The other guests had come, so that there were twelve people around the
Christmas Eve dinner table, among them Professor Pendragon, in whose
quiet face Ruth thought she read some new resolve. Surely he must have
some purpose in thus joining the others when he knew that tonight
Gloria’s engagement to Prince Aglipogue would be announced, and when his
illness would have made his absence seem quite plausible. He moved about
so unobtrusively as to make his infirmity almost unnoticed, and now,
seated beside Ruth, she found it difficult to believe that he was really
paralysed. She talked to him of trivial things, ordinary dinner chat, or
listened to the others, wondering within herself what secrets lay behind
those smiling masks of triviality.
If Gloria and Pendragon, who had once been married, could meet thus as
strangers, if she and Terry knowing their secret, or at least a part of
it, could calmly pretend to the world that they did not know, might not
all these other people have secrets, too—old memories that wine would
not drown, meetings and partings whose pleasure or pain even time could
not dim—immortal loves and hates still living, but sealed securely in
coffins of conventionality?
Hundreds of candles flashed against dark walls, stained to a semblance
of old age; bright scarlet holly berries nestled against their green
waxen leaves, and dark, red roses shed their heavy perfume over
everything. The dinner was being a great success, for there were no
awkward lulls in conversation, and, while Ruth in her youth and
innocence did not know it, Angela Peyton-Russell was blessed with an
excellent cook, without whose services the faces of the men present
would not have been so happy. Ruth did not even observe what she ate,
but Prince Aglipogue, upon whose face sat heavy satisfaction, could have
told to the smallest grain of condiment exactly what each dish
contained.
Some one suggested that there were enough people to dance, and Angela,
realizing the advantages of spontaneity in entertainment, eagerly
acquiesced. They would dance for an hour or two after dinner and she
would have her little “show” later; but the guests themselves would have
to supply the music.
The Prince, who could be agreeable when he chose, immediately offered
his services and his violin if Miss Gilchrist would accompany him with
the piano.
It would all be just like an old-fashioned country dance, and “so
delightfully Bohemian,” Angela thought. She was tremendously happy over
the success of her Christmas party, and her husband was tremendously
satisfied because of the success of his beautiful wife in the luxury of
his beautiful home; but Ruth’s heart ached whenever she heard Gloria’s
liquid laughter because there were tears in it, and in the steady fire
of Professor Pendragon’s dark eyes she saw a flame more pitiful than the
funeral pyre of a Sati.
He talked a little, very quietly of trivial things, sometimes to her,
sometimes to the others, and Ruth took courage from his calmness. Only
as the party grew more gay it seemed to her that under all the sparkle
and the gaiety there was a silence louder than the noise, like the heavy
hush that falls on nature before the thunder clap and the revealing
flash have ushered in a storm. So strong was this sense of waiting that
when their host stood with upraised glass, her hand instinctively went
out and rested for a brief second on Professor Pendragon’s arm, as if
she would shield him. Then she saw Terry looking at her, and remembering
what Angela had said to her that afternoon, she quickly withdrew it.
There had been no need to touch him, for Pendragon, like the others at
the table, turned his attention to John Peyton-Russell, listening to his
words as if they held no especial significance for him.
“I want John to make the announcement,” Angela had said. “It gives him
such pleasure to make speeches. He simply adores it.”
Evidently she knew her husband’s tastes, for with the halting words and
awkward phraseology of the man accustomed to addressing nothing gayer
than a board of directors’ meeting, he stumbled at great length and with
obvious self-satisfaction through a speech in which he proposed that
they drink to the approaching marriage of Gloria Mayfield and Prince
Aglipogue.
His words were greeted with enthusiasm by all those to whom they meant
nothing except that a more or less famous actress was to marry a fat
foreign prince. Ruth heard a woman near her whisper to the man at her
right:
“Will this make her third or her fourth?”
And the response:
“I’ve lost count.”
The Prince was responding now—something stilted and elaborate, but Ruth
did not hear. The dinner had become a nightmare. She wanted to escape.
Concealed in the girdle of her frock was the little revolver that Terry
had given her. She could feel its weight, and it comforted her.
