The entire régime of the house on Gramercy Square had been changed.
Instead of rising at eleven o’clock Gloria now left the house shortly
after eight, to be at the motion picture studios in New Jersey at nine,
so that Ruth seldom saw her before dinner time. The balancing of
Gloria’s bank book disclosed that she had been living at a rate far in
excess of her income—news that did not seem to trouble Gloria at all.
“I’ll make it all up again in a few weeks now that I’m working,” she
said. “If you’ll only write out a book full of checks for my poor, dear
creditors, I’ll sign them and then you can mail them out and everything
will be lovely—for a few months at least.”
“Yes, but don’t you think you ought to regulate your expenditures
according to your assured income, Gloria? You know you aren’t always
working,” said Ruth.
“I can’t be troubled with that now. Wait until I get tangled up
again—something always happens, and nothing could be worse than the
pictures; regular hours like a shopgirl, and no audience.”
Ruth returned from school to find Gloria not yet home and the
drawing-room empty, except perhaps for Billie Irwin and Ben Stark, a
tall, good-natured youth, who had followed hard upon his letter and who
was perpetually asking Ruth to go to theatres with him, where he had
“professional courtesy” due to having worked on Broadway the season
before. If Ruth refused, as she sometimes did, he cheerfully turned his
invitation to Billie Irwin, seemingly as pleased with her society as
with that of the younger woman.
It troubled Ruth to think of them all, herself and Miss Irwin and Ben
Stark, all living here as if Gloria had unlimited wealth, while Gloria
went out every morning to uncongenial work to keep up with the expenses
of her too large ménage. Only that morning Amy had complained to her of
having so many breakfasts to prepare for people who rose whenever they
pleased and never remembered to make her any presents. If only George
would grow dissatisfied—but he never seemed weary of serving Gloria’s
impecunious guests, and if he was still engaged in midnight orgies of
enchantment Ruth could not know. She dared not repeat the keyhole
experiment. She wished that she had not taken Amy upstairs to sleep;
then she would have had a spy below stairs. It was foolish of her to
connect Professor Pendragon’s illness with George, but she could not
help it. If she could only have some other opinion to go by—or perhaps
when she had seen Professor Pendragon again, her illusion would be
dispelled. Nels Zord had talked with him over the telephone and
Professor Pendragon had made light of his illness and said he would be
glad to have Nels and the two girls come and have tea with him the
following Thursday. He said he was not going to a hospital and hoped to
be quite well when they came. If he was well then Ruth could laugh at
her superstitious fears. Thursday was a good day for all of them because
there was no lecture Thursday afternoon and they could all leave the Art
Students’ League at half-past four and go together to Professor
Pendragon’s hotel.
The idea of visiting a man in his hotel, even a man of forty who was
ill, and in company with two other people did not seem quite proper to
Ruth, but she did not say anything about it, having acquired the habit
of taking customs and conventions as she found them. Nevertheless she
was quite relieved to find that Professor Pendragon had a suite and that
they were ushered into a pleasant room with no hint either of sickness
or sleep in it. She even took time to wonder where the prejudice against
sleeping rooms as places of ordinary social intercourse first
originated.
Professor Pendragon met them, leaning on a crutch, one foot lifted in
the attitude of a delightful, old stork.
“It’s really kind of you to come,” he said, after he had made them all
comfortable. “You know I have hundreds of acquaintances but very few
friends, as I have discovered since I became a victim of the evil eye.”
Ruth could not restrain a start of surprise and he looked at her, his
dark eyes wrinkling with mirth.
“So you know about the evil eye?” he questioned.
“No, I don’t. Only I suppose the phrase startled me. What really is the
matter?”
“I don’t know and neither do the doctors apparently; that’s why I call
it the evil eye. I came home from the show that night and went to sleep
like a good Christian with a quiet conscience, but when I woke I found
that my right leg was paralysed to the knee. It was the dark of the moon
that night. I know because I always think in more or less almanacal
terms—that would be when the evil eye would be most effective, you know;
and I’m waiting for the full moon to see if I will not be cured as
mysteriously as I have been afflicted.”
