Lukundoo and Other Stories

by Edward Lucas White

  “Fool custom!” said Buck.

  Just then Leslie came out and joined us. She had been attending to her household duties, or giving orders about breakfast, or entertaining a boarder or something like that.

  After she was settled next Rex she said: “I had a letter from Pake this morning. He says there are some fine girls down there in Rio. Says he has had no end of fun with them. He must have been in a good humor when he wrote that letter. It's a long letter and very funny. He tells how he pretended to make love to a girl, just to annoy a fool of a dude who was always making eyes at her, how at first the dude was mad, how he saw the joke and behaved real sensibly. Pake says they got to be real good friends. He tells it all very well. I'll read it to you to-morrow.”

  Leslie was bubbling with merriment, as unconscious as possible and very girlish. But about the rest of us the atmosphere seemed to tingle. I could feel, as it were, the spiritual tension. Buck asked, thickly:

  “Did he tell you the fellow's name?”

  “No,” said Leslie cheerfully. “He never mentioned his name. But he says they are real good friends.”

  Just then the banjo party on the little bridge stood up. We heard cheerful greetings and recognized Mattie's voice. She had strolled over on foot, her home being a very short distance down the road.

  She came up on the porch, a big, solid matronly young woman. I caught a glimpse of her plump face as the lamplight through the open doorway struck on her, her brown eyes smiling merrily.

  Buck sat down on the porch floor, his feet on the steps, his back against a pillar. Mattie took his chair. She also took charge and control of the conversation.

  “Alf drove to Hagerstown right after supper,” she said. “He ought to be back soon. I told him I was coming over here and he'll come right here when he comes out.”

  This was in answer to my query.

  “I had a letter from Pake this morning,” she went on. “He says he's got a new office that suits him perfectly. He says he didn't need as much room as he had, so he's taken desk room only in the office of a friend of his, some kind of Brazilian name, I couldn't spell and can't pronounce it. He says it's a dandy place on the third floor, big, high room, plenty of floor space to move about in and nice fellows at the other desks. It's bright and cool and airy, three big French windows open down to the floor.”

  Then, quite suddenly, as she paused, I felt the Alders enveloped in an atmosphere of tragedy and gloom. The Hibbards excelled in self-control; not one of them uttered a sound. There was a long silence. I could hear the ripple of the brook. The first rays of the late moon, just clearing the top of the Blue Ridge, struck through the maples.

  Anna spoke first: “Have you that letter with you, Mattie?”

  “Yes,” Mattie replied cheerfully. “I brought it along.”

  “Give it to me,” Anna said; “Billy and I will try to make out that name.”

  “Billy can do it, I'll bet,” spoke Mattie brightly.

  Anna, the letter in her hand, stood up. “Come on, Billy,” she said.

  I went.

  I was surprised at her asking me instead of Brundige. I had never been intimate with Anna. Susie I had known well and Mattie better, but Leslie, in the old days, had merely smiled and seldom spoken, so that I could not tell whether she liked me or not, while Anna had seemed to avoid me.

  I should have expected her to call Brundige, for Tom had been in Rio longer than I, and much more recently.

  She stood by the refrigerator in the back hall by the side door and leaned against it, her brown hair almost golden against the lamp that stood on the refrigerator.

  “I daren't look at the letter,” she said. “You read it, Billy.” I found the name and it was Orodoff Guimaraes. Also, at the end of the letter he told Mattie to write to him at his office address, Rua de Alfandega, 49A.

  “Come!” said Anna, in a fierce whisper.

  I followed her through the side door and out into the tepid windless moonlight. She made for the barn.

  The atmosphere of gloom and tragedy deepened about us. The moonlight seemed weird and ghastly, the shadows of the trees grim and menacing, the silence like that of a graveyard.

  Anna leaned against the barnyard gate. “Could I send a cablegram to Rio de Janeiro for thirty dollars?” she queried. “A long one for less,” I said. “When I was down there the rates were sixty-five cents a word. That's many years ago. The rates can't be over half that now. You could cable a letter for thirty dollars.”

