Black is White 30

Black is White 30

CHAPTER XIII

 

Frederic opened his eyes at the sound of a gentle, persistent

tapping on the bedroom door. Resting on his elbow, he looked blankly,

wonderingly, about the room, and--remembered. The sun streamed into the

chamber, filling it with a radiance that almost dazzled him. He rubbed

his eyes, and again, as in the night just gone, his thought absorbed the

contents of the room.

 

He had not dreamed it, after all. He was there in Lydia’s bed, attended

by all the mute, inanimate sentinels that stood guard over her while she

slept. The knocking continued. He dreamed on, his blinking eyes still

seeking out the dainty, Lydia-like treasures in the enchanted room.

 

“Frederic!” called a voice outside the door.

 

He started guiltily.

 

“All right,” was his cheery response.

 

“Get up! It’s nine o’clock. Or will you have your breakfast in bed,

sir?” It was Lydia who spoke, assuming a fine Irish brogue in imitation

of their little maid of all work.

 

“I’ll have to, unless my clothes have come over!”

 

“They are here. Now do hurry.”

 

He sprang out of bed and bounded across the room. She passed the

garments through the partly opened door.

 

“Morning!” he greeted, sticking his tousled head around the edge.

 

“Morning!” she responded as briefly.

 

“Don’t wait breakfast for me. I’ll skip over home------”

 

“It will be ready in fifteen minutes,” she said arbitrarily. “Don’t

dawdle.”

 

“How pretty, how sweet you are this morning,” he cried, his dark eyes

dancing.

 

“Silly!” she scoffed, but with a radiant smile. Then, with a perfectly

childish giggle, she slammed the door and scurried away as if in fear of

pursuit.

 

He was artistic, temperamental. Such as he have not the capacity for

haste when there is the slightest opportunity to dream and dawdle. He

was a full quarter of an hour taking his tub, and another was consumed

in getting into his clothes. At home he was always much longer than

this, for he was delayed by the additional task of selecting shirts,

ties, socks, and scarf-pins, and changing his mind and all of them three

or four times before being satisfied with the effect. He sallied forth

in great haste at nine thirty-five, and was extremely proud of himself,

although unshaved.

 

His first act, after warmly greeting Mrs Desmond, was to sit down at the

piano. Hurriedly he played a few jerky, broken snatches of the haunting

air he had heard the night before.

 

“I’ve been wondering if I could remember it,” he apologised, as he

followed them into the diningroom. “What’s the matter, Lyddy? Didn’t you

sleep well? Poor old girl, I was a beast to deprive you of your bed.”

 

“I have a mean headache, that’s all,” said the girl quickly. He noticed

the dark circles under her eyes and the queer __EXPRESSION__, as of trouble,

in their depths. “It will go as soon as I’ve had my coffee.”

 

Night, with its wonderful sensations, was behind them. Day revealed the

shadow that had fallen. They unconsciously shrank from it and drew back

into the shelter of their own misgivings. The joyous abandon of the

night before was dead. Over its grave stood the leering spectre of

unrest.

 

When he took her in his arms later on, and kissed her, there was not the

shadow of a doubt in the mind of either that the restraining influence

of a condition over which they had no control was there to mock their

endeavour to be natural. They were not to be deceived by the apparent

earnestness of the embrace. Each knew that the other was asking a

question, even as their lips met and clung in the rather pathetic

attempt to confirm the fond dream of the night before. They kissed

as through a veil. They were awake once more, and they were wary,

unconvinced. The answer to their questions came in the kiss itself, and

constraint fell upon them.

 

Drawn by an impulse that had been struggling within him, Frederic found

himself standing at the sitting-room window. It was a sly, covert,

though intensely eager look that he directed at another window far

below. If he hoped for some sign of life in his father’s study he was

to be disappointed. The curtains hung straight and motionless. He would

have denied the charge that he longed to see Yvonne sitting in the

casement, waiting to waft a sign of greeting up to him; he would have

denied that the thought was in his mind when he went to the window; and

yet he was conscious of a feeling of disappointment, even annoyance.

 

With considerable adroitness Lydia engaged his attention at the piano.

Keyed up as she was, his every emotion was plain to her perceptions. She

had anticipated the motive that led him to the window. She knew that

it would assert itself in spite of all that he could do to prevent. She

waited humbly for the thing to happen, pain in her heart, and when her

reading proved true she was prepared to combat its effect. Music was her

only ally.

