Black is White 38

Black is White 38

Presently the exodus was over and the danger past. He moved up to the

railing again and resumed his eager scrutiny of the throng. He could not

find them. At first he was conscious of disappointment, then he gave way

to an absurd rage. Yvonne had misled him, she had deceived him--aye,

she had _lied_ to him. They were not in the audience, they had not even

contemplated coming to this theatre. He had been tricked, deliberately

tricked.

 

No doubt they were seated in some other place of amusement, serenely

enjoying themselves.

 

The thought of it maddened him. And then, just as he was on the point of

tearing out of the house, he saw them, and the blood rushed to his head

so violently that he was almost blinded.

 

He caught sight of his father far down in front, and then the dark,

half-obscured head of Yvonne. He could not see their faces, but there

was no mistaking them for anyone else. He only marvelled that he had not

seen them before, even in the semi-darkness. They now appeared to be the

only people in the theatre; he could see no one else.

 

James Brood’s fine, aristocratic head was turned slightly toward his

wife, who, as Frederic observed after changing his position to one of

better advantage, apparently was relating something amusing to him.

They undoubtedly were enjoying themselves. Once more the great,

almost suffocating wave of tenderness for his father swept over him,

mysteriously as before and as convincing. He experienced a sudden,

inexplicable feeling of pity for the strong, virile man who had never

revealed the slightest symptoms of pity for him. The same curious desire

to put his hands on his father’s shoulders and tell him that all was

well with them came over him again.

 

Involuntarily he glanced over his shoulder, and the fear was in his

heart that somewhere in the shifting throng his gaze would light upon

the face of Ranjab.

 

Long and intently his searching gaze went through the crowd, seeking

the remote corners and shadows of the foyer, and a deep breath of relief

escaped him when it became evident that the Hindu was not there. He had,

in a measure, proved his own cause; his emotions were genuinely his own

and not the outgrowth of an influence for good exercised over him by the

Brahmin.

 

He began what he was pleased to term a systematic analysis of his

emotions covering the entire evening, all the while regarding the couple

in the orchestra chairs with a gaze unswerving in its fidelity to the

sensation that now controlled him--a sensation of impending peril.

 

All at once he slunk farther back into the shadow, a guilty flush

mounting to his cheek. Yvonne had turned and was staring rather fixedly

in his direction. Despite the knowledge that he was quite completely

concealed by the intervening group of loungers, he sustained a distinct

shock. He had the uncanny feeling that she was looking directly into his

eyes. She had turned abruptly, as if someone had called out to attract

her attention and she had obeyed the sudden impulse. A moment later her

calmly impersonal gaze swept on, taking the sections to her right and

the balcony, and then went back to her husband’s face.

 

Frederic was many minutes in recovering from the effects of the queer

shock he had received. He could not get it out of his head that she

knew he was there, that she actually turned in answer to the call of his

mind. She had not searched for him; on the contrary, she directed her

gaze instantly to the spot where he stood concealed.

 

Actuated by a certain sense of guilt, he decided to leave the theatre as

soon as the curtain went up on the next act, which was to be the last.

Instead of doing so, however, he lingered to the end of the play, secure

in his conscienceless espionage. It had come to him that if he met them

in front of the theatre as they came out he could invite them to join

him at supper in one of the near-by restaurants. The idea pleased him.

He coddled it until it became a sensation.

 

When James Brood and his wife reached the side-walk they found him

there, directly in their path as they wedged their way to the curb to

await the automobile. He was smiling frankly, wistfully. There was an

honest gladness in his fine, boyish face and an eager light in his eyes.

He no longer had the sense of guilt in his soul. It had been a passing

qualm, and he felt regenerated for having experienced it, even so

briefly. Somehow it had purged his soul of the one longing doubt as to

the sincerity of his impulses.

 

“Hello!” he said, planting himself squarely in front of them.

 

There was a momentary tableau. He was vividly aware of the fact that

Yvonne had shrunk back in alarm and that a swift look of fear leaped

into her surprised eyes. She drew closer to Brood’s side--or was it the

jostling of the crowd that made it seem to be so? He realised then that

she had not seen him in the theatre. Her surprise was genuine. It was

not much short of consternation, a fact that he realised with a sudden

sinking of the heart.

 

Then his eyes went quickly to his father’s face. James Brood was

regarding him with a cold, significant smile, as one who understands and

despises.

 

“They told me you were here,” faltered Frederic, the words rushing

hurriedly through his lips, “and I thought we might run in somewhere

and have a bite to eat. I--I want to tell you about Lydia and myself and

what------”

 

The carriage-man bawled a number in his ear and jerked open the door of

a limousine that had pulled up to the curb.

