It was a girl. Not the Nervina. No; this girl was quite another person.
Even now I find it curiously hard to describe her. For me to say that she was the picture of innocence, of purity, and of youth, is still to leave unsaid the secret of her loveliness.
For this stranger, coming out of the thin air into our midst, held me with a glorious fascination. From the first I felt no misgivings, such as Harry confesses he experienced when he fell under the Nervina's charm. I knew as I watched the stranger's wondering, puzzled features, that I had never before seen anyone so lovely, so attractive, and so utterly beyond suspicion.
It was only later that I noted her amazingly delicate complexion, fair as her hair was golden; her deep blue eyes, round face, and the girlish supple figure; or her robe-like garments of very soft, white material. For she commenced almost instantly to talk.
But we understood only with the greatest of difficulty. She spoke as might one who, after living in perfect solitude for a score of years, is suddenly called upon to use language. And I remembered that Rhamda Avec had told Jerome that he had only BEGUN the use of language.
“Who are you?” was her first remark, in the sweetest voice conceivable. But there was both fear and anxiety in her manner. “How—did I—get—here?”
“You came out of the Blind Spot!” I spoke, jerking out the words nervously and, as I saw, too rapidly. I repeated them more slowly. But she did not comprehend.
“The—Blind—Spot,” she pondered. “What—is that?”
Next instant, before I could think to warn her, the room trembled with the terrific clang of the Blind Spot bell. Just one overwhelming peal; no more. At the same time there came a revival of the luminous spot in the ceiling. But, with the last tones of the bell, the spot faded to nothing.
The girl was pitifully frightened. I sprang to my feet and steadied her with one hand—something that I had not dared to do as long as the Spot remained open. The touch of my fingers, as she swayed, had the effect of bringing her to herself. She listened intelligently to what I said.
“The Blind Spot”—speaking with the utmost care—“is the name we have given to a certain mystery. It is always marked by the sound you have just heard; that bell always rings when the phenomenon is at an end.”
“And—the—phenomenon,” uttering the word with difficulty, “what is that?”
“You,” I returned. “Up till now three human beings have disappeared into what we call the Blind Spot. You are the first to be seen coming out of it.”
“Hobart,” interrupted Charlotte, coming to my side. “Let me.”
I stepped back, and Charlotte quietly passed an arm round the girl's waist. Together they stepped over to Charlotte's chair.
I noted the odd way in which the newcomer walked, unsteadily, uncertainly, like a child taking its first steps. I glanced at Jerome, wondering if this tallied with what he recalled of the Rhamda; and he gave a short nod.
“Don't be frightened,” said Charlotte softly, “we are your friends. In a way we have been expecting you, and we shall see to it that no harm comes to you.
“Which would you prefer—to ask questions, or to answer them?”
“I”—the girl hesitated—“I—hardly—know. Perhaps—you had—better—ask something first.”
“Good. Do you remember where you came from? Can you recall the events just prior to your arrival here?”
The girl looked helplessly from the one to the other of us. She seemed to be searching for some clue. Finally she shook her head in a hopeless, despairing fashion.
“I can't remember,” speaking with a shade less difficulty. “The last thing—I recall is—seeing—you three—staring—at me.”
This was a poser. To think, a person who, before our very eyes, had materialised out of the Blind Spot, was unable to tell us anything about it!
Still this lack of memory might be only a temporary condition, brought on by the special conditions under which she had emerged; an after-effect, as it were, of the semi-electrical phenomena. And it turned out that I was right.
“Then,” suggested Charlotte, “suppose you ask us something.”
The girl's eyes stopped roving and rested definitely, steadily, upon my own. And she spoke; still a little hesitantly:
“Who are you? What is your name?”
“Name?” taken wholly by surprise. “Ah—it is Hobart Fenton. And”—automatically—“this is my sister Charlotte. The gentleman over there is Mr. Jerome.”
“I am glad to know you, Hobart,” with perfect simplicity and apparent pleasure; “and you, Charlotte,” passing an arm round my sister's neck; “and you—Mister.” Evidently she thought the title of “mister” to be Jerome's first name.
