Читать книгу The Blind Spot - Homer Eon Flint - Страница 19

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For a moment we were silent. The jewel reposed upon the table. What was the secret of its phenomena? I could think of nothing in science that would explain it. How had Watson come into its possession? What was the tale he had to tell? The lean, long finger that clutched for brandy! What force was this that had driven him to such a verge? He was resigned; though he was defiant he had already conceded his surrender. Dr. Hansen spoke.

“Watson,” he asked, “what do you know about the Blind Spot?”

“Nothing.”

We all turned to Chick. Hobart ordered more brandy. The doctor's eyes went to slits. I could not but wonder.

“Chick,” I asked, “who is Rhamda Avec?”

Watson turned.

“You saw him a few minutes ago? You saw him with me? Let me ask you.”

“Yes,” I answered, “I saw him. Most people did. Is he invisible? Is he really the phantom they say?”

Somehow the mention of the name made him nervous; he looked cautiously about the room.

“That I don't know, Harry. It—If I can only get my wits together. Is he a phantom? Yes, I think so. I can't understand him. At least, he has the powers we attribute to an apparition. He is strange and unaccountable. Sometimes you see him, sometimes you don't. The first known of him was on the day Professor Holcomb was to deliver his lecture on the Blind Spot. He was tracked, you know, to the very act. Then came in the Nervina.”

“And who is the Nervina?”

Watson looked at me blankly.

“The Nervina?” he asked, “The Nervina—what do you know about the Nervina?”

“Nothing. You mentioned her just now.”

His mind seemed to ramble. He looked about the room rather fearfully. Perhaps he was afraid.

“Did I mention her? I don't know, Harry, my wits are muddled. The Nervina? She is a goddess. Never was and never will be woman. She loves; she never hates, and still again she does not love. She is beautiful; too beautiful for man. I've quit trying.”

“Is she Rhamda's wife?”

His eyes lit fire.

“No!”

“Do you love her?”

He went blank again; but at last he spoke slowly.

“No, I don't love her. What's the use? She's not for me. I did; but I learned better. I was after the professor—and the Blind Spot. She—”

Again that look of haunted pursuit. He glanced about the room. Whatever had been his experience, it was plain that he had not given up. He held something and he held it still. What was it?

“You say you didn't find the Blind Spot?”

“No, I did not find it.”

“Have you any idea?”

“My dear Harry,” he answered, “I am full of ideas. That's the trouble. I am near it. It's the cause of my present condition. I don't know just what it is nor where. A condition, or a combination of phenomena. You remember the lecture that was never delivered? Had the doctor spoken that morning the world would have had a great fact. He had made a great discovery. It is a terrible thing.” He turned the ring so we could all see it—beyond all doubt it was the doctor. “There he is—the professor. If he could only speak. The secret of the ages. Just think what it means. Where is he? I have taken that jewel to the greatest lapidaries and they have one and all been startled. Then they all come to the same conclusion—trickery—Chinese or Hindu work, they say; most of them want to cut.”

“Have you taken it to the police?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I would simply be laughed at.”

“Have you ever reported this Rhamda?”

“A score of times. They have come and sought; but every time he has gone out—like a shadow. It's got to be an old story now. If you call them up and tell them they laugh.”

“How do you account for it?”

“I don't. I—I—I'm just dying.”

“And not one member of the force—surely?”

“Oh, yes. There's one. You have heard of Jerome. Jerome followed the professor and the Rhamda to the house of the Blind Spot, as he calls it. He's not a man to fool. He had eyes and he saw it. He will not leave it till he's dead.”

“But he did not see the Blind Spot, did he? How about trickery? Did it ever occur to you that the professor might have been murdered?”

“Take a look at that, Harry. Does that look like murder? When you see the man living?”

Watson reached over and turned up the jewel.

Here Hobart came in.

“Just a minute, Chick. My wise friend here is an attorney. He's always the first into everything, especially conversation. It's been my job pulling Harry out of trouble. Just one question.”

“All right.”

“Didn't you—er—keep company, as they say, with Bertha Holcomb while at college?”

A kind look came into the man's eyes; he nodded; his whole face was soft and saddened.

“I see. That naturally brought you to the Blind Spot. You are after her father. Am I correct?”

“Exactly.”

“All right. Perhaps Bertha has taken you into some of her father's secrets. He undoubtedly had data on this Blind Spot. Have you ever been able to locate it?”

“No!”

“I see. This Rhamda? Has he ever sought that data?”

“Many, many times.”

“Does he know you haven't got it?”

“No.”

“So. I understand. You hold the whip hand through your ignorance. Rhamda is your villain—and perhaps this Nervina? Who is she?”

“A goddess.”

Hobart smiled.