Nels and Dorothy were listening with puzzled eyes, not quite knowing
whether Professor Pendragon was jesting or in earnest.
“You mean all maniacal terms, if you believe such rubbish,” said Nels,
“and you need a brain specialist, not a doctor.”
“I think that’s our tea at the door, if you’ll please open it for me,
Nels, and I promise not to talk about the evil eye in the presence of
such moderns as you and Miss Winslow again.”
“Why don’t you include Ruth in that?” asked Dorothy, as Nels rose to
open the door.
“Because Miss Mayfield is not a modern at all; she belongs to the dark
middle ages.”
“I’m afraid I’m a bit superstitious,” admitted Ruth, and then hoping to
test his sincerity, for he had spoken throughout with a smile, and also
to throw, if possible, some light on the uncanny suspicions that
troubled her—“Even if you did believe in the evil eye, who would want to
harm you?”
“Please do stop,” said Dorothy. “You’re spoiling my tea with your
gruesome talk. Where’s the picture that Nels was to point out and advise
you about hanging?”
“That is, perhaps, a more wholesome topic, but we were only joking, Miss
Mayfield and I.”
“I’ve found the picture already,” exclaimed Nels—“the one with the fat
Bacchus—you see I picked it out of all the others—I don’t blame you for
buying it; it’s delightful humour, depicting Bacchus as a modern
business man, fat and bald, yet clad in a leopard skin with grape vines
on his head, and tearing through the forest with a slim, young nymph in
his arms—it’s grotesque and fascinating.”
“I thought you’d approve,” said Professor Pendragon. “Now where shall we
hang it?”
“It’s all right where it is, unless you have a larger picture to hang
there.”
“Now, while you’re unable to walk around, why don’t you sit for a
portrait—you’ll never have another time when the sittings will be less
irksome. I’d come here and Ruth could come with me as a chaperon, not
that I need one, but we might as well be perfectly proper when it’s just
as pleasant—you know,” she continued, slightly embarrassed by the smiles
on the faces of Nels, Professor Pendragon, and Ruth. “I’m not looking
for a commission at all; I just want to paint you because you will make
an interesting subject, and because, if I can hang you—I mean get your
picture hung in the Academy, I will get real commissions, just because
you sat for me. Now I’ve been perfectly frank,” she finished.
Pendragon held out his hand to her, laughing:
“Any of those numerous reasons ought to be enough,” he said, “and if my
infirmity lasts long enough, I’ll be glad to have you come and help me
kill time.”
“Better start before next dark of the moon,” said Ruth mischievously.
“That gives you only ten more days,” said Pendragon.
“You don’t really believe in those things?”—Dorothy’s blue eyes were
wide with distress—“Please tell me the truth; Nels, they’re just
teasing, aren’t they?”
“Of course, you know they are; don’t be a silly goose, Dot,” said Nels.
“I know they are, but even if they don’t believe in all they say, they
believe in something that I don’t understand, now, don’t you?—confess.”
She turned to Ruth, but it was Pendragon who answered.
“If mind is stronger than matter, and most of us believe that now, then
an evil thought has power over matter just as surely as a good thought
has power, and the power of the evil thought will continue until it is
dispelled by good thought. There if you like is black and white magic. I
believe that there are people in the world so crushed by fear and
wickedness that every breath of their bodies and every glance of their
eyes is a blight on all who come near them, and I believe that there are
people who are so fearless and good that where they walk, health and
happiness spreads round them as an aura, as sunlight on every life that
touches them. Does that satisfy you, Miss Dorothy?”
“Oh yes, that’s very beautiful, I’m sure,” said Dorothy, looking a bit
uncomfortable as if she had been listening to a sermon. “When will you
let me come for your first sitting?”
“Sunday morning if you like; that won’t interfere with your classes, and
it’s a good day for me too, because I am duller than usual on Sunday.”
As they were leaving, Ruth lingered for a moment.
“If you did have an enemy who was trying to harm you, what would you do,
Professor Pendragon?” she asked.
