The next day, after a sleepless night, Frederic announced to his stepmother that he could no longer remain under his father's roof. He would find something to do in order to support himself. It was impossible to go on pretending that he loved or respected his father, and the sooner the farce was ended the better it would be for both of them.

She, too, had passed a restless night. She slept but little. It was a night filled with waking dreams as well as those which came in sleep. There was always an ugly, wriggly kris in those dreams of hers, and a brown hand that was for ever fascinating her with its uncanny deftness.

Twice in the night she had clutched her husband's shoulder in the terror of a dream, and he had soothed her with the comfort of his strong arms. She crept close to him and slept again, secure for the moment against the sorcery that haunted her. He had been surprised, even gratified, when she came into his room long after midnight, to creep shivering into his bed. She was like a little child “afraid of the dark.”

Her influence alone prevented the young man from carrying out his threat. At first he was as firm as a rock in his determination. He was getting his few possessions together in his room when she tapped on his door. After a while he abandoned the task and followed her rather dazedly to the boudoir, promising to listen to reason. For an hour she argued and pleaded with him, and in the end he agreed to give up what she was pleased to call his preposterous plan.

“Now, that being settled,” she said with a sigh of relief, “let us go and talk it all over with Lydia.”

“I'd—I'd rather not, Yvonne,” he said, starting guiltily. “There's no use worrying her with the thing now. As a matter of fact, I'd prefer that she—well, somehow I don't like the idea of explaining matters to her.”

“There's nothing to explain.”

He looked away. He realised that he could not explain the thing even to himself.

“Well, then, I don't want her to know that I thought of leaving,” he supplemented. “She wouldn't understand.”

“No?”

“She's so open and above-board about everything,” he explained nervously.

“It has seemed to me of late, Frederic, that you and Lydia are not quite so—what shall I say?—so enamoured of each other. What has happened?” she inquired so innocently, so naÏvely, that he looked at her in astonishment. She was watching him narrowly. “I am sure you fairly live at her house. You are there nearly every day, and yet—well, I can feel rather than see the change in both of you. I hope———”

“I've been behaving like an infernal sneak, Yvonne!” cried he, conscience-stricken. “She's the finest, noblest girl in all this world, and I've been treating her shamefully.”

“Dear me! In what way, may I inquire?”

“Why, we used to—oh, but why go into all that? It would only amuse you. You'd laugh at us for silly fools. But I can't help saying this much: she doesn't deserve to be treated as I'm treating her now, Yvonne. It's hurting her dreadfully, and——”

“What have you been doing that she should be so dreadfully afflicted?” she cried ironically.

“I've been neglecting her, ignoring her, humiliating her, if you will force me to say it,” he said firmly. “Good Lord, if anyone had told me three months ago that I'd ever be guilty of giving Lydia an instant's pain, I'd—I'd———”

“You would do what?”

“Don't laugh at me, Yvonne,” he cried miserably.

She became serious at once. “Do you still love her?”

“Yes! Yes!” he shouted, as if there was some necessity for convincing himself as well as his listener.

“And she loves you?”

“I—I—certainly! At least I think she does,” he floundered. His forehead was moist and cold.

“Then why this sudden misgiving, this feeling of doubt, this self-abasement?”

“I don't understand it myself,” he said rather bleakly. “I—I give you my word, I don't know what has come over me. I'm not as I used to be. I'm———”

She laughed softly. “I'm afraid you are seeing too much of your poor stepmother,” she said.

His eyes narrowed.

“You've made me over, that's true. You've made all of us over—the house as well. I am not happy unless I am with you. It used to make me happy to be with Lydia—and we were always together. But I—I don't care now—at least, I am not unhappy when we are apart. You've done it, Yvonne. You've made life worth living. You've made me see everything differently. You———”

She stood up, facing him. She appeared to be frightened.

“Are you trying to tell me that you are in love with me?” she demanded, and there was no longer mockery or raillery in her voice.

His eyes swept her from head to foot. He was deathly white.

“If you were not my father's wife I would say yes,” said he hoarsely.

“Do you know what it is that you have said?” she asked, suddenly putting her hands to her temples. Her eyes were glowing like coals.

He was silent.

“You are a dear boy, Frederic, but you are a foolish one,” she went on, the smile struggling back to her eyes.

