Ruth entered the house with her own key, which she had taken, not
wanting to keep George waiting up to open the door for her. The house
was quite silent and dark, save for one dim light burning in the hall,
and this light seemed to illumine a thick blue haze or smoke that
floated out enveloping her as she paused on the threshold. At the same
moment she was conscious of an almost overpowering odour of incense,
something that Gloria never used, she knew. She stood a moment peering
through the blue haze until she made out a figure crouching on the
stairs, not George as she at first supposed, but Amy, who seldom showed
herself in the front of the house. She was huddled up, with clasped
arms, weaving to and fro and moaning inarticulate prayers, while her
eyes rolled wildly about in her head.
“Amy, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”
Amy paused in her weaving and moaning to shake her head negatively.
“Then what’s wrong? Is Miss Mayfield ill?”
Again the negative shake.
“I’se waitin’ up for yo’, Mis’ Ruth. I want you to let me sleep upstairs
with you all tonight. There’s a couch in the room what you all paint. I
kin use that,—please, Mis’ Ruth, I’se a dead woman ef you says no.”
“What nonsense!” said Ruth, trying to speak sharply and at the same time
in a low tone. Amy, for all her agitation, kept her voice almost a
whisper and kept turning her head over her shoulder as if she feared
that some one was coming up behind her.
“Why do you want to sleep in my studio? Aren’t you comfortable
downstairs? If you’re ill I’ll send for a doctor. You’ll have to give me
some reason.”
She saw that the negro woman’s distress was very real, however foolish,
and laid her hand on her trembling shoulder.
“Doan ask me no questions now—jes let me come,” she said rising as if
she would accompany Ruth upstairs against her will, and still looking
over her shoulder.
“I can’t let you come unless you tell me why,” said Ruth, her voice
growing louder in spite of her efforts to keep it low.
The negress laid a warning finger on her lips and shot a look of such
terror over her shoulder that Ruth felt a sympathetic thrill of horror
down her own spine and peered into the blackness beyond the stairway,
half expecting to see some apparition there. Then struggling as much to
control her own nerves as those of the servant, she put both hands on
Amy’s shoulders and forced her down on the stairway again.
“If there’s any real reason why you should sleep upstairs you can, but
you must tell me first what you’re afraid of.”
The negress leaned toward her, whispering:
“It’s him—that devil-man, George; he a voodoo and he’s practisin’ black
magic down there. I cain’t sleep in the same paht of the house. I’m
goin’ to give notice in the mawnin’—please, Mis’ Ruth, take me up with
yo’—”
For a moment Ruth did not know what to say. She knew that all negroes
are superstitious, but looking into the rolling eyes of Amy, there in
the midnight silence of the house, she was not able to laugh.
“I’m surprised at you, Amy. I thought you were more sensible. What’s
George doing? He hasn’t tried to hurt you, has he?”
“No, not me, he ain’t goin’ hu’t me—I don’t expec’ you-all to
understand. I don’t care whether you understands or not, jus’ let me go
up with yo’.”
“What’s George doing?” demanded Ruth again. She would much rather have
given consent at once and ended the argument, but she could not control
a feeling both of curiosity and nervousness, and was now protesting more
against her own fears than those of Amy.
“He tol’ me to go to baid. He orders me roun’ li’e I was his nigger, and
I went, but I could see him through the keyhole—he’s in our
settin’-room—it’s between his room and mine. There’s another do’ to my
room and I wen’ right out through it. I didn’t waste no time. But don’t
you-all try to stop him. He’s at black magic—oh-o-o-o-o-o—”
Her tense whisper trailed off into a suppressed wail.
“Come with me,” said Ruth with sudden determination. “I’ll see for
myself.”
She started off down the hall, through the thick blue haze which she
could now tell was issuing from the servants’ quarters, and Amy,
protesting, but evidently fearing to remain behind, walked behind her.
Ruth had never been in the servants’ quarters, but she knew that they
had rooms on the first floor, which was partly below the street level.
As she passed she switched on the lights in the hall, illuminating the
short flight of steps that led below. The door at the bottom was closed.
At the top of the steps, Amy caught her arm.
“Don’t go, Mis’ Ruth—jes’ look through the keyhole once. The do’s
locked—don’t knock, jes’ look once—”
Ruth shook off her restraining arm, but unconsciously she softened her
footsteps, creeping almost noiselessly down the steps, while the black
woman waited above. In the silence she could hear her frightened
breathing. She had no intention of following Amy’s advice, but intended
to knock boldly at the door and then to scold George for frightening his
fellow servant. She was determined to do that even if George complained
to his mistress, but when her foot touched the last step, something
stronger than herself restrained her. She stood a moment with her heart
beating against her ribs, and then, Ruth Mayfield, daughter of
respectable parents, bent down in the attitude of a curious and
untrustworthy servant and applied her eye to the keyhole. She knelt thus
for many minutes before she finally rose and came back up the steps
controlling by a strong effort of her will the inclination to look back
over her shoulder as she had seen Amy do. At the top Amy took her arm
and together they walked back through the hall.