“Evil works like good, can only be accomplished with faith; if I had an
enemy, I would destroy his faith in his own power,” he answered.
Ruth found the entire family, as Gloria called her household, assembled
when she reached the house on Gramercy Park. Terry Riordan was among
them.
“Please, Ruth, won’t you go to the theatre with Terry tonight? He has a
perfect passion for first nights, but as an honest working woman I need
my rest and I’m too tired to go tonight,” said Gloria.
“I’d like to, but—” Ruth glanced in the direction of Ben Stark.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” said that youth. “The fact that you have refused me
three times won’t make any difference. I’m accustomed to such treatment
from the fair sex.”
“Why don’t you come with us?” said Terry. “I have three tickets and
intended taking both Gloria and Ruth if they would go.”
“Please, Miss Ruth, will you let me go with you? I’ll walk a few paces
in the rear and be a good little boy,” said Ben. “You really must be
kind to me, because I’m going into rehearsals for another trip to the
coast with a company that will probably go at least as far as Buffalo.
You’ll miss my cheery smile when I am far away.”
“Then we’ll all go together,” agreed Ruth, rather annoyed that Terry
should have suggested that Ben go with them. Evidently he considered her
too young to be an interesting companion and would be glad to have
another man to talk to. It was perhaps for this reason that when they
started out she directed most of her smiles and conversation to the
erstwhile neglected Ben, making that young man beam with pleasure, while
Terry seemed not to observe his neglected state at all.
“What’s wrong, old chap? You are as solemn as an owl and you ought to be
as happy as larks are supposed to be, with a real, honest-to-goodness
show on Broadway,” said Ben.
“It’s going off next week,” said Terry. “It’s been nothing but a paper
house for a week, and they’re going to try it on the road; I don’t seem
to have the trick or the recipe for success.”
“I’m so sorry; perhaps it will go well on the road,” said Ruth.
“Don’t feel sorry; it doesn’t matter very much; I’ll write another. A
man must do something and if I grow very successful I might be tempted
to stop.”
“Yes, one must play some game; that’s what Professor Pendragon says.”
“That’s right, you met Gloria’s husband, didn’t you? What’s he like?”
“Very nice; I’ll tell you later all about it.”
They were entering the theatre now and Ruth wanted to talk to Terry
about Professor Pendragon when no one else was listening. Ben Stark was
a jarring note that precluded absolute revealment of her hopes and
fears. Nevertheless she forgot to be annoyed at his presence in the
theatre for he amused her with his comments about people on and off the
stage and Terry was strangely silent. The play was a particularly inane
bit of fluff and seemed to be making a great hit. Ruth could imagine the
trend of his thoughts, the discouragement attendant upon doing his best
and seeing it fail, and watching the success of an inferior endeavour,
yet she envied him, for he at least believed in his own work, and the
more she studied and compared her work with that of other students, the
more a creeping doubt of her own ability filled her brain.
“I need cheering up! Won’t you go to supper with me?” he asked as they
passed out of the theatre.
His invitation was addressed to both Ben and Ruth, but Ben, with motives
which Ruth understood only too well begged off.
“You know I have to report for rehearsals tomorrow morning, if you don’t
mind I’ll run along.”
He evidently thought that Terry would like to be alone with Ruth, and
Ruth, realizing his mistake, was yet too timid to protest, even had she
not secretly desired to be alone with Terry. She had never gone to
supper with a man alone. It would be an adventure, and the fact that she
loved the man even though he did not know or care, made it even more
thrilling. She bethought herself of her costume and wished that she were
in evening clothes.
“I think I’d better take you some place near home,” said Terry. “If we
use a cab we can save time, and there won’t be so many people downtown
and we’ll be served quicker. I feel a bit guilty about keeping you out
late.”
“I’m not a child,” said Ruth, pouting.
“I know you’re not, but you are—you’ll always be one, I hope.”
She was about to ask why, but they were entering a cab now and she did
not ask. She wanted to ask where they were going, but she did not ask
that either. She found herself with Terry afflicted with a strange
inability to talk. They rode almost in silence to Fourteenth Street and
entered a most disappointing place.