“I suppose you'll send me away after—what I've said,” he muttered dully.

“Not at all!” she laughed. “I shall pay no attention to such nonsense. You are an honest fool, and I don't blame you. Wiser men than you have fallen in love with me, so why not you? I like you, Freddy; I like you very, very much. I———”

“You like me because I am his son!” he cried hotly.

“If you were not his son I should despise you,” she said deliberately, cruelly. He winced. “There, now; we've said enough. You must be sensible. You will discover that I am very, very sensible. I have been sorry for you. It may hurt you to have me say that I pity you; but I do. You do not love me, Freddy. You are fooling yourself. You are like all boys when they lose their heads and not their hearts. It is Lydia whom you love, not I. You have just told me so.”

“Before Heaven, Yvonne, I do love her. That's what I cannot understand about myself.” He was pacing the floor.

“But I understand,” she said quietly. “Now go away, please. And don't let me hear another word about your leaving your father's house. You are not to take that step until I command you to go. Do you understand?”

He stared at her in utter bewilderment for a moment, and slowly nodded his head. Then he turned abruptly toward the door, shamed and humiliated beyond words.

As he went swiftly down the stairs his father came out upon the landing above and leaned over the railing to watch his descent. A moment later Brood was knocking at Yvonne's door. He did not wait for an invitation to enter, but strode into the room without ceremony.

She was standing at the window that opened out upon the little stone balcony, and had turned swiftly at the sound of the rapping. Surprise gave way to an expression of displeasure.

“What has Frederic been saying to you?” demanded her husband curtly, after he had closed the door.

A faint sneer came to her lips.

“Nothing, my dear James, that you would care to know,” she said, smouldering anger in her eyes.

“You mean something that I shouldn't know,” he said sternly.

“Are you not forgetting yourself, James?”

“I beg your pardon. I suppose the implication was offensive.”

“It was. You have no right to pry into my affairs, James, and I shall be grateful to you if you will refrain from doing so again.”

He stared at her incredulously.

“Good Lord! Are you trying to tell me what I shall do or say———”

“I am merely reminding you that I am your wife, not your———” She did not deem it necessary to complete the sentence.

“You are content to leave a good deal to my imagination, I see.” He flushed angrily.

She came up to him slowly.

“James, we must both be careful. We must not quarrel.” Her hands grasped the lapels of his long lounging robe. There was an appealing look in her eyes that checked the harsh words even as they rose to his lips. He found himself looking into those dark eyes with the same curious wonder in his own that had become so common of late. Time and again he had been puzzled by something he saw in their liquid depths, something that he could not fathom, no matter how deeply he probed.

“What is there about you, Yvonne, that hurts me—yes actually hurts me—when you look at me as you're looking now?” he cried almost roughly.

“We have been married a scant four months,” she said gently. “Would you expect a woman to shed her mystery in so short a time as that?”

“There is something in your eyes———” he began, and shook his head in utter perplexity. “You startle me once in a while. There are times when you seem to be looking at me through eyes that are not your own. It's—it's—quite uncanny. If you———”

“I assure you my eyes are all my own,” she cried flippantly, and yet there was a slight trace of nervousness in her manner. “Do you intend to be nice and good and reasonable, James? I mean about poor Frederic.”

His face clouded again.

“Do you know what you are doing to that boy?” he asked bluntly.

“Quite as well as I know what you are doing to him,” she replied quickly.

He stiffened. “Can't you see what it is coming to?”

“Yes. He was on the point of leaving your house, never to come back to it again. That's what it is coming to,” she said.

“Do you mean to say———”

“He was packing his things to go away to-day———”

“Why—why, he'd starve!” cried the man, shaken in spite of himself. “He has never done a day's labour; he doesn't know how to earn a living. He———”

“And who is to blame? You, James; you! You have tied his hands, you have penned him up in———”

“We will not go into that,” he interrupted coldly.

“Very well. As you please. I said that he was going away, perhaps to starve, but he has changed his mind. He has taken my advice.”

“Your advice?”

“I have advised him to bide his time.”

“It sounds rather ominous.”

“If he waits long enough you may discover that you love him and his going would give you infinite pain. Then is the time for him to go.”

“Good Heaven!” he cried in astonishment. “What a remarkable notion of the fitness———”

“That will be his chance to repay you for all that you have done for him, James,” said she, as calm as a May morning.

