Black is White 28

Black is White 28

“James dear,” fell softly, alluringly, from Yvonne’s now tremulous lips.

He sprang to her side. She kissed him passionately. “Now we are all

ourselves once more,” she gasped a moment later, her eyes still fixed

inquiringly on those of the man beside her. “Let us be gay! Let us

forget! Come, Frederic! Sit here at my feet. Lydia is not going home

yet. Ranjab, the cigarettes!”

 

Frederic, white-faced and scowling, remained at the window, glaring out

into the rain-swept night. A steady sheet of raindrops thrashed against

the window-panes.

 

“Hear the wind!” cried Yvonne, after a single sharp glance at his

tall, motionless figure. “One can almost imagine that ghosts from every

graveyard in the world are whistling past our windows. Should we not

rejoice? We have them safely locked outside, die? There are no ghosts in

here to make us shiver-and-shake.”

 

The sentence that began so glibly trailed off in a slow crescendo,

ending abruptly. Ranjab was holding the lighted taper for her cigarette.

As she spoke her eyes were lifted to his dark, saturnine face. She was

saying there were no ghosts when his eyes suddenly fastened on hers. In

spite of herself her voice rose in response to the curious dread that

chilled her heart as she looked into the shining mirrors above her.

She shivered as if in the presence of death! For an incalculably brief

period their gaze remained fixed and steady, each reading a mystery.

Then the Hindu lowered his heavy lashes and moved away. The little

by-scene did not go unnoticed by the others, although its meaning was

lost.

 

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Yvonne,” said Brood, pressing the hand

which trembled in his.

 

“Your imagination carries you a long way. Are you really afraid of

ghosts?”

 

She answered in a deep, solemn voice that carried conviction.

 

“I believe in ghosts. I believe the dead come back to us, not to

flit about as we are told by superstition, but to lodge--actually to

dwell--inside these warm, living bodies of ours. They come and go at

will. Sometimes we feel that they are there, but oh, who knows? Their

souls may conquer ours and go on inhabiting------”

 

“Nonsense!” cried her husband. “Once dead, always dead, my dear.”

 

“Do you really believe that, James?” she demanded seriously. “Have

you never felt that something that was not you was living, breathing,

speaking in this earthly shell of yours? Something that was not you, I

say. Something that------”

 

“Never!” he exclaimed quickly, but his eyes were full of the wonder that

he felt.

 

“Frederic,” she called imperatively, “come away from that window!”

 

The young man joined the group. The sullen look in his face had given

way to one of acute inquiry. The new note in her voice produced a

strange effect upon him. It seemed like a call for help, a cry out of

the darkness.

 

“It is raining pitchforks,” he said, as if to explain his failure to

respond at the first call.

 

“Oh, dear,” sighed Lydia uncomfortably.

 

“You can’t go out in the storm, my dear,” cried Yvonne, tightening her

grip on the girl’s arm. “Draw up a chair, Freddy. Let’s be cosy.

 

“Really, Mrs Brood, I should go at once. Mother------”

 

“Your mother is in bed and asleep,” protested Yvonne.

 

“We should all be in bed,” said Frederic.

 

“A bed is a sepulchre. We bury half our lives in it, Frederic. We spend

too much time in bed. Why live in our dreams when we should be enjoying

to-day and not our yesterdays? Do you want to hear about the concert,

James? It was wonderful. The------”

 

“If it was so wonderful, why did you leave before it was over?” demanded

her husband, his lips straightening.

 

She looked at him curiously.

 

“How do you know that we left before it was over?’ *

 

“You have been at home since ten.”

 

They were all playing for time. They all realised that something

sinister was attending their little conclave, unseen but vital. Each

one knew that united they were safe, each against the other I Lydia was

afraid because of Brood’s revelations. Yvonne had sensed peril with

the message delivered by Ranjab to Frederic. Frederic had come upstairs

prepared for rebellion against the caustic remarks that were almost

certain to come from his father. Brood was afraid of--himself! He was

holding himself in check with the greatest difficulty. He knew that the

smallest spark would create the explosion he dreaded and yet courted.

