Black is White 17

Black is White 17

“No harm in it, is there?”

 

“No; I suppose not,” the other reflected. “Still they’re pretty young,

you know. Besides, she’s French.”

 

“So was Joan of Arc,” said his friend in rebuttal.

 

Mr Dawes leaned a little closer.

 

“I wonder how Mrs Desmond likes having her over there playing the piano

every afternoon with Freddy, while Lydia’s over here copying things

for Jim and working her poor little head off. Ever stop to think about

that?”

 

“I think about it all the time. And, by thunder, I’m not the only one

who does, either. Jim thinks a good deal, and so does Lydia. It’s a

darned----”

 

Mr Riggs happened to look up at that instant. Ranjab was standing in

front of him, his arms folded across his breast, in the habitual pose of

the Hindu who waits. The man was dressed in the costume of a high-caste

Brahmin; the commonplace garments of the Occident had been laid aside,

and in their place were the vivid, dazzling colours of Ind, from the

bejewelled sandals to the turban which crowned his swarthy brow and

gleamed with rubies and sapphires uncounted.

 

Mr Riggs’s mouth remained open as he stared blankly at this ghost of

another day. Not since the old days in India had he seen Ranjab in

native garb, and even then he was far from being the resplendent

creature of to-night, for Ranjab in his home land was a poor man and

without distinction.

 

“Am I awake?” exclaimed Mr Riggs in such an awful voice that Mr Dawes

gave over staring at the cabinet and favoured him with an impatient kick

on the ankle.

 

“I guess that’ll wake you up if----” and then he saw the Hindu. “The

Ranjab!”

 

Ranjab was smiling, and when he smiled his dark face was a joy to

behold. His white teeth gleamed and his sometime unfeeling eyes sparkled

with delight. He liked the two old men. They had stood, with Brood,

between him and grave peril far back in the old days when even the

faintest gleam of hope apparently had been blotted out.

 

“Behold!” he cried, magnificently spreading his arms. “I am made

glorious! See before you the prince of magic! See!”

 

With a swift, deft movement he snatched the half-smoked cigar from the

limp fingers of Mr Riggs and, first holding it before their blinking

eyes, tossed it into the air. It disappeared!

 

“Well, of all the----” began Mr Riggs, sitting up very straight. His

eyes were following the rapid actions of the Hindu. Unlocking a drawer

in the big table, the latter peered into it and then beckoned the old

men to his side. There lay the cigar and beside it a much-needed match.

 

“I don’t want to smoke it,” said Mr Riggs, vigorously declining his

property. “The darned thing’s bewitched.” Whereupon Ranjab took it out

of the drawer and again threw it into the air. Then he calmly reached

above his head and plucked a fresh cigar out of space, obsequiously

tendering it to the amazed old man, who accepted it with a sheepish

grin.

 

“You haven’t lost any of your old skill,” said Mr Dawes, involuntarily

glancing at his own cigar to make sure that he had it firmly gripped in

his stubby fingers. “You ought to be in a sideshow, Ranjab.”

 

Ranjab paused, before responding, to extract a couple of billiard balls

and a small paper-knife from the lapel of Dawes’s coat.

 

“I am to perform to-night, _sahib_, for the mistress’s guests. It is to

be--what you call him? A side-show? Ranjab is to do his tricks for her,

as the dog performs for his master.”

 

The smile had disappeared. His face was an impenetrable mask once more.

Had their eyes been young and keen, however, they might have caught the

flash of anger in his.

 

“Going to do all the old tricks?” cried Mr Riggs eagerly. “By George,

I’d like to see ‘em again; wouldn’t you, Dan? I’m glad we’ve got

our good clothes on. Now you see what comes of always being prepared

for----”

 

“Sorry, _sahib_, but the master has request me to entertain you before

the guests come up. Coffee is to be served here.”

 

“That means we’ll have to clear out?” said Riggs slowly.

 

“But see!” cried Ranjab, genuinely sorry for them. He became

enthusiastic once more. “See! I shall do them all--and better, too, for

you.”

 

For ten minutes he astonished the old men with the mysterious feats of

the Indian fakir. They waxed enthusiastic. He grinned over the pleasure

he was giving them. Suddenly he whipped out a short, thin sword from its

scabbard in his sash. The amazing, incomprehensible sword-swallowing act

followed.