At the foot of the stairway she turned her white face to Amy.
“You can come with me if you’ll promise not to say anything about this
to Miss Mayfield, or to leave for a while at least.”
“I’ll promise anything, Mis’ Ruth, only take me with you—an’ I won’
tell—I ain’ ready to die yit.”
“It’s all just nonsense, Amy, only I don’t want to worry Gloria with it
just now. You understand, it’s just nonsense,” she repeated with lips
that trembled.
She slept fitfully that night, waking in the morning to the sound of
Amy’s knocking at her door. She called to the servant to come in, eager
to talk with her again before she had an opportunity to speak to Gloria.
She came in with the breakfast tray, looking much as usual and
apparently only too eager to ignore the events of the night before. She
set the tray down and began rubbing her shoulders.
“I got a misery,” she whined, “the wu’k in this house is too ha’ad.
They’se wu’uk enough here for foah and only two to do it all. I’se neber
wu’uked in a big house like this befo’ less they was at least foah kep’.
I’se a cook, I is, not a maid, and what not. Nex’ thing she’ll be askin’
me to do laundry.”
“Now, Amy, that isn’t fair. The house is big, but Miss Mayfield only
uses about half of it, and you know she dines out almost more than in.
Besides I don’t want you to go away yet. If you’ll stay I’ll ask Miss
Mayfield to let you sleep up here all the time. I can tell her that I’m
nervous up here so far away from every one and I’m sure she won’t mind.”
Amy’s face beamed with pleasure. “Is you-all goin’ speak to her ’bout
Go’ge?”
“Not at once—I must have time to think about that, and you must be
quiet, too.”
“Don’ you fret; I ain’ goin’ say anything ef you-all doan’.”
At the door she turned again and looked at Ruth as if she would like to
ask a question, but Ruth pretended not to see, and she went out without
speaking.
What Ruth had seen could not be ignored, yet she could not go to Gloria
and tell her that she had deliberately peeked through keyholes,
especially as there was no way of proving that she had seen what she had
seen. George did not practise his rites every night or Amy would have
long since fled in terror. The only thing to do was to try and persuade
Gloria to discharge George for some other cause, or failing that, to
watch an opportunity to show Gloria what she had seen. But perhaps
Gloria already knew. That did not seem exactly probable, but Gloria was
a strange woman and she said that George had been in her service a long
time—before her marriage to Professor Pendragon. Perhaps Professor
Pendragon—
Her thoughts lost themselves in trying to unravel the tangled skein of
Professor Pendragon, Gloria and her marriages, George and his evident
connection with everything. She remembered George’s warning whisper of
the night before. Pendragon might be able to explain everything to her,
but she could not ask him about George without also giving him
information of Gloria, a thing she had promised not to do. The night
before she had thought that she might go direct to Gloria with her story
about George, but in the light of morning it sounded both fantastic and
unreal—as foolish as the fears of the superstitious Amy had seemed
before she, herself, had investigated her wild story.
She would be late to class this morning, for she had waked late and had
dressed slowly with her thoughts. On her way downstairs she passed
Gloria’s room. The door was open and Gloria was sitting up in bed
surrounded by innumerable papers.
“Are you in a hurry?” she called.
“No, not much,” which was true, for being already late, Ruth was
wondering whether it would be worth while to try and attend her first
class.
“Perhaps you can help me out—can’t make anything of all this,” said
Gloria.
“What is it?”
“Bills and my bank account—they don’t seem to match somehow.”
She thrust a mass of papers toward Ruth, who sat down on the side of the
bed and began to look at them. She picked up an assortment of bills,
some of them months old, some of them just arrived, some of them mere
statements of indebtedness, others with pertinent phrases attached
thereto, such as “An immediate settlement will be appreciated.”
Ruth found a pencil and a pad and began to add up the various
amounts—they totalled several thousand dollars. The idea of so much
indebtedness frightened Ruth. All her life she had been accustomed to
paying for things when she got them. Since coming to New York she had
discovered that this was bourgeoise and inartistic, but training and
heredity were stronger than environment with her and she still had a
horror of debt. However, she tried to conceal her surprise.
“Now, if you’ll let me see your check book and your pass book, perhaps
we can discover why they don’t match,” she suggested.
