Black is White 47

Black is White 47

A ghastly look of comprehension flitted across Brood’s face. For a

second his mind slipped from one dread to another more appalling. He

knew this man of his. He remembered the story of another killing in

the hills of India. His gaze went from the brown fanatic’s face to the

white, tender, lovely throat of the woman, and a hoarse gasp broke from

his lips.

 

“No! No! Not that!” he cried, and as the words rang out Yvonne removed

her horrified gaze from the blot of red and fixed it upon the and grasp

once more the hand that held the face of her husband. She straightened

up slowly and her arms fell limply to her sides.

 

“It was meant for me. Shoot, James!” she said, almost in a whisper.

 

The Hindu’s grasp tightened at the convulsive movement of his master’s

hand. His fingers were like steel bands.

 

“Shoot!” she repeated, raising her voice. “Save yourself, for if he is

dead I shall kill you with my own hands! This is your chance--shoot!”

 

Brood’s fingers relaxed their grip on the revolver. A fierce, wild hope

took all the strength out of his body; he grew faint with it.

 

“He--he can’t be dead! I have not killed him. He shall not die, he shall

not!”

 

Flinging the Hindu aside, he threw himself down beside the body on the

floor. The revolver, as it dropped, was caught in the nimble hand of the

Hindu, who took two long, swift strides toward the woman who now faced

him instead of her husband. There was a great light in his eyes as he

stood over her, and she saw death staring upon her.

 

But she did not quail. She was past all that. She looked straight into

his eyes for an instant and then, as if putting him out of her thoughts

entirely, turned slowly toward the two men on the floor. The man

half-raised the pistol, but something stayed his hand, something

stronger than any mere physical opposition could have done.

 

He glared at the half--averted face, confounded by the most

extraordinary impression that ever had entered his incomprehensible

brain. Something strange and wonderful was transpiring before his very

eyes, something so marvellous that even he, mysterious seer of the

Ganges, was stunned into complete amazement and unbelief.

 

That strange, uncanny intelligence of his, born of a thousand mysteries,

was being tried beyond all previous exactions. It was as if he now saw

this woman for the first time, as if he had never looked upon her face

before. A mist appeared to envelop her, and through this veil he saw a

face that was new to him, the face of Yvonne, and yet _not_ hers at all.

Absolute wonder crept into his eyes.

 

As if impelled by the power of his gaze, she faced him once more. For

what seemed hours to him, but in reality only seconds, his searching

eyes looked deep into hers. He saw at last the soul of this woman, and

it was not the soul he had known as hers up to that tremendous moment.

And he came to know that she was no longer afraid of him or his powers.

His hand was lowered, his eyes fell, and his lips moved; but there were

no words, for he addressed a spirit. All the venom, all the hatred fled

from his soul. His knee bent in sudden submission, and his eyes were

raised to hers once more, but now in their sombre depths was the

fidelity of the dog.

 

“Go at once,” she said, and her voice was as clear as a bell.

 

He shot a swift glance at the prostrate Frederic and straightened his

tall figure, as would a soldier under orders. His understanding gaze

sought hers again. There was another command in her eyes. He placed the

weapon on the table. It had been a distinct command to him.

 

“One of us will use it,” she said monotonously. “Go!”

 

With incredible swiftness he was gone. The curtains barely moved as he

passed between them, and the heavy door made no sound in opening and

closing. There was no one in the hall. The sound of the shot had not

gone beyond the thick walls of that proscribed room on the top floor.

Somewhere at the rear of the house an indistinct voice was uttering a

jumbled stream of French.

 

Many minutes passed. There was not a sound, not a movement in the room.

Brood, kneeling beside the outstretched figure of his unintended victim,

was staring at the graying face with wide, unblinking eyes. He looked

at last upon features that he had searched for in vain through all the

sullen years. There was blood on his hands and on his cheek, for he had

listened at first for the beat of the heart. Afterward his agonised gaze

had gone to the bloodless face. There it was arrested.

 

A dumb wonder possessed his soul. He knelt there petrified by the shock

of discovery. In the dim light he no longer saw the features of Matilde,

but his own, and his heart was still. In that revealing moment he

realised that he had never seen anything in Frederic’s countenance save

the dark, never--to--be--forgotten eyes, and they were his Matilde’s.

Now those eyes were closed. He could not see them, and the blindness was

struck from his own.