 

Without a word James Brood handed his wife into the car and then turned

to the chauffeur.

 

“Home,” he said, and, without so much as a glance at Frederic, stepped

inside. The door was slammed and the car slid out into the maelstrom.

 

Yvonne had sunk back into a corner, huddled down as if suddenly deprived

of all her strength. Frederic saw her face as the car moved away. She

was staring at him with wide-open, reproachful eyes, as if to say: “Oh,

what have you done? What a fool you are!” for a second or two he stood

as if petrified, then everything turned red before him, a wicked red

that blinded him. He staggered, as if from a blow in the face.

 

“My God!” slipped from his stiff lips, and tears leaped to his

eyes--tears of supreme mortification. Like a beaten dog he slunk away,

feeling himself pierced by the pitying gaze of every mortal in the

street.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVI

 

Long past midnight the telephone in the Desmond apartment rang sharply,

insistently. Lydia, who had just fallen asleep, awoke with a start and

sat bolt upright in her bed. A clammy perspiration broke out all over

her body. There in the darkness she shivered with a dread so desolating

that every vestige of strength forsook her and she could only stare

helplessly into the black pall that surrounded her.

 

Never before in all her life had she been aroused from sleep by the

jangling of a telephone-bell. The sound struck terror to her heart. She

knew that something terrible had happened. She knew there had been a

catastrophe.

 

She sat there chattering until she heard her mother’s door open and then

the click of the receiver as it was lifted from the hook. Then she

put her fingers to her ears and closed her eyes. The very worst had

happened; she was sure of it. The blow had fallen. The one thought that

seared her brain was that she had failed him, failed him miserably in

the crisis. Oh, if she could only reclaim that lost hour of indecision

and cowardice!

 

The light in the hallway suddenly smote her in the face, and she

realised for the first time that her eyes were tightly closed, as if to

shut out some abhorrent sight.

 

“Lydia!” Her mother was standing in the open door. “Oh, you are awake?”

Mrs Desmond stared in amazement at the girl’s figure.

 

“What is it, mother? Tell me what has happened? Is he--------”

 

“He wants to speak to you. He is on the wire. His voice sounds

queer----”

 

The girl sprang out of bed and hurried to the telephone.

 

“Don’t go away, mother--stay here,” she cried as she sped past the

white-clad figure in the doorway. Mrs Desmond flattened herself against

the wall and remained there as motionless as a statue, her sombre gaze

fixed on her daughter’s face.

 

“Yes, Frederic, it is I, Lydia. What is it, dear?” Her voice was high

and thin.

 

His words came jerking over the wire, sharp and querulous. She closed

her eyes in anticipation of the blow, her body rigid.

 

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he was saying, “but I just had to call you

up.” The words were disjointed, as if he forced them from his lips in a

supreme effort at coherency.

 

“Yes, yes--it’s all right. I don’t mind. You did right. What is it?”

 

“I want you to release me from my promise.”

 

“Release you? Oh, Freddy!” It was a wail that issued from her lips. Her

body sagged limply, she steadied herself by leaning against the wall for

support.

 

“You’ve got to, Lydia. There’s no other way. Something has happened

to-night, dear. You’ve got to------”

 

“Has he--has he------” Her throat closed up as if gripped by a strong

hand.

 

“I’m sorry to drag you out of bed to tell you------”

 

“Freddy, Freddy!”

 

“To tell you that I must withdraw my promise, even if you refuse to

release me. Oh, I’m not excited, I’m not crazy, I’m not drunk! I never

was so steady in my life. To-night has made a man of me. I know just

where I stand at last. Now go back to bed, dearest, and don’t worry

about anything. I couldn’t go ahead until I’d asked you to release me

from the promise I made.”

 

“You mean--the promise--but, Freddy, I can’t release you. I love you. I

_will_ be your wife, no matter what has happened, no matter------”

 

“Oh, Lord, Lyddy--it isn’t that! It’s the other--the promise to say

nothing to my father------”

 

“Oh!” she sighed weakly, a vast wave of relief almost suffocating her.

 

“He has made it impossible for me to go on without------”

 

“Where are you, Frederic?” she cried in sudden alarm.

 

“Oh, I’m all right. I shan’t go home, you may be sure of that. To-morrow

will be time enough.”

 

“Where are you? I must know. How can I reach you by telephone--”

 

“Don’t be frightened, dear. It’s got to be, that’s all. It might as well

be ended now as later on. The last straw was laid on to-night. Now don’t

ask questions. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night, sweetheart.

I’ve--I’ve told you that I can’t stick to my promise. You’ll understand.

I couldn’t rest until I’d told you and heard your dear voice. Forgive me

for calling you up. Tell your mother I’m sorry. Good night!”