Ruth’s idea of supper after the theatre was a place of soft lights and
music with beautifully dressed women and flowers, and sparkling wine.
She didn’t want to drink the sparkling wine herself or even to wear the
beautiful gowns, but she wanted to see them.
The place they entered was a low ceiled, dark paneled room with no music
visible or audible. There were white spread tables, but the women around
them were far from beautiful, the men undistinguished in the
extreme—matrons on the heavy order with men who were quite obviously,
even to Ruth’s untrained gaze, their lawful spouses. Both men and women
were giving more attention to their food, than to their companions and
they were drinking—beer.
“It’s quiet here and we can talk,” said Terry, quite oblivious to Ruth’s
disappointment, but when they were seated he did not talk.
“Tell me about the new comedy you’re writing,” said Ruth, remembering
the axiom that it is always tactful to talk to a man about his own work.
“No; I want to forget my work and myself. Let’s gossip. Tell me about
Gloria’s husband.”
In this Ruth thought she detected the interest of a jealous suitor.
“Professor Pendragon is very charming and very clever and good looking.
He is taller than Gloria, and apparently has no particular vocation, for
he has given up astronomy. His interest in art he calls a fad; he lives
alone in a suite in the Belton Hotel and about ten days ago he became
mysteriously paralysed—his right leg up to the knee. That’s all I know,”
said Ruth, “except that he’s one of the most fascinating men I’ve ever
seen and I can’t understand why any woman would ever give him up. He’s
almost as wonderful as Gloria herself. I’d like to say that he is ugly
and old and disagreeable for your sake, but he isn’t.”
Terry looked at her uncomprehendingly for a moment and then ignored her
inference if he understood it at all.
“That’s a lot of information to have collected all about one person,” he
said. “They say it was a great love match and that they disagreed over
some trifle. They met and were married in London and Gloria got a
divorce in Paris less than a year later. Curious his turning up just
now.”
“Why just now?” asked Ruth.
“Because Gloria is a woman who must at all times have some absorbing
interest, and recently she hasn’t had one and it’s telling on her. She
has fits of moodiness, and wild ideas that she never carries out—like
the proposed sudden trip to Palm Beach. Two years ago when I first met
Gloria she would have gone. If only I could finish my comedy and make it
a real success with Gloria in the star rôle—”
“You would really like to do things for Gloria,” said Ruth.
“Yes; I’m awfully fond of her. She’s been my friend and has helped me
ever since I first met her.”
“Then, please, can’t you persuade her to get rid of George?”
There was an intense appeal in Ruth’s voice that surprised Terry more
than her request.
“Why? How would that help her?”
“I can’t explain it exactly. There are several reasons. One is that
Gloria has been living quite beyond her income—I suppose I shouldn’t
tell these things even to you, but I am worried about her and perhaps
you can help—and she simply refuses to give up her big house because it
serves as a refuge for professional people, friends of hers, out of an
engagement. Of course all these people think that Gloria has unlimited
means or they wouldn’t come. She won’t even let me help her, though I
could quite easily. It’s because she really needs money that she’s gone
to work in motion pictures. I imagine that George is an expensive
servant and I thought if we could make her discharge him, she could get
some one else for less money. Of course that wouldn’t make much
difference in her expenses—I understand that—but it would be a start.
It’s a lot of small economies that count, you know,” she said gravely.
“I had no idea that Gloria didn’t have lots of money. Her second husband
was Darral Knight, a man who had made a fortune in toilet preparations.
It was he who gave her the house on Gramercy Square. Then she married
Brooks Grosvenor and he settled an income on her when they were
divorced. I always supposed that it was ample. Certainly from what I’ve
heard of the man he would have it fixed so that she could not get
anything but the income, and even that would be forfeited if she married
again.”
“The income isn’t large, not really large enough to afford such a big
house, and Gloria has gone in debt a lot and now she’s working to pay it
off. You see she’d have enough money if she would consent to live
differently.”