Restraint lay heavily, yet shiftingly, upon all of them.

 

“Oh,” said Yvonne easily, “there were still two numbers to be played,

and I loathe both of them. Frederic was ready to come away, too.”

 

“And Dr Hodder? Did he come away with you?” inquired Brood.

 

“No. He insisted on staying to the bitter end. We left him there.”

 

Brood laughed shortly. “I see.”

 

“He said he would come down with the Gunnings,” explained Yvonne, her

eyes flickering. “Besides, I always feel as though I were riding in an

ambulance when he is in the car. He dissected every bit of music they

played to-night. Now, James dear, you know he is quite dreadful.” She

said it pleadingly, poutingly.

 

“I offered to send the car back for him,” said Frederic, speaking for

the first time.

 

Brood drew a long breath. His glance met Lydia’s and recognised the mute

appeal that lay in her eyes. He smiled faintly, and hope rose in her

troubled breast.

 

“The Gunnings were there,” put in Yvonne, puffing more rapidly than

usual at her cigarette. “They came to the box with Mr and Mrs Harbison

during the intermission.”

 

“What spiteful things did Mrs Harbison say about me?” demanded Brood,

affecting a certain lightness of manner. “A cigarette, Ranjab. She

despises me, I’m sure. Didn’t she ask why I was not there to look after

my beautiful and much-coveted wife?”

 

“She said that you interested her more than any man she knew, and, of

course, I considered that particularly spiteful. Her husband declared

he would rather shoot with you than with any man in the world. He’s very

tiresome.”

 

“We’ve hunted a good bit together,” said Brood.

 

“Harbison says you are the most deadly shot he’s ever seen,” said

Frederic, relaxing slightly.

 

“What was it he said about your wonderful accuracy with a revolver? What

was it, Frederic? Hitting a shilling at some dreadful distance-thirty

yards, eh?”

 

“Thirty paces,” said Frederic.

 

“My father often spoke of your shooting with a revolver, Mr Brood,” said

Lydia. “He said it was really marvellous.”

 

Yvonne laughed. “How interesting to have a husband who can even see as

far as thirty paces. But revolver shooting is a doubtful accomplishment

in these days of peace, isn’t it? What is there to shoot at?”

 

“Mad dogs and--men,” said Brood. Lydia’s look required an answer. “No,

I’ve never shot a mad dog, Lydia.”

 

“Who was the young woman with the lisp, Freddy?” asked Yvonne abruptly.

 

“Miss Dangerfield. Isn’t she amusing? I love that soft Virginia drawl of

hers. She’s pretty, too. Old Hodder was quite taken with her.”

 

A long, reverberating roll of thunder, ending in an ear-splitting

crash that seemed no farther away than the window casement behind them,

brought sharp exclamations of terror from the lips of the two women. The

men, appalled, started to their feet.

 

“Good Lord, that _was_ close!” cried Frederic. “There was no sign of a

storm when we came in--just a steady, gentle spring rain.”

 

“I am frightened,” shuddered Yvonne, wide-eyed with fear. “Do you

think------”

 

“It struck near by, that’s all,” said Brood. “Lightning bolts are

deceptive. One may think they strike at one’s very elbow, and yet the

spot is really miles away. I hope your mother is not distressed, my

dear,” turning to Lydia. “She is afraid of the lightning, I know.”

 

Lydia sprang to her feet. “I must go home at once,” Mr Brood. She will be

dreadfully frightened.

 

There came another deafening crash. The glare filled the room with a

brilliant, greenish hue. Ranjab was standing at the window, holding the

curtains apart while he peered upward across the space that separated

them from the apartment building beyond the court.

 

“Take me home, Frederic!” cried Lydia frantically. She ran toward the

door.

 

“Let me telephone to your mother, Lyddy,” he cried, hurrying after her

into the hall.

 

“No! no! no!” she gasped as she ran. “Don’t come with me if you-----”

 

“I will come!” he exclaimed, as they raced down the stairs. “Don’t be

frightened, darling. It’s all right. Listen to me! Mrs Desmond is as safe as------”