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

charm. I knew as I watched the stranger's wondering, puzzled features, that I had never before seen anyone so lovely, so attractive, and so utterly beyond suspicion.

It was only later that I noted her amazingly delicate complexion, fair as her hair was golden; her deep blue eyes, round face, and the girlish supple figure; or her robe-like garments of very soft, white material. For she commenced almost instantly to talk.

But we understood only with the greatest of difficulty. She spoke as might one who, after living in perfect solitude for a score of years, is suddenly called upon to use language. And I remembered that Rhamda Avec had told Jerome that he had only BEGUN the use of language.

“Who are you?” was her first remark, in the sweetest voice conceivable. But there was both fear and anxiety in her manner. “How—did I—get—here?”

“You came out of the Blind Spot!” I spoke, jerking out the words nervously and, as I saw, too rapidly. I repeated them more slowly. But she did not comprehend.

“The—Blind—Spot,” she pondered. “What—is that?”

Next instant, before I could think to warn her, the room trembled with the terrific clang of the Blind Spot bell. Just one overwhelming peal; no more. At the same time there came a revival of the luminous spot in the ceiling. But, with the last tones of the bell, the spot faded to nothing.

The girl was pitifully frightened. I sprang to my feet and steadied her with one hand—something that I had not dared to do as long as the Spot remained open. The touch of my fingers, as she swayed, had the effect of bringing her to herself. She listened intelligently to what I said.

“The Blind Spot”—speaking with the utmost care—“is the name we have given to a certain mystery. It is always marked by the sound you have just heard; that bell always rings when the phenomenon is at an end.”

“And—the—phenomenon,” uttering the word with difficulty, “what is that?”

“You,” I returned. “Up till now three human beings have disappeared into what we call the Blind Spot. You are the first to be seen coming out of it.”

“Hobart,” interrupted Charlotte, coming to my side. “Let me.”

I stepped back, and Charlotte quietly passed an arm round the girl's waist. Together they stepped over to Charlotte's chair.

I noted the odd way in which the newcomer walked, unsteadily, uncertainly, like a child taking its first steps. I glanced at Jerome, wondering if this tallied with what he recalled of the Rhamda; and he gave a short nod.

“Don't be frightened,” said Charlotte softly, “we are your friends. In a way we have been expecting you, and we shall see to it that no harm comes to you.

“Which would you prefer—to ask questions, or to answer them?”

“I”—the girl hesitated—“I—hardly—know. Perhaps—you had—better—ask something first.”

“Good. Do you remember where you came from? Can you recall the events just prior to your arrival here?”

The girl looked helplessly from the one to the other of us. She seemed to be searching for some clue. Finally she shook her head in a hopeless, despairing fashion.

“I can't remember,” speaking with a shade less difficulty. “The last thing—I recall is—seeing—you three—staring—at me.”

This was a poser. To think, a person who, before our very eyes, had materialised out of the Blind Spot, was unable to tell us anything about it!

Still this lack of memory might be only a temporary condition, brought on by the special conditions under which she had emerged; an after-effect, as it were, of the semi-electrical phenomena. And it turned out that I was right.

“Then,” suggested Charlotte, “suppose you ask us something.”

The girl's eyes stopped roving and rested definitely, steadily, upon my own. And she spoke; still a little hesitantly:

“Who are you? What is your name?”

“Name?” taken wholly by surprise. “Ah—it is Hobart Fenton. And”—automatically—“this is my sister Charlotte. The gentleman over there is Mr. Jerome.”

“I am glad to know you, Hobart,” with perfect simplicity and apparent pleasure; “and you, Charlotte,” passing an arm round my sister's neck; “and you—Mister.” Evidently she thought the title of “mister” to be Jerome's first name.

Then she went on to say, her eyes coming back to mine:

“Why do you look at me that way, Hobart?”

Just like that! I felt my cheeks go hot and cold by turns. For a moment I was helpless; then I made up my mind to be just as frank and candid as she.

“Because you're so good to look at!” I blurted out. “I never appreciated my eyesight as I do right now!”

“I am glad,” she returned, simply and absolutely without a trace of confusion or resentment. “I know that I rather like to look at you—too.”

Another stunned silence. And this time I didn't notice any change in the temperature of my face; I was too busily engaged in searching the depths of those warm blue eyes.

She didn't blush, or even drop her eyes. She smiled, however, a gentle, tremulous smile that showed some deep feeling behind her unwavering gaze.

I recovered myself with a start, drew my chair up in front of her and took both her hands firmly in mine. Whereupon my resolution nearly deserted me. How warm and soft, and altogether adorable they were. I drew a long breath and began:

“My dear—By the way, what is your name?”

“I”—regretfully, after a moment's thought—“I don't know, Hobart.”

“Quite so,” as though the fact was commonplace. “We will have to provide you with a name. Any suggestions?”

Charlotte hesitated only a second. “Let's call her Ariadne; it was Harry's mother's name.”

“That's so; fine! Do you like the name—Ariadne?”

“Yes,” both pleased and relieved. At the same time she looked oddly puzzled, and I could see her lips moving silently as she repeated the name to herself.

Not for an instant did I let go of those wonderful fingers. “What I want you to know, Ariadne, is that you have come into a world that is, perhaps, more or less like the one that you have just left. For all I know it is one and the same world, only, in some fashion not yet understood, you may have transported yourself to this place. Perhaps not.

“Now, we call this a room, a part of the house. Outside is a street. That street is one of hundreds in a vast city, which consists of a multitude of such houses together with other and vastly larger structures. And these structures all rest upon a solid material which we