“But Gloria is not the sort of person who will ever live differently. I
have often wondered how she got by in such a big house with perpetual
guests and only two servants, but I suppose she just didn’t want to
bother with any more. But that isn’t the reason you want her to get rid
of George, is it? It really wouldn’t make any appreciable difference,
would it?”
“No—there are other reasons too, but I’m afraid to tell you.”
“Something you don’t like to put into words?”
Ruth nodded.
“I think I know. I’ve thought of it myself and I don’t like to put it
into words either, but I will, so that we can understand each other
perfectly—a necessary thing if we are to help Gloria.” He paused looking
at her, and seemingly trying to gather courage for what he was about to
say.
“You think that George is in love with his mistress.”
Ruth’s horrified face revealed that Terry had put into words something
quite foreign to anything in her thoughts.
“Don’t look so horrified, it sounds terrible to us—it is terrible, but
you must remember that George is a Hindoo, not a nigger, and that he is
well educated, and that in many parts of the world, the idea of a black
man loving a white woman is not so repugnant as it is here. I wouldn’t
admit it for a long time myself, but it’s the only plausible explanation
of a lot of things. Perhaps Gloria has told you that when she first met
George he was a magician mahatma, who had been playing in London music
halls and that he had been out of work for some time on account of
illness. Out of gratitude, apparently, he offered to serve her. Later
when he had quite recovered his health he could easily have gone back to
his former work, but he didn’t go, though regardless of what Gloria pays
him, it must be much less than he could make on the stage. If you’ve
observed too, you will have seen that his attitude, while quite
respectful, is never the attitude of a servant, and toward Gloria’s men
friends his attitude is almost offensively disrespectful, especially
when she is not present. He even hates me. I’ve thought for a long time
that she ought to get rid of him, but I can’t go to her and tell her
what I think, for certainly Gloria doesn’t suspect anything like that.”
During this explanation, Ruth, recovered from the first shock of his
words, was thinking rapidly. All her fears and superstitions came back
one hundred fold in the light of Terry’s revelation. They gave reason
and purpose to what she had seen and what she had suspected. She debated
in her mind whether she dare tell everything to Terry.
“But evidently you had something else in mind—some other reason,” he
continued. “What was it?”
She looked at his grey blue eyes and brown hair, his clear, fair skin
and firm chin—he was Western of the West—he would never understand or
believe.
“Nothing,” she answered. “I suppose it’s just that I sensed what you
have said, without ever daring to put it into words even in my own
thoughts. Couldn’t you try and tempt George back on to the stage?”
“I don’t know—I couldn’t, because he doesn’t like me, but I might get
some one else to do it, that is if he hasn’t forgotten all his old
tricks. Eleven years is a long time, you know.”
“Oh, he hasn’t—” but she decided not to finish her sentence.
The restaurant was almost deserted now, and Terry bethought himself,
with many apologies, of his resolve not to keep Ruth out too late. He
would have hurried into another cab, but Ruth protested that it was such
a short distance and she wanted to walk. In reality she thought that in
the darkness when she could not see his face so clearly she might find
the courage to tell him. Yet she walked silent by his side, unable to
speak. She was lost in the wonder of being alone with him—he was so tall
and wonderful. She looked up at the stars and gratitude filled her
heart. It was good to love, even when love was unreciprocated. She
pitied women who had never loved, as she did, unselfishly—a love more
like adoration than earthly passion. She wanted to help Terry and
Gloria. She would rejoice in their marriage. If she could only solve
their problems, she would not care what life held for her after that. It
was an exalted mood for a girl of nineteen years, some months and days,
and Terry, all unsuspecting, broke into it with words:
“I wish we could arrange to have Gloria and Professor Pendragon meet
again,” he said. “Pendragon was the big love of her life, and no man
ever having once loved Gloria could possibly be quite free of her sway.
She made the other marriages just for excitement, I think. I can’t
imagine any other reason. I’d like to have them meet again. It would be
interesting to say the least. I’m horribly unmodern, but I believe that
men and women love once and once only.”
It seemed to Ruth that there was a note of sad resignation and generous
resolve in his voice.
“But I’ve promised Gloria that I will not let him know anything about
her. It’s very generous of you to want to—to bring them together.”
