As I entered my hut the silver travelling-clock that had come with me to Africa struck three clear notes from my dressing-table.
Of all the strange hours of my life it had knelled none more desperate than this! I came in with the dew of the night on my face, dust and dead leaves hanging to my white satin gown, some little stains of blood upon the bodice, an ashen-blue flower in my hand. My nails were full of earth. I had dug a grave with my hands for Snowie, and buried her among the zinias.
The hut seemed strange to me. I found myself looking round it as if I had never seen it before—or should never see it again. On the little altar the veilleuse flickered upwards to the silver crucifix; and from above, the Mother of Consolation regarded me with grave, sad eyes that made me afraid of my purpose. I turned away and opened a dispatch-box on my dressing-table, and took from it the revolver I had brought to Rhodesia.
One little bullet lay snug, waiting to be sent on its message.
I stared at it, pondering on the power of such a tiny thing to force open the great sealed gates of Death! So small and insignificant, yet with surer, swifter power than anything that lived or breathed to send one swiftly beyond the stars, beyond the dawn, beyond the eternal hills! I should know at last what fate was Anthony Kinsella’s—but I dared not look behind me to where the veilleuse gleamed on the drooping head of Christ who died for sinners.
A shadow fell across my hands as they mused upon the polished barrels, and in a moment the room seemed darker; the air grew bitter to breathe when I knew that Maurice Stair was sharing it with me. I looked in the mirror and saw his face.
“What do you want—murderer?”
“I want to die, Deirdre—I am not fit to live—kill me.”