  “I have three ten-dollar bills,” she said. “Barton gave them to me for emergencies just before I left Washington.”

  “I have more than that in my pocket,” I said. “Between us we are sure to have more than enough.”

  “Do you suppose,” she asked, “that I could send a cable from Jonesville this late Saturday night?”

  “We might try,” I said.

  “If we can't,” she pressed me, “will you drive into Hagerstown with me “Yes,” I promised.

  “Oh,” she said, “I can't bear it. I can see him lying dead on those cruel paving stones. I can't bear it.”

  I remembered that, just as Rex and Leslie had been inseparable all through their childhood, so Anna and Pake had been comrades from the cradle on. I said nothing.

  “Can you hitch up without the lantern?” she demanded. “Has the stable been altered?” I asked.

  “Not a bit,” she said.

  In fact my hand in the dark found in the same places what might have been the same hickory harness-pegs and on them what seemed like the same old sets of harness.

  “Which stall?” I asked.

  “Laddie's old stall,” she directed me; “call her Nell.” I harnessed the mare and led her out to the carriage shed. Anna climbed into the buggy. I opened the gate into the grove and closed it after she had driven through. At the far end of the grove I got out of the buggy again and let down the bars. After I had put them up and was at last in the buggy she handed the reins to me.

  “Nell can trot,” she said.

  Nell trotted, the snaky black shadows lay inky dark across the road. We tore past Grotto station. We neared Jonesville. I had no sense of ineptitude or futility in what we were trying to do. I did not feel I was on a wild goose chase. I did not feel absurd. I took our errand most seriously. We were on our way to warn Fake against the devilish machinations of a fiend who had contrived and compassed three ingenious murders. We were racing against time to warn him before it was too late. I was wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement over the gravity and urgency of our mission.

  We found the telegraph operator still awake. We persuaded him to do as we asked. Anna wrote and I amended till we agreed on:

  “Change your office immediately. Do not enter it again on any account. Get another office at once. Act instantly; this is a matter of life and death. Explanations by letter.

  “ANNA.”

  When the cablegram was sent off we drove homeward, at Nell's natural pace, which was not slow.

  We felt only partly relieved.

  A dozen times Anna sighed: “I hope we were in time; oh, I hope we were in time!” The atmosphere of gloom and tragedy pursued us as we returned, enveloped the Alders when again we were seated on the porch.

  Hardly were we seated when Mattie's husband came. I had heard he had been consumptive, but had recovered completely. He looked to me like a dying man; haggard, gray-checked, sunken-eyed, trembling. He greeted people like a sleep-walker.

  As soon as greetings were over he said: “Buck, I want to talk business to you a moment.” Buck stood up. He had the Hibbard faculty of intuition and unexpectedness. I was used to both, of old. But I was very much astonished when he pinched me as he passed and indicated that I was to come, too.

  In the back hall by the refrigerator Alf looked up at Buck like a hunted animal at bay.

  “My God, Buck,” he said. “How'll we ever break it to the girls?”

  “Break what?” Buck queried, his voice dry and thin.


  “There was a cablegram for you at Hagerstown,” Alf replied. “Beesore had sense enough not to telephone it out here. He saw me and gave it to me. Pake's dead.”

  “Let's look at the cablegram,” Buck said thickly.

  He looked, holding it closely to the kerosene lamp on the refrigerator. Then he handed it to me.

  I read:

  “E. P. Hibbard instantly killed by a fall from a window. “G. Swanwick.”

