The Flaw in the Sapphire. Charles M. Snyder
relative, no one could determine.
The young man, however, continued to sit in whatever portion of the apartment he pleased and enjoy himself as much as the handicap of his relationship would permit.
On this basis, as if to manifest in himself the law of compensation, Robert grew vicariously robust, and accepted, with cynical good humor, the irritation of his uncle over his adipose.
Raikes and his sister had the table at which they sat entirely to themselves.
Only on the infrequent occasions of congestion had others been known to occupy seats at the same board.
It was more than hungry human nature, as embodied in most of the inmates, could stand to witness this exasperating refusal to accept a reasonable measure of what was set before them; a disability to which the scarcely concealed scowls of the exacting miser added the chill finishing touch.
One morning, however, a new boarder arrived.
Accommodations could not be found for him at the other tables, and, as was the custom of the widow under such circumstances, he was intruded upon the society of this morbid duet, after the manner of his predecessors.
If the usual rebellion matured at such association on the part of this recent guest, the landlady expected to be assisted by one of those vacancies which occur with such incalculable irregularity, yet reasonable certainty, in establishments of this character.
At this a prompt transfer would be effected.
This, however, was an unusual boarder.
If his presence was obnoxious to Raikes, the latter refused to realize it; if the miser had his peculiarities, the newcomer did not see them.
He ate his meals in silence, with an abstemiousness that, unknown to himself, recommended him as cordially as any consideration might to his shriveled table companion; made friendly overtures, disguised in perfunctory courtesies, of passing the bread or the butter when either was beyond the nervous reach of the eccentric Raikes, and ventured an impassive suggestion or two as to the probable conduct of the weather.
In appearance the newcomer was startling.
His complexion was a berry-brown; his expression, aside from his eyes, was singularly composed.
These were uncommonly black and piercing, and peeped from receding sockets through heavy eyebrows, which hung like an ambush over their dart and gleam.
His nose was a decisive aquiline, beneath which his lips, at once firm and sensitive, pressed together changelessly.
His figure was tall and spare and usually clad in black, a habit which emphasized his already picturesque countenance.
There was an indescribable air about him which suggested event, transpired or about to transpire, which introduced a sort of eerie distinction to the commonplace surroundings in which he found himself, and invited many a glance of curious speculation in his direction.
All this was not without its effect upon Raikes, and it was remarked, with the astonishment the occasion justified, that the miser, in the ensuing days, emerged from his customary austerity to the extent of reciprocal amenities in the passage of bread and salt.
However, this was but the beginning.
Raikes discovered himself, at last, responding, with a degree of chill urbanity, to the advances of the stranger, and ere the week had concluded had assumed the initiative in conversation on more than one occasion.
By this time one of the inevitable vacancies had occurred at another table, and the widow, as usual, offered to translate this latest guest to the unoccupied seat.
The latter, however, for some strange reason, indicated a desire to remain in his present surroundings, and when this disposition was understood by Raikes, the conquest of the miser was complete.
As if to indorse the perverse aspect of inflexible things, it seemed, now that Raikes had ventured ever so little beyond his taciturn defenses, he was encouraged to further boldness.
The stranger exerted a fascination which, in others, Raikes would have considered dangerous and which he would have made his customary instinctive preparations to combat.
He could not recall a similar instance in all the years of his recent experience when he was constrained to recognize, nay, surrender to, a diffusive impulse such as this curious stranger awakened in his mind.
In yielding to its insinuations, even to the extent already recorded, he was agreeably conscious of a sort of guilty abandon which, at times, stupefies the moral qualities ere delivering them into the hands of a welcome invader.
For some time Robert, with the others, had enjoyed the entertainment offered by this transformation of Satyr to Faun, and the inversion advanced to still further degrees their curious regard of the “Sepoy,” a picturesque description bestowed upon him by the blasé boarders.
Consequently, one evening, when, at the conclusion of the dinner, the “Sepoy,” in response to the invitation of Raikes, was seen to disappear with the latter through the doorway which led to his apartments, Robert’s interest in the spectacle changed to genuine alarm, until a moment’s reflection upon his uncle’s well-known ability to take care of himself reassured him.
Intruding the door between themselves and all further speculation, the strangely-assorted pair proceeded along a dimly-illumed hallway to a room in which Raikes usually secluded himself.
As the Sepoy advanced, he could see that, with the exception of two sleeping-chambers, revealed by their open doors, the apartment in which he found himself was the only one where any kind of accommodation could be found, as the balance of the house offered unmistakable evidences of being unoccupied.
“Be seated, sir,” croaked Raikes, with a voice strangely suggestive of a raven attempting the modulations of some canary it had swallowed. “I do not smoke myself, and, therefore, cannot provide you with that sort of entertainment; still, I have no objection to you enjoying yourself in that way if,” with a cynical shrug of the shoulders by way of apology, “you have come prepared.”
Accepting this frank inhospitality in the spirit of its announcement, the stranger, smiling with his curious eyes, produced two cigars, one of which he offered to Raikes, and which was consistently and promptly refused.
“I can’t afford it,” expostulated the latter. “I never indulge myself even in temptation; the nearest I will approach to dissipation will be, with your permission, to enjoy the aroma. I do not propose to rebuke myself for that.”
“As you please,” returned the other as he replaced the weed in his pocket. “It is my one indulgence; in other respects I challenge any man to be more abstemious.”
“I have had none,” returned Raikes with a rasping lack of emotion, “for the last ten years. It is too late to begin to cultivate a disability now.”
“You are wrong,” replied the Sepoy. “One’s attitude cannot be rigid at all points; that is bad management. The finest tragedy I ever witnessed was emphasized by the trivialities of the king’s jester.
“However,” he added, as if in support of his theory, “I can, at least, trouble you for a match.”
While Raikes busied himself in an effort to show the hospitality of the service indicated, the Sepoy’s busy, furtive eyes glanced here and there about the room with quick, inquiring glances.
At one end a bedstead stood, which an antiquarian would have accepted gladly as collateral for a loan.
Near-by a wardrobe, equally remote if more decrepit, leaned against the wall to maintain the balance jeopardized by a missing foot.
One chair, in addition to those occupied by Raikes and his companion, appeared to extend its worn arms with a weary insistence and dusty disapproval of their emptiness.
A table, large enough to accommodate a student’s lamp, several account books and a