“Here they are—go as far as you like. I never could make anything of
figures, except debts,” said Gloria.
“But you haven’t made out more than half the stubs on your checks—how
can I tell what you’ve spent unless you’ve kept some record of it?
“I don’t know—they balance the book now and then at the bank, but I
don’t know as it’s much use. The truth is I really can’t afford to keep
up this house, even with only two servants.”
“Why don’t you rent it and then get an apartment and let George go and
keep Amy? You could do with one servant in a small apartment and I could
pay half the expense—”
“You could not! I thought I made that quite clear. I can’t have any one
living with me except as a guest—”
“But why?”
“I don’t know why, except that it flatters my vanity. Besides I can’t
give up the house. I’ve got to keep it whether I can afford it or not.
Where would Billie and any number of other people live when they’re out
of work if they didn’t have this big house to come to? I got a note from
Ben Stark yesterday. His company broke up in Saint Louis last week and
he’s coming on here. I wrote that I could put him up until he gets
another engagement.”
“But Gloria, don’t you see that you can’t afford to do that sort of
thing? You’re too generous. No one likes to talk about money, but one
must talk about money—it’s always coming in at the most inopportune
moments and unless we recognize it politely at first it’s sure to show
up at the worst time possible later. You can’t afford to be always
giving and never taking anything from any one. If you’d only let me live
here on a sensible basis—it would make me feel much more comfortable,
and—”
“It would not,” said Gloria. “If I’d known you were going to be sensible
and practical and all that sort of thing, I wouldn’t have asked you to
look at the silly, old bills. And I’m not generous at all. I’m selfish.
Generous people are the sort of people who accept favors
gracefully—people like Billie Irwin and Ben Stark. Besides we aren’t
sure yet. I may have money enough to pay all this—only it’s such a bore
writing checks.”
She smiled cheerfully at the thought.
“I’ll tell you what—I’ll take your book to the bank and have it balanced
and then we can find out just what is wrong, and I’ll take care of it
all for you. I did all that sort of thing for Mother, you know.”
“You’re a dear, and just to show you that I can help myself too I’m
going to do something that I suppose I should have done long ago.”
One of Gloria’s pet extravagances was having telephone extensions in all
the rooms that she herself used. She reached out now to the telephone by
her bed and called a number.
“Is Mr. Davis there?” she asked. “Tell him Miss Mayfield wants to talk
to him.” Then after a pause: “Good morning—you remember you offered me a
contract last week. Is it still open? Send it over and I’ll sign it—
Tomorrow? Yes, I can begin tomorrow. Nine o’clock—that’s awfully early,
but I can do it I suppose if other people do. Yes, thanks. Woman’s
prerogative and I have changed mine. Tomorrow, then— Thank you—
Good-bye.”
“There now, I’ve promised to go to work in the movies and earn some
money. Meantime if you can straighten out my financial puzzle I shall be
most grateful.”
“Have you ever worked in motion pictures before?” asked Ruth.
“No, but we all come to it sooner or later, that is if they’ll take us.
I haven’t any illusions about it. They may not like me at all. Being an
actress on the speaking stage doesn’t always mean that one can make a
picture actress. Half the down and out artists of the spoken drama who
scorn the movies, couldn’t get in if they tried. But if they give me a
contract for a few weeks I’ll have that at least, and then if I’m no
good I won’t have to worry about it any more.”
“Has Miss Irwin an engagement yet?”
“No; but she’s doing her best, poor dear. It’s awfully hard in the
middle of the season. Angela Peyton-Russell is going to give a Christmas
party at their house in the Berkshires. I’ll have her invite you, too.
If I work a few weeks in pictures I’ll be ready for a rest. By the way,
did you see Percy last night?”
Suddenly Ruth had a suspicion that this was the real reason why she had
been called in. Gloria’s tone was almost too casual and she had asked
her question without introduction, abruptly in the middle of other
things.
“Yes, I met him and he’s awfully nice and good looking, but I told him
that I had no relatives and that I am living with friends.”
“He asked then?”
“Yes; I suppose the name made him curious.”
“He isn’t married?”
“If he is his wife was not with him and he didn’t mention her. I’m
almost sure that he’s not.”
“Did he talk about astronomy?”
“No—that is yes—only to say that he’d given it up and art is his latest
fad.”
“Take care you don’t fall in love with him, he’s very fascinating,” said
Gloria, smiling.
“I know—why did you divorce him?”
“How should I know?” Gloria frowned impatiently. “Oh, because he was
quite impossible—as a husband. All men are.”
