On a warm morning, toward the middle of June, Frederic and Lydia sat in the quaint, old-world courtyard, almost directly beneath the balcony of Yvonne's boudoir. He lounged comfortably, yet weakly, in the invalid-chair that had been wheeled to the spot by Ranjab, and she sat on a pile of cushions at his feet.
Looking at him, one would not have thought that he had passed through the valley of the shadow of death and was but now emerging into the sunshine of security. His face was pale, but there was a healthy gloss to the skin and a clear light in the eye.
For a week or more he had been permitted to walk about the house and into the garden, always leaning on the arm of his father or the faithful Hindu. Each succeeding day saw his strength and vitality increase, and each night he slept with the peace of a care-free child. He was filled with contentment; he loved life as he had never dreamed it would be possible for him to love it. There was a song in his heart and there was a bright star always on the edge of his horizon.
As for Lydia, she was radiant with happiness. The long fight was over. She had gone through the campaign against death with loyal, unfaltering courage; there had never been an instant when her staunch heart had failed her; there had been distress, but never despair. If the strain told on her it did not matter, for she was of the fighting kind. Her love was the sustenance on which she throve, despite the beggarly offerings that were laid before her during those weeks of famine. Her strong, young body lost none of its vigour; her splendid spirit gloried in the tests to which it was subjected, and now she was as serene as the June day that found her wistfully contemplating the results of victory.
Times there were when a pensive mood brought the touch of sadness to her grateful heart. She was happy and Frederic was happy, but what of the one who actually had wrought the miracle? That one alone was unhappy, unrequited, undefended. There was no place for her in the new order of things. When Lydia thought of her, as she often did, it was with an indescribable craving in her soul. She longed for the hour to come when Yvonne Brood would lay aside the mask of resignation and demand tribute; when the strange defiance that held all of them at bay would disappear, and they could feel that she no longer regarded them as adversaries.
There was no longer a symptom of rancour in the heart of Lydia Desmond. She realised that her beloved's recovery was due almost entirely to the remarkable influence exercised by this woman at a time when mortal agencies appeared to be of no avail. Her absolute certainty that she had the power to thwart death, at least in this instance, had its effect not only on the wounded man, but on those who attended him.
Dr Hodder and the nurses were not slow to admit that her magnificent courage, her almost scornful self-assurance, supplied them with an incentive that otherwise might never have got beyond the form of a mere hope. There was something positively startling in her serene conviction that Frederic was not to die. No less a sceptic than the renowned Dr Hodder confided to Lydia and her mother that he now believed in the supernatural and never again would say “there is no God.”
Hodder had gone to James Brood at the end of the third day and, with the sweat of the haunted on his brow, had whispered hoarsely that the case was out of his hands. He was no longer the doctor, but an agent governed by a spirit that would not permit death to claim its own. And somehow Brood understood far better than the man of science.
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 thatsheloved 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 forgetthat, 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 girlhewronged.”
“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 over, 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.”
That last observation lingered in Lydia's mind.
But despite her careless treatment of the situation, Yvonne awaited with secret dread the coming of that hour when James Brood would say goodbye to her and, instead of turning her away from his house, would go out of it himself without a singlecommandto her. He would not tell her that it was no longer her home, nor would he tell her that it was.
The next day came, bright and sweet.
The ship was to sail at noon.
At ten o'clock the farewells were being said. There were tears and heartaches, and there was fierce rebellion in the hearts of two of the voyagers. Yvonne had declined to go to the pier to see them off, and Brood was going away without a word to her about the future. That was manifest to the anxious, soul-tried watchers.
In silence they made their way out to the waiting automobile. As Brood was about to pass through the broad front door a resolute figure confronted him. For a moment master and man stared hard into each other's eyes, and then, as if obeying an inflexible command, the former turned to glance backward into the hallway. Yvonne was standing in the library door.
“Sahib!” said the Hindu, and there was strange authority in his voice. “Tell her,sahib. It is not so cruel to tell her as it would be to go away without a word. She is waiting to be told that you do not want her to remain in your home.”
Brood closed his eyes for a second, and then strode quickly toward his wife.
“Yvonne, they all want me to take you along with us,” he said, his voice shaking with the pent-up emotion of weeks.
She met his gaze calmly, almost serenely.
“But, of course, it is quite impossible,” she said. “I understand, James.”
“It is not possible,” he said, steadying his voice with an effort.
“That is why I thought it would be better to say good-bye here and not at the pier. We must have some respect for appearances, you know.”
He searched her eyes intently, looking for some sign of weakening on her part. He did not know whether to feel disappointed or angry at what he saw.
