Black is White 25

Black is White 25

Mr Riggs, writhing with jealousy, repeatedly remarked, “I told you

so,” and somehow felt revenged for the insolent orders she had given to

Jones, depriving him of the right to even approach the door of the room

in which his lifelong friend was dying. It had been a hard week for Mr

Riggs. He hated her as he had never hated anyone in his life before.

And yet he thanked God for her, and would have died for her! Nothing,

nothing in the world would have given him more pleasure than to be

critically ill for her!

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XI

 

“Is there anything wrong with my hair, Mr Brood?” asked Lydia, with a

nervous little laugh.

 

They were in the study, and it was ten o’clock of a wet night in

April. Of late he had required her to spend the evenings with him in

a strenuous effort to complete the final chapters of the journal. The

illness of Mr Dawes had interrupted the work, and he was now in a

fever of impatience to make up for the lost time. He had declared his

intention to go abroad with his wife as soon as the manuscript was

completed. The editor of a magazine, a personal friend, had signified

his willingness to edit the journal and to put it into shape for

publication during the summer months, against Brood’s return in the fall

of the year.

 

The master of the house spared neither himself nor Lydia in these last

few weeks. He wanted to clear up everything before he went away. Lydia’s

willingness to devote the extra hours to his enterprise would have

pleased him vastly if he had not been afflicted by the same sense of

unrest and uneasiness that made incessant labour a boon to her as well

as to him.

 

Her query followed a long period of silence on his part. He had been

suggesting alterations in her notes as she read them to him, and there

were frequent lulls when she made the changes as directed. Without

looking at him she felt, rather than knew, that he was regarding her

fixedly from his position opposite. The scrutiny was disturbing to her.

She hazarded the question for want of a better means of breaking the

spell. Of late he had taken to watching her with moody interest. She

knew that he was mentally commenting on the changes he could not help

observing in her appearance and her manners. This intense, though

perhaps unconscious, scrutiny annoyed her. Her face was flushed with

embarrassment, her heart was beating with undue rapidity.

 

Brood started guiltily.

 

“Your hair?” he exclaimed. “Oh, I see. You women always feel that

something is wrong with it. I was thinking of something else, however.

Forgive my stupidity. We can’t afford to waste time in thinking, you

know, and I am a pretty bad offender. It’s nearly half-past ten. We’ve

been hard at it since eight o’clock. Time to knock off. I will walk

around to your apartment with you, my dear. It looks like an all-night

rain.”

 

He went up to the window and pulled the curtains aside. Her eyes

followed him.

 

“It’s such a short distance, Mr Brood,” she said. “I am not afraid to go

alone.”

 

He was staring down into the court, his fingers grasping the curtains in

a rigid grip. He did not reply.

 

There was a light in the windows opening out upon Yvonne’s balcony.

 

“I fancy Frederic has come in from the concert,” he said slowly. “He

will take you home, Lydia. You’d like that better, eh?”

 

He turned toward her, and she paused in the nervous collecting of her

papers. His eyes were as hard as steel, his lips were set.

 

“Please don’t ask Frederic to------” she began hurriedly.

 

“They must have left early,” he muttered, glancing at his watch.

Returning to the table he struck the big, melodious gong a couple

of sharp blows. For the first time in her recollection it sounded a

jangling, discordant note, as of impatience.

 

She felt her heart sink; an oppressing sense of alarm came over her.

 

“Good night, Mr Brood. Don’t think of coming home with------”

 

“Wait I Frederic will go with you.” It was a command. Ranjab appeared in

the doorway. “Have Mrs Brood and Mr Frederic returned, Ranjab?”

 

“Yes, _sahib_. At ten o’clock.”

 

“If Mr Frederic is in his room, send him to me.

 

“He is not in his room, _sahib_.”

 

The two, master and man, looked at each other steadily for a moment.

Something passed between them.

 

“Tell him that Miss Desmond is ready to go home.”

 

“Yes, _sahib_.” The curtains fell.

 

“I prefer to go home alone, Mr Brood,” said Lydia, her eyes flashing.

