It was over. The Major had been trussed and gagged. He had been
handcuffed with his own manacles. His revolver had been removed and
his pockets searched. He leaned propped against the wall like a jointed
doll, his body making an exact right angle with his legs. The angry
vigilance of his eyes was his only sign of life. There was no means
of making a light, even if it had been safe to employ it. Now that the
fight was ended, they sat staring into the gloom, anonymous as three
shadows.
It was Hindwood who broke the silence. “I've been guilty of an outrage,
Major; I guess that's what you'd like to tell me. But you gave me no
choice. Where I come from, women and children are held sacred. It was up
to some man to protect her.”
He paused instinctively, as though he expected a reply. He looked to
Santa where she crouched, motionless and scarcely discernible, in her
corner. What were they thinking, this husband and wife, so brutally
reunited? His sense of discomfort urged him to continue.
“Don't run off with the idea that I approve of what she's done. And I'm
not in love with her. If she were a man, I don't suppose I'd raise a
finger to save her. But she's a woman: inconsistently, that makes all
the difference. I couldn't stand for seeing her dragged away to the kind
of shame--”
Again he paused. The lack of response was maddening. Scrambling to his
feet, he bent over the Major.
“To be frank, now that I've got you, I don't know what to do with you.
If you'll promise to keep quiet, I'll remove the gag.”
“No.” Santa had not stirred. In the darkness she was little more than
a voice. “Let me speak while he's forced to listen. Put him where I can
see him.”
Taking his prisoner by the shoulders, Hindwood dragged him to the
window. With a jerk he tore the ragged curtain from its nails. The downs
were a sea of purple dusk. The moon hung like a lantern in an unruffled
sky. Against the square of glass, the Major's face showed hawk-like.
“You've changed.” She spoke softly. “Do you remember when last we
parted? On the docks at Calcutta. It hurt. Since then we've both gone
down the ladder. For both of us it was the end of goodness. I must have
known it. I waved till long after you were out of sight; then I wept
till my heart was shriveled up. How long I've waited to tell you what
you've made me suffer! You made me feel that I'd never been your wife,
only a half-caste plaything. But you'd put a white soul into my body.
It was a greater wickedness than anything I have done. Now that I'm
what you've made me, father of my dead child, you seek me out to be my
judge.”
Her hoarse voice died away. Like the protest of an uneasy conscience,
the Major's handcuffs clinked together.
“You think that you're just,” she began again. “You come of a race which
admires justice. Ah, but justice is not kindness! You knew what I was
when you brought me from the temple--a wanton slave-girl. What had I
learned of righteousness? It wasn't for my virtue that you bought me. It
was for my pomegranate lips, my golden body, my little, caressing hands.
Afterward, as an incentive to desire, it pleased you to bring the soul
into my eyes. You made me long to be perfect. You seemed so strong and
wise; I wanted to be like you. Without you I was afraid. You were my
God. I felt brave when I touched you.”
Her voice sank. “After the little one came, I was no longer frightened.
He was so nearly white. He was yours and mine. My blood seemed cleansed.
I saw the world through the innocence of his eyes. The evil of the East
ceased to call to me. But when he was killed and you put me from you----
Murderer of a woman's faith,” she addressed the silent face, “the soul
in me was dying.”
She rocked in the shadows. “My crimes are yours, and you came to condemn
me. You robbed me of everything but my body. My heart was famished; to
feed it, I sold my beauty at a price. At first, for men's money; then,
for their honor; at last, for their lives.” She had risen. “You wonder
why for their lives? They were men like you, outwardly just, who
destroyed belief in goodness. Because of men like you women's hearts are
broken and children go naked.”
Hindwood leaped to his feet, blocking her path. She leaned past him,
staring down into the bandaged face.
“Oh, husband without pity, god whom I worshipped, I burn in hell because
of your justice.”
Slipping to her knees, she came into the square of light. “Am I not
beautiful? Is there another like me? Would it not have been happier to
have been kind? See what you have spoiled.”