Black is White

by George Barr McCutcheon

“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!