While the Light Lasts_ A Short

Contents
WhiletheLightLasts
AbouttheAuthor
TheAgathaChristieCollection
Copyright
AboutthePublisher
WHILETHELIGHTLASTS
TheFordcarbumpedfromruttorut,andthehotAfricansunpoureddownunmercifully.Oneithersideoftheso-calledroadstretchedanunbrokenlineoftreesandscrub,risingandfallingingentlyundulatinglinesasfarastheeyecouldreach,thecolouringasoft,deepyellow-green,thewholeeffectlanguorousandstrangelyquiet.Fewbirdsstirredtheslumberingsilence.Onceasnakewriggledacrosstheroadinfrontofthecar,escapingthedriver’seffortsatdestructionwithsinuousease.Onceanativesteppedoutfromthebush,dignifiedandupright,behindhimawomanwithaninfantboundcloselytoherbroadbackandacompletehouseholdequipment,includingafryingpan,balancedmagnificentlyonherhead.
AllthesethingsGeorgeCrozierhadnotfailedtopointouttohiswife,whohadansweredhimwithamonosyllabiclackofattentionwhichirritatedhim.
“Thinkingofthatfellow,”hededucedwrathfully.ItwasthusthathewaswonttoalludeinhisownmindtoDeirdreCrozier’sfirsthusband,killedinthefirstyearoftheWar.Killed,too,inthecampaignagainstGermanWestAfrica.Naturalsheshould,perhaps—hestoleaglanceather,herfairness,thepinkandwhitesmoothnessofhercheek,theroundedlinesofherfigure—rathermoreroundedperhapsthantheyhadbeeninthosefar-offdayswhenshehadpassivelypermittedhimtobecomeengagedtoher,andthen,inthatfirstemotionalscareofwar,hadabruptlycasthimasideandmadeawarweddingofitwiththatlean,sunburntboyloverofhers,TimNugent.
Well,well,thefellowwasdead—gallantlydead—andhe,GeorgeCrozier,hadmarriedthegirlhehadalwaysmeanttomarry.Shewasfondofhim,too;howcouldshehelpitwhenhewasreadytogratifyhereverywishandhadthemoneytodoit,too!Hereflectedwithsomecomplacencyonhislastgifttoher,atKimberley,where,owingtohisfriendshipwithsomeofthedirectorsofDeBeers,hehadbeenabletopurchaseadiamondwhich,intheordinaryway,wouldnothavebeeninthemarket,astonenotremarkableastosize,butofaveryexquisiteandrareshade,apeculiardeepamber,almostoldgold,adiamondsuchasyoumightnotfindinahundredyears.Andthelookinhereyeswhenhegaveittoher!Womenwereallthesameaboutdiamonds.
ThenecessityofholdingonwithbothhandstopreventhimselfbeingjerkedoutbroughtGeorgeCrozierbacktotherealities.Hecriedoutforperhapsthefourteenthtime,withthepardonableirritationofamanwhoownstwoRolls-Roycecarsandwhohasexercisedhisstudonthehighwaysofcivilization:“GoodLord,whatacar!Whataroad!”Hewentonangrily:“Wherethedevilisthistobaccoestate,anyway?It’soveranhoursinceweleftBulawayo.”
“LostinRhodesia,”saidDeirdrelightlybetweentwoinvoluntaryleapsintotheair.
Butthecoffee-coloureddriver,appealedto,respondedwiththecheeringnewsthattheirdestinationwasjustroundthenextbendoftheroad.
Themanageroftheestate,Mr.Walters,waswaitingonthestoeptoreceivethemwiththetouchofdeferenceduetoGeorgeCrozier’sprominenceinUnionTobacco.Heintroducedhisdaughter-in-law,whoshepherdedDeirdrethroughthecool,darkinnerhalltoabedroombeyond,whereshecouldremovetheveilwithwhichshewasalwayscarefultoshieldhercomplexionwhenmotoring.Assheunfastenedthepinsinherusualleisurely,gracefulfashion,Deirdre’seyessweptroundthewhitewasheduglinessofthebareroom.Noluxurieshere,andDeirdre,wholovedcomfortasacatlovescream,shiveredalittle.Onthewallatextconfrontedher.“Whatshallitprofitamanifhegainthewholeworld
Thetwomenwerewaitingforher.