For a moment Terry did not speak. He seemed to be considering her words
and looked at her in a curious way that she did not understand.
“It’s not generosity—perhaps only curiosity,” he said. “Gloria and I
have been such good friends—and I am tremendously fond of her. She is so
beautiful and charming and talented, but just now I think she needs
something, some one, bigger than her work.”
They had reached home, Ruth in a state of exalted pain and happiness.
Terry loved Gloria; that was evident, but for some reason he did not
hope to win her. With noble generosity he was hoping only for Gloria’s
happiness—planning to bring her and Professor Pendragon together.
Somehow it seemed that she and Terry were sharing sacrifice—he his love
for Gloria, she her love for him. It gave her a feeling of sweet
comradeship with him, that almost compensated for the pain of knowing
that he did not love her. Perhaps behind her thoughts too there was the
faint hope that if Gloria went back to her first husband, Terry might
change the object of his affections, but this thought was only half
defined, for at nineteen the idea of a man loving twice is very
inartistic. To Ruth all real love was of the _Abelard and Heloise, Paul
and Virginia_ type.
Thus she thought in silence while Terry waited for her to unlock the
door. The door opened to her key and she turned to say good-night to
him, when her nostrils caught the overpowering perfume of some strange
incense, and in the hall she saw the same blue haze that she had seen
that night when she found Amy on the stairs. Terry, too, had smelled the
incense, and paused, looking at her for explanation. Her heart was
beating at a tremendous rate. Here was the opportunity that she had been
seeking to secure an unbiased witness. She put her finger to her lips in
sign of silence, as Amy had done that night, and drew him with her into
the hall. Then she closed the door silently behind them. Without knowing
why he imitated her example in silence. Inside the hall was heavy with
the blue smoke and the perfume that seemed to be smothering them.
“Now I can show you why I want Gloria to send George away. He’s
downstairs now, I think,” she was speaking in a low whisper. “I want you
to see for yourself. I haven’t dared to tell any one for fear they
wouldn’t believe. He’s down there,” she pointed. “Don’t knock or let him
know you’re coming—I want you to see everything. Perhaps—I know it
sounds a terrible thing to do, but if you could just look through the
keyhole—”
She stopped abruptly, seeing Terry’s look of amazement at such a
request.
“Believe me—it is better to do that—just look once and you’ll
understand.”
She moved toward the rear of the house, tiptoeing noiselessly and
beckoning him to follow. At the top of the short flight of steps she
stopped again.
“Down there, behind that door,” she whispered.
As one preparing to dispel the foolish fears of a nervous woman, Terry
advanced down the steps, yet such was the influence of the hour, the
strange incense and Ruth’s manner that he walked softly. Ruth followed
him, but at the bottom Terry did not bend down to look through the
keyhole. Before Ruth’s frightened eyes he put his hand to the handle of
the door, which swung inward at his touch.
A deeper blue haze than that above filled the room into which they
looked. In the centre of the room George was kneeling—about his head a
white turban was wound and he was wrapped in a long, black robe on which
the signs of the zodiac were picked out in gold thread. Before him was
placed an altar, which rose in a series of seven steps. At the bottom a
lamp was burning with a blue flame, from which the clouds of incense
were rising, almost obscuring what lay coiled on the topmost step which
spread into a flat platform—an enormous serpent coiled, with its head
lifted from the centre of the mass and swaying from side to side,
seemingly in accompaniment to a low monotonous chant that George was
singing, while he too swayed back and forth, for some moments seeming
not to know that the door had been opened. Ruth could not understand the
words of the chant, but from the tone they sounded like an invocation.
George was praying to his reptile! Suddenly, as if he had just seen
them, he lifted his hands and his voice rose, and the snake reared its
head far into the air, so that they could see its darting, forked
tongue. Then as George’s voice suddenly stopped on a high note the snake
subsided again, and George rose to his feet and greeted them.
“Good evening,” he said, “I was just practising my box of tricks. You
know I used to be a professional magician and Miss Mayfield has asked me
to accompany her to the Christmas party in the country to help entertain
the guests of the Peyton-Russells. The snake is quite harmless,” he
continued, picking it up on both hands and dropping it over his
shoulders. “Would you like to touch it?”
