Black is White by George Barr McCutcheon

Author:George Barr McCutcheon [McCutcheon, George Barr]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anboco
Published: 2017-02-02T23:00:00+00:00

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.

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