The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe White CatThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The White CatCreator: Gelett BurgessIllustrator: Will GreféRelease date: May 13, 2015 [eBook #48084]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE CAT ***[image]Cover art[image]"Chester," she cried, "take me." Page313THE WHITE CATByGELETT BURGESSAuthor of VivetteA Little Sister of Destinyetc.With Illustrations byWILL GREFÉNEW YORKGROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERSCOPYRIGHT 1907THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANYMARCHPART FIRSTTHE WHITE CATII came to myself with a disturbing sense that something was wrong with me. My discomfort, increasing steadily, resolved itself into two distinct factors—a pain in my side at every breath and a throbbing ache in the top of my head. I realized that I was in bed, and the first strangeness of it struck me. I could not account for it. The wild, spicy odor of flowers came to me, adding to my perplexity. Then I opened my eyes.The place was so dimly lighted that for some seconds my sluggish wits were unable to interpret the blotches of shadow and the vague glimmering spots. These, however, gradually resolved themselves into comprehensible forms. I perceived that I was in a strange room, large and airy; for even in the obscurity I got a feeling of free, clean space, and of that chaste emptiness which is apt to distinguish the guest-chamber of a well-kept house. I heard, now, the steady, deliberate ticking of a clock a little way off, and somewhere below was a small grinding sound, so low as to be almost a mere vibration, like a coffee-mill in operation. Near by, a door closed and latched softly.I moved and attempted to sit up, but a sharp stab in my side warned me that my hurt was perhaps more serious than I had thought. There was a lump on my head, too, which probably accounted for my lapse of consciousness.Setting my memory painfully to work, groping back through the darkness of my mind for something to explain the mystery, much as one might descend a dark, unlighted stairway, I came upon the last fact that had been recorded by my brain. I had been putting on speed—the road through the woods was straight, level and deserted—hoping to get up to town early in the afternoon. The steering-gear of my motor-car had given way. I had felt the wheels suddenly veer, then, before I put on my brake, the front of the car went down and the rear was thrown up and over with the momentum, sending me flying through the air.I wondered, lazily, how much the machine had suffered. Then, I must have dropped off to sleep again, for when I next opened my eyes there was a flickering ray of light in the room. This time I was keenly alert mentally, desirous of some explanation of my situation. Where was I, and who had cared for me?The light grew brighter, still wavering, slanting across the wall where it rocked and shifted, casting long, distorted shadows that danced up and down. Some one was evidently coming up-stairs with a light. The door was hidden by a projecting angle of the wall, however, and so for a few moments I saw nobody.In those seconds the room was illuminated gradually more and more, showing a white-painted wainscot with a dull green wall above, where a few Japanese prints hung. Opposite my bed was a window with small, old-fashioned panes; there was another beside me. The rays glinted on the polished sides of several pieces of old mahogany furniture and flared yellow on brass candle-sticks and on the gilded frame of an eagle mirror. Finally the glare stopped its undulating, the shadows grew steadier on the wall, and, as I gazed eagerly for a first glimpse of my visitor, a young woman, bearing a silver candlestick, came into the room. She looked immediately over to where I lay, and then, catching my surprised stare, her expression changed wonderfully from a rather pathetic abstraction to an animated interest. With something not quite a smile on her face she walked nearer my bed, and stood for a moment without speaking, still looking at me. Her attitude hinted that she saw in me something—as if, for instance, it were a sort of picturesqueness which was unexpected enough to appeal to her imagination. She rested for a moment, poised and calm, but intensely attentive, fascinated.And I, at the same time, was instantly conscious of so curious a sentiment that I must stop to attempt to describe it.I conceived myself to be a connoisseur in women, and I estimated her at first sight as one unique, even extraordinary. But though to my mind she was indubitably beautiful, it was not her beauty that for the moment thrilled me. It was chiefly her "newness," the very novelty of her visitation. I felt a sudden, compelling desire to prolong the mystery of her presence rather than to have it explained. I tried, mentally, to delay her first word, to hold her back from any definite explanation till my eyes had had their fill of her—till they had, so to speak, solved her equation—till my wonder had spent itself in the vision, exhausting all its possibilities of delight. Her charm was, in its unexpectedness, so alluring, that she was like a pleasant dream which one lingers with and detains.She was small, but her head was so exquisitely proportioned to her body that one did not notice her size. I have called her young, though she was twenty-seven, for her graceful figure and pose were still girlishly maintained. The shape of her small head was defined by a quaint coiffure, the dark, fine hair being banded in an encircling plait up past her tiny ears and over, like a coronal, showing a sweeping high-bred curve over her