Black is White 20

Black is White 20

“Dreadful bore,” yawned one of them behind his hand.

 

“Stupidest woman I ever sat next to,” said the other,

 

Then both looked at their watches again.

 

Frederic joined Lydia at the table.

 

“A delicious scene, wasn’t it?” he asked bitterly in lowered tones.

 

Her fingers touched his.

 

“What did he mean, Freddy? Oh, I felt so sorry for you. It was

dreadful.”

 

“Don’t take it so seriously, Lyddy,” he said, squeezing her hand gently.

Both of them realised that it was the nearest thing to a caress that

had passed between them in a fortnight or longer. A wave of shame swept

through him. “Dear old girl--my dear old girl,” he whispered brokenly.

 

Her eyes radiated joy, her lips parted in a wan, tremulous smile of

surprise, and a soft sigh escaped them.

 

“My dear, dear boy,” she murmured, and was happier than she had been in

weeks.

 

“See here, old chap,” said one of the middle-aged gentlemen, again

consulting his watch as he loudly addressed his host, “can’t you hurry

this performance of yours along a bit? It is after ten, you know.”

 

“A quarter after,” said the other middle-aged gentleman.

 

“I will summon the magician,” said Brood. “Be prepared, ladies and

gentlemen, to meet the devil. Ranjab is the prince of darkness.”

 

He lifted his hand to strike the gong that stood near the edge of the

table.

 

Involuntarily four pairs of eyes fastened their gaze upon the door to

the Hindu’s closet. Three mellow, softly reverberating “booms” filled

the room. Almost instantly the voice of the Hindu was heard.

 

“_Aih, sahib!_” <

 

He came swiftly into the room from the hall, and not from his closet.

The look of relief in Yvonne’s eyes was short-lived. She saw amazement

in the faces of the two old men--and knew!

 

“After we have had the feats of magic,” Brood was saying, “Miss Desmond

will read to you, ladies and gentlemen, that chapter of our journal----”

 

“My word!” groaned both of the middle-aged gentlemen, looking at their

watches.

 

“Relating to----”

 

“You’ll have to excuse me, Brood, really, you know. Important engagement

up-town----”

 

“Sit down, Cruger,” exclaimed Hodder. “The lady won’t miss you.”

 

“Relating to our first encounter with the great and only Ranjab,”

pursued Brood oracularly. “We found him in a little village far up in

the mountains. He was under the sentence of death for murder. By the

way, Yvonne, the kris you have in your hand is the very weapon the good

fellow used in the commission of his crime. He was in prison and was

to die within a fortnight after our arrival in the town. I heard of his

unhappy plight and all that had led up to it. His case interested

me tremendously. One night, a week before the proposed execution, my

friends and I stormed the little prison and rescued him. We were just

getting over the cholera and needed excitement. That was fifteen years

ago. He has been my trusted body-servant ever since. I am sure you will

be interested in what I have written about that thrilling adventure.”

 

Yvonne had dropped the ugly knife upon the table as if it were a thing

that scorched her fingers.

 

“Did he--really kill a man?” whispered Miss Janey with horror in her

eyes.

 

“He killed a woman. His wife, Miss Janey. She had been faithless, you

see. He cut her heart out. And now, Ranjab, are you ready?”

 

The Hindu salaamed.

 

“Ranjab is always ready, _sahib_.” said he,

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IX

 

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------”