The Blind Spot
Page 19
XVII
THE SHEPHERD
When I returned to the city next morning I took my dog. It was a strangewhim; but one which was to lead to a remarkable development. I havealways been a lover of dogs. I was lonely. There is a bond between a dogand his master. It goes beyond definition; it roots down into nature. Iwas to learn much.
She was an Australian shepherd. She was of a tawny black and bob-tailedfrom birth.
What is the power that lies behind instinct? How far does it go? I hada notion that the dog would be outside the sinister clutch that wasdragging me under.
Happily Jerome was fond of dogs. He was reading. When I entered withQueen tugging at the chain he looked up. The dog recognised the heartof the man; when he stooped to pet her she moved her stub tail in aneffusion of affectionate acceptance. Jerome had been reading Le Bon'stheory on the evolution of force. His researches after the mystery hadled him into the depths of speculation; he had become quite a scholar.After our first greeting I unhooked the chain and let Queen have thefreedom of the house. I related what had happened. The detective closedthe book and sat down. The dog waited a bit for further petting; butmissing that she began sniffing about the room. There was nothingstrange about it of course. I myself paid not the slightest attention.But the detective was watching. While I was telling my story he wasfollowing every movement of the shepherd. Suddenly he held up onefinger. I turned.
It was Queen. A low growl, guttural and suspicious. She was standingabout a foot from the portieres that separated the library from theother room--where we had lost Watson, and where Jerome had had hisexperience with the old lady. Tense and rigid, one forepaw held upstealthily, her stub tail erect and the hair along her back bristled.Again the low growl. I caught Jerome's eyes. It was queer.
"What is it, Queen?" I spoke.
At the sound of my voice she wagged her tail and looked round, thenstepped between the curtains. Just her head. She drew back; her lipsdrawn from her teeth, snarling. She was rigid, alert, vitalised. Somehowit made me cold. She was a brave dog; she feared nothing. The detectivestepped forward and pulled the curtains apart. The room was empty. Welooked into each other's faces. What is there to instinct? What is itsrange? We could see nothing.
But not to the dog. Her eyes glowed. Hate, fear, terror, her whole bodyrigid.
"I wonder," I said. I stepped into the room. But I hadn't counted on thedog. With a yelp she was upon me, had me by the calf of the leg and wasdrawing me back. She stepped in front of me; a low, guttural growl ofwarning. But there was nothing in that room; of that we were certain.
"Beats me," said the detective. "How does she know? Wonder if she wouldstop me?" He stepped forward. It was merely a repetition. She caughthim by the trouser-leg and drew him back. She crowded us away from thecurtain. It was almost magnetic. We could see nothing, neither could wefeel; was it possible that the dog could see beyond us? The detectivespoke first:
"Take her out of the room. Put her in the hall; tie her up."
"What's the idea?"
"Merely this; I am going to examine the room. No, I am not afraid. I'llbe mighty glad if it does catch me. Anything so long as I get results."
But it did us no good. We examined the room many times that night; bothof us. In the end there was nothing, only the weirdness and uncertaintyand the magnetic undercurrent which we could feel, but could not fathom.When we called in the dog she stepped to the portieres and commenced hervigil. She crouched slightly behind the curtains, alert, ready, waiting,at her post of honour. From that moment she never left the spot exceptunder compulsion. We could hear her at all times of the night; the lowgrowl, the snarl, the defiance.
But there was a great deal more that we were to learn from the dog. Itwas Jerome who first called my attention. A small fact at the beginning;but of a strange sequence. This time it was the ring. Queen had thehabit that is common to most dogs; she would lick my hand to show heraffection. It was nothing in itself; but for one fact--she always chosethe left hand. It was the detective who first noticed it. Always andevery opportunity she would lick the jewel. We made a little test to tryher. I would remove the ring from one hand to the other; then hold itbehind me. She would follow.
It was a strange fact; but of course not inexplicable. A scent or theattraction of taste might account for it. However, these little testsled to a rather remarkable discovery.
One night we had called the dog from her vigil. As usual she came tothe jewel; by chance I pressed the gem against her head. It was a meretrifle; yet it was of consequence. A few minutes before I had dropped ahandkerchief on the opposite side of the room; I was just thinking aboutpicking it up. It was only a small thing, yet it put us on the trackof the gem's strangest potency. The dog walked to the handkerchief. Shebrought it back in her mouth. At first I took it for a pure coincidence.I repeated the experiment with a book. The same result. I looked up atJerome.
"What's the matter?" Then when I explained: "The dickens! Try it again."
Over and over again we repeated it, using different articles, pieces ofwhich I was certain she didn't know the name. There was a strange bondbetween the gem and the intelligence, some strange force emanating fromits lustre. On myself it was depressing; on the dog it was life itself.At last Jerome had an inspiration.
"Try the Rhamda," he said; "think of him. Perhaps--"
It was most surprising. Certainly it was remarkable. It was too muchlike intelligence; a bit too uncanny. At the instant of the thought thedog leaped backward.
Such a strange transformation; she was naturally gentle. In oneinstant she had gone mad. Mad? Not in the literal interpretation; butfiguratively. She sprang back, snapping; her teeth bared, her hairbristled. Her nostrils drawn. With one bound she leaped between thecurtains.
Jerome jumped up. With an exclamation he drew the portieres. I wasbehind him. The dog was standing at the edge of the room, bristling.
The room was empty. What did she see? What?
One thing was certain. Though we were sure of nothing else we werecertain of the Rhamda. We could trust the canine's instinct. Everyprevious experiment we had essayed had been crowned with success. We hadhere a fact but no explanation. If we could only put things together andextract the law.