low brow. All this gave her a tender, virginal aspect; but her soft, deep brown eyes were so saddened by warm shadows below the lids, her mouth was so tremulously sensitive, with its slightly parted lips, and the little lines that women fear had begun to write her history so suggestively upon her face, that, as I gazed at her, I saw a woman who had lived and suffered, a woman as intense as she was delicate in all her moods.She was clad in a bewilderingly feminine peignoir of lace and embroidery, open at the neck, and covered with another long, straightly hanging garment of shimmering pale-green silk, richly decorated with odd patterns. This gave her to my wondering eyes quite the appearance of a medieval princess, or the heroine of some old fairy tale. The impression was intensified by the long chain she wore, set with fire opals which flashed in the candle-light. From it, below her waist, there hung a golden star.And, strangest of all, most provocative to my fancy, she also appeared, with extraordinary sympathy, almost with prescience, to feel something of my wonder as she paused and stood silent, retarding her greeting, in answer to my unspoken thought. While our eyes held each other in that marvelous communion, she did not smile; it was rather from her quivering mouth that I got the idea that she, too, was touched by the spell, and was keenly alive to the potentiality of the situation. She seemed to hold her breath lest the wonder should pass too soon.That moment was as sublimely unreal as anything I have ever known, and, within its unmeasurable limits, as potent. It was tense, instinct with fine, secret emotions too faint for analysis. Messages came and went, electric. It was, in short, the psychological moment that comes but once to any friendship, and, coming, is usually hurried past without appreciation of its mysterious charm. It was that most suggestive of preludes, an instinctive, conscious pause upon the magic threshold of Romance. That she felt its quality also overpowered me. The minute passed like a falling star, and in its glory we seemed to travel miles together.Then, with a visible effort, she spoke.Her voice was light and clear, so expressively modulated that I have, despite myself, to compare it only to fairy footsteps passing over flower-tops. Its tones poised and hovered as if on the wing, though they were as sure as the melody of an old song. It was, above all else, graceful, and usually it held a trace of mental eagerness, but its characteristic quality came more from delicate nuances of feeling than from any vibrant intensity. It had the fluidity of running water.With her first word she smiled, and some of the melancholy escaped from her eyes."Oh, you are better now! I'msoglad!"The silver thread of magic that had bound as was broken, and the episode became real and humorous on the instant. I could not help smiling in my turn, for assuredly, from my point of view, I was, physically, decidedly the worse. I took it from her, by her remark, that I had been ill."Yes," I replied, "I suppose I must be better, since you say so, but I seem to be quite bad enough. How long have I been here?""Twenty-four hours. You have been a little delirious, you know. I was getting quite anxious about you, though the doctor said there was no danger."She came nearer, and put her small beautiful hand upon my cheek. I noticed that she wore no rings. The touch of her fingers was soft and cool."I'm glad your fever has gone," she said, "Have you much pain?"I felt sore all over, and there was trouble with my side when I moved; my head seemed to be splitting. But I was so much more interested in her, and how I came to be there, that I dismissed my symptoms with a shrug, and asked what had happened."You were thrown from your automobile," she said, "and you were pretty badly shaken up. There was a rib broken, and a slight concussion of the brain, I believe, but nothing serious. You'll have to stay here several days, at least, and keep quiet. Doctor Copin had to go back to town, and I must notify him that you are all right now. You mustn't fret about it, for you are perfectly welcome to stay here and it won't trouble us in the least. Only I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored. It's quiet here, and I'll be rather dull company.""I'm not worrying, I assure you," I said. "I'm in no hurry to get well."She smiled again, faintly but with a quick appreciation, and took a seat in an arm-chair which stood beside my bed. I caught a glimpse of a green silk stocking and an exquisitely small foot in a fantastically shaped slipper. She went on:"I have been a good deal troubled because we have, of course, no idea who you are. I was afraid that some of your friends might be alarmed about you. So, if there is any one we can notify, or send for, give me the address and the message, and I'll send it over to the telegraph office at the Harbor, or I can telephone for you, if there's any one in town. Doctor Copin could call and explain your condition, if you prefer."As she leaned her face on her slender hand and looked at me, she added: "Your motor has been taken care of, so you needn't worry about that. Uncle Jerdon hauled it into the stable, and it can stay there until you have a chance to have it repaired.""You were good to take me in and to get a doctor," I said, watching the tiny vertical lines come and go in her forehead."Oh, Doctor Copin happened to be with me when you were brought in by Uncle Jerdon. I really don't know how you managed to escape with your life.""I didn't deserve to escape. I was running considerably over the speed limit, I imagine. I wanted to get back to town early." How much