The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (black female authors txt) 📗

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.