 

He had always looked into the boy’s eyes, he had never been able to seek

farther than those haunting, inquiring eyes, but now he saw the lean,

strong jaw and the firm chin, the straight nose and the broad forehead,

and none of these was Matilde’s. These were the features of a man, and

of but one man. He was seeing himself as he was when he looked into his

mirror at twenty--one.

 

All these years he had been blind; all these years he had gone on

cursing his own image. In that overpowering thought came the realisation

that it was too late for him to atone. His mind slowly struggled out of

the stupefied bondage of years. He was looking at his own face. Dead, he

would look like that! Matilde was gone for ever, the eyes were closed,

but he was there; James Brood was still there, turning grayer and grayer

of face all the time.

 

All the pent--up rage of years rushed suddenly to his lips and an awful

curse issued, but it was delivered against himself. He started to rise

to his feet, his mind bent on the one way to end the anguish that was

too great to bear. The revolver!

 

It had been cruel, it should be kind. His heart leaped. He had a few

seconds to live, not longer than it would take to find the weapon and

place it against his breast--just so long and no longer would he be

compelled to live.

 

He had forgotten the woman. She was standing just beyond the body that

stretched itself between them. Her hands were clasped against her breast

and her eyes were lifted heavenward. She had not moved throughout that

age of oblivion.

 

He saw her and suddenly became rigid. Slowly he sank back, his eyes

distended, his jaw dropping. He put out a hand and saved himself from

falling, but his eyes did not leave the face of the woman who prayed,

whose whole being was the material representation of prayer. But it

was not Yvonne, his wife, that he saw standing there. It was another

Matilde!

 

A hoarse, inarticulate sound came from his gaping mouth, and then issued

the words that his mind had created unknown to him while he knelt, but

now were uttered in a purely physical release from the throat that had

held them back through a period of utter unconsciousness. He never knew

that he spoke them; they were not the words that his conscious mind was

now framing for deliverance. He said what he had already started to say

when his soul was full of hatred for Yvonne.

 

“You foul, cringing-------” and then came the new cry-“Matilde, Matilde!

Forgive! Forgive!”

 

Slowly her eyes were lowered until they fell full upon his stricken

face.

 

“Am I going mad?” he whispered hoarsely. As he stared the delicate, wan

face of Matilde began to fade and he again saw the brilliant, undimmed

features of Yvonne. “But it _was_ Matilde! What trick of------”

 

He sprang to his feet and advanced upon her, stepping across the body

of his son in his reckless haste. For many seconds they stood with their

faces close together, he staring wildly, she with a dull look of agony

in her eyes, but unflinching. What he saw caused an icy chill to sweep

through his tense body and a sickness to enter his soul. He shrank back.

 

“Who--who are you?” he cried out in sudden terror. He felt the presence

of Matilde. He could have stretched out his hand and touched her, so

real, so vivid was the belief that she was actually there before him.

“Matilde was here--I saw her, I saw her. And--and now it is you! She is

still here. I can feel her hand touching mine--I can feel--no, no! It is

gone--it--has passed. She has left me again. I--I------”

 

The cold, lifeless voice of Yvonne was speaking to him, huskier than

ever before.

 

“Matilde _has_ been here. She has always been with her son. She is

always near you, James Brood.”

 

“What--are--you--saying?” he gasped.

 

She turned wearily away and pointed to the weapon on the table.

 

“Who is to use it--you or I?”

 

He opened his mouth, but uttered no sound. His power of speech was gone.

 

She went on in a deadly monotone.

 

“You intended the bullet for me. It is not too late. Kill me, if you

will. I give you the first chance--take it, for if you do not I shall

take mine.”

 

“I--I cannot kill you, I cannot kill the woman who stood where, you are

standing a moment ago. Matilde was there! She was alive; do you hear me?

Alive and--ah!”

 

The exclamation fell from his lips as she suddenly leaned forward, her

intense gaze fixed on Frederic’s face.

 

“See! Ah, see! I prayed, and I have been answered. See!”

 

He turned. Frederic’s eyes were open. He was looking up at them with a

piteous appeal, an appeal for help, for life, for consciousness.

 

“He is not dead! Frederic, Frederic, my son----” Brood dropped to his

knees and frantically clutched at the hand that lay stretched beside the

limp figure. The pain--stricken eyes closed slowly.