Black is White 36

Black is White 36

CHAPTER XV

 

Lydia stopped for a moment in the hall, after closing the door behind

her, to pull herself together for the ordeal that was still to come.

She was trembling; a weakness had assailed her. She had left Yvonne’s

presence in a dazed, unsettled condition of mind.

 

There was a lapse of some kind that she could neither account for nor

describe even to herself. She tried to put it into seconds and minutes,

and then realised that it was not a matter to be reckoned as time. Yet

there had been a distinct, unmistakable gap in her existence. Something

had stopped--she knew not for how long--and then she had found herself

breathing, thinking once more. In spite of the conviction that she had

passed through a period of utter oblivion, she could account for every

second of time with an absolute clearness of memory.

 

There was not an instant, nor a sensation, nor an impulse that was not

fully recorded in her alert brain. She remembered everything; she could

have described every emotion; and yet she felt that there had been a

period of complete absence, as real as it was improbable.

 

She felt now as she always felt after sipping champagne--in a warm glow

of intoxication. She was drunk with the scent that filled her nostrils,

the scent that lay on her lips, that lived and breathed with her. Her

heart was throbbing rapidly, as if earnestly seeking to regain the beats

that it had lost.

 

Suddenly there came to her an impulse to go back and lay bare before

Yvonne all of the wretched story that had fallen from the lips of James

Brood the night before. She conceived the strange notion that Yvonne

alone could avert the disaster, that she could be depended upon to save

Frederic from the blow that seemed so sure to fall. She even went so far

as to turn toward the door and to take a step in its direction.

 

Then came the revolt against the impulse. Was it fair to Frederic? Had

she the right to reveal this ugly thing to one whose sympathies might,

after all, be opposed to the wife who had preceded her in James Brood’s

affections--the wife who had been first in his heart, and whose memory,

for all she knew, might still be a worthy adversary even in this day of

apparent supremacy?

 

What right had she to conclude that this woman would take up the cause

of Frederic’s mother and jeopardise her own position by seeking to

put her husband in the wrong in that unhappy affair of long ago? Would

Yvonne do this for Frederic? Would she do all this for Frederic’s

mother?

 

Lydia turned away and went slowly toward the stairs, despising herself

for the thought. The black velvet coat that formed a part of her trig

suit hung limply in her hand, dragging along the floor as she moved with

hesitating steps in the direction of James Brood’s study. A sickening

estimate of her own strength of purpose confronted her. She was suddenly

afraid of the man who had always been her friend. Somehow she felt that

he would turn upon and rend her, this man who had always been gentle and

considerate--and who had killed things!

 

She found herself at last standing stock--still at the bottom of the

steps, looking upward, trying to concentrate all of her determination on

what now appeared to her to be an undertaking of the utmost daring, as

one who risks everything in an encounter in the dark.

 

Ranjab appeared at the head of the stairs. She waited for his signal to

ascend, somehow feeling that Brood had sent him forth to summon her. Her

hand sought the stair--rail and gripped it tightly. Her lips parted in

a stiff smile. Now she knew that she was turning coward, that she longed

to put off the meeting until to-morrow--_to-morrow!_

 

The Hindu came down the stairs, quickly, noiselessly.

 

“The master say to come to-morrow, to-morrow as usual,” he said, as he

paused above her on the steps.

 

“It--it must be to-day,” she said doggedly, even as the chill of relief

shot through her.

 

“To-morrow,” said the man. His eyes were kindly inquiring. “_Sahib_ say

you are to rest.” There was a pause. “To-morrow will not be too late.”

 

She started. Had he read the thought that was in her mind?

 

“Thank you, Ranjab,” she said, after a moment of indecision. “I will

come to-morrow.”

 

Then she slunk downstairs and out of the house, convinced that she had

failed Frederic in his hour of greatest need, that to-morrow would be

too late.

 

Frederic did not come in for dinner until after his father and Yvonne

had gone from the house. He did not inquire for them, but instructed

Jones to say to the old gentlemen that he would be pleased to dine with

them if they could allow him the time to “change.” He also told Jones to

open a single bottle of champagne and to place three glasses.

 

“If you please, sir, Mrs Brood has given strict orders-----”

 

“That’s all right, Jones. She won’t mind for to-night. We expect to

drink the health of the bride, Jones.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“That is to say, _my_ bride.”