rather would I have discussed the queer little corners of her lips that changed so distractingly, and the transparent shadow under her cheek-bone that spiritualized her whole expression now and again!"Oh, I must take your message!" she exclaimed, a little embarrassed by the pause that had fallen.She rose and went over to an antique secretary, bringing back a pad of paper and a pencil. Reseating herself, she waited for me to dictate. I thought a while and then gave her a short report of my condition to be sent to my partner. Having written this down she went out of the room quietly, leaving the candle with me. No sooner had she left than my pain returned. For the time I had forgotten all about it.In spite of this, the thought of her filled me with a restful peace. I didn't in the least want to know who she was, so long as I might see her, and hear her talk to me in that smooth, melodious, eager voice, whose sound had established her convincingly as a lady of rare promise. The prospect of having to spend several days in her society, or at least near her, was as pleasant a thought as I could well imagine. The fruit of our moment was a mystery, rich and fragrant, which I wished only not to destroy. I found myself trying, in her absence, to recall each feature of her face, her poses, and her hands so keenly alive and full of graceful gesture. That I did not wonder who she was—what was her name, her situation, her history—came, perhaps, from the state of bodily weakness in which my accident had left me, but it seemed to me then that it was not merely the passivity of my physical state; it was an epicurean joy I took in tasting my impressions drop by drop.Meanwhile, as I thought it all over, my eyes wandered over that part of the room visible in the candle-light, from the four-posted bed in which I lay, and almost unconsciously I noted the many evidences of taste and wealth. The furniture was all of antique style, undoubtedly genuine specimens of the best designs of the later colonial period.The Japanese prints were the only pictures visible that I could see. They seemed like Utamaro's and Hiroshige's mostly, though near by were a couple of Yoshitora's and Toyokuni's brilliant actresses, veritable riots of color against the dull green of the wall. The floor was of oak parquetry, covered with Persian rugs of what I knew to be rare weaves. Altogether, the room had, in its severe formal way, the dignity of a museum.She came back, after about ten minutes, with a tray of toast and tea, a jar of Bar-le-duc, and the most appetizing of lamb chops."Do you feel hungry?" she asked, setting the tray down upon a stand at the head of the bed.As I assented most heartily, she leaned over and propped the pillows up behind my back, and then set the silver salver before me on the spread. Drawing up her chair, she sat down near enough to pour the tea and hand me what else I required. As she did so I noted the delicate way she held everything she touched—her fingers slightly parted naturally, curling like an acanthus leaf."You say that I have been out of my head?" I began."Yes, at intervals, since yesterday afternoon.""I dimly remember it, now. Yes, it was curious. Somehow, though, it seems to me that there were two women here, though never at the same time, I think—but no doubt I got it all mixed up."She looked down quickly, as if confused, but she replied, "Oh, it must have been Leah,—the other one. She's my maid; or, perhaps, rather more my companion. You must see her. I think she's wonderful. I wonder if you will!" She made the last remark under her breath, as if she spoke to herself rather than to me.She went to the door and called, "Leah!" So few persons can raise their voices prettily, that I was delighted to hear it sound as musical as when she spoke to me. As she returned, the light shone on her soft-flowing, silken gown, making it look like frosted silver. In a few moments Leah entered the room, bearing a lighted lamp.I was surprised, I confess, after what my hostess had said, perhaps as a test of my sensibility, to see that the maid was a negress, but, after giving her my first glance, I was still more surprised to see that she was of a kind one seldom sees, the best type, in fact, of Northern negro. As she approached us she had the bearing of a woman of great refinement and a face which, though uncompromisingly dark, showed an extraordinary mental if not moral caste. Her skin was a warm brown, something of the color of a Samoan, though more reddish than mulatto in tinge. This, I found afterward, was the result of a remote crossing with American Indian blood; it was just enough to enrich the color, and to keep down some of the negroid fullness of the lips and modify the crispness of her curling hair. Leah might, indeed, be considered beautiful; what could not, at least, be denied, was the impression of character which was stamped upon her. It was patent in her face, her carriage and her voice. I watched her in admiration. There was a neatness and an immaculate cleanness about her, and I could easily understand how my hostess might regard her as a friend.Leah's affection for her mistress was evident by the sympathetic manner in which she listened, and by the softness of her look when her eyes fell on my hostess. There was in that look more than the traditional fondness of a negro "mammy" for her charge. I felt immediately one of those quick reactions one sometimes has with servants, or with other persons whom social customs have relegated to a conventionally inferior position. It was a case of spiritual noblesse oblige. Seeing her so fine, so sensitive, so tactful, I was myself put unconsciously upon