Somehow the dinner ended and Ruth with the others followed Angela to a
drawing-room that had been denuded of rugs for dancing. A few months
before Ruth would have thought all these people charming, the women
beautiful, the men distinguished. Now they were repulsive to her. How
could they listen unprotesting to the announcement that Gloria, the
beautiful and good (no power on earth could have persuaded Ruth that
Gloria was not good), was to marry an ugly ogre like Prince Aglipogue?
His fat face wreathed in smiles now, he stood, tucking his violin under
his third chin, and then he played—he played, and even Ruth forgot the
source of the music. It was not Prince Aglipogue that played, but some
slender, dark Hungarian gypsy whose music was addressed to an
unattainable princess, ’neath whose window he stood, bathed in
moonlight. She threw a rose to him and he crushed it against a heart
that broke with joyous pain of loving.
Some little time he played before any one danced; then the insensate
callousness of people who “must be amused” triumphed over the music and
the stupid gyrations of the modern dance which every one had been forced
to learn in self-protection—for those who do not dance must watch, and
the insult to the eyes is too great to be borne.
Perhaps after all the music of Aglipogue’s violin did move them; perhaps
it was only that they had dined too well; perhaps because the company
was so small that twice men found themselves dancing with their own
wives; for any, or all, or none of these reasons, they tired of dancing
early and were ready for Angela’s much-advertised “show.”
Terry had been dancing with Ruth, and she knew that there was something
that he wanted to say to her. She guessed that it was something about
Gloria, but she did not want to talk to Terry about Gloria. He could not
understand and she regretted that she had tried to make him understand.
She could not discuss Gloria with any one, not even Terry. She knew what
she had to do and her whole mind was set on that. If she talked to Terry
his lack of faith would weaken her purpose. She left him now, abruptly,
ignoring the look of reproach in his eyes, and walked beside Professor
Pendragon, who was moving slowly on his crutches, a little behind the
others. She meant to stay close beside him through the rest of the
night.
In the room that had been the scene of the children’s party that
afternoon a stage had been put up—a low platform covered with a black
velvet carpet and divided in half by a black curtain on which the signs
of the Zodiac were embroidered in gold thread. The Christmas tree was
still in the room, but unlighted and shoved away into an obscure corner.
To Ruth it looked pitiful, like an old man, Father Christmas perhaps,
who sat back watching with sorrowful eyes the unchristmas-like
amusements of modern humanity. There was a piano on the stage. For a
woman who was herself “unmusical,” Angela had more pianos in her house
than any one in the world, Ruth decided.
In a semicircle, very close to the stage, chairs had been placed, and
here the company seated themselves, with much more or less witty comment
about what they might expect from behind the mysterious curtain. Behind
them was another row of chairs, which, carrying out Mr. Peyton-Russell’s
“lord of the manor” pose, the household servants had been invited to
occupy. They came, with quiet curiosity, one or two of the maids
stifling yawns that led Ruth to suspect they would much rather have gone
to bed.
The semi-circular arrangement of the chairs made those at the ends of
the row much closer to the stage than those in the centre. On one of
these end chairs sat Professor Pendragon, his crutches resting beside
him on the floor, and next to him sat Ruth. Then came some of the dinner
guests, the other house guests, including Gloria and Prince Aglipogue,
being at the farther end of the row; the room was dimly lighted and the
stage itself had only one light, a ghostly green lamp, seemingly
suspended in the middle of the black curtain, in the shape of a waning
moon. Instinctively voices were hushed and people talked to each other
in whispers. Only Ruth and Professor Pendragon did not speak. She could
not know of what he was thinking, but she knew that in herself thought
was suspended. She sat watching her hand clasping the tiny revolver
concealed in her girdle.
John Peyton-Russell then announced that Miss Gilchrist (if she had a
Christian name no one ever heard it) had consented to recite some of her
own poems. The relaxation of the company, almost visible, was half
disappointment, half relief. The stage set had led them to expect
something unusual, and they were only going to be bored.
Miss Gilchrist seated herself at the piano, on which she accompanied
herself. Ruth did not know if her words were as bad as her music, for
she did not understand them, and from certain whispered comments she
knew that no one else did, with the possible exception of Miss Gilchrist
herself.