“Have I ever said that I do not love him?” he demanded shortly.

“For that matter, have you ever said that you do not hate him?”

“By Jove, you are a puzzle to me!” he exclaimed, and a fine moisture came out on his forehead.

“Let the boy alone, James,” she went on earnestly. “He is———”

“See here, Yvonne,” he broke in sternly, “that is a matter we can't discuss. You do not understand, and I cannot explain certain things to you. I came here just now to ask you to be fair to him, even though I may not appear to be. You are———”

“That is also a matter we cannot discuss,” said she calmly.

“But it is a thing we are going to discuss, just the same,” said he. “Sit down, my dear, and listen to what I have to say. Sit down!”

For a moment she faced him defiantly. He was no longer angry, and therein lay the strength that opposed her. She could have held her own with him if he had maintained the angry attitude that marked the beginning of their interview. As it was, her eyes fell after a brief struggle against the dominant power in his, and she obeyed, but not without a significant tribute to his superiority in the shape of an indignant shrug.

“No one has ever lectured me before, James,” she said, affecting a yawn. “It will be a new and interesting experience.”

“And I trust a profitable one,” said he rather grimly. “I shouldn't call it a lecture, however. A warning is better.”

“That should be more thrilling, in any event.”

He took one of her hands in his and stroked it gently, even patiently.

“I will come straight to the point. Frederic is falling in love with you. Wait! I do not blame him. He cannot help himself. No more could I, for that matter, and he has youth, which is a spur that I have lost. I have watched him, Yvonne. He is—to put it cold-bloodedly—losing his head. Leaving me out of the question altogether, if you choose, do you think you are quite fair to him? I am not disturbed on your account or my own, but—well, can't you see what a cruel position we are likely to find ourselves———”

“Just a moment, James,” she interrupted, sitting up very straight in the chair and meeting his gaze steadfastly. “Will you spare me the conjectures and come straight to the point as you have said? The warning, if you please.”

He turned a shade paler.

“Well,” he began deliberately, “it comes to this, my dear: one or the other of you will have to leave my house if this thing goes on.”

She shot a glance of incredulity at his set face. Her body became rigid.

“Do you know what you are saying?”

“Yes.”

“You would serve me as you served his real mother more than twenty years ago?”

“The cases are not parallel,” said he, wincing.

“You drove her out of your house, James.”

“I have said that we cannot discuss———”

“But I choose to discuss it,” she said firmly. “The truth, please. You drove her out?”

“She made her bed, Yvonne,” said he huskily.

“Did you warn her beforehand?”

“It—it wasn't necessary.”

“What was her crime?”

“Good God, Yvonne! I can't allow———”

“Was it as great as mine?” she persisted.

“Oh, this is ridiculous. I———”

“Did she leave you cheerfully, gladly, as I would go if I loved another, or did she plead with you—oh, I know it hurts! Did she plead with you to give her a chance to explain? Did she?”

“She was on her knees to me,” he said, the veins standing out on his temples.

“On her knees to you? Begging? For what? Forgiveness?”

“No! She was like all of her kind. She was innocent! Ha, ha!”

Yvonne arose. She stood over him like an accusing angel.

“And to this day, James Brood, to this very hour, you are not certain that you did right in casting her off!”

“Oh, I say!” He sprang to his feet.

“You have never really convinced yourself that she was untrue to you, in spite of all that you said and did at the time.”

“You are going too far! I———”

“All these years you have been trying to close your ears to the voice of that wretched woman, and all these years you have been wondering—wondering—wondering! You have been mortally afraid, my husband.”

“I tell you, I was certain—I was sure of———”

“Then why do you still love her?”

He stared at her open-mouthed, speechless.

“Why do you still love her?”

“Are you mad?” he gasped. “Good God, woman, how can you ask that question of me, knowing that I love you with all my heart and soul? How———”

“With all your heart, yes! But with your soul? No! That other woman has your soul. I have heard your soul speak, and it speaks of her—yes, to her!”

“In God's name, what———”

“Night after night, in your sleep, James Brood, you have cried out to 'Matilde.' You have sobbed out your love for her, as you have been doing for twenty years or more. In your sleep your soul has been with her. With me at your side, you have cried on 'Matilde'! You have passed your hand over my face and murmured 'Matilde'! Not once have you uttered the word 'Yvonne'! And now you come to me and say: 'We will come straight to the point'! Well, now you may come straight to the point. But do not forget, in blaming me, that you love another woman!”