Then she went on to say, her eyes coming back to mine:
“Why do you look at me that way, Hobart?”
Just like that! I felt my cheeks go hot and cold by turns. For a moment I was helpless; then I made up my mind to be just as frank and candid as she.
“Because you're so good to look at!” I blurted out. “I never appreciated my eyesight as I do right now!”
“I am glad,” she returned, simply and absolutely without a trace of confusion or resentment. “I know that I rather like to look at you—too.”
Another stunned silence. And this time I didn't notice any change in the temperature of my face; I was too busily engaged in searching the depths of those warm blue eyes.
She didn't blush, or even drop her eyes. She smiled, however, a gentle, tremulous smile that showed some deep feeling behind her unwavering gaze.
I recovered myself with a start, drew my chair up in front of her and took both her hands firmly in mine. Whereupon my resolution nearly deserted me. How warm and soft, and altogether adorable they were. I drew a long breath and began:
“My dear—By the way, what is your name?”
“I”—regretfully, after a moment's thought—“I don't know, Hobart.”
“Quite so,” as though the fact was commonplace. “We will have to provide you with a name. Any suggestions?”
Charlotte hesitated only a second. “Let's call her Ariadne; it was Harry's mother's name.”
“That's so; fine! Do you like the name—Ariadne?”
“Yes,” both pleased and relieved. At the same time she looked oddly puzzled, and I could see her lips moving silently as she repeated the name to herself.
Not for an instant did I let go of those wonderful fingers. “What I want you to know, Ariadne, is that you have come into a world that is, perhaps, more or less like the one that you have just left. For all I know it is one and the same world, only, in some fashion not yet understood, you may have transported yourself to this place. Perhaps not.
“Now, we call this a room, a part of the house. Outside is a street. That street is one of hundreds in a vast city, which consists of a multitude of such houses together with other and vastly larger structures. And these structures all rest upon a solid material which we call the ground or earth.
“The fact that you understand our language indicates that either you have fallen heir to a body and a brain which are thoroughly in tune with ours, or else—and please understand that we know very little of this mystery—or else your own body has somehow become translated into a condition which answers the same purpose.
“At any rate, you ought to comprehend what I mean by the term 'earth.' Do you?”
“Oh, yes,” brightly. “I seem to understand everything you say, Hobart.”
“Then there is a corresponding picture in your mind to each thought I have given you?”
“I think so,” not so positively.
“Well,” hoping that I could make it clear, “this earth is formed in a huge globe, part of which is covered by another material, which we term water. And the portions which are not so covered, and are capable of supporting the structures which constitute the city, we call by still another name. Can you supply that name?”
“Continents,” without hesitation.
“Fine!” This was a starter anyhow. “We'll soon have your memory working!
“However, what I really began to say is this; each of these continents—and they are several in number—is inhabited by people more or less like ourselves. There is a vast number, all told. Each is either male or female, like ourselves—you seem to take this for granted, however—and you will find them all exceedingly interesting.
“Now, in all fairness,” letting go her hands at last “you must understand that there are, among the people whom you have yet to see, great numbers who are far more—well, attractive, than I am.
“And you must know,” even taking my gaze away, “that not all persons are as friendly as we. You will find some who are antagonistic to you, and likely to take advantage of—well, your unsophisticated viewpoint. In short”—desperately—“you must learn right away not to accept people without question; you must form the habit of reserving judgment, of waiting until you have more facts, before reaching an opinion of others.
“You must do this as a matter of self-protection, and in the interests of your greatest welfare.”
And I stopped.
She seemed to be thinking over what I said. In the end she observed: “This seems reasonable. I feel sure that wherever I came from such advice would have fitted.
“However”—smiling at me in a manner to which I can give no description other than affectionate—“I have no doubts about you, Hobart. I know you are absolutely all right.”
And before I could recover from the bliss into which her statement threw me, she turned to Charlotte with “You too, Charlotte; I know I can trust you.”
But when she looked at Jerome she commented: “I can trust you, Mister, too; almost as much, but not quite. If you didn't suspect me I could trust you completely.”