my best behavior. I could not forget this in any look or any word I gave her. I was constantly watching myself lest I, a guest, a man of a dominant race, should, in consideration and in delicacy, fall behind this servant, this negress. It was a curious delicacy she seemed to enforce.I can give this effect of Leah upon me, but it is not so easy to describe the cause. She effaced herself, she kept her place rarely. But with all this, she radiated—she had a potent personality. She put down the lamp, she straightened the covers of my bed, answered a few questions, speaking in a rich contralto voice, and went out. That was all. But in those few moments she had impressed me.It was, no doubt, because of my enjoyment in watching, silently, what went on, that gave my companion the idea that I was exhausted. She apparently inferred that I wished to be left alone, and, rising, she took the tray from my lap and set it down while she readjusted my pillows. Then, removing a little silver Nuremberg bell, she took up the tray again, and rose to leave me."I'll leave the bell here at the head of your bed, Mr. Castle," she said (she had learned my name, of course, when she took my message), "and Leah will be glad to do anything for you that you wish."As she turned, she looked back, smiling."Oh, I haven't told you my own name, yet, have I? I'm Miss Fielding—Joy Fielding. There's nobody here but Leah and me, except Uncle Jerdon, our man-of-all-work, and King, the Chinaman. Midmeadows is a lonely place, though it's lovely in the summer. Well, I hope you'll be able to sleep well, and be much better in the morning. I'll hope to see you then. Good night." She left me after placing the lamp just out of sight.Later, Leah entered, bringing me some books to read, in case I should be wakeful. I dipped into them all immediately, seeking for further evidence of Miss Fielding's taste. One was of poems, one of essays, one of short stories, and one a novel.The house was silent. I heard nothing until quite late, when the two women came up-stairs to retire. By their voices and footsteps, I made out that Leah slept in the room next to mine, and Miss Fielding across the hall, farther off. There was some soft conversation, Leah's voice deep and rich, Miss Fielding's rising several notes above, always with that fluttering, delicate quality which I had noticed. Then the doors closed, and I heard nothing more except, somewhere below, a heavy rhythmic snoring which I assumed came from Uncle Jerdon's room.There came to me now one of those weary, irksome vigils of the sick, when the darkness and the pain seem to coöperate to stretch out the hours to infinite lengths. I tried one position and another, I lighted the candle and put it out again, but my discomfort and my sleeplessness persisted. I could think of nothing else but Joy Fielding, Joy Fielding, Joy Fielding! I think that a little of my delirium returned, also; but all through my torment I kept repeating to myself that I did not want to know who she was. I refused to speculate upon that, except in ways that were romantic and fantastic. What matter-of-fact, commonplace explanation of her life there might be, I wanted to hold off as long as possible.III was awakened early by the sunshine which came pouring across my bed from the window opposite, lighting up the white wainscoting and showing the room now, clean and brightly distinct to the least detail of the crisp Japanese prints upon the wall.One sash and the window-shade had been left up, and I could see the slope of a hill which rose behind the house, seeming to shut the place in. The other window was filled with the waving boughs of an apple-tree. The day was fine and balmy; the fresh air of the morning swept deliciously over my bed. It was maddening to have to lie there helpless.Before long I heard doors opening and closing below, and the sounds of preparations for breakfast—the rattling of a stove, a pump that squeaked whimsically like a braying donkey, the clatter of pots and pans, and a Chinaman's voice singing in a queer falsetto. With the odors of flowers and damp earth the smell of coffee came up to me, mingled, too, with a whiff from the stable. Then the clock, whose hourly chimes had measured for me the slow march of the night, struck seven with a peal of golden notes.I heard footsteps come up-stairs to the hall outside my half opened door. There was a soft tapping across the way, and Leah's voice asked quietly:"What would you like for breakfast, Miss Joy?"I could just make out the reply in Miss Fielding's blithe tones:"Oh, just a couple of butterflies' wings, Leah, and a drop of rose-dew, please."How prettily it sounded! From another it might have seemed silly to me, but not from her. I was amused at her fancy. Miss Fielding, then, was a poet. It was all so in key with the freshness of the morning and the gay sweet sunshine!I was more comfortable now, and more sane. So, as I lay awaiting her, I wondered how such a woman, so instinct with refinement and with the air of having had considerable social experience, was to be found in so far-away a place. I knew of no residences in this vicinity except an occasional farmhouse; it was remote even from any village. The sight of her as she appeared last night in her elegant negligée came back to me, like the scene of a play. I longed to see her again, to discover if, perhaps, I had not exaggerated it all, or even, perhaps, had dreamed of one so exquisitely gracious.Leah, also, was a part of the strangeness. She had none of the disturbing beauty of the quadroon—her beauty was withoutdiablerie, it was far from showing any sensuality. It was even spiritual in type. Her face, as