Hours afterward Brood sat alone in the room where the tragedy occurred.
Much had transpired in the interim to make those hours seem like
separate and distinct years to him, each hour an epoch in which a vital
and memorable incident had been added to his already overfull measure of
experience.
He had refused to see the newspaper men who came. Dr Hodder wisely had
protested against secrecy.
“Murder will out,” he had said fretfully, little realising how closely
the trite old saying applied to the situation. He had accepted the
statements of Yvonne and Ranjab as to the accidental discharge of the
weapon, but for some reason had refrained from asking Brood a single
question, although he knew him to be a witness to the shooting.
Yvonne saw the reporters and, later on, an inspector of police. Ranjab
told his unhappy story. He had taken the weapon from a hook on the wall
for the purpose of cleaning it. It had been hanging there for years,
and all the time there had been a single cartridge left in the cylinder
unknown to anyone. He had started to remove the cylinder as he left the
room.
All these years the hammer had been raised; death had been hanging over
them all the time that the pistol occupied its insecure position on the
wall. Somehow, he could not tell how, the hammer fell as he tugged at
the cylinder. No one could have known that the revolver was loaded. That
was all that he could say, except to declare that if his master's son
died he would end his own miserable, valueless life.
His story was supported by the declarations of Mrs Brood, who, while
completely exonerating her husband's servant, had but little to say
in explanation of the affair. She kept her wits about her. Most people
would have made the mistake of saying too much. She professed to know
nothing except that they were discussing young Mr Brood's contemplated
trip abroad and that her husband had given orders to his servants to
pack a revolver in his son's travelling-bag.
She had paid but little attention to the Hindu's movements. All she
could say was that it was an accident--a horrible, blighting accident.
For the present it would not be possible for anyone to see the
heart-broken father. Doubtless later on he would be in the mood to
discuss the dreadful catastrophe, but not now. He was crushed with the
horror of the thing that had happened. And so she explained.
The house was in a state of subdued excitement. Servants spoke in
whispers and tiptoed through the halls. Nurses and other doctors came.
Two old men, shaking as with palsy, roamed about the place, intent only
on worming their way into the presence of their friend and supporter to
offer consolation and encouragement to him in his hour of tribulation.
They shuddered as they looked into each other's faces, and they shook
their heads without speaking, for their minds were filled with doubt.
They did not question the truth of the story as told, but they had their
own opinions.
In support of the theory that they did not believe there was anything
accidental in the shooting of Frederic it is only necessary to speak of
their extraordinary attitude toward Ranjab. They shook hands with him
and told him that Allah would reward him. Later on, after they had
had time to think it all out for themselves, being somewhat slow of
comprehension, they sought out James Brood and offered to accept all
the blame for having loaded the revolver without consulting him, their
object having been to destroy a cat that infested the alley hard by.
They felt that it was absolutely necessary to account for the presence
of the unexploded cartridge.
“As a matter of fact, Jim, old man,” insisted Mr Riggs, “I am entirely
to blame for the whole business. I ought to have had more sense than to
leave a shell in------”
“You had nothing to do with it,” said Mr Dawes fiercely. “It was I who
loaded the devilish thing, and I'm going to confess to the police. To be
perfectly honest about it, I sort of recollect cocking it before I hung
it up on the nail. I sort of recollect it, I say, and that's more than
you can do. No, sir, Jim; I'm the one to blame. I ought to be shot for
my carelessness. It was------”
“There's no sense in your lying at a time like this,” said Mr Riggs
caustically, glaring at his lifelong friend. “I suppose it's because
he can't help it, Jim. Lying has got to be such a habit with him
that------”
“Well,” interrupted Mr Dawes vigorously, “to show you that I am not
lying, I intend to give myself up to the police and take the full
penalty for criminal and contributory negligence. I suppose you'll
still say I'm lying after they've sent me to jail for a couple of years
for------”
“Yes, sir; I will,” said Mr Riggs with conviction. “And I shall have you
arrested for perjury if you try any of your tricks on me. I loaded it,
I cocked sir; I will,” said Mr Riggs with conviction.
“And I suppose you fired it off!” exclaimed Mr Dawes savagely.
Mr Riggs took a long breath. “Yes, sir, you scoundrel, I am ready to
swear that I _did_ fire it off!” They glared at each other with such
ferocity that Brood, coming between them, laid his hands on their
shoulders, shaking his head as he spoke to them gently.
