by Anthology
"Work, work, work, my boy," said my father, "nothing but work. It really won't do. You're a shadow. You must take a vacation. Go to the mountains; forget your practice for a short time."
I didn't tell them. Why should I? I decided right then it was my own battle. It was enough for me without casting the worry upon others. Yet I could not see Charlotte without calling on my parents.
As soon as possible I crossed the street to the Fentons'. Someone had seen me in town. Charlotte was waiting. She was the same beautiful girl I had known so long; the blue eyes, the blonde, wavy mass of hair, the laughing mouth and the gladness. But she was not glad now. It was almost a repetition of what had happened at home, only here a bit more personal. She clung to me almost in terror. I didn't realise I had gone down so much. I knew my weariness; but I hadn't thought my appearance so dejected. I remembered Watson. He had been wan, pale, forlorn. After what brief explanation I could give, I proposed a stroll in the moonlight.
It was a full moon; a wonderful night; we walked down the avenue under the elm trees. Charlotte was beautiful, and worried; she clung to my arm with the eagerness of possession. I could not but compare her with Nervina. There was a contrast; Charlotte was fresh, tender, affectionate, the girl of my boyhood. I had known her all my life; there was no doubt of our love.
Who was the other? She was something higher, out of mystery, out of life—almost—out of the moonbeams. I stopped and looked up. The great full orb was shining. I didn't know that I spoke.
"Harry," asked Charlotte, "who is the Nervina?"
Had I spoken?
"What do you know about the Nervina?" I asked.
"She has been to see me. She told me. She said you would be here tonight. I was waiting. She is very beautiful. I never saw anyone like her. She is wonderful!"
"What did she say?"
"She! Oh, Harry. Tell me. I have waited. Something has happened. Tell me. You have told me nothing. You are not like the old Harry."
"Tell me about the Nervina. What did she say? Charlotte, tell me everything. Am I so much different from the old Harry?"
She clutched at my arm fearfully; she looked into my eyes.
"Oh," she said, "how can you say it? You haven't laughed once. You are melancholy; you are pale, drawn, haggard. You keep muttering. You are not the old Harry. Is it this Nervina? At first I thought she loved you; but she does not. She wanted to know all about you, and about our love. She was so interested. What is this danger?"
I didn't answer.
"You must tell me. This ring? She said that you must give it to me. What is it?" she insisted.
"Did she ask that? She told you to take the ring? My dear," I asked, "if it were the ring and it were so sinister would I be a man to give it to my loved one?"
"It would not hurt me."
But I would not. Something warned me. It was a ruse to get it out of my possession. The whole thing was haunting, weird, ghostly. Always I could hear Watson. I still had a small quota of courage and will-power. I clung steadfastly to my purpose.
It was a sad three hours. Poor Charlotte! I shall never forget it. It is the hardest task on earth to deny one's loved one.
She had grown into my heart and into its possession. She clung to me tenderly, tearfully. I could not tell her. Her feminine instinct sensed disaster. In spite of her tears I insisted. When I kissed her goodnight she did not speak. But she looked up at me through her tears. It was the hardest thing of all for me to bear.
XVII
THE SHEPHERD
When I returned to the city next morning I took my dog. It was a strange whim; but one which was to lead to a remarkable development. I have always been a lover of dogs. I was lonely. There is a bond between a dog and his master. It goes beyond definition; it roots down into nature. I was to learn much.
She was an Australian shepherd. She was of a tawny black and bob- tailed from birth.
What is the power that lies behind instinct? How far does it go? I had a notion that the dog would be outside the sinister clutch that was dragging me under.
Happily Jerome was fond of dogs. He was reading. When I entered with Queen tugging at the chain he looked up. The dog recognised the heart of the man; when he stooped to pet her she moved her stub tail in an effusion of affectionate acceptance. Jerome had been reading Le Bon's theory on the evolution of force. His researches after the mystery had led him into the depths of speculation; he had become quite a scholar. After our first greeting I unhooked the chain and let Queen have the freedom of the house. I related what had happened. The detective closed the book and sat down. The dog waited a bit for further petting; but missing that she began sniffing about the room. There was nothing strange about it of course. I myself paid not the slightest attention. But the detective was watching. While I was telling my story he was following every movement of the shepherd. Suddenly he held up one finger. I turned.
