Black is White 50

Black is White 50

“Enough, Ranjab,” interrupted the master. “To--night I shall tell her

everything. Go now and fetch me the latest word.”

 

The Hindu remained motionless just inside the door. His eyes were

closed.

 

“Ranjab talk to the winds, _sahib_. The winds speak to him. The young

master is alive. The great doctor he search for the bullet. It is bad.

But the _sahibah_ stand between him and death. She hold back death. She

laugh at death. She say it no can be. Ranjab know her now. Here in this

room he see the two woman in her, and he no more will be blind. She

stand there before Ranjab, who would kill, and out of the air came a new

spirit to shield her. Her eyes are the eyes of another who does not live

in the flesh, and Ranjab bends the knee. He see the inside. It is not

black. It is full of light, a great big light, _sahib_. Thy servant

would kill his master’s wife, but, Allah defend! He cannot kill the

wife who is already dead. His master’s wives stand before him--two, not

one--and his hand is stop.”

 

Brood was regarding him through wide--open, incredulous eyes. “You--you

saw it, too?” he gasped.

 

“The serpent is deadly. Many time Ranjab have take the poison from its

fangs and it becomes his slave. He would have take the poison from the

serpent in his master’s house, but the serpent change before his eye and

he become the slave. She speak to him on the voice of the wind and he

obey. It is the law. Kismet! His master have of wives two. Two, _sahib_,

the living and the dead. They speak with Ranjab to--day and he obey.”

 

There was dead silence in the room for many minutes after the remarkable

utterances of the mystic. Master and man looked into each other’s eyes

and spoke no more, yet something passed between them.

 

“The _sahibah_ has sent Roberts for a priest,” said the Hindu at last.

 

“A priest? But I am not a Catholic--nor Frederic.”

 

“Madam is. The servants are saying that the priest will be here too

late. They are wondering why you have not already killed me, _sahib_.”

 

“Kill you, too?”

 

“They are now saying that the last stroke of the gong, _sahib_, was the

death--sentence for Ranjab. It called me here to be slain by you. I have

told them all that I fired the------”

 

“Go down at once, my friend,” said Brood, laying his hand on the man’s

shoulder. “Let them see that I do not blame you, even though we permit

them to believe this lie of ours. Go, my friend!”

 

The man bent his head and turned away. Near the door he stopped

stock--still and listened intently.

 

“The _sahibah_ comes.”

 

“Aye, she said she would come to me here,” said Brood, and his jaw

hardened. “Hodder--sent for me, Ranjab, an hour ago, but--but he was

conscious then. His eyes were open. I--I could not look into them. There

would have been hatred in them--hatred for me, and I--I could not go.

I was a coward. Yes, a coward, after all. She would have been there to

watch me as I cringed. I was afraid of what I might do to her then.”

 

“He is not conscious now, _sahib_” said the Hindu slowly.

 

“Still,” said the other, compressing his lips, “I am afraid--I am

afraid. Ranjab, you do not know what it means to be a coward! You------”

 

“And yet, _sahib_, you are brave enough to stand on the spot where he

fell, where his blood flowed, and that is not what a coward would do.”

 

The door opened and closed swiftly and he was gone. Brood allowed his

dull, wondering gaze to sink to his feet. He was standing on the spot

where Frederic had fallen. There was no blood there now. The rug had

been removed, and before his own eyes the swift--moving Hindu had washed

the floor and table and put the room in order. All this seemed ages

ago. Since that time he had bared his soul to the smirking Buddha, and

receiving no consolation from the smug image, had violently cursed the

thing.

 

Since then he had waited--he had waited for many things to happen. He

knew all that took place below stairs. He knew when Lydia came and he

denied himself to her. The coming of the police, the nurses and the

anæsthetician, and later on Mrs John Desmond and the reporters. All this

he had known, for he had listened at a crack in the open door. And he

had heard his wife’s calm, authoritative voice in the hall below, giving

directions. Now for the first time he looked about him and felt himself

attended by ghosts. In that instant he came to hate this once--loved

room, this cherished retreat, and all that it contained. He would never

set his foot inside of its four walls again. It was filled with ghosts!