He was petrified. Not a drop of blood remained in his face.

“Is this true, this that you are telling me?” he cried, dazed and shaken.

“You need not ask. Call upon your dreams for the answer, if you must have one.”

“It is some horrible, ghastly delusion. It cannot be true. Her name has not passed my lips in twenty years. It is not mentioned in my presence. I have not uttered that woman's name———”

“Then how should I know her name? Her own son does not know it, I firmly believe. No one appears to know it except the man who says he despises it.”

“Dreams! Dreams!” he cried scornfully. “Shall I be held responsible for the unthinkable things that happen in dreams?”

“No,” she replied significantly; “you should not be held accountable. She must be held accountable. You drove out her body, James, but not her spirit. It stands beside you every instant of the day and night. By day you do not see her; by night—ah, you tremble! Well, she is dead, they say. If she were still alive I myself might tremble, and with cause.”

“Before God, I love you, Yvonne. I implore you to think nothing of my maunderings in sleep. They—they may come from a disordered brain. God knows there was a time when I felt that I was mad, raving mad. These dreams are——”

To his surprise she laid her hand gently on his arm.

“I pity you sometimes, James. My heart aches for you. You are a man—a strong, brave man, and yet you shrink and cringe when a voice whispers to you in the night. You sleep with your doubts awake. Yes, yes, I believe you when you say that you love me. I am sure that you do; but let me tell you what it is that I have divined. It is Matilde that you are loving through me. When you kiss me there is in the back of your mind somewhere the thought of kisses that were given long ago. When you hold me close to you it is the body of Matilde that you feel, it is her breath that warms your cheeks. I am Matilde, not Yvonne, to you. I am the flesh on which that starved love of yours feeds; I represent the memory of all that you have lost; I am the bodily instrument.”

“This is—madness!” he exclaimed, and it was not only wonder that filled his eyes. There was a strange fear in them, too.

“I do not expect you to admit that all this is true, James,” she went on patiently. “You will confess one day that I am right, however; to yourself, if not to me. If the time should ever come when I give to you a child———” She shivered and turned her eyes away from his.

He laid an unsteady hand upon the dark head. “There, there,” he murmured brokenly.

“It would be Matilde's child to you,” she concluded, facing him again without so much as a quaver in her voice, she spoke calmly, as if the statement were the most commonplace remark in the world.

“Good Heaven, Yvonne!” he exclaimed, drawing back in utter dismay. “You must compose yourself. This is———”

“I am quite myself, James,” she said coolly. “Can you deny that you think of her when you hold me in your arms? Can you———”

“Yes!” he almost shouted. “I can and do deny!”

“Then you are lying to yourself, my husband,” she said quietly.

He fairly gasped.

“Good God! What manner of woman are you?” he cried hoarsely. “A sorceress? A—but no, it is not true!”

She smiled. “All women are sorceresses. They feel. Men only think. Poor Frederic! You try to hate him, James, but I have watched you when you were not aware. You search his face intently, almost in agony—for what? For the look that was his mother's—for the expression you loved in———”

He burst out violently.

“No! By Heaven, you are wrong there! I am not looking for Matilde in Frederic's face.”

“For his father, then?” she inquired slowly.

The perspiration stood out on his brow. He made no response. His lips were compressed.

“You have uttered her name at last,” she said wonderingly, after a long wait for him to speak.

Brood started. “I—I—oh, this is torture!”

“We must mend our ways, James. It may please you to know that I shall overlook your mental faithlessness to me. You may go on loving Matilde. She is dead. I am alive. I have the better of her there, aÏe? The day will come when she will be dead in every sense of the word. In the meantime, I am content to enjoy life. Frederic is quite safe with me, James; very much safer than he is with you. And now let us have peace. Will you ring for tea?”

He sat down abruptly, staring at her with heavy eyes. She waited for a moment and then crossed over to pull the old-fashioned bell-cord.

“We will ask Lydia and Frederic to join us, too,” she said. “It shall be a family party, the five of us.”

“Five?” he muttered.

“Yes,” she said, without a smile.