Jerome went white. He spoke for the first time since the girl's coming.
“How—how did you know that I suspected you?”
“I can't explain; I don't know myself.” Then wistfully: “I wish you would stop suspecting me, Mister. I have nothing to conceal from you.”
“I know it!” Jerome burst out, excitedly, apologetically. “I know it now! You're all right, I'm satisfied of that from now on!”
She sighed in pure pleasure. And she offered one hand to Jerome. He took it as though it were a humming-bird's egg, and turned almost purple. At the same time the honest, fervid manliness which backed the detective's professional nature shone through for the first time in my knowledge of him. From that moment his devotion to the girl was as absolute as that of the fondest father who ever lived.
Well, no need to detail all that was said during the next hour. Bit by bit we added to the girl's knowledge of the world into which she had emerged, and bit by bit there unfolded in her mind a corresponding image of the world from which she had come. And when, for an experiment, we took her out on the front porch and showed her the stars, we were fairly amazed at the thoughts they aroused.
“Oh!” she cried, in sheer rapture. “I know what those are!” By now she was speaking fairly well. “They are stars!” Then: “They don't look the same. They're not outlined in the same way as I know. But they can't be anything else!”
NOT OUTLINED THE SAME. I took this to be a very significant fact. What did it mean?
“Look”—showing her the constellation Leo, on the ecliptic, and therefore visible to both the northern and southern hemispheres—“do you recognise that?”
“Yes,” decisively. “That is, the arrangement; but not the appearance of the separate stars.”
And we found this to be true of the entire sky. Nothing was entirely familiar to her; yet, she assured us, the stars could be nothing else. Her previous knowledge told her this without explaining why, and without a hint as to the reason for the dissimilarity.
“Is it possible,” said I, speaking half to myself, “that she has come from another planet?”
For we know that the sky, as seen from any of the eight planets in this solar system, would present practically the same appearance; but if viewed from a planet belonging to any other star-sun, the constellations would be more or less altered in their arrangement, because of the vast distance involved. As for the difference in the appearance of the individual stars, that might be accounted for by a dissimilarity in the chemical make-up of the atmosphere.
“Ariadne, it may be you've come from another world!”
“No,” seemingly quite conscious that she was contradicting me. For that matter there wasn't anything offensive about her kind of frankness. “No, Hobart. I feel too much at home to have come from any other world than this one.”
Temporarily I was floored. How could she, so ignorant of other matters, feel so sure of this? There was no explaining it.
We went back into the house. As it happened, my eye struck first the gramophone. And it seemed a good idea to test her knowledge with this.
“Is this apparatus familiar to you?”
“No. What is it for?”
“Do you understand what is meant by the term 'music'?”
“Yes,” with instant pleasure. “This is music.” She proceeded, without the slightest self-consciousness, to sing in a sweet clear soprano, and treated us to the chorus of “I Am Climbing Mountains!”
“Good heavens!” gasped Charlotte. “What can it mean?”
For a moment the explanation evaded me. Then I reasoned: “She must have a sub-conscious memory of what was being played just before she materialised.”
And to prove this I picked out an instrumental piece which we had not played all the evening. It was the finale of the overture to “Faust”; a selection, by the way, which was a great favourite of Harry's and is one of mine. Ariadne listened in silence to the end.
“I seem to have heard something like it before,” she decided slowly. “The melody, not the—the instrumentation. But it reminds me of something that I like very much.” Whereupon she began to sing for us. But this time her voice was stronger and more dramatic; and as for the composition—all I can say is it had a wild, fierce ring to it, like “Men of Harlech”; only the notes did not correspond to the chromatic scale. SHE SANG IN AN ENTIRELY NEW MUSICAL SYSTEM.
“By George!” when she had done. “Now we HAVE got something! For the first time, we've heard some genuine, unadulterated Blind Spot stuff!”
“You mean,” from Charlotte, excitedly, “that she has finally recovered her memory?”
It was the girl herself who answered. She shot to her feet, and her face became transfigured with a wonderful joy. At the same time she blinked hurriedly, as though to shut off a sight that staggered her.
plain to me, now! I know who I am!”
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