“Why did you send------”

 

“And why not?” he demanded harshly. She winced, and he was at once

sorry. “Forgive me. I am tired and--a bit nervous. And you, too, are

tired. You’ve been working too steadily at this miserable job, my dear

child. Thank Heaven, it will soon be over. Pray sit down. Frederic will

soon be here.”

 

“I am not tired,” she protested stubbornly. “I love the work. You don’t

know how proud I shall be when it comes out, and--and I realise that

I helped in its making. No one has ever been in a position to tell the

story of Tibet as you have told it, Mr Brood. Those chapters will make

history. I------”

 

“Your poor father’s share in those explorations is what really makes the

work valuable, my dear. Without his notes and letters I should have been

feeble indeed.” He looked at his watch. “They were at the concert, you

know--the Hungarian orchestra. A recent importation, ‘Tzigane’s’ music.

Gipsies.” His sentences as well as his thoughts were staccato,

disconnected.

 

Lydia turned very cold. She dreaded the scene that now seemed

unavoidable. Frederic would come in response to his father’s command,

and then------

 

Someone began to play upon the piano downstairs. She knew, and he knew,

that it was Frederic who played. For a long time they listened. The

air, no doubt, was one he had heard during the evening, a soft, sensuous

waltz that she had never heard before. The girl’s eyes were upon Brood’s

face. It was like a graven image.

 

“God!” fell from his stiff lips. Suddenly he turned upon the girl. “Do

you know what he is playing?”

 

“No,” she said, scarcely above a whisper.

 

“It was played in this house by its composer before Frederic was born.

It was played here on the night of his birth, as it had been played many

times before. It was written by a man named Feverelli. Have you heard of

him?”

 

“Never,” she murmured, and shrank, frightened by the deathlike pallor in

the man’s face, by the strange calm in his voice. The gates were being

opened at last! She saw the thing that was to stalk forth. She would

have closed her ears against the revelations it carried. “Mother will be

worried if I am not at home------”

 

“Guido Feverelli. An Italian born in Hungary. Budapest, that was his

home, but he professed to be a gipsy. Yes, he wrote the devilish thing.

He played it a thousand times in that room down------ And now Frederic

plays it, after all these years. It is his heritage. God, how I hate the

thing! Ranjab! Where is the fellow? He must stop the accursed thing.

He------”

 

“Mr Brood! Mr Brood!” cried Lydia, appalled. She began to edge toward

the door.

 

By a mighty effort Brood regained control of himself. He sank into a

chair, motioning for her to remain. The music had ceased abruptly.

 

“He will be here in a moment,” said Brood. “Don’t go.”

 

They waited, listening. Ranjab entered the room; so noiseless was his

approach that neither heard his footsteps.

 

“Well?” demanded Brood, looking beyond.

 

“Master Frederic begs a few minutes’ time, _sahib_. He is putting down

on paper the music, so that he may not forget. He writes the notes,

_sahib. Madame_ assists.”

 

Brood’s shoulders sagged. His head was bent, but his gaze never left the

face of the Hindu.

 

“You may go, *Ranjab,” he said slowly.

 

“Ten minutes he asks for, _sahib_, that is all.” The curtains fell

behind him once more.

 

“So that he may not forget!” fell from Brood’s lips. He was looking

at the girl, but did not address his words to her. “So that he may not

forget! So that I, too, may not forget!”

 

Suddenly he arose and confronted the serene image of the Buddha. For a

full minute he stood there with his hands clasped, his lips moving as if

in prayer. No sound came from them.

 

The girl remained transfixed, powerless to move. Not until he turned

toward her and spoke was the spell broken. Then she came quickly to his

side. He had pronounced her name.

 

“You are about to tell me something, Mr Brood,” she cried in great

agitation. “I do not care to listen. I feel that it is something I

should not know. Please let me go now. I------”

 

He laid his hands upon her shoulders, holding her off at arm’s length.

 

“I am very fond of you, Lydia. I do not want to hurt you. Sooner would I

have my tongue cut out than it should wound you by a single word. Yet I

must speak. You love Frederic. Is not that true?”