“I don't believe you would have gone if I had——”
“You need not say it, James. You did not ask me, and I have not asked anything of you.”
“Before I go,” he said nervously, “I want to say this to you: I have no feeling of resentment toward you. I am able to look back upon what you would have done without a single thought of anger. You have stood by me in time of trouble. I owe a great deal to you, Yvonne. You will not accept my gratitude—it would be a farce to offer it to you under the circumstances. But I want you to know that I am grateful. You———”
“Go on, please. This is the moment for you to say that your home cannot be mine. I am expecting it.”
His eyes hardened.
“I shall never say that to you, Yvonne. You are my wife. I shall expect you to remain my wife to the very end.”
Now, for the first time, her eyes flew open with surprise. A bewildered expression came into them almost at once. He had said the thing she least expected. She put out her hand to steady herself against the door.
“Do—do you mean that, James?” she said wonderingly.
“You are my property. You are bound to me. I do not intend that you shall ever forget that, Yvonne. I don't believe you really love me, but that is not the point. Other women have not loved their husbands, and yet—yet they have been true and loyal to them.”
“You amaze me!” she cried, watching his eyes with acute wonder in her own. “Suppose that I should refuse to abide by your—what shall I call it?”
“Decision is the word,” he supplied grimly.
“Well, what then?”
“You will abide by it, that's all. I am leaving you behind without the slightest fear for the future. This is your home. You will not abandon it.”
“Have I said that I would?”
“No.”
She drew herself up.
“Well, I shall now tell you what I intend to do, and have intended to do ever since I discovered that I could think for myself and not for Matilde. I intend to stay here until you turn me out as unworthy. I love you, James. You may leave me here feeling very sure of that. I shall go on caring for you all the rest of my life. I am not telling you this in the hope that you will say that you have a spark of love in your soul for me. I don't want you to say it now, James. But you will say it to me one day, and I will be justified in my own heart.”
“Ihaveloved you. There was never in this world anything like the love I had for you. I know it now. It was not Matilde I loved when I held you in my arms. I know it now. I lovedyou; I loved your body, your soul———”
“Enough!” she cried out sharply. “I was playing at love then. Now I love in earnest. You've never known love such as I can really give. I know you well, too. You love nobly, and without end. Of late I have come to believe that Matilde could have won out against your folly if she had been stronger, less conscious of the pain she felt. If she had stood her ground, here, against you, you would have been conquered. But she did not have the strength to stand and fight as I would have fought. To-day I love my sister none the less, but I no longer fight to avenge her wrongs. I am here to fight for myself. You may go away thinking that I am a traitor to her, but you will take with you the conviction that I am honest, and that is the foundation for my claim against you.”
“I know you are not a traitor to her cause,” he replied. “You are its lifelong supporter. You have done more for Matilde than———”
“Than Matilde could have done for herself? Isn't that true? I have forced you to confess that you loved her for twenty-five years with all your soul. I have done my duty for her. Now I am beginning to take myself into account. Some day we will meet again and—well, it will not be disloyalty to Matilde that moves you to say that you love me.”
He was silent for a long time. When at last he spoke his voice was full of gentleness.
“I do not love you, Yvonne. I cannot allow you to look forward to the happy ending that you picture. You say that you love me. I shall give you the opportunity to prove it to yourself, if not to me. I order you, Thérèse, to remain in this house until I come to set you free.”
She stared at him for a moment, and then an odd smile came into her eyes.
“A prisoner serving her time? Is that it, my husband?”
“If you are here when I return, I shall have reason to believe that your love is real, that it is good and true and enduring. I am afraid of you now. I do not trust you.”
“Is that your sentence?”
“Call it that if you like, Thérèse.”
“My keepers? Who are they to be? The old men of the sea——”
“Your keeper will be the thing you call love,” said he.
“Do you expect me to submit to this———”
He held up his hand.
“I did not intend to impose this condition upon you by word of mouth. I was going away without a word, but you would have received from Mr Dawes a sealed envelope as soon as the ship sailed. It contains this command in writing. He will hand it to you, of course, but now that you know the contents it will not be necessary to———”
“And when youdocome back, am I to hope for something more than your pardon and a release?” she cried.
“I will not promise anything,” said he.
She drew a long breath and there was the light of triumph in her eyes. Laying her slim hand on his arm, she said:
“I am content, James. I am sure of you now. You will find me here when you choose to come back, be it one year or twenty. Now go; they are waiting for you. Be kind to them, and tell to them all that you have just told me. It will make them happy. They love me, you see.”
“Yes, theydolove you,” said he, putting his hands upon her shoulders. They smiled into each other's eyes. “Good-bye, Thérèse. Iwillreturn.”