It was Queen. A low growl, guttural and suspicious. She was standing about a foot from the portieres that separated the library from the other room—where we had lost Watson, and where Jerome had had his experience with the old lady. Tense and rigid, one forepaw held up stealthily, her stub tail erect and the hair along her back bristled. Again the low growl. I caught Jerome's eyes. It was queer.
"What is it, Queen?" I spoke.
At the sound of my voice she wagged her tail and looked round, then stepped between the curtains. Just her head. She drew back; her lips drawn from her teeth, snarling. She was rigid, alert, vitalised. Somehow it made me cold. She was a brave dog; she feared nothing. The detective stepped forward and pulled the curtains apart. The room was empty. We looked into each other's faces. What is there to instinct? What is its range? We could see nothing.
But not to the dog. Her eyes glowed. Hate, fear, terror, her whole body rigid.
"I wonder," I said. I stepped into the room. But I hadn't counted on the dog. With a yelp she was upon me, had me by the calf of the leg and was drawing me back. She stepped in front of me; a low, guttural growl of warning. But there was nothing in that room; of that we were certain.
"Beats me," said the detective. "How does she know? Wonder if she would stop me?" He stepped forward. It was merely a repetition. She caught him by the trouser-leg and drew him back. She crowded us away from the curtain. It was almost magnetic. We could see nothing, neither could we feel; was it possible that the dog could see beyond us? The detective spoke first:
"Take her out of the room. Put her in the hall; tie her up."
"What's the idea?"
"Merely this; I am going to examine the room. No, I am not afraid. I'll be mighty glad if it does catch me. Anything so long as I get results."
But it did us no good. We examined the room many times that night; both of us. In the end there was nothing, only the weirdness and uncertainty and the magnetic undercurrent which we could feel, but could not fathom. When we called in the dog she stepped to the portieres and commenced her vigil. She crouched slightly behind the curtains, alert, ready, waiting, at her post of honour. From that moment she never left the spot except under compulsion. We could hear her at all times of the night; the low growl, the snarl, the defiance.
But there was a great deal more that we were to learn from the dog. It was Jerome who first called my attention. A small fact at the beginning; but of a strange sequence. This time it was the ring. Queen had the habit that is common to most dogs; she would lick my hand to show her affection. It was nothing in itself; but for one fact—she always chose the left hand. It was the detective who first noticed it. Always and every opportunity she would lick the jewel. We made a little test to try her. I would remove the ring from one hand to the other; then hold it behind me. She would follow.
It was a strange fact; but of course not inexplicable. A scent or the attraction of taste might account for it. However, these little tests led to a rather remarkable discovery.
One night we had called the dog from her vigil. As usual she came to the jewel; by chance I presse
d the gem against her head. It was a mere trifle; yet it was of consequence. A few minutes before I had dropped a handkerchief on the opposite side of the room; I was just thinking about picking it up. It was only a small thing, yet it put us on the track of the gem's strangest potency. The dog walked to the handkerchief. She brought it back in her mouth. At first I took it for a pure coincidence. I repeated the experiment with a book. The same result. I looked up at Jerome.
"What's the matter?" Then when I explained: "The dickens! Try it again."
Over and over again we repeated it, using different articles, pieces of which I was certain she didn't know the name. There was a strange bond between the gem and the intelligence, some strange force emanating from its lustre. On myself it was depressing; on the dog it was life itself. At last Jerome had an inspiration.
"Try the Rhamda," he said; "think of him. Perhaps—"
It was most surprising. Certainly it was remarkable. It was too much like intelligence; a bit too uncanny. At the instant of the thought the dog leaped backward.