I brought it up, was more than intelligent, it was lighted by an inward vision. The more I thought of her, the more I wondered if I had not been tricked by my impressionability, by the strangeness of my adventure, by the glamour of the night awakening. To put it to the test, I took advantage of Miss Fielding's suggestion and rang the bell.Leah appeared in a few moments, and came a little shyly into the room. She wore a clean, fresh, crisp gown of blue, like a hospital nurse's uniform, and was as trim and dignified. No, I had not been mistaken. The light of day showed her still more remarkable than I had remembered. Her regular features, her smooth, coffee-colored skin, her well-kept shapely hands, all testified to an extraordinary breeding."Are you ready for your breakfast, sir?" she asked. Her voice was like honey as she inquired how I had passed the night, and apologized for Uncle Jerdon's snoring."I'll bring your water first," she suggested, and retired noiselessly, to return in a moment with a bowl, some towels and toilet articles.She seemed a little embarrassed by the situation, but assisted me in sitting up. Then, finding that I could do for myself well enough, she went down-stairs, and by the time I had finished my washing, she was back with the tray."Miss Joy will be in to see you in a little while, sir," she said as she made me comfortable with dexterous adjustments of my pillows.But for her "sir," she had in no way acted as a servant, though, on the other hand, she had assumed no attitude of equality. I could not help admiring the fine neutrality she maintained without committing herself to either role. All my first impressions of her were intensified by this demeanor, and I awaited the opportunity of assuring her by my own manner of my lack of prejudice on account of her color. Indeed, it was not long before I was almost as unconscious of it, so far as any social distinction was concerned, as a child might have been.Miss Fielding came in a little later, dewy and shining, dressed all in white—an embroidered linen blouse and a short skirt of serge, which made her seem even younger than I had remembered. The sight of her expressive, thoughtful, eager face, and the music in her sympathetic voice gave my room quite another aspect. It became a stage again where last night's drama would go on. How long I had waited for her, and now she was come! Only an invalid, perhaps, can understand the difference in atmosphere in that first quick sight of an expected delightful presence to one who has waited for the weary hours to go by and bring the wished-for vision.She made a few kind inquiries as to my condition, moving meanwhile about the room, disposing of the fresh roses she had brought, lowering the window-sashes and raising the shades, rapid and graceful as a bird on the wing. She was all modern, now; the medieval princess had given place to something more complex, and as much more interesting. Every word, every inflection of her voice, every gesture of her hand, every expression of her mobile face showed subtlety of thought and sentiment; she was obviously a creature of fine distinctions, of nuances of feeling, though at present her talk was as simple and joyous as a child's. That simplicity of hers, however, was the simplicity of a Greek temple, made up of subtle ratios and proportions, of imperceptible curves and esoteric laws.She drew up a chair, at last, and sat down beside me. We looked at each other frankly, and smiled, aware of a common thought, the desire to prolong the situation as far as we might. This quickness of her imagination was a delight. But the game was becoming too humorous, now, in broad daylight, for us to keep it up. Our romance was in danger."I'm bursting with the obvious," I remarked.She shook her finger at me with spirit. "If you dare!""Oh, I'll not be the first. Man though I am, I can restrain my curiosity."How quickly her face changed! An almost infantile look came into it, as she said:"There are so many more curious things than curiosity, if you know what I mean. Curiosity is such a destructive process, don't you think?""And this is creative? The not satisfying it, I mean.""Yes, wonder is—and mystery. It ramifies so. It splits the ray." She made a queer, mystical gesture, all her own."Oh, it quite blossoms!" I said. "I breathe all sorts of perfumes never smelt."Her eager look came back, and she smiled joyously. "How quick you are! I wish we could keep it up a while! I should have liked to marry Bluebeard! What a splendid dowry he gave! Oh, I would never have opened the door! There was so much more outside than in, wasn't there? But now the role is yours; you must be Bluebeard's wife—or Robinson Crusoe. Oh, you must stay on the island—this island with me, and not try to get off. There are a few little places we can explore without danger—will you be satisfied with them?"Somehow I got the spirit of it, as at hearing some words of a strange language eloquently spoken. She was warning me off—but from what? I would find out soon enough, should the meaning need to be made more definite. It was like a game of jackstraws; if I did not play gingerly I should bring down the commonplace upon us. My situation was delicate—it almost seemed that I had arrived, in some way, inopportunely.But she had gone on. "Did you read my books?" she asked, taking up one of them."I read that one—the poems. I got quite lost in them.""Which ones?" She looked up from the book eagerly."The Journey, and,—" I hesitated, "—The Riders." I was watching her face earnestly."Oh, how right you are!" She was perfectly simple about it. There was no conceit in her. "It means, doesn't it, that we