Black is White 29

Black is White 29

“Oh, Freddy, Freddy!” she wailed, breaking under a strain that he was

not by way of comprehending. “Oh, Freddy dear!” Her nerves gave way. She

was sobbing convulsively when they came to the lower hall.

 

In great distress he clasped her in his arms, mumbling incoherent words

of love, encouragement--even ridicule for the fear she betrayed. Far

from his mind was the real cause of her unhappy plight.

 

He held her close to his breast, and there she sobbed and trembled as

with a mighty, racking chill. Her fingers clutched his arm with the grip

of one who clings to the edge of a precipice with death below. Her face

was buried against his shoulder.

 

“There! There!” he murmured, appalled by this wild display of fear.

“Don’t worry, darling. Everything is all right. Oh, you dear, dear

girlie! Please, please! My little Lyddy!”

 

“Take me home, Freddy--take me home,” she whispered brokenly. “I cannot

stay here another second. Come, dearest--come home with me.”

 

Still they stood there in the dark hall, clasped in each other’s

arms--stood there for many minutes without realising the lapse of time,

thinking not of Mrs Desmond nor the storm that raged outside, but of the

storm they were weathering together with the lightning racing through

their veins, thunder in their heart-beats.

 

A footstep in the hall. Frederic looked up, dazed, bewildered. Jones,

the butler, was retreating through a door near by, having come upon them

unexpectedly.

 

“I--I beg pardon, sir. I------”

 

“Oh, Jones! Listen! My raincoat--and father’s, quick. And Miss Lydia’s

things. Yes, yes, it’s all right, Jones. It’s quite all right.” Frederic

was calling out the sentences, “It’s quite all right.”

 

Fredric was calling out his sentences jerkily.

 

“Quite all right,” repeated Jones, his throat swelling, his eyes

suddenly dim. “Quite, sir. Yes, yes!” He rushed into the closet at the

end of the hall, more grievously upset than he ever had been in all his

life before.

 

“You will come with me, Freddy?” she was whispering, clinging to him as

one in panic.

 

“Yes, yes. Don’t be frightened, Lyddy. I--I know everything is all right

now. I’m sure of it.”

 

“Oh, I am sure, too, dear. I have always been sure,” she cried, and he

understood, as she had understood.

 

Despite the protests of Jones they dashed out into the blighting

thunderstorm. The rain beat down in torrents, the din was infernal.

As the door closed behind them Lydia, in the ecstasy of freedom from

restraint bitterly imposed, gave vent to a shrill cry of relief. Words,

the meaning of which he could not grasp, babbled from her lips as they

descended the steps. One sentence fell vaguely clear from the others,

and it puzzled him. He was sure that she said:

 

“Oh, I am so glad, so happy we are out of that house--you and I

together.”

 

Close together, holding tightly to each other, they breasted the

swirling sheets of rain. The big umbrella was of little protection to

them, although held manfully to break the force of the cold flood of

waters. They bent their strong young bodies against the wind, and a sort

of wild, impish hilarity took possession of them. It was freedom, after

all! They were fighting a force in nature that they understood, and the

sharp, staccato cries that came from their lips were born of an exultant

glee which neither of them could have suppressed or controlled. Their

hearts were as wild as the tempest about them.

 

They turned the corner and were flanked by the wind and rain. The long

raincoats flattened their sleek, dripping folds tightly against their

bodies. It was almost impossible to push forward into this mad deluge.

The umbrella, caught by a gust, was turned inside out, and the full

force of the storm struck upon their faces, almost taking the breath

away. And they laughed as their arms tightened about each other. As one

person they breasted the gale.

 

They were fairly blown through the doors of the apartment-house. Mrs

Desmond threw open the door as their wet, soggy feet came sloshing down

the hall. Frederic’s arm was about Lydia as they approached, and both of

their drenched faces were wreathed in smiles--gay, exalted smiles. The

mother, white-faced and fearful, stared for a second at the amazing

pair, and then held out her arms to them.