Some one else—a pretty, blond young thing with a “parlour voice,” sang
an old English Christmas carol that sounded like sacrilege. Then Prince
Aglipogue sang. Ruth never hated him so much as when he sang because
then as at no other time he created the illusion of an understanding
soul. His painting was obvious trickery; his violin playing of a quality
that did not discredit the composer, for he had been trained to a
parrot-like perfection; but when he sang he created the illusion of
greatness—Purcell, Brahms, Richard Strauss—it did not matter whose music
he sang; one felt that he understood, and it angered Ruth that when she
closed her eyes she forgot the singer and could understand how Gloria
might marry and even love the possessor of this voice.
Aglipogue always maintained that the war had ruined his career. He had
an opera engagement in Germany in 1914, and when the war came he could
not go to fill it. So he had remained in the States, and his amazing
versatility had enabled him to earn a living as an artist. Now the end
of the war had opened new opportunities and he was going to South
America in concert work. Ruth had never quite believed his boasting. She
did not think that any man’s work could be bigger than himself—that any
artist could express something bigger than that contained in his own
soul; and the soul of Prince Aglipogue was a weak, cowardly, hateful
thing. Yet his voice moved her, attracted and repelled, cast a spell
over her, exotic, fascinating, yet sinister as if the music were only a
prelude to the wicked necromancy of the Hindoo that was to follow.
The voice ceased, and Prince Aglipogue, alone of all the company unmoved
by his own voice, resumed his place at Gloria’s side. For a brief
breathing minute no one moved. John Peyton-Russell seemed to have
forgotten his cue. Then he rose and told them that the real surprise was
to come, an exhibition of magic by Karkotaka, a famous Indian Mahatma.
It was the first time that Ruth had ever heard George’s Hindoo name and
she suspected that it was no more his real name than was George. She
thought she remembered an Indian story in which a certain Karkotaka
figured as king of the serpents, a sort of demi-god.
All eyes were on the dark curtain now, but if they expected it to rise
or to be drawn aside they were disappointed. Instead, it parted silently
and Karkotaka, George, glided through, dressed not in the costume of a
Brahman, but of a mediæval prince of India. Instead of a turban he wore
a high jewelled headdress. A single piece of cloth, dark blue in colour
and gemmed with small gold stars, was draped about him, leaving one arm
and shoulder bare, and descending to his feet, which were encased in
jewelled sandals. Even Ruth, who had expected something extraordinary,
gasped as he stood bowing before them. The dignity that had shown even
through his servant’s dress was now one hundred times more apparent. He
moved with a lithe grace as became the king of the serpents, slowly
moving his bare bronze arms until it seemed to Ruth they coiled and
writhed like living snakes. Under his headdress his eyes gleamed more
brightly than the jewels above.
He had come upon the stage with nothing in his hands, and except for the
piano it was empty, certainly empty of all the paraphernalia of
legerdemain. Then, suddenly he held in his hand a small brass bowl. He
made a sign to some one in the back of the room, who had evidently been
detailed to help him, and a servant gave him a carafe of ice water. This
he set down beside the bowl. Then he offered the bowl to the spectators
for examination. Ruth noticed that he was so close to them that it was
not even necessary to step down from the low stage. Two or three men who
“Never saw a trick yet I couldn’t see through” examined the bowl with
sceptical eyes and pronounced it quite ordinary. Then George poured ice
water from the carafe into the bowl and again offered it for inspection.
Several people touched it with their hands and pronounced the water with
which it was quite filled to be ice cold. Then George set the bowl down
before him and covered it with a small silk handkerchief. He waved his
hands over it three times, removed the handkerchief, and they saw steam
rising from the ice water. Again George offered the bowl for inspection.
Terry dipped his fingers into the water and as quickly removed them with
an exclamation of pain. The water was almost too hot to touch.