 

On the corner of the table lay a great heap of manuscript, the story

of his life up to the escape from Thassa. The sheets of paper had been

scattered over the floor by the surgeon, but now they were back in

perfect order, replaced by another hand. He thought of the final chapter

that would have to be written if he went on with the journal. It would

have to be written, for it was the true story of his life. He strode

swiftly to the table. In another instant the work of many months would

have been torn to bits of waste paper. But his hand was stayed. Someone

had stopped outside his door. He could not hear a sound, and yet he knew

that a hand was on the heavy latch. He suddenly recalled his remark to

the old men. He would have to _write_ the final chapter, after all.

 

He waited. He knew that she was out there, collecting all of her

strength for the coming interview. She was fortifying herself against

the crisis that was so near at hand. To his own surprise and distress

of mind he found himself trembling and suddenly deprived of the fierce

energy that he had stored up for the encounter. He wondered whether he

would command the situation, after all, notwithstanding his righteous

charge against her.

 

She had wantonly sought to entice Frederic, she had planned to dishonour

her husband, she had proved herself unwholesome and false, and her heart

was evil. And yet he wondered whether he would be able to stand his

ground against her.

 

So far she had ruled. At the outset he had attempted to assert his

authority as the master of the house in this trying, heart--breaking

hour, and she had calmly waved him aside. His first thought had been to

take his proper place at the bedside of his victim and there to remain

until the end, but she had said: “You are not to go in. You have done

enough for one day. If he must die, let it be in peace and not in fear.

You are not to go in,” and he had crept away to hide!

 

He remembered her words later on when Hodder sent for him to come down.

“Not in fear,” she had said.

 

On the edge of the table, where it had reposed since Dr Hodder dropped

it there, was the small photograph of Matilde. He had not touched it,

but he had bent over it for many minutes at a time, studying the sweet,

never--to--be--forgotten, and yet curiously unfamiliar features of that

long--ago loved one. He looked at it now as he waited for the door to

open, and his thoughts leaped back to the last glimpse he had ever had

of that adorable face. Then it was white with despair and misery;

here it looked up at him with smiling eyes and the languor of unbroken

tranquillity.

 

Suddenly he realised that the room was quite dark. He dashed to the

window and threw aside the broad, thick curtains. A stream of afternoon

sunshine rushed into the place. He would have light this time; he would

not be deceived by the darkness, as he had been once before. This time

he would see her face plainly. There should be no sickening illusion. He

straightened his tall figure and waited for the door to open.

 

The window at his back was open. He heard a penetrating but hushed

voice speaking from one of the windows across the court, from his wife’s

window, he knew without a glance of inquiry.

 

Céleste, her maid, was giving orders in great agitation to the

furnace--man in the yard below.

 

“No, no, you big fool! I am not dismiss. I am not going away--no. Tak’

_zem_ back. _Madame_ has change her mind. I am not fire non, _non!_ Tak’

zem back, _vitement!_ I go some other day!”

 

The door was opened suddenly and Yvonne came into the room.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXI

 

If she had hesitated outside the room to summon the courage to face

the man who would demand so much of her, there was nothing in her manner

when she entered to indicate that such had been the case. She approached

him without a symptom of nervousness or irresolution. Her dark eyes met

his without wavering, and there was purpose in them.

 

She devoted a single glance of surprise to the uncurtained window on

entering the door, and an instant later scrutinised the floor with

unmistakable interest, as if expecting to find something there to

account for his motive in admitting the glare of light, something to

confound and accuse her. But there was no fear in the look.

 

She had put on a rather plain white blouse, open at the neck. The cuffs

were rolled up nearly to the elbows, evidence that she had been

using her hands in some active employment and had either forgotten or

neglected to restore the sleeves to their proper position. A chic

black walking--skirt lent to her trim, erect figure a suggestion of

girlishness.

 

Her arms hung straight down at her sides, limply it would have seemed at

first glance, but in reality they were rigid.

 

“I have come, as I said I would,” she said, after a long, tense

silence. Her voice was low, huskier than ever, but without a tremor of

excitement. “You did not say you would wait for me here, but I knew you

would do so. The hour of reckoning has come. We must pay, both of us.

I am not frightened by your silence, James, nor am I afraid of what you

may say or do. First of all, it is expected that Frederic will die. Dr

Hodder has proclaimed it. He is a great surgeon. He ought to know. But

he doesn’t know--do you hear? He does not know. I shall not let him

die.”

 

“One moment, if you please,” said her husband coldly. “You may spare me

the theatrics. Moreover, we will not discuss Frederic. What we have to

say to each other has