 

She was drenched in their embrace, but no one thought of the havoc that

was being created in that swift, impulsive contact.

 

“It’s a fine mess we’ve made of your rug, Mrs Desmond,” said Frederic

ruefully a few minutes later.

 

“Goodness!” cried Lydia, aghast. Then they all realised.

 

“Take those horrid things off at once, both of you,” commanded Mrs

Desmond. Her voice trembled. “And your shoes--and stockings. Dear,

dear!”

 

“I must run back home!” exclaimed Frederic.

 

Lydia placed herself between him and the door.

 

“No! I want you to stay!” she cried.

 

“Stay?”

 

“You shall not go out in that dreadful storm again. I will not let you

go, Frederic. Stay--stay here with me.”

 

He stared. “What a funny idea!”

 

“Wait until the rain is over,” added Mrs Desmond.

 

“No, no!” cried Lydia. “I mean for him to stay here the rest of the

night. We can put you up, Freddy. I--I don’t want you to go back there

until--until to-morrow.”

 

A glad light broke in his face. “By Jove, I--do you know, I’d like to

stay? I--I really would, Mrs Desmond. Can you find a place for me?” His

voice was eager, his eyes sparkling.

 

“Yes,” said the mother quietly, almost serenely. “You shall have Lydia’s

bed, Frederic. She can come in with me. Yes, you must stay. Are you not

our Frederic?”

 

“Thank you,” he stammered, and his eyes fell.

 

“I will telephone to Jones when the storm abates,” said Mrs Desmond.

“Now get out of those coats, and--oh, dear, how wet you are! A hot drink

for both.”

 

“Would you mind asking Jones to send over something for me to wear in

the morning?” said Frederic, grinning as he stood forth in his evening

clothes.

 

Ten minutes later, in a dressing-gown and bare feet, he sat with them

before an open fire and sipped the toddy she had brewed.

 

“I say, this is great!”

 

Lydia was suddenly shy and embarrassed.

 

“Good night,” she whispered. Her fingers brushed his cheek lightly.

 

He drew her down to him and kissed her passionately.

 

“Good night, my Lyddy!” he said softly, his cheek flushing.

 

She went quickly from the room.

 

Later he stood in her sweet, dainty little bedroom and looked about him

with a feeling of mingled awe and wonder. All of her intimate, exquisite

belongings, the sanctified treasures of her most secret domain, were all

about him.

 

He fingered the articles on her dressing-table; smelled of the perfume

bottles and smiled as he recognised the sweet odours as being a part

of her, and not a thing unto themselves; grinned delightedly at his own

photograph in its silver frame that stood where she could see it

the last thing at night and the first in the morning; caressed--aye,

caressed--the little hand-mirror that had reflected her gay or troubled

face so many times since the dear Christmas Day when he had given it to

her with his love.

 

He stood beside her bed where she had stood, and the soft rug seemed to

respond to the delightful tingling that ran through his bare feet. Her

room! Her bed! Her domain!

 

Suddenly he dropped to his knees and buried his hot face in the cool

white sheets and kissed them over and over again. Here was sanctuary

I His eyes were wet with tears when he arose to his feet, and his arms

went out to the closed door.

 

“My Lyddy!” he whispered chokingly.

 

Back there in the rose-hued light of James Brood’s study Yvonne cringed

and shook in the strong arms of her husband all through that savage

storm. She was no longer the defiant, self-possessed creature he had come

to know so well, but a shrinking, trembling child, stripped of all her

bravado, all her arrogance, all her seeming guile. A pathetic whimper

crooned from her lips in response to his gentle words of reassurance.

She was afraid--desperately afraid--and she crept close to him in her

fear.

 

And he? He was looking backward to another who had nestled close to him

and whimpered as she was doing now--another who lived in terror when it

stormed.