“Thank you, old pals. I understand what it is you are trying to do. It's
no use. I fired the shot. It isn't necessary to say anything more to
you, I'm sure, except that, as God is my witness, I did not intend the
bullet for Frederic. It was an accident in that respect. Thank you for
what you would do. It isn't necessary, old pals. The story that Ranjab
tells must stand for the time being. Later on--well, I may _write_ my
own story and give it to the world.”
“Write it?” said Mr Dawes, and Brood nodded his head slowly,
significantly.
“Oh, Jim, you--you mustn't do that!” groaned Mr Dawes, appalled. “You
ain't such a coward as to do that!”
“There is one bullet left in that revolver. Ranjab advised me to save
it--for myself. He's a thoughtful fellow,” said Brood.
“Jim,” said Mr Riggs, squaring himself, “it's too bad that you didn't
hit what you shot at.”
Mr Dawes turned on him in a flash. “None o' that, Joe,” he said, and
this time he was very much in earnest. “She's all right. You'll all find
out she's all right. I tell you a woman can't nurse a feller back from
the edge of the grave, yes, from the very bottom of it almost, and not
betray her true nature to that same feller in more------”
“Jim,” interrupted Mr Riggs, ignoring his comrade's defence, “I see
she's going to nurse Freddy. Well, sir, if I was you, I'd------”
Brood stopped him with an impatient gesture.
“I must ask you not to discuss Mrs Brood.”
“I was just going to say, Jim, that if I was you I'd thank the Lord that
she's going to do it,” substituted Mr Riggs somewhat hastily. “She's a
wonderful nurse. She told me a bit ago that she was going to save his
life in spite of the doctor.”
“What does Dr Hodder say?” demanded Brood, pausing in his restless
pacing of the floor.
“He says the poor boy is as good as dead,” said Mr Riggs,
“Ain't got a chance in a million,” said Mr Dawes.
They were surprised to see Brood wince. He hadn't been so thin-skinned
in the olden days. His nerve was going back on him, that's what it was;
poor Jim! Twenty years ago he would have stiffened his back and taken
it like a man. It did not occur to them that they might have broken the
news to him with tact and consideration.
“But you can depend on us, Jim, to pull him through,” said Mr Riggs
quickly. “Remember how we saved you back there in Calcutta when all the
fool doctors said you hadn't a chance? Well, sir, we're still------”
“If any feller can get well with a bullet through his----” began Mr
Dawes encouragingly, but stopped abruptly when he saw Brood put his
hands over his eyes and sink dejectedly into a chair, a deep groan on
his lips.
“I guess we'd better go,” whispered Mr Riggs, after a moment of
indecision, and then, inspired by a certain fear for his friend, struck
the gong resoundingly. Silently they made their way out of the room,
encountering Ranjab just outside the door.
“You must stick to it, Ranjab,” said Mr Riggs sternly.
“With your dying breath,” added Mr Dawes, and the Hindu, understanding,
gravely nodded his head.
“Well?” said Brood, long afterward, raising his haggard face to meet the
gaze of the motionless brown man who had been standing in his presence
for many minutes.
“She ask permission of _sahib_ to be near him until the end,” said the
Hindu. “She will not go away. I have heard the words she say to the
_sahibah_, and the _sahibah_ is silent as the tomb. She say no word for
herself, just sit and look at the floor and never move. Then she accuse
the _sahibah_ of being the cause of the young master's death, and the
_sahibah_ only nod her head to that and go out of the room and up to the
place where the young master is, and they cannot keep her from going in.
She just look at the woman in the white cap and the woman step aside.
The _sahibah_ is now with the young master and the doctors. She is not
of this world, _sahib_, but of another.”
“And Miss Desmond? Where is she?”
“She wait in the hall outside his door. Ranjab have speech with her.
She does not believe Ranjab. She look into his eye and his eye is
not honest; she see it all. She say the young master shoot himself
and------”
“I shall tell her the truth, Ranjab,” said Brood stolidly. “She must
know, she and her mother. To-night I shall see them, but not now.
Suicide! Poor, poor Lydia!”
“Miss Lydia say she blame herself for everything. She is a coward, she
say, and Ranjab he understand. She came yesterday and went away. Ranjab
tell her the _sahib_ no can see her.”
“Yesterday? I know. She came to plead with me. I know,” groaned Brood
bitterly.
“She will not speak her thoughts to the world, _sahib_,” asserted
Ranjab. “Thy servant have spoken his words and she will not deny him. It
is for the young master's sake. But she say she _know_ he shoot himself
because he no can bear the disgrace------”
“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.