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WhiletheLightLasts

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WHILETHELIGHTLASTS

The Ford car bumped from rut to rut, and the hotAfrican sun poured downunmercifully.Oneithersideoftheso-calledroadstretchedanunbrokenlineoftrees and scrub, rising and falling in gently undulating lines as far as the eyecouldreach,thecolouringasoft,deepyellow-green,thewholeeffectlanguorousand strangely quiet. Few birds stirred the slumbering silence. Once a snakewriggled across the road in front of the car, escaping the driver’s efforts atdestructionwithsinuousease.Onceanativesteppedoutfromthebush,dignifiedandupright,behindhimawomanwithaninfantboundcloselytoherbroadbackand a complete household equipment, including a frying pan, balancedmagnificentlyonherhead.

AllthesethingsGeorgeCrozierhadnotfailedtopointouttohiswife,whohadansweredhimwithamonosyllabiclackofattentionwhichirritatedhim.

“Thinking of that fellow,” he deducedwrathfully. It was thus that hewaswonttoalludeinhisownmindtoDeirdreCrozier’sfirsthusband,killedinthefirstyearoftheWar.Killed,too,inthecampaignagainstGermanWestAfrica.Naturalsheshould,perhaps—hestoleaglanceather,herfairness,thepinkandwhite smoothness of her cheek, the rounded lines of her figure—rather moreroundedperhapsthantheyhadbeeninthosefar-offdayswhenshehadpassivelypermittedhimtobecomeengagedtoher,andthen,inthatfirstemotionalscareofwar,hadabruptlycasthimasideandmadeawarweddingofitwiththatlean,sunburntboyloverofhers,TimNugent.

Well,well, the fellowwas dead—gallantly dead—and he,GeorgeCrozier,hadmarried thegirlhehadalwaysmeant tomarry.Shewas fondofhim, too;howcouldshehelpitwhenhewasreadytogratifyhereverywishandhadthemoneytodoit,too!Hereflectedwithsomecomplacencyonhislastgifttoher,atKimberley,where,owing tohis friendshipwithsomeof thedirectorsofDeBeers, he had been able to purchase a diamond which, in the ordinary way,wouldnothavebeen in themarket,astonenot remarkableas tosize,butofaveryexquisiteandrareshade,apeculiardeepamber,almostoldgold,adiamondsuchasyoumightnotfindinahundredyears.Andthelookinhereyeswhenhe

gaveittoher!Womenwereallthesameaboutdiamonds.Thenecessityofholdingonwithbothhandstopreventhimselfbeingjerked

out broughtGeorgeCrozier back to the realities.He cried out for perhaps thefourteenth time,with the pardonable irritation of amanwho owns twoRolls-Royce cars and who has exercised his stud on the highways of civilization:“GoodLord,whatacar!Whataroad!”Hewentonangrily:“Wherethedevilisthistobaccoestate,anyway?It’soveranhoursinceweleftBulawayo.”

“LostinRhodesia,”saidDeirdrelightlybetweentwoinvoluntaryleapsintotheair.

But the coffee-coloured driver, appealed to, responded with the cheeringnewsthattheirdestinationwasjustroundthenextbendoftheroad.

Themanageroftheestate,Mr.Walters,waswaitingonthestoeptoreceivethemwith the touch of deference due to George Crozier’s prominence in UnionTobacco. He introduced his daughter-in-law,who shepherdedDeirdre throughthecool,darkinnerhalltoabedroombeyond,whereshecouldremovetheveilwithwhichshewasalwayscarefultoshieldhercomplexionwhenmotoring.Assheunfastened the pins in her usual leisurely, graceful fashion,Deirdre’s eyessweptroundthewhitewasheduglinessof thebareroom.Noluxurieshere,andDeirdre,wholovedcomfortasacatlovescream,shiveredalittle.Onthewallatextconfrontedher.“Whatshallitprofitamanifhegainthewholeworldandlose his own soul?” it demanded of all and sundry, and Deirdre, pleasantlyconsciousthatthequestionhadnothingtodowithher,turnedtoaccompanyhershy and rather silent guide. She noted, but not in the least maliciously, thespreadinghipsandtheunbecomingcheapcottongown.Andwithaglowofquietappreciation her eyes dropped to the exquisite, costly simplicity of her ownFrenchwhitelinen.Beautifulclothes,especiallywhenwornbyherself,rousedinherthejoyoftheartist.