 

“Your bride, Mr Frederic?”

 

“I’m going to be married.”

 

“Bless my soul, sir!”

 

“You seem surprised.”

 

“Ahem! I should ‘ave said, ‘God be praised,’ sir.”

 

“Now that I think of it, don’t mention it to Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs. Let

me make the announcement, Jones.”

 

“Certainly, sir. It is most confidential, of course. Bless my--I mean to

say, Golden Seal, sir?”

 

“Any old thing, Jones.”

 

“May I offer my congratulations, Mr Frederic? Thank you, sir. Ahem!

Aw--ahem! Anyways soon, sir?”

 

“Very soon, Jones.”

 

“Bless--very good, sir. Of course, if I may be so bold as to inquire,

sir, it’s--it’s--ahem?”

 

“Certainly, Jones. Who else could it be?”

 

“To be sure, sir, it _couldn’t_ be anyone else. Thank you, sir. Yes,

sir. She is the finest young lady in this ‘ere world, Mr Frederic.

You did say Golden Seal, Cliquot, ninety-eight, sir? It’s the best in

the ‘ouse, sir, quite the best at present.”

 

Later on Frederic made his announcement to the old men. In the fever of

an excitement that caused him to forget that Lydia might be entitled to

some voice in the matter, he deliberately committed her to the project

that had become a fixed thing in his mind the instant he set foot in the

house and found it empty--oh, so empty!

 

Jones’s practised hand shook slightly as he poured the wine. The old men

drank rather noisily. They, too, were excited. Mr Riggs smacked his lips

and squinted at the chandelier, as if trying to decide upon the vintage,

but in reality doing his best to keep from coughing up the wine that had

gone the wrong way in a moment of profound paralysis.

 

“The best news I’ve heard since Judas died,” said Mr Dawes manfully.

“Fill ‘em up again, Jones. I want to propose the health of Mrs Brood.”

 

“The future Mrs Brood,” hissed Mr Riggs wheezily, glaring at his

comrade. “Ass!”

 

“I’m not married yet, Mr Dawes,” explained Frederic, grinning.

 

“Makes no difference,” said Mr Dawes stoutly. “Far as I’m concerned, you

are. We’ll be the first to drink to Lydia Brood! The first to call her

by that name, gentlemen. God bless her!”

 

“God bless her!” shouted Mr Riggs.

 

“God bless her!” echoed Frederic, and they drained their glasses to

Lydia Brood.

 

“Jones, open another bottle,” commanded Mr Dawes loftily.

 

Frederic shook his head, and two faces fell. Right bravely, however,

the old men maintained a joyous interest in the occasion. They expounded

loudly upon the virtues and graces of John Desmond’s daughter; they

plied the young man with questions and harangued him with advice; they

threatened him with hell-fire if he ever gave the girl a minute of

unhappiness; they were very firm in their contention that he “oughtn’t

to let the grass grow under his feet,” not for an instant! In the

end they waxed tearful. It was quite too much joy to be borne with

equanimity.

 

The young man turned moody, thoughtful; the unwonted exhilaration died

as suddenly as it had come into existence. A shadow crossed his vision

and he followed it with his thoughts. The gabbling of the old men

irritated him as the makeshift feast of celebration grew old, and he

made no pretence of keeping up his end of the conversation.

 

The gloomy, uneasy look deepened in his face. It was a farce, after all,

this attempt to glorify an impulse conceived in desperation. A sense of

utter loneliness came over him with a swiftness that sickened,

nauseated him. The food was flat to his taste; he could not eat.

Self-commiseration stifled him. He suddenly realised that he had never

been so lonely, so unhappy, in all his life as he was at this moment.

 

His thoughts were of his father. A vast, inexplicable longing possessed

his soul--a longing for the affection of this man who was never tender,

who stood afar off and was lonely, too. He could not understand this

astounding change of feeling. He had never felt just this way before.

There had been times--and many--when his heart was sore with longing,

but they were of other days, childhood days. To-night he could not crush

out the thought of how ineffably happy, how peaceful life would be if

his father were to lay his hands upon his shoulders and say: “My son,

I love you--I love you dearly.” There would be no more lonely days; all

that was bitter in his life would be swept away in the twinkling of an

eye; the world would be full of joy for him and for Lydia.