“Oh, yes!” He laughed. “A goddess. Naturally! They all are. There are about forty in this room at the present moment, my dear fellow. Watch them dance!”

Now I had picked up the ring. It just fitted the natural finger. I tried it on and looked into the jewel. The professor was growing dimmer. The marvellous blue was returning, a hue of fascination; not the hot flash of the diamond, but the frozen light of the iceberg. It was frigid, cold, terrible, blue, alluring. To me at the moment it seemed alive and pulselike. I could not account for it. I felt the lust for possession. Perhaps there was something in my face. Watson leaned over and touched me on the arm.

“Harry,” he asked, “do you think you can stand up under the burden? Will you take my place?”

I looked into his eyes; in their black depths was almost entreaty. How haunting they were, and beseeching.

“Will you take my place?” he begged. “Are you willing to give up all that God gives to the fortunate? Will you give up your practice? Will you hold out to the end? Never surrender? Will—”

“You mean will I take this ring?”

He nodded.

“Exactly. But you must know beforehand. It would be murder to give it to you without the warning. Either your death or that of Dr. Holcomb. It is not a simple jewel. It defies description. It takes a man to wear it. It is subtle and of destruction; it eats like a canker; it destroys the body; it frightens the soul—”

“An ominous piece of finery,” I spoke. “Wherein—”

But Watson interrupted. There was appeal in his eyes.

“Harry,” he went on, “I am asking. Somebody has got to wear this ring. He must be a man. He must be fearless; he must taunt the devil. It is hard work, I assure you. I cannot last much longer. You loved the old doctor. If we get at this law we have done more for mankind than either of us may do with his profession. We must save the old professor. He is living and he is waiting. There are perils and forces that we do not know of. The doctor went at it alone and fearless; he succumbed to his own wisdom. I have followed after, and I have been crushed down—perhaps by my ignorance. I am not afraid. But I don't want my work to die. Somebody has got to take it on and you are the man.”

They were all of them looking at me. I studied the wonderful blue and its light. The image of the great professor had dimmed almost completely. It was a sudden task and a great one. Here was a law; one of the great secrets of Cosmos. What was it? Somehow the lure caught into my vitals. I couldn't picture myself ever coming to the extremity of my companion. Besides, it was a duty. I owed it to the old doctor. It seemed somehow that he was speaking. Though Watson did the talking I could feel him calling. Would I be afraid? Besides, there was the jewel. It was calling; already I could feel it burning into my spirit. I looked up.

“Do you take it, Harry?”

I nodded.

“I do. God knows I am worthless enough. I'll take it up. It may give me a chance to engage with this famous Rhamda.”

“Be careful of Rhamda, Harry. And above all don't let him have the ring.”

“Why?”

“Because. Now listen. I'm not laying this absolutely, understand. Nevertheless the facts all point in one direction. Hold the ring. Somewhere in that lustre lies a great secret; it controls the Blind Spot. The Rhamda himself may not take it off your finger. You are immune from violence. Only the ring itself may kill you.”

He coughed.

“God knows,” he spoke, “it has killed me.”

It was rather ominous. The mere fact of that cough and his weakness was enough. One would come to this. He had warned me, and he had besought me with the same voice as the warning.

“But what is the Blind Spot?”

“Then you take the ring? What is the time? Twelve. Gentlemen—”

Now here comes in one of the strange parts of my story—one that I cannot account for. Over the shoulder of Dr. Hansen I could watch the door. Whether it was the ring or not I do not know. At the time I did not reason. I acted upon impulse. It was an act beyond good breeding. I had never done such a thing before. I had never even seen the woman.

The woman? Why do I say it? She was never a woman—she was a girl—far, far transcendent. It was the first time I had ever seen her—standing there before the door. I had never beheld such beauty, such profile, poise—the witching, laughing, night-black of her eyes; the perfectly bridged nose and the red, red lips that smiled, it seemed to me, in sadness. She hesitated, and as if puzzled, lifted a jewelled hand to her raven mass of hair. To this minute I cannot account for my action, unless, perchance, it was the ring. Perhaps it was. Anyway I had risen.

How well do I remember.

It seemed to me that I had known her a long, long time. There was something about her that was not seduction; but far, far above it. Somewhere I had seen her, had known her. She was looking and she was waiting for me. There was something about her that was super feminine. I thought it then, and I say it now.

Just then her glance came my way. She smiled, and nodded; there was a note of sadness in her voice.

“Harry Wendel!”

There is no accounting for my action, nor my wonder; she knew me. Then it was true! I was not mistaken! Somewhere I had seen her. I felt a vague and dim rush of dreamy recollections. Ah, that was the answer! She was a girl of dreams and phantoms. Even then I knew it; she was not a woman; not as we conceive her; she was some materialisation out of Heaven. Why do I talk so? Ah! this strange beauty that is woman! From the very first she held me in the thrall that has no explanation.