Thetwomenwerewaitingforher.“Itwon’tboreyoutocomeround,too,Mrs.Crozier?”“Notatall.I’veneverbeenoveratobaccofactory.”TheysteppedoutintothestillRhodesianafternoon.“Thesearetheseedlingshere;weplantthemoutasrequired.Yousee—”Themanager’svoicedronedon,interpolatedbyherhusband’ssharpstaccato

questions—output, stamp duty, problems of coloured labour. She ceased tolisten.

ThiswasRhodesia,thiswasthelandTimhadloved,whereheandshewere

to have gone together after theWar was over. If he had not been killed! Asalways, the bitterness of revolt surged up in her at that thought. Two shortmonths—thatwasall theyhadhad.Twomonthsofhappiness—ifthatmingledraptureandpainwerehappiness.Wasloveeverhappiness?Didnotathousandtorturesbeset thelover’sheart?Shehadlivedintenselyinthatshortspace,buthadsheeverknownthepeace,theleisure,thequietcontentmentofherpresentlife?Andforthefirsttimesheadmitted,somewhatunwillingly,thatperhapsallhadbeenforthebest.

“Iwouldn’t have liked living out here. Imightn’t have been able tomakeTimhappy.Imighthavedisappointedhim.Georgelovesme,andI’mveryfondofhim,andhe’svery,verygoodtome.Why,lookatthatdiamondheboughtmeonly the other day.” And, thinking of it, her eyelids dropped a little in purepleasure.

“This iswherewe thread the leaves.”Walters led theway intoa low, longshed.Onthefloorwerevastheapsofgreenleaves,andwhite-cladblack“boys”squatted round them,pickingand rejectingwithdeft fingers, sorting them intosizes,andstringingthembymeansofprimitiveneedlesonalonglineofstring.They worked with a cheerful leisureliness, jesting amongst themselves, andshowingtheirwhiteteethastheylaughed.

“Now,outhere—”They passed through the shed into the daylight again, where the lines of

leaves hung drying in the sun. Deirdre sniffed delicately at the faint, almostimperceptiblefragrancethatfilledtheair.

Walters led theway into other shedswhere the tobacco, kissedby the sunintofaintyellowdiscoloration,underwentitsfurthertreatment.Darkhere,withthebrownswingingmassesabove,readytofalltopowderataroughtouch.Thefragrancewasstronger,almostoverpoweringitseemedtoDeirdre,andsuddenlyasortofterrorcameuponher,afearofsheknewnotwhat,thatdroveherfromthatmenacing,scentedobscurityoutintothesunlight.Croziernotedherpallor.

“What’s thematter,mydear,don’tyoufeelwell?Thesun,perhaps.Betternotcomewithusroundtheplantations?Eh?”

Walterswassolicitous.Mrs.Crozierhadbettergobacktothehouseandrest.Hecalledtoamanalittledistanceaway.

“Mr.Arden—Mrs.Crozier.Mrs.Crozier’s feelinga littledoneupwith theheat,Arden.Justtakeherbacktothehouse,willyou?”

Themomentaryfeelingofdizzinesswaspassing.DeirdrewalkedbyArden’sside.Shehadasyethardlyglancedathim.

“Deirdre!”Herheartgavealeap,andthenstoodstill.Onlyonepersonhadeverspoken

her name like that,with the faint stress on the first syllable thatmade of it acaress.

Sheturnedandstaredatthemanbyherside.Hewasburntalmostblackbythe sun, hewalkedwith a limp, andon the cheeknearer herswas a long scarwhichalteredhisexpression,butsheknewhim.

“Tim!”For an eternity, it seemed to her, they gazed at each other, mute and

trembling, and then, without knowing how or why, theywere in each other’sarms. Time rolled back for them. Then they drew apart again, and Deirdre,consciousassheputitoftheidiocyofthequestion,said:

“Thenyou’renotdead?”“No,theymusthavemistakenanotherchapforme.Iwasbadlyknockedon

thehead,but Icame toandmanaged tocrawl into thebush.After that Idon’tknowwhathappened formonths andmonths, but a friendly tribe lookedafterme, and at last I got my proper wits again and managed to get back tocivilization.”Hepaused.“Ifoundyou’dbeenmarriedsixmonths.”

