire to prolong the suspense.
Frederic, far from suspecting the ordeal in store for him, experienced
a curious sense of exaltation as he followed the master of the house up
the stairway. He was about to declare his freedom; the very thought of
it thrilled him. He had at last found the courage to revolt, and there
was cause for rejoicing in the prospect of a lively triumph over what he
was pleased to call oppression.
He would not mince matters! Oh, no; he would come straight to the point.
There wasn't any sense in temporising. There were years of pent-up
grievances that he could fling at his father, but he would crystallise
them into a few withering minutes and have done with the business. He
knew he was as pale as a ghost and his legs were strangely weak, but
he was not cognisant of the slightest sensation of fear, nor the least
inclination to shrink from the consequences of that brief, original
challenge.
The study door was closed. James Brood put his hand on the knob, but
before turning it faced the young man with an odd mixture of anger and
pity in his eyes.
“Perhaps it will be better if we had nothing more to say to each other,”
he said with an effort.
“I have changed my mind. I cannot say the thing to you that I----”
“Has it got anything to do with Yvonne and me?” demanded Frederic
ruthlessly, jumping at conclusions in his new-found arrogance.
Brood threw open the door.
“Step inside,” he said in a voice that should have warned the younger
man, it was so prophetic of disaster. Frederic had touched the open
sore with that unhappy question. Not until this instant had James Brood
admitted to himself that there was a sore and that it had been festering
all these weeks. Now it was laid bare and it smarted with pain. Nothing
could save Frederic after that reckless, deliberate thrust at the very
core of the malignant growth that lay so near the surface.
It had been in James Brood's heart to spare the boy. An unaccountable
wave of compassion had swept through him as he mounted the stairs,
leading his victim to the sacrifice. He would have allowed him to go
his way in ignorance of the evil truth; he would have spared the son of
Matilde and been happier, far happier, he knew, for having done so. He
would have let him fare forth, as he elected to go, rejoicing in his
foolish independence, scorning to the end of his days, perhaps, the man
who posed as father to him.
But Frederic had touched the hateful sore. His chance was gone.
Hot words were on Frederic's lips. Brood held up his hand, and there was
in the gesture a command that silenced the young man. He was somewhat
shocked to find that he still recognised the other's right to command.
The older man went quickly to the door of the Hindu's closet. He rapped
on the panel, and in an instant the door was opened. Ranjab stepped out
and quickly closed the door behind him. A few words, spoken in lowered
tones and in the language of the East, passed between master and man.
Frederic turned his back to them. Moved by a sudden impulse, he strode
to the window and pulled the curtains apart. A swift glance upward
showed him the drawn shades in Lydia's bedroom windows. Somehow he was
glad that she was asleep. An impulse as strong as the other ordered him
to shift his glance downward to the little balcony outside of Yvonne's
windows. Then he heard the door close softly behind him and turned to
face his father.
They were alone in the room. He squared his shoulders.
“I suppose you think I am in love with her,” he said defiantly. He
waited a moment for the response that did not come. Brood was regarding
him with eyes from which every spark of compassion had disappeared.
“Well, it may interest you to know that I intend to marry Lydia this
very day.”
Brood advanced a few steps toward him. In the subdued light of the room
his features were not clearly distinguishable. His face was gray and
shadowy; only the eyes were sharply defined. They glowed like points of
light, unflickering.
“I shall be sorry for Lydia,” he said levelly.
“You needn't be,” said Frederic hotly. “She understands everything.”
“You were born to be dishonest in love.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It is my purpose to tell you precisely what I mean. Lydia understands
far more than you think. If she marries you it will be with her eyes
open; she will have no one to blame but herself for the mistake.”
“Oh, I haven't tried to deceive her as to my prospects. She knows how
poor we will be at the------”
“Does she know that this love you profess for her is at the very outset
disloyal?”
Frederic was silent for a moment. A twinge shot through his heart.
“She understands everything,” he repeated stubbornly.
“Have you lied to her?”
“Lied? You'd better be careful how you------”
“Have you told her that you love her and no one else?”
“Certainly!”
“Then you _have_ lied to her.”
There was silence--tense silence.
“Do you expect me to strike you for that?” came at last from Frederic's
lips, low and menacing.