Such a strange transformation; she was naturally gentle. In one instant she had gone mad. Mad? Not in the literal interpretation; but figuratively. She sprang back, snapping; her teeth bared, her hair bristled. Her nostrils drawn. With one bound she leaped between the curtains.
Jerome jumped up. With an exclamation he drew the portieres. I was behind him. The dog was standing at the edge of the room, bristling.
The room was empty. What did she see? What?
One thing was certain. Though we were sure of nothing else we were certain of the Rhamda. We could trust the canine's instinct. Every previous experiment we had essayed had been crowned with success. We had here a fact but no explanation. If we could only put things together and extract the law.
It was late when we retired. I could not sleep. The restlessness of the dog held back my slumber. She would growl sullenly, then stir about for a new position; she was never quite still. I could picture her there in the library, behind the curtains, crouched, half resting, half slumbering, always watching. I would awaken in the night and listen; a low guttural warning, a sullen whine—then stillness. It was the same with my companion. We could never quite understand it. Perhaps we were a bit afraid.
But one can become accustomed to almost anything. It went on for many nights without anything happening, until one night.
It was dark, exceedingly dark, with neither moon nor starlight; one of those nights of inky intenseness. I cannot say just exactly what woke me. The house was strangely silent and still; the air seemed stretched and laden. It was summer. Perhaps it was the heat. I only knew that I woke suddenly and blinked in the darkness.
In the next room with the door open I could hear the heavy breathing of the detective. A heavy feeling lay against my heart. I had grown accustomed to dread and isolation; but this was different. Perhaps it was premonition. I do not know. And yet I was terribly sleepy; I remember that.
I struck a match and looked at my watch on the bureau—twelve thirty-five. No sound—not even Queen—not even a rumble from the streets. I lay back and dropped into slumber. Just as I drifted off to sleep I had a blurring fancy of sound, guttural, whining, fearful—then suddenly drifting into incoherent rumbling phantasms—a dream. I awoke suddenly. Someone was speaking. It was Jerome.
"Harry!"
I was frightened. It was like something clutching out of the darkness. I sat up. I didn't answer. It wasn't necessary. The incoherence of my dream had been external. The library was just below me. I could hear the dog pacing to and fro, and her snarling. Snarling? It was just that. It was something to arouse terror.
She had never growled like that—I was positive, I could hear her suddenly leap back from the curtains. She barked. Never before had she come to that. Then a sudden lunge into the other room—a vicious series of snapping barks, yelps—pandemonium—I could picture her leaping—at what? Then suddenly I leaped out of bed. The barks grew faint, faint, fainter—into the distance.
In the darkness I couldn't find the switch. I bumped into Jerome. We were lost in our confusion. It was a moment before we could find either a match or a switch to turn on the lights. But at last—I shall not forget that moment; nor Jerome. He was rigid; one arm held aloft, his eyes bulged out. The whole house was full of sound—full-toned—vibrant—magnetic. It was the bell.
I jumped for the stairway, but not so quick as Jerome. With three bounds we were in the library with the lights on. The sound was running down to silence. We tore down the curtains and rushed into the room. It was empty!
There was not even the dog. Queen had gone! In a vain rush of grief I began calling and whistling. It was an overwhelming moment. The poor, brave shepherd. She had seen it and rushed into its face.
It was the last night I was to have Jerome. We sat up until daylight. For the thousandth time we went over the house in detail, but there was nothing. Only the ring. At the suggestion of the detective I touched the match to the sapphire. It was the same. The colour diminishing, and the translucent corridors deepening into the distance; then the blur and the coming of shadows—the men, Watson and the professor—and my dog.
Of the men, only the heads showed; but the dog was full figure; she was sitting, apparently on a pedestal, her tongue was lolling out of her mouth and her face of that gentle intelligence which only the Australian shepherd is heir to. That is all—no more— nothing. If we had hoped to discover anything through her medium we were disappointed. Instead of clearing up, the whole thing had grown deeper.