already have a language? But you must read the essays, too. Then maybe we'll have a philosophy.""I'll explore them with pleasure." I tried to keep the appeal out of my voice. "I have such a lot of things to do before I go."She got this quite as I intended. "Well, we'll be perfectly natural and let come what may, as it seems to be all decided for us. We won't force the game. But I'm afraid you'll never be contented. You'll leave the island first, I'm quite sure."I protested; she shook her head slowly. I knew she was thinking very hard of something. Her smile was wistful, her eyes, always fixed on mine, were almost somber in their expression."Would you dare promise?"I knew now there was something behind all this; some fear of my presence."Shall I?" I fenced, more to draw her on than from any doubt of her meaning or reluctance to agree with her wish."It's base of me—it's foolish, too, for it can really do no good. But, you see, I don't quite know you, do I?""And don't quite want to?" I was unkind enough to say, but only with the same motive as before. I wanted to get at the bottom of it—find out what it was she dreaded, and dared not acknowledge that she did.She was a little hurt and said that it wasn't fair to say so, that I wasn't playing the game. I was properly contrite, and, for the moment, gave up the duel."Let it be a promise, then," I said.At this, I thought she looked relieved; and that she should be so at my bare word touched me. It did cross my mind that, perceiving my adaptability to this sort of affair, she might perhaps have taken an adventitious means of heightening the romance of the situation with such innuendo; but she seemed to me to be altogether too direct for that, and too sapient, as well."Thank you. I may hold you to that promise. Does that seem ungracious?"There it was. There was most definitely something which she didn't wish me to know, and which my advent jeoparded. I was truly sorry for her now, and a little embarrassed at my position. Meanwhile her eyes were steadily questioning mine, as if to make sure that I was to be trusted. I took up her last remark to relieve the tensity of her mood."You couldn't be ungracious, I'm sure. I should as soon suspect Leah!"She laughed more freely. "Oh, I'm so glad you appreciate her! That says more for you than all the rest.""The rest?" I insisted, quite ready for a compliment.She gave it to me with her head a little on one side, and her right eyebrow, the irregular one, whimsically upraised."Yes. Your keeping it up so well, you know.""Oh, I'll keep it up! It's the chief charm of being here, flat on my back, in a strange place. I'm sure it will be most amusing.""I'm not so sure. I'm full of moods and whims—you're going to be terribly disappointed in me sometimes—though that sounds like vanity—and I may take advantage of your complaisance, of your promise, that is. I hope you won't regret it."So it rested, my promise not to be too inquisitive (for I took its meaning to be that), given and accepted. It quite whetted my appetite, you may be sure. If all this talk seems fine-spun, it is my fault in the telling of it, for in the give-and-take we perfectly understood each other. I can not, of course, give her delicate inflections, but these, with her looks and gestures, said as much as her words.But if this equivocal conversation was vague and shadowy, she could pass into the sunshine as deftly. She seemed to do so now, as she rose and went to the open window and whistled. A chorus of barks answered her. She turned to me."I must go down to my dogs," she said. "I wish you could see them—that is, if you like collies. I have five, all thoroughbreds—they're beauties! You'll have to get acquainted with them as soon as you're able to go down-stairs."She leaned a little out of the window and called, "Hi! Nokomis!" drawing out the vowels. A deep bark responded."Hiawatha!" she called next, and she was answered by a sharp, frenzied yelping. "Minnehaha!" followed—she almost sang the name, which was replied to like the others. Then Chevalier and John O'Groat greeted her in turn."I'm going to take them for their morning run," she said, as she left me. "I'll examine you on the essays when I come back."She went down, and soon after I heard her talking, evidently to Uncle Jerdon and to King. Then the barking rose ecstatically, receded in the distance, and finally was lost. I took up the essays and read for a while. My head was much better, and my soreness was slowly disappearing, but the constrained positions I had to hold to keep my rib from paining me made me too weary and impatient to put my mind on my book. I could hardly wait for Miss Fielding to return, and lay inert, watching the flies drift lazily through the sunshine that filled the room, hoping that Leah, at least, might come in to break my ennui. I welcomed even the hoarse, squeaky cry of King's pump, the occasional crowing of a rooster, the twittering of birds in the apple-tree, and the many little homely sounds of country life. The fragrant perfume of the roses in the room was a blessed reminder of Miss Fielding's kindness.In a half-hour, I heard the dogs approaching, and she came into the room again, hatless, bringing a new breath of June with her. Her hair was blown to a silky veil through which her eyes shone and her rosy cheeks glowed as she smiled at me over the footboard of my bed. Throwing off her little white bolero, a saucy thing with black velvet collar and cuffs, she went to the mirror and gathered up the loose strands of hair, tucking them in, here and there, with deft touches of her fingers, and adjusting them with dark tortoise-shell pins, until her little head, coiffed