“You have always considered yourself to be my son, haven't you?” pursued
Brood deliberately. “Can you say to me that you have behaved of late as
a son should------”
“Wait! We'll settle that point right now. I _did_ lose my head. Head, I
say, not heart. I shan't attempt to explain--I can't, for that matter.
As for Yvonne--well, she's as good as gold. She understands me far
better than I understand myself. She knows that even honest men lose
their heads sometimes--and she knows the difference between love
and--the other thing. I can say to you now that I would sooner have cut
my own throat than do more than envy you the possession of someone you
do not deserve. I _have_ considered myself your son. I have no apology
to make for my--we'll call it infatuation. I shall only admit that it
has existed and that I have despaired. So God is my witness, I have
never loved anyone but Lydia. I have given her pain, and the amazing
part of it is that I can't help myself. Naturally, you can't understand
what it all means. You are not a young man any longer. You cannot
understand.”
“Good God!” burst from Brood's lips. Then he laughed
aloud--grotesquely.
“Yvonne is the most wonderful thing that has ever come into my life. She
has shown me that life is beautiful and rich and full of warmth. I
had always thought it ugly and cold. Something inside of me awoke the
instant I looked into her eyes--something that had always been there, and
yet undeveloped. She spoke to me with her eyes, if you can believe such
a thing possible, and I understood. I adored her the instant I saw her.
I have felt sometimes that I knew her a thousand years ago. I have felt
that I loved her a thousand years ago.” A calm seriousness now attended
his speech, in direct contrast to the violent mood that had gone before.
“I have thought of little else but her. I confess it to you. But through
it all there has never been an instant in which I did not worship Lydia
Desmond. I--I do not pretend to account for it. It is beyond me.”
Brood waited patiently to the end.
“Your mother before you had a somewhat similar affliction,” he
said, still in the steady, repressed voice. “Perhaps it is a gift--a
convenient gift--this ability to worship without effort.”
“Better leave my mother out of it,” said Frederic sarcastically. A look
of wonder leaped to his eyes. “That's the first time you've condescended
to acknowledge that I ever had a mother.”
“I shall soon make you regret that you were ever so blessed as to have
had one.”
“You've always made it easy for me to regret that I ever had a father.”
Brood's smile was deadly.
“If you have anything more to say to me, you had better get it over.
Purge your soul of all the gall that embitters it. I grant you that
privilege. Take your innings.”
A spasm of pain crossed Frederic's face.
“Yes, I am entitled to my innings. I'll go back to what I said
downstairs. I thought I loved and honoured you last night. I would have
forgiven everything if you had granted me a friendly--friendly, that's
all--just a friendly word. You denied------”
“I suppose you want me to believe that it was love for me that brought
you slinking to the theatre,” said the other ironically.
“I don't expect you to believe anything. I was lonely. I wanted to be
with you and Yvonne. Curse you! Can't you understand how lonely I've
been all my life? Can't you understand how hungry I am for the affection
that every other boy I've known has had from his parents? I've never
asked you about my mother. I used to wonder a good deal. Every other boy
had a mother. I never had one. I couldn't understand it. And they all
had fathers, but they were not like my father. Their fathers were kind
and loving, they were interested in everything their sons did--good or
bad. I used to love the fathers of all those other lucky boys at school.
They came often--and so did the mothers. No one ever came to see me--no
one!
“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
a wound in his heart that will never stop bleeding--that I left him
because I was sorry for what I had done and could not stand by and look
upon the wreck I had created. Suppose------”
“I am still thinking of you as a coward. What is it to me that you are
sorry now? What have you done to that wretched, unhappy boy?”
“He will tell you soon enough. Then you will despise me even more than I
despise myself. He--he looked at me with his mother's eyes when I kept on
striking blows at his very soul. Her eyes--eyes that were always
pleading with me! But, curse them--always scoffing at me! For a moment
I faltered. There was a wave of love--yes, love, not pity, for him--as
I saw him go down before the words I hurled at him. It was as if I had
hurt the only thing in all the world that I love. Then it passed. He was
not meant for me to love. He was born for me to despise. He was born to
torture me as I have tortured him.”
“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 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!