 

“How does it go, Freddy--the thing you were playing before breakfast?”

She was trying to pick up the elusive air. “It is such a fascinating,

adorable thing. Is this right?”

 

He looked at his watch. The few bars she had mastered in her eagerness

fell upon inattentive ears at first. But she persisted. He came over and

stood beside her. His long, slim fingers joined hers on the keyboard,

and the sensuous strains of the waltz responded to his touch. He smiled

patiently as she struggled to repeat what he had played. The fever of

the thing took hold of him at last, as she had known it would. Leaning

over her shoulder, his cheek quite close to hers, he played. Her hands

dropped into her lap.

 

She retained her seat on the bench. Her cunning brain told her that it

would be a mistake to relinquish her place at the keyboard. He would

play it through a time or two, mechanically perhaps, and then his

interest would be gone. He would have gratified her simple request, and

that would have been the end. She led him on by interrupting time and

again in her eagerness to grasp the lesson he was giving. Finally she

moved over on the bench, and he sat down beside her. He was absorbed in

the undertaking. His brow cleared. His smile was a happy, eager one.

 

“It’s a tricky thing, Lyddy,” he said enthusiastically, “but you’ll get

it. Now listen.”

 

For an hour they sat there, master and pupil, sweetheart and lover.

The fear was less in the heart of one when, tiring at last, the other

contentedly abandoned the rôle of taskmaster and threw himself upon the

couch, remarking, as he stretched himself in luxurious ease:

 

“I like this, Lyddy. I wish you didn’t have to go over there and dig

away at that confounded journal. I like this so well that, ’pon my soul,

I’d enjoy loafing here with you the whole day long.”

 

Her heart leaped. “You shall have your wish, Freddy,” she said, barely

able to conceal the note of eagerness in her voice. “I am not going to

work to-day. I--my head, you know. Mother telephoned to Mr Brood this

morning before you were up.”

 

“You’re going to loaf?” he cried gladly. “Bully! And I may stay? But,

gee, I forgot your headache. It will------” He was staring up from the

couch when she hastily broke in, shaking her head vigorously.

 

“Lie still. My head is much better. I want you to stay, dear. I--I want

to have you all to myself again. Oh, it will be so good--so good to

while away an idle day with you!”

 

She was standing beside the couch. He reached forth and took her hand in

his, laying it against his lips.

 

“It won’t be an idle day,” said he seriously. “We shall be very busy.”

 

“Busy?” she inquired apprehensively. “Talking things over,” he said

briefly. “Of course, I ought to go home and face the music.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“It’s something I can’t talk about, Lyddy. Let’s forget our troubles for

to-day.”

 

“Better still, let us share them. Stay here with me. Don’t go home

to-day, Freddy. I------”

 

“Oh, I’ve got to have it out with father some time,” he said

bitterly. “It may as well be now as later on. We’ve got to come to an

understanding.”

 

Her heart was cold. She was afraid of what would come out of that

“understanding.” All night long she had lain with wide-staring eyes,

thinking of the horrid thing James Brood had said to her. Far in the

night she aroused her mother from a sound sleep to put the question that

had been torturing her for hours. Mrs Desmond confessed that her husband

had told her that Brood had never considered Frederic to be his son,

and then the two lay side by side for the remainder of the night without

uttering a word, and yet keenly awake. They were thinking of the hour

when Brood would serve notice on the intruder!

 

Lydia now realised that the hour was near. Frederic himself would

challenge the wrath of all these bitter years, and it would fall upon

his unsuspecting head with cruel, obliterating force.

 

The girl shivered as with a racking chill. “Have it out with father,”

he had said in his ignorance. He was preparing to rush headlong to his

doom. To prevent that catastrophe was the single, all-absorbing thought

in Lydia’s mind. Her only hope lay in keeping the men apart until she

could extract from Brood a promise to be merciful, and this she intended

to accomplish if she had to go down on her knees and grovel before the

man.

 

“Oh, Freddy,” she cried earnestly, “why take the chance of making a bad

matter worse?” Even as she uttered the words she realised how stupid,

how ineffectual they were.

 

“It can’t be much worse,” he said gloomily. “I am inclined to t