Black is White 33
“No, she doesn’t. A woman _wouldn’t_ understand.”
“I will square everything,” he said.
“It means a great deal to me,”
“In what way?”
There was a pause,
“No woman likes to be regarded as a fool,” she said at last, apparently
after careful reflection.
“Oh, yes; there is something else. We are dining out this evening.”
“You and I?” he asked, after a moment.
“Certainly not. Your father and I. I was about to suggest that you dine
with Lydia--or, better still, ask her over here to share your dinner
with you.”
He was scowling.
“Where are you going?”
“Going? Oh, dining. I see. Well,” slowly, deliberately, “we thought
it would be great fun to dine alone at Delmonico’s and see a play
afterward.”
“Just--you and father?”
“We two--no more.”
“How cunning,” he sneered.
“Will you ask Lydia to dine with you?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you will go out somewhere?”
“I’ll have dinner with Mr Dawes and------”
“That would be jolly. They will be pleased. A sort of--what do you call
it--a sort of reunion, eh?”
“Are you making sport of me?” he demanded angrily.
“But no! It will be making sport for the old gentleman, though, _aïe?_
And now _au revoir!_ You will surely convince Lydia that I love her?
I am troubled. You will------”
“What play are you going to see?” he cut in. She mentioned a Belasco
production. “Well, I hope you enjoy it, Yvonne. By the way, how is the
governor to-day? In a good humour?”
There was no response. He waited for a moment and then called out: “Are
you there?”.
“Good-bye,” came back over the wire.
He started, as if she had given him a slap in the face. Her voice was
cold and forbidding.
When Lydia rejoined him in the sitting-room he was standing at the
window, staring across the courtyard far below.
“Are you going?” she asked steadily.
He turned toward her, conscious of the tell-tale scowl that was
passing from his brow. It did not occur to him to resent her abrupt,
uncompromising question. As a matter of fact, it seemed quite natural
that she should put the question in just that way, flatly, incisively.
He considered himself, in a way, to be on trial.
“No, I’m not,” he replied. “You did not expect me to forget, did you?”
He was uncomfortable under her honest, inquiring gaze. A sullen anger
against himself took possession of him. He despised himself for the
feeling of loneliness and homesickness that suddenly came over him.
“I thought------” she began, and then her brow cleared. “I have been
looking up the recitals in the morning paper. The same orchestra you
heard last night is to appear again to-day at------”
“We will go there, Lydia,” he interrupted, and at once began to hum the
gay little air that had so completely charmed him. “Try it again, Lyddy.
You’ll get it in no time.”
After luncheon, like two happy children they rushed off to the concert,
and it was not until they were on their way home at five o’clock that
his enthusiasm began to wane. She was quick to detect the change. He
became moody, preoccupied; his part of the conversation was kept up with
an effort that lacked all of the spontaneity of his earlier and more
engaging flights.
They rode down town on the top of a Fifth Avenue stage, having it all
to themselves. She found herself speculating on the change that had come
over him, and soon lapsed into a reserve quite as pronounced as his
own. By the time they were ready to get down at the corner above Brood’s
house there was no longer any pretence at conversation between them.
The day’s fire had burned out. Its glow had given way to the bleak, gray
tone of dead coals.
Lydia went far back in her calculations and attributed his mood to the
promise she had exacted in regard to his attitude toward his father. It
occurred to her that he was smarting under the restraint that promise
involved. She realised now, more than ever before, that there could be
no delay, no faltering on her part. She would have to see James Brood at
once; go down on her knees to him.
“I feel rather guilty, Freddy,” she said as they approached the house.
“Mr Brood will think it strange that I should plead a headache and yet
run off to a concert and enjoy myself when he is so eager to finish the
journal--especially as he is to sail so soon. I ought to see him; don’t
you think so? Perhaps there is something I can do to-night that will
make up for the lost time.” She was plainly nervous.
“He’d work you to death if he thought it would serve his purpose,” said
Frederic gloomily. And back of that sentence lay the thought that made
it absolutely imperative for her to act without delay.
“I will go in for a few minutes,” she said, at the foot of the steps.
“Are you not coming, too?”
He had stopped. “Not just now, Lyddy. I think I’ll run up to Tom’s flat
and smoke a pipe with him. Thanks, old girl, for the happy day we’ve
had. You don’t mind if I leave you here?”
Her heart gave a great throb of relief. It was best to have him out of
the way for the time being.
“No, indeed,” she said. “Do go and see Tom. I shan’t be here long. We
have had a glorious day, haven’t we?” There was something wistful in her
smile as she held out her hand to him.
He searched her face with tired, yearning eyes.
“We have thousands of them ahead of us, Lyddy days that will be all our
own, with nothing else in them but ourselves. I--I wish we could begin
them to-morrow, after all.”
A flush mounted to her cheek,
“Good-bye, Freddy.”
He seemed reluctant to release her hand; her hand was cold, but her eyes
were shining with a glorious warmth.
“I--I may run in to see you this evening,” he said. “You won’t mind?”
“Come, by all means.”
“Well--so--long,” he said diffidently. “So--long, Lyddy.”
“So--long,” she repeated, dropping into his manner of speech without
thinking. There was a smothering sensation in her breast.
He looked back as he strode off in the direction from which they had
come. She was at the top of the steps, her finger on the electric
button. He wondered why her face was so white. He had always thought of
it as being full of colour, rich, soft, and warm.
Inside the door Lydia experienced a strange sinking of the heart. Her
limbs seemed curiously weak, and she was conscious of a feeling of utter
loneliness, such as she had never known before. She looked about her in
wonder, as if seeking an explanation for the extraordinary but fleeting
impression that she was in a strange house. Never was she to find an
interpretation of the queer fantasy that came and went almost in the
span of a single breath.
“Is Mr Brood at------” she began nervously.
A voice at the top of the stairway interrupted the question she was
putting to the footman.
“Is it you, Lydia? Come up to my room.”
The girl looked up and saw Mrs Brood leaning over the banister-rail. She
was holding her pink dressing-gown closely about her throat, as if
it had been hastily thrown about her shoulders. One bare arm was
visible--completely so.
“I came to see Mr Brood. Is he------”
“He is busy. Come up to my room,” repeated Yvonne, somewhat imperiously.
As Lydia mounted the stairs she had a fair glimpse of the other’s face.
Always pallid--but of a healthy pallor--it was now almost ghastly.
Perhaps it was the light from the window that caused it; Lydia was not
sure, but a queer greenish hue overspread the lovely, smiling face. The
lips were red, very red-redder than she had ever seen them. The girl
suddenly recalled the face she had once seen of a woman who was addicted
to the drug habit.
Mrs Brood met her at the top of the stairs. She was but half dressed.
Her lovely neck and shoulders were now almost bare. Her hands were
extended toward the visitor; the filmy lace gown hung loose and
disregarded about her slim figure.
“Come in, dear. Shall we have tea? I have been so lonely. One cannot
read the books they print nowadays. Such stupid things, _aie?_”
She threw an arm about the tall girl, and Lydia was surprised to find
that it was warm and full of a gentle strength. She felt her flesh
tingle with the thrill of contact. Yes, it must have been the light
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