“Do we dance?” she asked simply.

The next moment I had her in my arms and we were out among the dancers. That my actions were queer and entirely out of reason never occurred to me. There was a call about her beautiful body and in her eyes that I could not answer. There was a fact between us, some strange bond that was beyond even passion. I danced, and in an extreme emotion of happiness. A girl out of the dreams and the ether—a sprig of life woven out of the moonbeams!

“Do you know me?” she asked as we danced.

“Yes,” I answered, “and no. I have seen you; but I do not remember; you come from the sunshine.”

She laughed prettily.

“Do you always talk like this?”

“You are out of my dreams,” I answered: “it is sufficient. But who are you?”

She held back her pretty head and looked at me; her lips drooped slightly at the corners, a sad smile, and tender, in the soft wonderful depths of her eyes—a pity.

“Harry,” she asked, “are you going to wear this ring?”

So that was it. The ring and the maiden. What was the bond? There was weirdness in its colour, almost cabalistic—a call out of the occult. The strange beauty of the girl, her remarkable presence, and her concern. Whoever and whatever she was her anxiety was not personal. In some way she was woven up with this ring and poor Watson.

“I think I shall,” I answered.

Again the strange querulous pity and hesitation; her eyes grew darker, almost pleading.

“You won't give it to me?”

How near I came to doing it I shall not tell. It would be hard to say it. I knew vaguely that she was playing; that I was the plaything. It is hard for a man to think of himself as being toyed with. She was certain; she was confident of my weakness. It was resentment, perhaps, and pride of self that gave the answer.

“I think I shall keep it.”

“Do you know the danger, Harry? It is death to wear it. A thousand perils—”

“Then I shall keep it. I like peril. You wish for the ring. If I keep it I may have you. This is the first time I have danced with the girl out of the moonbeams.”

Her eyes snapped, and she stopped dancing. I don't think my words displeased her. She was still a woman.

“Is this final? You're a fine young man, Mr. Wendel. I know you. I stepped in to save you. You are playing with something stranger than the moonbeams. No man may wear that ring and hold to life. Again, Harry, I ask you; for your own sake.”

At this moment we passed Watson. He was watching; as our eyes glanced he shook his head. Who was this girl? She was as beautiful as sin and as tender as a virgin. What interest had she in myself?

“That's just the reason,” I laughed. “You are too interested. You are too beautiful to wear it. I am a man; I revel in trouble; you are a girl. It would not be honourable to allow you to take it. I shall keep it.”

She had overreached herself, and she knew it. She bit her lip. But she took it gracefully; so much so, in fact, that I thought she meant it.

“I'm sorry,” she answered slowly. “I had hopes. It is terrible to look at Watson and then to think of you. It is, really”—a faint tremor ran through her body; her hand trembled—“it is terrible. You young men are so unafraid. It's too bad.”

Just then the door was opened; outside I could see the bank of fog; someone passed. She turned a bit pale.

“Excuse me. I must be going. Don't you see I'm sorry—”

She held out her hand—the same sad little smile. On the impulse of the moment, unmindful of place, I drew it to my lips and kissed it. She was gone.

I returned to the table. The three men were watching me: Watson analytically, the doctor with wonder, and Hobart with plain disgust. Hobart spoke first.

“Nice for sister Charlotte, eh, Harry?”

I had not a word to say. In the full rush of the moment I knew that he was right. It was all out of reason. I had no excuse outside of sheer insanity—and dishonour. The doctor said nothing. It was only in Watson's face that there was a bit of understanding.

“Hobart,” he said, “I have told you. It is not Harry's fault. It is the Nervina. No man may resist her. She is beauty incarnate; she weaves with the hearts of men, and she loves no one. It is the ring. She, the Rhamda, the Blind Spot, and the ring. I have never been able to unravel them. Please don't blame Harry. He went to her even as I. She has but to beckon. But he kept the ring. I watched them. This is but the beginning.”

But Hobart muttered: “She's a beauty all right—a beauty. That's the rub. I know Harry—I know him as a brother, and I want him so in fact. But I'd hate to trust that woman.”

Watson smiled.

“Never fear, Hobart, your sister is safe enough. The Nervina is not a woman. She is not of the flesh.”

“Brr,” said the doctor, “you give me the creeps.”

Watson reached for the brandy; he nodded to the doctor.

“Just a bit more of that stuff if you please. Whatever it is, on the last night one has no fear of habit. There—Now, gentlemen, if you will come with me, I shall take you to the house of the Blind Spot.”