Deirdrecriedout:“Oh,Tim,understand,pleaseunderstand! Itwassoawful, the loneliness—

and the poverty. I didn’t mind being poor with you, but when I was alone Ihadn’tthenervetostandupagainstthesordidnessofitall.”

“It’s all right, Deirdre; I did understand. I know you always have had ahankeringafterthefleshpots.Itookyoufromthemonce—butthesecondtime,well—mynervefailed.Iwasprettybadlybrokenup,yousee,couldhardlywalkwithoutacrutch,andthentherewasthisscar.”

Sheinterruptedhimpassionately.“DoyouthinkIwouldhavecaredforthat?”“No,Iknowyouwouldn’t.Iwasafool.Somewomendidmind,youknow.I

madeupmymindI’dmanagetogetaglimpseofyou.Ifyoulookedhappy,ifIthoughtyouwerecontentedtobewithCrozier—why,thenI’dremaindead.Ididseeyou.Youwerejustgettingintoabigcar.Youhadonsomelovelysablefurs—thingsI’dneverbeabletogiveyouifIworkedmyfingerstothebone—and—well—youseemedhappyenough.Ihadn’tthesamestrengthandcourage,thesamebeliefinmyself, thatI’dhadbeforetheWar.AllIcouldseewasmyself,brokenanduseless,barelyabletoearnenoughtokeepyou—andyoulookedsobeautiful,Deirdre, such a queen amongstwomen, soworthy to have furs and

jewels and lovely clothes and all the hundred and one luxuries Crozier couldgive you. That—and—well, the pain—of seeing you together, decided me.Everyonebelievedmedead.Iwouldstaydead.”

“Thepain!”repeatedDeirdreinalowvoice.“Well,damnitall,Deirdre, ithurt! It isn’t that Iblameyou. Idon’t.But it

hurt.”Theywerebothsilent.ThenTimraisedherfacetohisandkisseditwitha

newtenderness.“Butthat’sallovernow,sweetheart.Theonlythingtodecideishowwe’re

goingtobreakittoCrozier.”“Oh!”Shedrewherselfawayabruptly.“Ihadn’tthought—”Shebrokeoffas

Crozierandthemanagerappearedroundtheangleofthepath.Withaswiftturnoftheheadshewhispered:

“Donothingnow.Leave it tome. Imustpreparehim.WherecouldImeetyoutomorrow?”

Nugentreflected.“IcouldcomeintoBulawayo.HowabouttheCaféneartheStandardBank?

Atthreeo’clockitwouldbeprettyempty.”Deirdregaveabriefnodofassentbeforeturningherbackonhimandjoining

theothertwomen.TimNugentlookedafterherwithafaintfrown.Somethinginhermannerpuzzledhim.

Deirdrewasverysilentduringthedrivehome.Shelteringbehindthefictionofa“touchofthesun,”shedeliberatedonhercourseofaction.Howshouldshetellhim?Howwouldhe take it?A strange lassitude seemed to possess her, and agrowingdesiretopostponetherevelationaslongasmightbe.Tomorrowwouldbesoonenough.Therewouldbeplentyoftimebeforethreeo’clock.

Thehotelwasuncomfortable.Theirroomwasonthegroundfloor, lookingout on to an inner court. Deirdre stood that evening sniffing the stale air andglancingdistastefullyatthetawdryfurniture.HermindflewtotheeasyluxuryofMonktonCourtamidsttheSurreypinewoods.Whenhermaidleftheratlast,shewentslowlytoherjewelcase.Inthepalmofherhandthegoldendiamondreturnedherstare.

Withanalmostviolentgestureshereturnedittothecaseandslammeddownthelid.TomorrowmorningshewouldtellGeorge.

She slept badly. It was stifling beneath the heavy folds of the mosquitonetting.Thethrobbingdarknesswaspunctuatedbytheubiquitouspingshehad

learnttodread.Sheawokewhiteandlistless.Impossibletostartascenesoearlyintheday!

She lay in the small, close roomall themorning, resting.Lunchtimecameupon her with a sense of shock. As they sat drinking coffee, George CrozierproposedadrivetotheMatopos.

“Plentyoftimeifwestartatonce.”Deirdre shook her head, pleading a headache, and she thought to herself:

“That settles it. I can’t rush the thing.After all,what does adaymoreor lessmatter?I’llexplaintoTim.”

