The Daughter of Brahma | Page 3

lamp. There was panic in the wide-open, colourless eyes.
"Very well, Mrs. Hurst as you wish it."
She went quickly towards the door and passed out. The room was now in darkness, save for the light which filtered through the thin curtain. It was a red curtain, and the reflection on the opposite wall was red too, like a luminous smear of blood. Mrs. Hurst looked at it and then out into the silent compound. Then her eyes closed. But she did not sleep. She was listening, and her trained ears heard sounds which the nurse had only suspected, steady footfalls, the rustle of some lithe animal through the long grasses, and the sigh of a sudden, short-lived breeze. Though she saw nothing, she knew when the sentry passed her window on his round and when at length he ceased from his vigilance. Of what use? The Sahib was gone. The Mem-Sahib slept, and the night was long. The scornful smile flickered once more about the compressed lips. She stretched out her hand and felt for the revolver on the table beside her. Her fingers glided almost caressingly over the smooth barrel. Then she drew a quiet sigh of satisfaction and lay still.
Thus the hours passed. The red, luminous smear faded from the wall; the unseen and soundless movement sank into a hush that was full of a dread expectancy. In breathless, holy silence, the world awaited the first signal of the dawn. Mrs. Hurst opened her eyes suddenly. She had slept a little, but in her sleep she had heard something which her waking ears could not have heard. Beneath the veil of silence there was again sound, and this time it was not the fall of a footstep, not the movement of some animal in the long grasses, nor the sighing of a breeze. Mrs. Hurst lifted herself on her elbow.
"Walter!" she said aloud.
No answer. But it was as though her voice had torn the veil asunder. In the unreality of things one reality stood out a reality which had brushed against the curtains by the window and then slid slowly, gently to the ground. Mrs. Hurst rose up from her bed. She did not take the revolver or call out. She felt her way across the room towards the grey patch of light which was brightening rapidly along the horizon. At the window she stumbled over something. She bent down. Her hands touched a man's face. Still she was silent. She knelt, and her fingers passed rapidly over the familiar tunic. Quite suddenly, they stopped in their search. For a moment she knelt there motionless. It was as though she were listening. Then she rose slowly and carefully from her knees.
"Nurse!" she called. "Nurse!"
In the next room, there was the sound of a sudden, startled movement. A chair was overturned. Nurse Campden, dazed with sleep, stood between the curtains. She held the lamp in her unsteady hand and the pale light struggled vainly with the increasing brightness. But the motionless something at Mrs. Hurst's feet was still in shadow. Nurse Campden took a stumbling step forward.
"Mrs. Hurst," she mumbled. "You shouldn't have got up. You--"
Mrs. Hurst raised her hand. She stood with her back to the dawn, upright, commanding, her figure magnified by the grey, uncertain background.
"I want you to arouse the servants," she said slowly. "My husband has been murdered. No you are not to scream or faint. You will do as I tell you. There is my son to be considered. Now go!"
In the following moment of suspense her willpower closed with the other's weakness and predominated. Wordless, hypnotised, Nurse Campden obeyed. The curtains fell in their place there was a sound of running, uncertain footsteps along the corridor and then a low, confused murmur. Mrs. Hurst bent her head.
"My beloved!" she said.
That was all. She went back quietly to her bed and lay there as she had lain there before, tearless, patient, awaiting her hour.
And in the first flush of the Indian morning her son, David Hurst, was given her.
CHAPTER II
IN WHICH THE JUDGE HEARS UNPLEASANT THINGS
"No," said the judge indignantly. "I don't believe it. Go away! Do you take me for a fool? Go away, I tell you! What I told you? At three o'clock in the afternoon? Nonsense!"
He grunted and rolled over, and there was silence save for the soft, regular movement of the punkah. The native who had taken up his position at the foot of the judge's improvised couch remained unsmiling and immovable.
"Three o'clock, Sahib," he repeated solemnly. "Sahib's horse outside."
"Go away!" said the judge. "I didn't expect it in the drawing-room." He pulled his handkerchief further over his face and feigned sleep. Then, as though conscious that his impassive Nemesis was about to reiterate his information for the third time, he