“Itwon’tboreyoutocomeround,too,Mrs.Crozier?”
“Notatall.I’veneverbeenoveratobaccofactory.”
TheysteppedoutintothestillRhodesianafternoon.
“Thesearetheseedlingshere;weplantthemoutasrequired.Yousee—”
Themanager’svoicedronedon,interpolatedbyherhusband’ssharpstaccatoquestions—output,stampduty,problemsofcolouredlabour.Sheceasedtolisten.
ThiswasRhodesia,thiswasthelandTimhadloved,whereheandsheweretohavegonetogetheraftertheWarwasover.Ifhehadnotbeenkilled!Asalways,thebitternessofrevoltsurgedupinheratthatthought.Twoshortmonths—thatwasalltheyhadhad.Twomonthsofhappiness—ifthatmingledraptureandpainwerehappiness.Wasloveeverhappiness?Didnotathousandtorturesbesetthelover’sheart?Shehadlivedintenselyinthatshortspace,buthadsheeverknownthepeace,theleisure,thequietcontentmentofherpresentlife?Andforthefirsttimesheadmitted,somewhatunwillingly,thatperhapsallhadbeenforthebest.
“Iwouldn’thavelikedlivingouthere.Imightn’thavebeenabletomakeTimhappy.Imighthavedisappointedhim.Georgelovesme,andI’mveryfondofhim,andhe’svery,verygoodtome.Why,lookatthatdiamondheboughtmeonlytheotherday.”And,thinkingofit,hereyelidsdroppedalittleinpurepleasure.
“Thisiswherewethreadtheleaves.”Waltersledthewayintoalow,longshed.Onthefloorwerevastheapsofgreenleaves,andwhite-cladblack“boys”squattedroundthem,pickingandrejectingwithdeftfingers,sortingthemintosizes,andstringingthembymeansofprimitiveneedlesonalonglineofstring.Theyworkedwithacheerfulleisureliness,jestingamongstthemselves,andshowingtheirwhiteteethastheylaughed.
“Now,outhere—”
Theypassedthroughtheshedintothedaylightagain,wherethelinesofleaveshungdryinginthesun.Deirdresniffeddelicatelyatthefaint,almostimperceptiblefragrancethatfilledtheair
Waltersledthewayintoothershedswherethetobacco,kissedbythesunintofaintyellowdiscoloration,underwentitsfurthertreatment.Darkhere,withthebrownswingingmassesabove,readytofalltopowderataroughtouch.Thefragrancewasstronger,almostoverpoweringitseemedtoDeirdre,andsuddenlyasortofterrorcameuponher,afearofsheknewnotwhat,thatdroveherfromthatmenacing,scentedobscurityoutintothesunlight.Croziernotedherpallor.
“What’sthematter,mydear,don’tyoufeelwell?Thesun,perhaps.Betternotcomewithusroundtheplantations?Eh?”
Walterswassolicitous.Mrs.Crozierhadbettergobacktothehouseandrest.Hecalledtoamanalittledistanceaway.
“Mr.Arden—Mrs.Crozier.Mrs.Crozier’sfeelingalittledoneupwiththeheat,Arden.Justtakeherbacktothehouse,willyou?”
Themomentaryfeelingofdizzinesswaspassing.DeirdrewalkedbyArden’sside.Shehadasyethardlyglancedathim
“Deirdre!”
Herheartgavealeap,andthenstoodstill.Onlyonepersonhadeverspokenhernamelikethat,withthefaintstressonthefirstsyllablethatmadeofitacaress.