“Good-bye, James. No, do not kiss me. It would be mockery. Good luck, and God speed you home again.” Their hands met in a warm, firm clasp. “I will go with you as far as the door of my prison.”
From the open door she smiled out upon the young people in the motor and waved her handkerchief in gay farewell. Then she closed the door and walked slowly down the hallway to the big library.
“He has taken the only way to conquer himself,” she mused, half aloud. “He is a wise man, a very wise man. I might have expected this of him.”
She pulled the bell-cord, and Jones came at once to the room.
“Yes, madam.”
“When Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs return from the ship, tell them that I shall expect them to have luncheon with me. That's all, thank you.”
“Yes, madam.”
“By the way, Jones, you may always set the table for three.”
Jones blinked. He felt that he had never behaved so wonderfully in all the years of service as he did when he succeeded in bowing in his habitual manner, despite the fact that he was “everlawstingly bowled over, so to speak.”
“For three, madam. Very well.”
A cold, blustery night in January, six months after the beginning of Yvonne's voluntary servitude in the prison to which her husband had committed her. In the big library, before a roaring fire, sat the two old men, very much as they had sat on the December night that heralded the approach of the new mistress of the house of Brood, except that on this occasion they were eminently sober. On the corner of the table lay a long, yellow envelope, a cablegram addressed to Mrs James Brood.
“It's been here for two hours, and she don't even think of opening it to see what's inside,” complained Mr Riggs, but entirely without reproach.
“It's her business, Joe,” said Mr Dawes, pulling hard at his cigar.
“Maybe someone's dead,” said Mr Riggs dolorously.
“Like as not, but what of it?”
“What of it, you infernal—but, excuse me, Danbury, I won't say it. It's against the rules, God bless 'em. If anybody's dead, she ought to know it.”
“But supposing nobody is dead.”
“There's no use arguing with you.”
“She'll read it when she gets good and ready. At present she prefers to read the letters from Freddy and Lyddy.”
“Maybe it's from Jim,” said his friend, a wistful look in his old eyes.
“I—I hope it is, by gee!” exclaimed the other, and then they got up and went over to examine the envelope for the tenth time. “I wish he'd telegraph or write, or do something, Dan. She's never had a line from him. Maybe this is something at last.”
“What puzzles me is that she always seems disappointed when there's nothing in the post from him, and here's a cablegram that might be the very thing she's looking for, and she pays no attention to it. It certainly beats me.”
“You know what puzzles me more than anything else? I've said it a hundred times. She never goes outside this here house, except in the garden, day or night.”
“Sh—h!”
Mrs Brood was descending the stairs, lightly, eagerly. In another instant she entered the room.
“How nice the fire looks!” she cried. Never had she been more radiantly, seductively beautiful. “My cablegram, where is it?”
The old men made a simultaneous dash for the long-neglected envelope. Mr Dawes succeeded in being the first to clutch it in his eager fingers.
“Better read it, Mrs Brood,” he panted, thrusting it into her hand. “Maybe it's bad news.”
She regarded him with one of her most mysterious smiles.
“No, my friend, it isnotbad news. It is good news; it's from my husband.”
“But you haven't read it,” gasped Mr Riggs.
“Ah, but I know, just the same.” She deliberately slit the envelope with a slim finger and held it out to them. “Read it if you like.”
They solemnly shook their heads, too amazed for words. She unfolded the sheet and sent her eyes swiftly over the printed contents. Then, to their further stupefaction, she pressed the bit of paper to her red lips. Her eyes flashed like diamonds.
“Listen! Here is what he says: 'Come by the first steamer. I want you to come to me, Thérèse.' And see! It is signed 'Your husband.'”
“Hurray!” shouted the two old men.
“But,” she said, shaking her head slowly, “I shall not obey.”
“What! You—you won't go?” gasped Mr Riggs.
“No!” she cried, the ring of triumph in her voice. She suddenly clapped her hands to her breast and uttered a long, deep sigh of joy. “No, I shall not go to him.”
The old men stared helplessly while she sank luxuriously into a big chair and stuck her little feet out to the fire. They felt their knees grow weak under the weight of their suddenly inert bodies.
“He will come and unlock the door,” she went on serenely. “Ring for Jones, please.”
“Wha—what are you going to do?” Mr Dawes had the temerity to ask.
“Send a cablegram to my husband saying———”
She paused to smile at the flaming logs on the broad hearth, a sweet, rapturous smile that neither of the old men could comprehend.
“Saying—what?” demanded Mr Riggs anxiously.
“That I cannot go to him,” she said, as she stretched out her arms toward the East.