Shewavedgoodbye toCrozierasherattledoff in thebatteredFord.Then,glancingatherwatch,shewalkedslowlytothemeetingplace.

The Café was deserted at this hour. They sat down at a little table andordered the inevitable tea that SouthAfrica drinks at all hours of the day andnight.Neitherof themsaidaword till thewaitressbrought itandwithdrew toher fastnessbehindsomepinkcurtains.ThenDeirdre lookedupandstartedasshemettheintensewatchfulnessinhiseyes.

“Deirdre,haveyoutoldhim?”Sheshookherhead,moisteningher lips, seeking forwords thatwouldnot

come.“Whynot?”“Ihaven’thadachance;therehasn’tbeentime.”Eventoherselfthewordssoundedhaltingandunconvincing.“It’snotthat.There’ssomethingelse.Isuspectedityesterday.I’msureofit

today.Deirdre,whatisit?”Sheshookherheaddumbly.“There’ssomereasonwhyyoudon’twanttoleaveGeorgeCrozier,whyyou

don’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?”In a flash she saw the chance he offered her. A wonderful way! Slowly,

almostwithoutherownvolition,shebowedherhead.Sheheardhisquickbreathing,thenhisvoice,ratherhighandhard.“That—altersthings.Ididn’tknow.We’vegottofindadifferentwayout.”

Heleantacrossthetableandcaughtbothherhandsinhis.“Deirdre,mydarling,never think—never dream that you were in any way to blame. Whateverhappens, remember that. I should have claimed you when I came back toEngland.Ifunkedit,soit’suptometodowhatIcantoputthingsstraightnow.Yousee?Whateverhappens,don’tfret,darling.Nothinghasbeenyourfault.”

Heliftedfirstonehand,thentheothertohislips.Thenshewasalone,staringattheuntastedtea.And,strangelyenough,itwasonlyonethingthatshesaw—agaudily illuminated texthangingonawhitewashedwall.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.”“He shot himself—in that dark shedwhere the tobaccowashanging.”She

spokewithcertainty,hereyeslikeasleepwalker’sasshesawbeforeherintheodorousdarknessafigurelyingthere,revolverinhand.

“Why, tobesure; that’swhereyouwere takenqueeryesterday.Odd thing,that!”

Deirdredidnotanswer.Shesawanotherpicture—atablewithteathingsonit,andawomanbowingherheadinacceptanceofalie.

“Well,well,theWarhasalottoanswerfor,”saidCrozier,andstretchedouthishandforamatch,lightinghispipewithcarefulpuffs.

Hiswife’scrystartledhim.

“Ah!don’t,don’t!Ican’tbearthesmell!”Hestaredatherinkindlyastonishment.“My dear girl, youmustn’t be nervy.After all, you can’t escape from the

smelloftobacco.You’llmeetiteverywhere.”“Yes, everywhere!”She smiled a slow, twisted smile, andmurmured some

wordsthathedidnotcatch,wordsthatshehadchosenfortheoriginalobituarynoticeofTimNugent’sdeath.“WhilethelightlastsIshallremember,andinthedarknessIshallnotforget.”

Hereyeswidenedas they followed theascendingspiralof smoke,andsherepeatedinalow,monotonousvoice:“Everywhere,everywhere.”

AbouttheAuthor

AGATHACHRISTIEisthemostwidelypublishedauthorofalltime,outsoldonly by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have soldmore than a billioncopiesinEnglishandanotherbillioninahundredforeignlanguages.Shediedin1976.

www.AgathaChristie.com

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Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’simaginationandarenottobeconstruedasreal.Anyresemblancetoactualeventsorpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.

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“WhiletheLightLasts”waspreviouslypublishedaspartofTheHarlequinTeaSetandOtherStoriesshortstorycollection,copyright©1997AgathaChristieLimited.AllrightsreservedunderInternationalandPan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted thenonexclusive,nontransferablerighttoaccessandreadthetextofthise-bookonscreen.Nopartofthistextmay be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into anyinformationstorageandretrievalsystem,inanyformorbyanymeans,whetherelectronicormechanical,nowknownorhereinafterinvented,withouttheexpresswrittenpermissionofHarperCollinse-books.

EPubEditionDECEMBER2013ISBN:9780062302823

10987654321

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