Sheturnedandstaredatthemanbyherside.Hewasburntalmostblackbythesun,hewalkedwithalimp,andonthecheeknearerherswasalongscarwhichalteredhisexpression,butsheknewhim.
“Tim!”
Foraneternity,itseemedtoher,theygazedateachother,muteandtrembling,andthen,withoutknowinghoworwhy,theywereineachother’sarms.Timerolledbackforthem.Thentheydrewapartagain,andDeirdre,consciousassheputitoftheidiocyofthequestion,said:
“Thenyou’renotdead?”
“No,theymusthavemistakenanotherchapforme.Iwasbadlyknockedonthehead,butIcametoandmanagedtocrawlintothebush.AfterthatIdon’tknowwhathappenedformonthsandmonths,butafriendlytribelookedafterme,andatlastIgotmyproperwitsagainandmanagedtogetbacktocivilization.”Hepaused.“Ifoundyou’dbeenmarriedsixmonths.”
Deirdrecriedout:
“Oh,Tim,understand,pleaseunderstand!Itwassoawful,theloneliness—andthepoverty.Ididn’tmindbeingpoorwithyou,butwhenIwasaloneIhadn’tthenervetostandupagainstthesordidnessofitall.”
“It’sallright,Deirdre;Ididunderstand.Iknowyoualwayshavehadahankeringafterthefleshpots.Itookyoufromthemonce—butthesecondtime,well—mynervefailed.Iwasprettybadlybrokenup,yousee,couldhardlywalkwithoutacrutch,andthentherewasthisscar.”
Sheinterruptedhimpassionately.
“DoyouthinkIwouldhavecaredforthat?”
“No,Iknowyouwouldn’t.Iwasafool.Somewomendidmind,youknow.ImadeupmymindI’dmanagetogetaglimpseofyou.Ifyoulookedhappy,ifIthoughtyouwerecontentedtobewithCrozier—why,thenI’dremaindead.Ididseeyou.Youwerejustgettingintoabigcar.Youhadonsomelovelysablefurs—thingsI’dneverbeabletogiveyouifIworkedmyfingerstothebone—and—well—youseemedhappyenough.Ihadn’tthesamestrengthandcourage,thesamebeliefinmyself,thatI’dhadbeforetheWar.AllIcouldseewasmyself,brokenanduseless,barelyabletoearnenoughtokeepyou—andyoulookedsobeautiful,Deirdre,suchaqueenamongstwomen,soworthytohavefursandjewelsandlovelyclothesandallthehundredandoneluxuriesCroziercouldgiveyou.That—and—well,thepain—ofseeingyoutogether,decidedme.Everyonebelievedmedead.Iwouldstaydead.”
“Thepain!”repeatedDeirdreinalowvoice.
“Well,damnitall,Deirdre,ithurt!Itisn’tthatIblameyou.Idon’t.Butithurt.”
Theywerebothsilent.ThenTimraisedherfacetohisandkisseditwithanewtenderness.
“Butthat’sallovernow,sweetheart.Theonlythingtodecideishowwe’regoingtobreakittoCrozier.”
“Oh!”Shedrewherselfawayabruptly.“Ihadn’tthought—”ShebrokeoffasCrozierandthemanagerappearedroundtheangleofthepath.Withaswiftturnoftheheadshewhispered:
“Donothingnow.Leaveittome.Imustpreparehim.WherecouldImeetyoutomorrow?”
Nugentreflected.
“IcouldcomeintoBulawayo.HowabouttheCaféneartheStandardBank?Atthreeo’clockitwouldbeprettyempty.”
Deirdregaveabriefnodofassentbeforeturningherbackonhimandjoiningtheothertwomen.TimNugentlookedafterherwithafaintfrown.Somethinginhermannerpuzzledhim.
Deirdrewasverysilentduringthedrivehome.Shelteringbehindthefictionofa“touchofthesun,”shedeliberatedonhercourseofaction.Howshouldshetellhim?Howwouldhetakeit?Astrangelassitudeseemedtopossessher,andagrowingdesiretopostponetherevelationaslongasmightbe.Tomorrowwouldbesoonenough.Therewouldbeplentyoftimebeforethreeo’clock.