high, was as smooth as a cat's.She came up to the bedside and was quick to notice by my nervous movements that I was suffering. Sitting down she began to tell gaily of her walk over the hill, and, as she spoke, my aching was calmed as if she had laid a finger on the electric switch that controlled it. Then she suggested reading to me, and took up the volume of poems we had discussed.Her voice was not quite intense enough for strong emotion; it had not the momentum, so to speak, to carry the lines along with the swing and rhythm necessary. It was too light for that, but it more than made up for it by its sympathetic tenderness and the delicacy of its inflection. Her tones lulled me, and I fell asleep.In the afternoon she brought her mending, and we talked for a couple of hours or so, always keeping, as she expressed it, "on the island." What personalities we discussed, that is, had no reference to her history or her plans. She warned me off very cleverly several times when the talk approached her circumstances or even her moods and tastes.When she confessed that she played a little on the piano and violin, I positively insisted upon my rights as an invalid to be amused. She rolled up her work and went to get her violin without excuses or apologies.I waited with considerable anxiety to hear what and how she would play, not committing myself as to my own choice of composers. She began in her own room, and through the opened doors I heard the strains of thePrize Songplayed with great verve and sentiment. I was delighted. She came, still playing, into my chamber, her sleeves rolled up (she said she could not play else), and accepted my compliments graciously and simply. Then, walking up and down, absorbed, she gave me fragments of Cesar Franck's sonata for the violin and piano. To watch her, supple, virile, rapt, to note her clever, accomplished technique, her passionate, free-armed command of the bow—I have seldom seen such a splendid attack or so sure and true a vibrato—was a joy beautifully associated with the clarity and subtle craftsmanship of the master.So she ran on, alternating her renditions with scraps of talk that showed a keen musical sense and an appreciation of the radical, ultra-modern movement of the time. Next she burst into a vibrant, dramatic Polish folksong that excited me like a fire. And finally, as atour de force, her eyes dancing as she watched me over her shoulder with some new audacious devil in her smile, she enchanted me with a vivid piece most astonishingly enlivened with flights of technique—trills, brilliant chord passages, and runs with the upward and downward "staccato bow." Then she threw down her fiddle and came up to me, laughing.That evening she had another delight for me, coming to my bedside and reading Villon and Verlaine in the original, translating the old French for me when I was perplexed by theargot. And for the picture, I need only add that Leah was of the circle, and made her own comments!IIIThere was, next morning, a little dialogue much like that which I had overheard the day before, except that this time it was "stewed rose-leaves with a small pot of sunshine," which Miss Fielding was fanciful enough to demand. I wondered what, after such a pleasantry, she did have; for I took it to be some joke between her and Leah, who, no doubt, translated the metaphor into something more substantial.As I ate breakfast, I could hear Miss Fielding singing in her room. She came in before I had finished my egg and coffee, bringing an armful of new magazines. This time she was dressed in pongee and wore a short string of graduated white coral beads which was mimicked, when she smiled, by her little teeth."I've found out about you—quite by accident, though, Mr. Castle, really," she said gaily; and, opening one of the magazines, she tapped with her hand the picture of a country house my firm had just rather successfully completed. "So you're an architect! And I'm the first to get off the island, after all!""It doesn't matter, I suppose, so long as I stay on?" I asked."Oh, this doesn't by any means absolve you of your promise," she answered, examining the illustration carefully, still standing at the foot of the bed."You aren't really very much wiser, are you? There are architectsandarchitects, you know.""Yes," she said, apparently thinking of something else. "Quite as there are women and women," she added, turning over the pages idly."There's only one ofyoursort!" I exclaimed.A queer smile passed and was repressed upon her lips, molding them into new curves. "Yes, only one ofme.""I don't exactly mean that, either," I went on. "The fact is, rather, that there is more than one of me. There's the architect and the man in me—and how many more! One is always astonishing the others. Aren't there, after all, several of you, Miss Fielding?"She gave me a frightened glance, then tossed the magazine on the bed. It wasn't petulance; she seemed to be disturbed at the subject."Oh, I'm only a White Cat!" she said cryptically.She seemed anything but that, to me."I'll tell you about it sometime—perhaps," she added. "But not now."She stood with her hands behind her back, raising herself on her toes, and changed the subject. "I'm awfully anxious to show you this house, now that I know you're an architect. It's one of the oldest hereabout, and it was a wreck when I bought it. I've had it all done over inside, and I shall expect you to compliment me on my taste, for it's mainly my own ideas.""What I've seen of it is charming—but a bit impersonal, perhaps.""Oh, this is only the guest-chamber. One doesn't inflict one's ideas on the transient visitor. Of course this is a bloodless, sexless