I have said that it was the last night I was to have Jerome. I didn't know it then. Jerome went out early in the morning. I went to bed. I was not afraid in the daylight. I was certain now that the danger was localised. As long as I kept out of that apartment I had nothing to fear. Nevertheless, the thing was magnetic. A subtle weirdness pervaded the building. I did not sleep soundly. I was lonely; the isolation was crowding on me. In the afternoon I stepped out on the streets.
I have spoken of my experience with the conductor. On this day I had the certainty of my isolation; it was startling. In the face of what I was and what I had seen it was almost terrifying. It was the first time I thought of sending for Hobart. I had thought I could hold out. The complete suddenness of the thing set me to thinking. I thought of Watson. It was the last phase, the feebleness, the wanness, the inertia! He had been a far stronger man than I in the beginning.
I must cable Fenton. While I had still an ego in the presence of men, I must reach out for help. It was a strange thing and inexplicable. I was not invisible. Don't think that. I simply did not individualise. Men didn't notice me—till I spoke. As if I was imperceptibly losing the essence of self. I still had some hold on the world. While it remained I must get word to Hobart. I did not delay. Straight to the office I went and paid for the cable.
CANNOT HOLD OUT MUCH LONGER. COME AT ONCE.—HARRY.
I was a bit ashamed. I had hoped. I had counted upon myself. I had trusted in the full strength of my individuality. I had been healthy—strong—full blooded. On the fullness of vitality one would live forever. There is no tomorrow. It was not a year ago. I was eighty. It had been so with Watson. What was this subtle thing that ate into one's marrow? I had read of banshees, lemures and leprechauns; they were the ghosts and the fairies of ignorance but they were not like this. It was impersonal, hidden, inexorable. It was mystery. And I believed that it was Nature.
I know it now. Even as I write I can sense the potency of the force about me. Some law, some principle, some force that science has not uncovered.
What is that law that shall bridge the chaos between the mystic and the substantial? I am standing on the bridge; and I cannot see it. What is the great law that was discovered by Dr. Holcomb? Who is the Rhamda? Who is the Nervina?
Jerome has not returned. I cannot understand it. It has been a week. I am living on brandy—not much of anything else—I am waiting for Fenton. I have taken all my elaborations and notes and put them toget
her. Perhaps I—
(This is the last of the strange document left by Harry Wendel. The following memorandum is written by Charlotte Fenton.)
XVIII
CHARLOTTE'S STORY
I do not know. It is hard to write after what has happened.
Hobart says that it is why I am to write it. It is to be a plain narrative. Besides, he is very busy and cannot do it himself. There must be some record. I shall do my best and hold out of my writing as much as I can of my emotion. I shall start with the Nervina.
It was the first I knew; the first warning. Looking back I cannot but wonder. No person I think who has ever seen the Nervina can do much else; she is so beautiful! Beautiful? Why do I say it? I should be jealous and I should hate her. Yet I do not. Why is it?
It was about eight months after Hobart had left for South America. I remember those eight months as the longest in my life; because of Harry. I am a girl and I like attention; all girls do. Ordinarily he would come over every fortnight at least. After Hobart had gone he came once only, and of course I resented the inattention.
It seemed to me that no business could be of enough importance if he really loved me. Even his letters were few and far between. What he wrote were slow and weary and of an undertone that I could not fathom. I—loved Harry. I could not understand it. I had a thousand fearful thoughts and jealousies; but they were feminine and in no way approximated even the beginning of the truth. Inattention was not like Harry. It was not until the coming of the Nervina that I was afraid.
Afraid? I will not say that—exactly. It was rather a suspicion, a queer undercurrent of wonder and doubt. The beauty of the girl, her interest in Harry and myself, her concern over this ring, put me a bit on guard. I wondered what this ring had to do with Harry Wendel.
She did not tell me in exact words or in literal explanation; but she managed to convey all too well a lurking impression of its sinister potency. It was something baleful, something the very essence of which would break down the life of one who wore it. Harry had come into its possession by accident and she would save him. She had failed through direct appeal. Now she had come to me. She did not say a word of the Blind Spot.