Thehotelwasuncomfortable.Theirroomwasonthegroundfloor,lookingoutontoaninnercourt.Deirdrestoodthateveningsniffingthestaleairandglancingdistastefullyatthetawdryfurniture.HermindflewtotheeasyluxuryofMonktonCourtamidsttheSurreypinewoods.Whenhermaidleftheratlast,shewentslowlytoherjewelcase.Inthepalmofherhandthegoldendiamondreturnedherstare.
Withanalmostviolentgestureshereturnedittothecaseandslammeddownthelid.TomorrowmorningshewouldtellGeorge.
Shesleptbadly.Itwasstiflingbeneaththeheavyfoldsofthemosquitonetting.Thethrobbingdarknesswaspunctuatedbytheubiquitouspingshehadlearnttodread.Sheawokewhiteandlistless.Impossibletostartascenesoearlyintheday!
Shelayinthesmall,closeroomallthemorning,resting.Lunchtimecameuponherwithasenseofshock.Astheysatdrinkingcoffee,GeorgeCrozierproposedadrivetotheMatopos.
“Plentyoftimeifwestartatonce.”
Deirdreshookherhead,pleadingaheadache,andshethoughttoherself:“Thatsettlesit.Ican’trushthething.Afterall,whatdoesadaymoreorlessmatter?I’llexplaintoTim.”
ShewavedgoodbyetoCrozierasherattledoffinthebatteredFord.Then,glancingatherwatch,shewalkedslowlytothemeetingplace.
TheCaféwasdesertedatthishour.TheysatdownatalittletableandorderedtheinevitableteathatSouthAfricadrinksatallhoursofthedayandnight.Neitherofthemsaidawordtillthewaitressbroughtitandwithdrewtoherfastnessbehindsomepinkcurtains.ThenDeirdrelookedupandstartedasshemettheintensewatchfulnessinhiseyes.
“Deirdre,haveyoutoldhim?”
Sheshookherhead,moisteningherlips,seekingforwordsthatwouldnotcome
“Whynot?”
“Ihaven’thadachance;therehasn’tbeentime.”
Eventoherselfthewordssoundedhaltingandunconvincing.
“It’snotthat.There’ssomethingelse.Isuspectedityesterday.I’msureofittoday.Deirdre,whatisit?”
Sheshookherheaddumbly.
“There’ssomereasonwhyyoudon’twanttoleaveGeorgeCrozier,whyyoudon’twanttocomebacktome.Whatisit?”
Itwastrue.Ashesaiditsheknewit,knewitwithsuddenscorchingshame,butknewitbeyondanypossibilityofdoubt.Andstillhiseyessearchedher.
“Itisn’tthatyoulovehim!Youdon’t.Butthere’ssomething.”
Shethought:“Inanothermomenthe’llsee!Oh,God,don’tlethim!”
Suddenlyhisfacewhitened.
“Deirdre—isit—isitthatthere’sgoingtobea—child?”
Inaflashshesawthechanceheofferedher.Awonderfulway!Slowly,almostwithoutherownvolition,shebowedherhead.
Sheheardhisquickbreathing,thenhisvoice,ratherhighandhard.
“That—altersthings.Ididn’tknow.We’vegottofindadifferentwayout.”Heleantacrossthetableandcaughtbothherhandsinhis.“Deirdre,mydarling,neverthink—neverdreamthatyouwereinanywaytoblame.Whateverhappens,rememberthat.IshouldhaveclaimedyouwhenIcamebacktoEngland.Ifunkedit,soit’suptometodowhatIcantoputthingsstraightnow.Yousee?Whateverhappens,don’tfret,darling.Nothinghasbeenyourfault.”