  The Message on the Slate

  Mrs. Llewellyn had always held — in so far as she ever thought about the subject at all — that to consult a clairvoyant was not merely an imbecile folly, but a degrading action, nearly akin to crime. Now that she felt herself overmasteringly driven to such an unconscionable unworthiness she could not bring herself to do it openly. Anything underhand or secretive was utterly alien to her nature. She was a tall woman, notably well shaped, with unusual dignity of demeanor. The poise of her head would have appeared haughty but for the winning kindliness of her frequent smile. Her dark hair, dark eyes and very white skin accorded well with that abiding calm of her bearing which never seemed mere placidity in a face habitually lighted with interested comprehension. Like a cloudless springtime sunrise over limitless expanses of dewy prairies, she was enveloped in an atmosphere of spacious serenity of soul, and her appearance was entirely in consonance with her character. She was still a very beautiful woman, high-souled as she was beautiful and exceedingly straight-forward. Yet to drive in open day to a house bearing the displayed sign of a spirit-medium was more than she could do. Bidding her footman call for her later, much later, at her hairdresser's, she dismissed her carriage at the main entrance of a department store. Leaving it by another entrance, she took a Street car for the neighborhood she sought. The neighborhood was altogether different from what she had anticipated; the houses, by no means small, were even handsome; not least handsome that of the clairvoyant. And it was very well kept, the pavement and the steps clean, the plate glass window panes bright, the shades and curtains new and tasteful, the silver doorknobs and door-bell fresh polished. There was a sign, indeed, but not the flaming horror her imagination had constructed from memories of signs seen in passing. This was a bit of glass set inside the big, bright pane of one of the parlor windows. It bore in small gold letters only the name, SALATHIEL VARGAS, and the word, CLAIRVOYANT.

  A neat maid opened the door. Yes, Mr. Vargas was in; would she walk into the waiting room? The untenanted waiting room was a dignified parlor, furnished in the costliest way, but with a restraint as far as possible from ostentation. The rug was Persian, each piece of furniture different in design from any other, yet all harmonizing, while the ten pictures were paintings by well-known artists. Before Mrs. Llewellyn had time for more than one comprehensive and surprised glance about, when she had barely seated herself, the retreating maid struck two sharp notes on a silvery gong. Almost immediately the door leading to the rear room was opened. In it appeared a man under five feet tall, not dwarfish, but deformed. His patent-leather shoes were boyish, his trousers hung limp about legs shriveled to mere skeletal stems, and his left knee was bent and fixed at an unchanging angle, so that his step was a painful hobble. Above the waist he was well made; a deep chest; broad, square shoulders; a huge head with a vast shock of black, curly hair. He had the look of a musician or artist; with a wide forehead; delicately curved eyebrows; nose hooked, sharp and assertive; eyes, wide apart, large, dark brown with sparkles of red and green; and a mouth whose curled upper lip was almost too short. The mouth and eyes held Mrs. Llewellyn at first glance, and the instant change in them startled her. He had appeared with a suave mechanical smile, with a look of easy expectancy. As his gaze met hers his lips set and their redness dulled; his eyes were full of so poignant a dismay that she would not have been surprised had he abruptly retreated and slammed the door between them. Without a word he clung to the knob, staring at her. Then he drew the door to after him and leaned against it, still holding to the knob with one hand behind his back. When he spoke it was in a dry whisper.

  “You here, of all women!”

  “You know me!” she exclaimed; “I have never seen you.”

  “You are seen of many thousands you never note,” he replied. “Everyone knows Mrs. David Llewellyn. Everyone knew Constance Palgrave.”

  “You flatter me,” she said coldly, with the air of one resenting an unwelcome familiarity.

  “Flattery is part of my trade,” he replied. “But I do not flatter you. So little that I have forgotten my manners. I should have asked you to step into my consulting room. Pray, enter it.”

  She passed him as he held the door open for her. The inner room was not less seemly than the outer. Except for three doors and one broad window looking out on an area, it was walled with bookcases some eight feet high, broken only where there were set into them two small cabinets with drawers below. The glass doors of the bookcases were of small panes, and the books within were in exquisite bindings. Topping the cases were several splendid bronze busts. The furniture was completed by a round mahogany center-table, several small chairs and three tapestried armchairs. When Mrs. Llewellyn had seated herself in one the clairvoyant took another. His agitation was so extreme that had she been capable of fear it would almost have frightened her; her curiosity it greatly piqued. He was as pale as a swarthy man can be, his lips bloodless and twitching, dry and moistening themselves one against the other as he mechanically swallowed in his nervousness. She herself was perturbed in soul, but an eye less practised than his would have discerned no signs of emotion beneath her easy exterior. They faced each other in silence for some breaths; then he spoke:

  “For what purpose have you come here?”