It was late when we retired. I could not sleep. The restlessness of thedog held back my slumber. She would growl sullenly, then stir about fora new position; she was never quite still. I could picture her therein the library, behind the curtains, crouched, half resting, halfslumbering, always watching. I would awaken in the night and listen; alow guttural warning, a sullen whine--then stillness. It was the samewith my companion. We could never quite understand it. Perhaps we were abit afraid.
But one can become accustomed to almost anything. It went on for manynights without anything happening, until one night.
It was dark, exceedingly dark, with neither moon nor starlight; one ofthose nights of inky intenseness. I cannot say just exactly what wokeme. The house was strangely silent and still; the air seemed stretchedand laden. It was summer. Perhaps it was the heat. I only knew that Iwoke suddenly and blinked in the darkness.
In the next room with the door open I could hear the heavy breathingof the detective. A heavy feeling lay against my heart. I had grownaccustomed to dread and isolation; but this was different. Perhapsit was premonition. I do not know. And yet I was terribly sleepy; Iremember that.
I struck a match and looked at my watch on the bureau--twelvethirty-five. No sound--not even Queen--not even a rumble from thestreets. I lay back and dropped into slumber. Just as I drifted off tosleep I had a blurring fancy of sound, guttural, whining, fearful--thensuddenly drifting into incoherent rumbling phantasms--a dream. I awokesuddenly. Someone was speaking. It was Jerome.
"Harry!"
I was frightened. It was like something clutching out of the darkness.I sat up. I didn't answer. It wasn't necessary. The incoherence of mydream had been external. The library was just below me. I could hear thedog pacing to and fro, and her s
narling. Snarling? It was just that. Itwas something to arouse terror.
She had never growled like that--I was positive, I could hear hersuddenly leap back from the curtains. She barked. Never before had shecome to that. Then a sudden lunge into the other room--a vicious seriesof snapping barks, yelps--pandemonium--I could picture her leaping--atwhat? Then suddenly I leaped out of bed. The barks grew faint, faint,fainter--into the distance.
In the darkness I couldn't find the switch. I bumped into Jerome. Wewere lost in our confusion. It was a moment before we could find eithera match or a switch to turn on the lights. But at last--I shall notforget that moment; nor Jerome. He was rigid; one arm heldaloft, his eyes bulged out. The whole house was full ofsound--full-toned--vibrant--magnetic. It was the bell.
I jumped for the stairway, but not so quick as Jerome. With three boundswe were in the library with the lights on. The sound was running downto silence. We tore down the curtains and rushed into the room. It wasempty!
There was not even the dog. Queen had gone! In a vain rush of grief Ibegan calling and whistling. It was an overwhelming moment. The poor,brave shepherd. She had seen it and rushed into its face.
It was the last night I was to have Jerome. We sat up until daylight.For the thousandth time we went over the house in detail, but there wasnothing. Only the ring. At the suggestion of the detective I touched thematch to the sapphire. It was the same. The colour diminishing, and thetranslucent corridors deepening into the distance; then the blur and thecoming of shadows--the men, Watson and the professor--and my dog.
Of the men, only the heads showed; but the dog was full figure; she wassitting, apparently on a pedestal, her tongue was lolling out of hermouth and her face of that gentle intelligence which only the Australianshepherd is heir to. That is all--no more--nothing. If we had hoped todiscover anything through her medium we were disappointed. Instead ofclearing up, the whole thing had grown deeper.
I have said that it was the last night I was to have Jerome. I didn'tknow it then. Jerome went out early in the morning. I went to bed. Iwas not afraid in the daylight. I was certain now that the danger waslocalised. As long as I kept out of that apartment I had nothing tofear. Nevertheless, the thing was magnetic. A subtle weirdness pervadedthe building. I did not sleep soundly. I was lonely; the isolation wascrowding on me. In the afternoon I stepped out on the streets.
I have spoken of my experience with the conductor. On this day I had thecertainty of my isolation; it was startling. In the face of what I wasand what I had seen it was almost terrifying. It was the first timeI thought of sending for Hobart. I had thought I could hold out. Thecomplete suddenness of the thing set me to thinking. I thought ofWatson. It was the last phase, the feebleness, the wanness, the inertia!He had been a far stronger man than I in the beginning.
I must cable Fenton. While I had still an ego in the presence of men, Imust reach out for help. It was a strange thing and inexplicable. I wasnot invisible. Don't think that. I simply did not individualise. Mendidn't notice me--till I spoke. As if I was imperceptibly losing theessence of self. I still had some hold on the world. While it remained Imust get word to Hobart. I did not delay. Straight to the office I wentand paid for the cable.
CANNOT HOLD OUT MUCH LONGER. COME AT ONCE.--HARRY.
I was a bit ashamed. I had hoped. I had counted upon myself. Ihad trusted in the full strength of my individuality. I had beenhealthy--strong--full blooded. On the fullness of vitality one wouldlive forever. There is no tomorrow. It was not a year ago. I was eighty.It had been so with Watson. What was this subtle thing that ate intoone's marrow? I had read of banshees, lemures and leprechauns; they werethe ghosts and the fairies of ignorance but they were not like this. Itwas impersonal, hidden, inexorable. It was mystery. And I believed thatit was Nature.
I know it now. Even as I write I can sense the potency of the forceabout me. Some law, some principle, some force that science has notuncovered.
What is that law that shall bridge the chaos between the mystic and thesubstantial? I am standing on the bridge; and I cannot see it. What isthe great law that was discovered by Dr. Holcomb? Who is the Rhamda? Whois the Nervina?
Jerome has not returned. I cannot understand it. It has been a week. Iam living on brandy--not much of anything else--I am waiting for Fenton.I have taken all my elaborations and notes and put them together.Perhaps I--
(This is the last of the strange document left by Harry Wendel. Thefollowing memorandum is written by Charlotte Fenton.)