Black is White 46

Black is White 46

“God knows that is true,” he said hoarsely.

 

“But enough of that! I am stricken with my own poison. Go to the door!

See if he is there. I fear------”

 

“No one is near,” said he, after striding swiftly to both doors,

listening at one and peering out through the other.

 

“You will have to go away, Frederic. I shall have to go. But we shall

not go together. In my room I have kept hidden the sum of ten thousand

dollars, waiting for the day to come when I should use it to complete

the game I have played. I knew that you would have no money of your

own. I was prepared even for that. Look again! See if anyone is there? I

feel--I feel that someone is near us. Look, I say!”

 

He obeyed.

 

“See! There is no one near.” He held open the door to the hall. “You

must speak quickly. I am to leave this house in an hour. I was given the

hour.**

 

“Ah, I can see by your face that you hate him! It is well. That is

something. It is but little, I know, after all I have wished for--but it

is something for me to treasure--something for me to take back with me

to the one sacred little spot in this beastly world of men and women.”

 

“Yvonne, you are the most incomprehensible------”

 

“Am I not beautiful, Frederic? Tell me!” She came quite close to him.

 

“You are the most beautiful woman in all the world,” he said abjectly.

 

“And I have wasted all my beauty--I have lent it to unloveliness, and it

has not been destroyed! It is still with me, is it not? I have not lost

it in------”

 

“You are beautiful beyond words--beyond anything I have ever imagined,”

said he, suddenly passing his hand over his brow.

 

“You would have loved me if it had not been for Lydia?”

 

“I couldn’t have helped myself. I--I fear I--faltered in my--are you

still trying to tempt me? Are you still asking me to go away with you?”

 

A hoarse cry came from the doorway behind them--a cry of pain and anger

that struck terror to their souls.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIX

 

Transfixed, they watched James Brood take two or three steps into the

room. At his back was the swarthy Hindu, his eyes gleaming like coals of

fire in the shadowy light.

 

“James!” fell tremulously from the lips of Yvonne. She swayed toward him

as Ranjab grasped his arm from behind.

 

Frederic saw the flash of something bright as it passed from the brown

hand to the white one. He did not at once comprehend.

 

“It happened once,” came hoarsely from the throat of James Brood. “It

shall not happen again. Thank you, Ranjab.”

 

Then Frederic knew. The Hindu had slipped a revolver into his master’s

hand!

 

“It gives me great pleasure, Yvonne, to relieve you of that worthless

thing you call your life.”

 

As he raised his arm Frederic sprang forward with a shout of horror.

Scarcely realising what he did, he hurled Yvonne violently to one side.

 

It was all over in the twinkling of an eye. There was a flash, the crash

of an explosion, a puff of smoke, and the smell of burned powder.

 

Frederic stood perfectly still for an instant, facing the soft cloud

that rose from the pistol--barrel, an __EXPRESSION__ of vague amazement in

his face. Then his hand went uncertainly to his breast.

 

Already James Brood had seen the red blotch that spread with incredible

swiftness--blood--red against the snowy white of the broad shirt bosom.

Glaring with wide--open eyes at the horrid spot, he stood there with the

pistol still levelled.

 

“Good God, father, you’ve--why, you’ve------” struggled from Frederic’s

writhing lips, and then his knees sagged; an instant later they gave way

with a rush and he dropped heavily to the floor.

 

There was not a sound in the room. Suddenly Brood made a movement, quick

and spasmodic. At the same instant Ranjab flung himself forward and

grasped his master’s arm. He had turned the revolver upon himself! The

muzzle was almost at his temple when the Hindu seized his hand in a grip

of iron.

 

“_Sahib! Sahib!_” he hissed. “What would you do?” Wrenching the weapon

from the stiff, unresisting fingers, he hurled it across the room.

 

Brood groaned. His tall body swerved forward, but his legs refused to

carry him. The Hindu caught him as he was sinking limply to his knees.

With a tremendous effort of the will, Brood succeeded in conquering the

black unconsciousness that was assailing him. He straightened up to his

full height and with trembling fingers pointed to the prostrate figure

on the floor.

 

“The pistol, Ranjab! Where is it? Give it to me! Man, can I live after

_that?_ I have killed my son--my own son! Quick, man!”

 

“_Sahib!_” cried the Hindu, wringing his hands. “I cannot! I cannot!”

 

“I command you! The pistol!”

 

Without a word the Hindu, fatalist, slave, pagan that he was, turned to

do his master’s bidding. It was not for him to say nay, it was not for

him to oppose the will of the master, but to obey.

 

All this time Yvonne was crouching against the table, her horrified

gaze upon the great red blotch that grew to terrible proportions as she

watched. She had not moved, she had not breathed, she had not taken

her hands from her ears where she had placed them at the sound of the

explosion.

 

“Blood! It is blood!” she moaned, and for the first time since the

shot was fired her husband glanced at the one for whom the bullet had

originally been intended.

 

An __EXPRESSION__ of incredulity leaped into his face, as if he could not

believe his senses. She was alive and unhurt! His bullet had not touched

her. His brain fumbled for the explanation of this miracle. He had not

aimed at Frederic, he had not fired at him, and yet he lay stretched out

there before him, bleeding, while the one he had meant to destroy was

living--incomprehensively living! How had it happened? What agency had

swept his deadly bullet out of its path to find lodgment in the

wrong heart? There was no blood gushing from her breast; he could not

understand it.

 

She did not take her eyes from the great red blot; she was fascinated

by the horror that spread farther and farther across the gleaming white.

She was alone, utterly alone with the most dreadful thing she had ever

known; alone with that appalling thing called death. A life was leaving

its warm, beautiful home as she watched, leaving in a path of red,

creeping away across a stretch of white!

 

“Blood!” she wailed again, a long, shuddering word that came not from

her lips but from the very depths of her terror--stricken soul.

 

Slowly Brood’s mind worked out of the maze. His shot had gone straight,

but Frederic himself had leaped into its path to save this miserable

creature who would have damned his soul if life had been spared to him.

 

Ranjab crawled to his side, his eyes covered with one arm, the other

extended. Blindly the master felt for the pistol, not once removing his

eyes from the pallid figure against the table. His fingers closed upon

the weapon. Then the Hindu looked up, warned by the strange voice that

spoke to him from the mind of his master. He saw the arm slowly extend

itself with a sinister hand directed straight at the figure of the

woman. This time Brood was making sure of his aim, so sure that the

lithe Hindu had time to spring to his feet weapon.

 

“Master! Master!” he cried out.

 

Brood turned to look at his man in sheer bewilderment. What could all

this mean? What was the matter with the fellow?

 

“Down, Ranjab!” he commanded in a low, cautious tone, as he would have

used in speaking to a dog when the game was run to earth.

 

“There is but one bullet left, _sahib!_” cried the man.

 

“Only one is required,” said the master hazily.

 

“You have killed your son. This bullet is for yourself.”

 

“Yes! But--but see! She lives! She------”

 

The Hindu struck his own breast significantly.

 

“Thy faithful servant remains, _sahib_. Die, if thou wilt, but leave her

to Ranjab. There is but one bullet left. It is for you. You must not be

here to witness the death Ranjab, thy servant, shall inflict upon her.

Shoot thyself now, if so be it, but spare thyself the sight of------”

 

He did not finish the sentence, but his strong, bony fingers went

through the motion that told a more horrible story than words could have

expressed. There was no mistaking his meaning. He had elected himself

her executioner.