 

“You see, Ranjab has not forgot,” he cried in triumph. “He have not lost

the touch of the wizard, _aih_.”

 

“You’ll lose your gizzard some day, doing that,” said Dawes grimly. “It

gives me the shivers.”

 

Then, before their startled, horror-struck eyes, the Hindu coolly

plunged the glittering blade into his breast, driving it in to the hilt!

 

“Good Lord!” shouted the two old men.

 

Ranjab serenely replaced the sword in its scabbard.

 

“It is not always the knife that finds the heart,” said he, so slowly,

so full of meaning, that even the old men grasped the significance of

the cryptic remark.

 

“A feller can be fooled, no matter how closely he watches,” said Mr

Dawes, and he was not referring to the amazing sword trick.

 

“No, sir,” said Mr Riggs, with gloomy irrelevance, “I don’t like that

woman.”

 

The old spell of the Orient had fallen upon the ancients. They were

hearing the vague whisperings of voices that came from nowhere, as they

had heard them years ago in the mystic silences of the East.

 

“_Sh--h!_ One comes,” said Ranjab softly. “It will be the master’s son.”

 

An instant later his closet door closed noiselessly behind him and the

old men were alone, blinking at each other. There was no sound from

the hall. They waited, watching the curtained door. At last they heard

footsteps on the stairs, quick footsteps of the young.

 

Frederic strode rapidly into the room.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII

 

His face was livid with rage. For a moment he glowered upon the two

old men, his fingers working spasmodically, his chest heaving with the

volcanic emotions he was trying so hard to subdue. Then he whirled about

to glare into the hall.

 

“In God’s name, Freddy, what’s happened?” cried Mr Riggs, all a-tremble.

 

They had never seen him in a rage before. There had been occasions when

they had secretly criticised James Brood’s treatment of the unhappy boy,

but from the youth himself there had come no complaint, only the hurt,

puzzled look of one who endures because an alternative does not suggest

itself. Intuitively the old men knew that his present condition was due

to something his father had said or done, and that it must have been

unusually severe to have provoked the wrath that he made no effort to

conceal.

 

It was not in their honest old hearts to hold grievance against the

lad, notwithstanding his frequent periods of impatience where they were

concerned, periods when they were admittedly as much at fault as he, by

the way. Usually he made up for these lapses by a protracted season of

sweetness and consideration that won back not only their sympathy, but

the affection they had felt for him since his lonely boyhood days.

 

Some minutes passed before he could trust himself to speak. Ugly veins

stood out on his pale temples as he paced the floor in front of them.

Eventually Mr Dawes ventured the vital question in a somewhat hushed

voice:

 

“Have you--quarrelled with your father, Freddy?”

 

The young man threw up his arms in a gesture of despair. There was a

wail of misery in his voice as he answered:

 

“In the name of God, why should he hate me as he does? What have I done?

Am I not a good son to him?”

 

“Hush!” implored Mr Dawes nervously. “He’ll hear you.”

 

“Hear me!” cried Frederic, and laughed aloud in his recklessness. “Why

shouldn’t he hear me? I’ll not stand it a day longer. He wouldn’t think

of treating a dog as he treats me. I--I--why, he is actually forcing me

to hate him. I _do_ hate him! I swear to Heaven it was in my heart to

kill him down there just now. I------” He could not go on. He choked

up and the tears rushed to his eyes. Abruptly turning away, he threw

himself upon the couch and buried his face on his arms, sobbing like a

little child.

 

The old men, distressed beyond the power of speech, mumbled incoherent

words of comfort as they slowly edged toward the door. They tiptoed into

the hall, and neither spoke until their bedroom door was closed behind

them. Mr Dawes even tried it to see that it was safely latched.

 

“It’s got to come,” said Mr Riggs, wiping his eyes but neglecting to

blow his nose--recollecting in good time the vociferous noise that

always attended the performance. “Yes, sir; it’s bound to come. There’s

going to be a smash, mark my words. It can’t go on.” He sat down heavily

and stared rather pathetically at his friend, who was the picture of

lugubrious concern.

 

“Yes, sir,” said Mr Dawes bleakly, “as sure as you’re alive, Joey. That

boy’s spunk is going to assert itself some day, and then--good Lord,