“Oh, no, no,” said Ruth, drawing back and instinctively clutching
Terry’s arm. Terry did not accept the invitation either, but to Ruth’s
surprise he seemed to accept George’s explanation of the strange scene
as truth.
“We were attracted by the smell of the incense,” he explained, “thought
it might be fire and we’d better investigate.”
“Certainly, quite right.” Never had George’s voice sounded so silky and
lisping and sinister. He stood quite still, seemingly waiting for them
to go, the snake coiled round his shoulders. Ruth was only too glad to
make her escape and Terry followed her. In the hall he turned to her
smiling.
“No wonder you were frightened if that’s what you saw, but you see it’s
quite all right—Gloria knows about it and it hasn’t any significance. Of
course snakes aren’t pleasant things to have in the house, but this one
is harmless, so I hope it won’t disturb your sleep.”
“Do you believe what George said,” she asked.
“Of course, why not?”
“Because I don’t. He may be practising tricks for the Christmas
party—that may be true, but there was no trick to what we saw just
now—the snake was real, and the altar and the incense—and George was
praying—he was praying to that snake.”
“Even so,” said Terry. “We’re not missionaries that we should try to
convert the heathen. I don’t care how many snake worshippers there are
in New York.”
“It isn’t that, Terry—I know it sounds weird, but the night I saw him
before, was the night Professor Pendragon was stricken with paralysis—”
She stopped frightened by the lack of comprehension in Terry’s face.
“Don’t you see if George will worship a snake, he is the sort of person
who will pray calamities on his enemies. If he loves Gloria, then he
hates Professor Pendragon, because he is the only man Gloria has loved.
When Pendragon’s name was first mentioned, you remember the Sunday
morning I got the card to the water colour show, George was even more
concerned than Gloria, and when I went he warned me to be careful what I
said. I believe that he is responsible for Pendragon’s illness.”
Comprehension had dawned in Terry’s face, but with it Ruth could see a
tolerant incredulity and a wonder that she could believe such nonsense.
“It’s reasonable enough that George hates Pendragon, but even if he does
hate him and even if he was actually praying for him to be harmed, that
doesn’t give a prop snake the power to carry out his wishes.”
“It isn’t the snake; it’s the power of George’s concentrated thought.”
“Thoughts can’t harm people,” said Terry.
“But they can—thoughts are things and evil thoughts are as powerful as
good ones.”
She could almost see the thoughts passing through Terry’s brain. He was
looking at her, assuring himself that she really was sane and had been
up to this night quite normal, almost uninterestingly normal, and even
while she tried to make her beliefs clear she was conscious of a feeling
of exultation because for the first time she was actually interesting
the man.
“I’ve heard of Indian fakirs who could paralyse parts of their own
bodies so that knives could be thrust into them without causing the
slightest pain, but I never heard of one who exercised such power over
another person, but even if that were possible how would it help to send
George away? If Gloria sent him away, he could still keep on thinking
and worshipping snakes, too, for that matter,” he said, smiling.
“Professor Pendragon told me that if he had an enemy who was trying to
harm him, he would try and destroy that enemy’s faith in his ability to
harm. What we must do is destroy the snake first. George worships the
snake or some power of which the snake is a symbol. Either way if we
destroy the snake we destroy George’s confidence in his ability to
harm.”
“I haven’t any objections to killing snakes. In my opinion that’s what
the horrid beasts were created for, but this particular snake is
probably very valuable—he belongs to the profession and everything.”
“Please don’t jest about it, Terry; it may be a matter of life and
death. If I hear that Professor Pendragon is worse instead of better
tomorrow, I will be sure. Then we must do something before it is too
late. You must promise to help me.”
She laid her hand on his arm and looked up at him with such genuine fear
and entreaty in her eyes that for a moment he understood and sympathized
with all of her beliefs.
“Of course I’ll help,” he promised, “but now I’d best go, and you must
go to bed and try not to dream of snakes.”