“I’ll take your book to the bank now. I’ve missed my morning class
anyway,” said Ruth rising. The weight of all the things she knew and
guessed, and did not know, was pressing heavily on her and she longed
for some one to whom she could tell everything and get advice. Obviously
her temperamental aunt was not the one.
At the door she paused again, making one last effort to simplify her
problem.
“Why don’t you discharge George anyway and get another woman? I’m sure
he must be very expensive.”
“You don’t like George, do you?”
“No, I don’t. He’s not like any nigger I ever saw before. Where did he
come from anyway?”
“I don’t know exactly. He is a Hindoo, half-caste I imagine, or he
wouldn’t work as a servant, and I found him in London. It was just
before I married Percy. George had been working in one of the music
halls as a magician and he was ill. I took care of him. His colour
didn’t matter—he was in The Profession, in a way, you know, and when he
got well he offered to work for me and he’s been with me ever since,
about eleven years. I really couldn’t do without George, you know. Percy
didn’t like him either.”
“Why doesn’t he go back into vaudeville? He could make more money.”
“Gratitude, I suppose—anyway, that wouldn’t make very much difference,
and so long as I have any money at all, I shall keep George.”
“How do you know that he is really a Hindoo?” asked Ruth.
“He told me that when I first found him. You’re more curious about
George than Percy was. Percy always said he looked like something come
to life from a pyramid, but George never liked Percy and he won’t like
you if you ask him questions.”
“I shan’t ask him questions.”
“I do wish you hadn’t met Percy—he keeps coming into my mind. Did he
look well?”
“Very well indeed.”
“Happy?”
“That’s more difficult—you know I’d never seen him before, so it would
be hard to tell. If you—why didn’t you let me tell him the truth; then
probably you’d have seen for yourself.”
“No, I wouldn’t. He might have thought that I deliberately tried to see
him. Anyway I don’t want to see him. I was only curious. Don’t speak
about him again, even if I ask. I want to forget him.”
Ruth went out with thoughts more conflicting than before. One moment she
thought she detected in Gloria a sentimental interest in her former
husband; the next she appeared to hate him, and apparently there was no
hope of persuading her to send George away. She went to the restaurant
on Eighth Avenue for lunch, where she met Nels and Dorothy.
“What do you think?” said Nels. “I just heard that Professor Pendragon
is ill—paralysis or something like that, and he certainly looked well
last night. I can’t understand it.”
“The news doesn’t seem to have affected your appetite any,” said
Dorothy.
“Certainly not—must keep up steam. Shouldn’t wonder if that was why he’s
ill. He never eats anything much. One can’t paint greatly unless one
eats greatly.”
“When did he get ill, and how?” asked Ruth.
“When he went home from the show last night—It’s extraordinary because
he’s never been troubled that way and he was quite well just a short
time before.”
Ruth was thinking of George and of all the old tales she had ever heard
of the evil eye and black magic. She was thinking of these things with
one part of her brain, while with another part she scoffed at herself
for being a superstitious, silly fool. If only Amy hadn’t persuaded her
to look through the keyhole.
“I’m going to go and see him tomorrow afternoon,” said Nels. “I’d go
today, but I have to work.”
“Take us with you,” said Dorothy. “He invited us to tea anyway and he
seemed to be interested in Ruth.”
“One can’t go to tea with a paralytic, Dot, besides, he lives in a
hotel, unless they’ve moved him to a hospital. I’ll find out and if it’s
all right of course you can go too.”
“Just look at Ruth, Nels; she looks as concerned as if the dragon were a
dear friend.”
“I’m not at all; it’s just that it’s sudden—and I was thinking of
something else too.”
She was remembering Gloria’s last words about not mentioning Pendragon’s
name again. Here was another piece of information that she must keep to
herself. It was so annoying to be just one person with only one pair of
eyes and ears and only one small brain. If she could only see inside and
know what Gloria was really thinking, what depths of ignorance or
wickedness were concealed behind George’s black brows, what secret
Professor Pendragon knew—and even, yes, it might blight romance, but she
would like to know just what Terry Riordan thought.
Did Gloria love Terry or did her heart still belong to her first
husband? And what of those other two whose names were never mentioned?
If only she could be one of those wonderful detective girls one read
about in magazine stories. How simply she would solve everything.
She found Terry with Gloria when she reached home. They were talking
interestedly as they always did, with eyes for no one else apparently,
and her heart sank. George came in to ask come question about dinner. He
did look like something that had stepped from the carvings on a pyramid.
His fine features were inexpressibly cruel, yet there was something
splendid about him too. He was so tall—taller than Gloria. Tall enough
to play—she stopped affrighted at her unnatural thought.