Then from nowhere appeared the little mound of sand and watering pot
indispensable to any self-respecting Indian fakir. Several people
whispered, “The mango tree—that’s an old one.” Throughout George had not
spoken one word. He seemed to be unconscious of his audience except when
he asked them to examine something. To Ruth there seemed in his studied
leisure a conscious effort to disguise haste. He bent now over the sand,
pouring water on it and pressing it up into a little hillock of mud;
then he covered it with a cloth, beneath which his hands were still
busy. Then he moved away and seemed to be muttering charms. When he
returned and removed the cloth there was the little mango sprout with
its two leathery leaves. Again the plant was covered, next time to
appear several inches tall with more leaves, and so on until it had
reached a height of more than a foot.
It was all very wonderful, as was also the fountain of water that sprang
from the tip of his index finger, until he seemed to chide it, whereupon
it disappeared from his hand and was seen spouting from the top of the
piano. Dissatisfied, he lit a candle and, calling to the water, made it
spring from the candle flame itself. Then he called again, spread out
his arms, and the stream, leaving the still lighted candle, separated
and sprang from his five outspread fingertips.
In an ordinary music hall the people who watched would doubtless have
conceded that it was clever, but here in an ordinary drawing-room in an
ordinary country house in the Berkshires on Christmas Eve, the
performance became something more than legerdemain. It bordered on the
supernatural and they sat silent and fascinated.
Suddenly with an annoyed gesture he threw up his hands, apparently
throwing off the water, which instantaneously began to flow in myriad
streams from his headdress, reminding Ruth of Shiva, who, with his hair,
separated the flow of the sacred river when it came down from the
Himalayas. George removed his headdress, disclosing a close white turban
beneath, and the flow of the fountain died as unceremoniously as it had
begun.
The servant who was standing nearby waiting for his signal now handed
George an ordinary walking stick, which George silently offered for
inspection. After some examination it was agreed that it was a very
ordinary walking stick indeed. George whirled it about his head and
dropped it before his feet—it was a writhing snake. Several women
screamed. Fountains were pretty, but they were in no mood for snakes.
George picked up the snake again and whirled it around his head. It was
an ordinary walking stick, though the men hesitated to re-examine it for
proof.
George balanced the stick on his finger, holding his arm out straight
before him, and it began to writhe and twist, a snake with open, hissing
mouth and darting tongue. He dropped it—the same women screamed again,
then laughed hysterically as they saw the common piece of wood before
them.
“This sort of thing is all very well from a distance, but I don’t really
care for snakes at such close quarters,” Ruth heard some one whisper.
Ruth glanced at Professor Pendragon beside her, but his eyes were fixed
on George. There was an eager light in his eyes as if he, too, were
waiting, and his firm set lips were curved in a smile. Again her hand
sought Terry’s gift. If all these people here were the victims of
hypnotic illusions, she at least must keep one corner of her brain free
and untouched. Pendragon’s presence there was proof that he had decided
to fight, and she must help him. In the semi-darkness of the room she
could not see Gloria, but she heard her laughter like thin bells over
snow-covered hills—it seemed to echo round the room, and she fancied
that George, bending over the task of clearing away the things with
which he had been working, winced as he heard it, as if the frost of her
mirth had bitten into his heart.
The stage was all clear again now, and he bowed deeply before them three
times. There was a restless movement among the watchers. Perhaps they
thought this was the end, but Ruth waited, her heart high up in her
throat and standing still with fear that she would somehow fail to do
the thing she had decided upon.
George moved slowly backward toward the curtain and parted it with his
two hands, still facing them. Then reaching back he grasped a heavy
object behind him and dragged it into the centre of the stage, the
curtains closing behind him. He stood back now and they could see what
looked like a large ebony chest. He knelt before it, and Ruth could see
that there was more of reverence than utility in his attitude, as he
lifted the deep lid that seemed to divide the chest in half. Before her
eyes she saw forming the altar she had twice seen before. The side of
the lifted top made a wide platform. It was there that _It_ would lie.
From a compartment in the lifted half he took an antique lamp, which he
set on what now looked like the base of the altar. Ruth had removed the
revolver from her girdle—the cold metal saved her from screaming aloud
as George lit the lamp—a pale blue flame from which, on the instant,
heavy, odorous spirals of smoke began to rise, filling the silent room
with the insidious perfume of idolatry. For a moment the smoke seemed to
blind her eyes. Then she saw—