  “To consult you,” she answered. “Is it astonishing? Do not all sorts of persons come to consult you?”

  “All sorts,” he replied. “But none such as you. Never any such as you.”

  “I have come, it seems,” she said simply, “and to consult you.”

  “In what way do you mean to consult me?” he queried. “People consult me in various ways.”

  “I had in mind,” she said, “the answers you give by writing on the inside of a shut slate.”

  “You have come to the wrong man,” he said harshly, with an obvious effort that made his voice unnatural. “Go elsewhere,” and he rose.

  She gazed at him in astonishment without moving. “Why do you say that?” she demanded.

  He opened each of the three doors, looked outside and then made sure that each was latched. He looked out of the window, glancing at each of the other windows visible from it. He hobbled once or twice up and down the room, mopping his forehead and face with his handkerchief; then he seated himself again.

  “Mrs. Llewellyn,” he said, “I must request your promise of entire and permanent secrecy for what I am about to tell you.”

  “Anyone would suppose,” she said, “that you were the client and I the clairvoyant.”

  “Acknowledging that,” he replied. “Let it pass, I beg of you. I have told you that you have come to the wrong man. I bade you go elsewhere. You ask for an explanation. I have fortified myself to give it to you. But I must have your pledge of silence if you desire an explanation.”

  “I do desire it and you have my promise.

  He looked around the room with the movement of a rat in a cage. His eyes met hers, but shifted uneasily, and his shamefaced gaze fell to the floor. His hands clutched each other upon his lame knee.

  “Madame,” he said, “I tell you to go elsewhere because I am a charlatan, an impostor. My trances are mere pretense, the method of my replies a farcical mummery, the answers transparent concoctions from the hints I extract from my dupes.”

  “You say this to try me,” she cried; “you are subjecting me to some sort of test.”

  “Madame,” he said, “look at me. Am I like a man playing a part? Do I not look in earnest?” She regarded him, convinced.

  “But,” she wondered. “Why do you thrust
this confession upon me?”

  “I fear,” he hesitated, “that a truthful answer to that question would displease you.”

  “Your behavior,” she said, “and your utterances are so unexpected and amazing to me, coming here as I have, that I must request an explanation.”

  Vargas straightened himself in his chair and looked her in the eyes, not aggressively, but timidly. He spoke in a low voice.

  “Madame,” he said solemnly, “I have told you the truth about myself because you are the one human being whom I am unwilling to harm, wrong or cheat.”

  “You mean,” — she broke off, bridling. “Ah, Madame,” he cried, “I mean nothing that has in it any tinge of anything that might offend you. What does the north star know or care how many frail, storm-tossed barks struggle to steer by it? Is it any the less radiant, pure, high because so many to whom it is and shall remain forever unattainable strive to win from its rays guidance towards havens of safety? A woman such as you cannot guess, much less know, to how many she is the one abiding heavenly beacon. How could you, who need no such help from without, realize what the mere sight of you afar off must mean to natures not blest with such a heritage of goodness? How many have been strengthened at sight of your face, wherein they could not but see the visible outward expression of that inward peace and serenity that comes from right instincts unswervingly adhering to noble ideals? You have been to me the incarnate token of the existence of that righteousness to which I might not attain.”

  Mrs. Llewellyn had borne his torrent of verbiage with a look of intolerant toleration, of haughty displeasure curbed by astonishment. When he paused for breath she said, in a voice half angry, half repressed:

  “I quite understand you, I have heard enough, I have heard altogether too much of this; we will change the subject, if you please.”

  “I spoke at your command,” Vargas apologized, abashed, “and only to convince you of my sincerity in telling you that I am not worthy of being consulted by you.”