Heliftedfirstonehand,thentheothertohislips.Thenshewasalone,staringattheuntastedtea.And,strangelyenough,itwasonlyonethingthatshesaw—agaudilyilluminatedtexthangingonawhitewashedwall.Thewordsseemedtospringoutfromitandhurlthemselvesather.“Whatshallitprofitaman—”Shegotup,paidforherteaandwentout.
OnhisreturnGeorgeCrozierwasmetbyarequestthathiswifemightnotbedisturbed.Herheadache,themaidsaid,wasverybad.
Itwasnineo’clockthenextmorningwhenheenteredherbedroom,hisfacerathergrave.Deirdrewassittingupinbed.Shelookedwhiteandhaggard,buthereyesshone.
“George,I’vegotsomethingtotellyou,somethingratherterrible—”
Heinterruptedherbrusquely.
“Soyou’veheard.Iwasafraiditmightupsetyou.”
“Upsetme?”
“Yes.Youtalkedtothepooryoungfellowthatday.”
Hesawherhandstealtoherheart,hereyelidsflicker,thenshesaidinalow,quickvoicethatsomehowfrightenedhim:
“I’veheardnothing.Tellmequickly.”
“Ithought—”
“Tellme!”
“Outatthattobaccoestate.Chapshothimself.BadlybrokenupintheWar,nervesalltopieces,Isuppose.There’snootherreasontoaccountforit.”
“Heshothimself—inthatdarkshedwherethetobaccowashanging.”Shespokewithcertainty,hereyeslikeasleepwalker’sasshesawbeforeherintheodorousdarknessafigurelyingthere,revolverinhand.
“Why,tobesure;that’swhereyouweretakenqueeryesterday.Oddthing,that!”
Deirdredidnotanswer.Shesawanotherpicture—atablewithteathingsonit,andawomanbowingherheadinacceptanceofalie.
“Well,well,theWarhasalottoanswerfor,”saidCrozier,andstretchedouthishandforamatch,lightinghispipewithcarefulpuffs.
Hiswife’scrystartledhim.
“Ah!don’t,don’t!Ican’tbearthesmell!”
Hestaredatherinkindlyastonishment
“Mydeargirl,youmustn’tbenervy.Afterall,youcan’tescapefromthesmelloftobacco.You’llmeetiteverywhere.”
“Yes,everywhere!”Shesmiledaslow,twistedsmile,andmurmuredsomewordsthathedidnotcatch,wordsthatshehadchosenfortheoriginalobituarynoticeofTimNugent’sdeath.“WhilethelightlastsIshallremember,andinthedarknessIshallnotforget.”
Hereyeswidenedastheyfollowedtheascendingspiralofsmoke,andsherepeatedinalow,monotonousvoice:“Everywhere,everywhere.”
AbouttheAuthor
AGATHACHRISTIEisthemostwidelypublishedauthorofalltime,outsoldonlybytheBibleandShakespeare.HerbookshavesoldmorethanabillioncopiesinEnglishandanotherbillioninahundredforeignlanguages.Shediedin1976.
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Copyright
Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Thecharacters,incidents,anddialoguearedrawnfromtheauthor’simaginationandarenottobeconstruedasreal.Anyresemblancetoactualeventsorpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.
AGATHACHRISTIE?THEHARLEQUINTEASETANDOTHERSTORIES?areregisteredtrademarksofAgathaChristieLimitedintheUKandelsewhere.Allrightsreserved.
“WhiletheLightLasts”waspreviouslypublishedaspartofTheHarlequinTeaSetandOtherStoriesshortstorycollection,copyright?1997AgathaChristieLimited.AllrightsreservedunderInternationalandPan-AmericanCopyrightConventions.Bypaymentoftherequiredfees,youhavebeengrantedthenonexclusive,nontransferablerighttoaccessandreadthetextofthise-bookonscreen.Nopartofthistextmaybereproduced,transmitted,decompiled,reverse-engineered,orstoredinorintroducedintoanyinformationstorageandretrievalsystem,inanyformorbyanymeans,whetherelectronicormechanical,nowknownorhereinafterinvented,withoutthe