place. You'll find personality enough in my room, I fancy. I hope you'll be able to get down-stairs by day after to-morrow, and have a chance to look about at the place. I'm sure you'll love Midmeadows. I'm expecting the doctor down here this afternoon, and he'll probably be able to tell you how long you'll have to stay. I do hope you won't get well too fast, Mr. Castle.""Trust me for that," I said. "I give you fair notice, I shall probably do some malingering. But I shall be glad to see the doctor, if only to make sure that I can impose on him."My heart sank, nevertheless, at the thought of his interruption of our idyl. I felt an illogical right to her by discovery, a certain franchise in her good graces that Fate herself had given me. The possible weakening of our alliance, however, was only the negative side of my annoyance. The positive aspect was that Doctor Copin seemed to be an old acquaintance, even a friend; for Miss Fielding had mentioned that she was going to walk over to the Harbor to meet him. It was possible, even—and the idea was poison—that she was in love with him. Well, I must needs wait and see him before I decided as to that chance.I asked her to call her dogs again, and, seeing that it might amuse me, she offered to bring Nokomis, the best-behaved, and matron of the kennel, up to see me. I accepted eagerly, and, from the window, she called her favorite.Nokomis was one of the most beautiful collies I have ever seen, a tawny red, or sable, with white ruff, feet, and tail-point. Her head was very finely shaped—not too dull for keenness, nor with too much of the silly greyhound's tapering muzzle, as not a few flat-headed prize-winners, bred chiefly for color and coat, have. She had dark brown eyes set with that obliqueness that gives the breed its characteristic look of brightness, kindness and craft. Her small ears, as she entered, were semi-erect, giving her, as she stopped with her head slightly on one side, the sharp, doubtful expression of the fox. She came with her flag up, as if she were on exhibition before judges, marched to Miss Fielding and waited for orders."Isn't she a darling?" Miss Fielding said affectionately, rubbing her pet's neck. "You hasn't got flappy, saddle-bag ears and a high forehead and a velvet jacket,hasyou! I don't see no snipey nose! Hasn't she got an 'honest, sonsie, bawsint face,' Mr. Castle? Only it isn't 'bawsint.' And look at her gawcie tail, wi' upward curl!' She has old Cockie herself for an ancestor,shehas!"Nokomis gravely stood on her hind legs with her forepaws on her mistress' skirt, panting—smiling, I might well say. Then, in obedience to a word and a gesture, she dropped and came over to me in so dignified and friendly a way that I fell promptly in love with her. Her outer coat was abundant, straight and stiff, the under one so thick and soft and furry that I could not find the skin. Her ruff was magnificent, her chest deep and strong. I was sure she would be a good worker; her wit had already been proved.Miss Fielding was pleased with my appreciation, and consented to having Nokomis remain, and so, for the rest of the day, except for occasional inquisitive excursions, she lay on the floor beside my bed, thumping her tail and listening attentively whenever I looked down to speak to her.Early in the afternoon Miss Fielding put on a fresh linen waist and corduroy skirt to set out for the station. Before she went she moved about the room, readjusting the flowers, drawing a shade or two which threatened to let the sun into my eyes, renewing my pitcher of water and so on, giving me in five minutes a dozen evidences of her tact, thoughtfulness and consideration. Then, with a last warning to Nokomis to take good care of me, she went away, leaving the apartment depressingly empty.Leah came in occasionally, however, to see if I was comfortable, but I could get little talk from her. She answered all my questions, looking at me with her melting, deep brown eyes, which were really not a little like those of old Nokomis, but volunteering no remark of her own. Between the two I managed to be fairly patient till, at about three o'clock, Miss Fielding returned with the doctor. I was aware of their approach for some time before they arrived by the joyous barking of the collies in front of the stable. At this Nokomis pricked up her ears, but was too well-bred to pay more attention. I had laughed at her for yawning wide with her wolf-like jaws, and she was sensitively on her dignity.Doctor Copin was tall and thin and younger than I had expected; and like most young doctors he attempted to make much of his years by a pointed, reddish beard. Nature had assisted him in this attempt, also, by removing enough of his hair to give him a shiny bald forehead almost to the crown of his head, and making him near-sighted enough to require strong eye-glasses. But all this could not induce me to think him more than twenty-seven or eight years of age. His eyes were of that china blue which, with red hair, is so apt to give a selfish, heartless expression, which went very well with his general bloodlessness. Except for those protruding blue eyes he might, with his yellowy-brown suit and his slender, long hands, have been an animated caricature, done in red chalk. Worst of all, to my mind, he made puns.He approached me with the jocose air affected by physicians, and looked me over with a grin. I could see, under his sparse beard, that he had a lizard chin receding comically."Well, Mr. Castle," he said, "I expect you haven't been climbing any more trees with your machine lately, have you? Feeling like Adam, after the creation of Eve, with that fourth rib of yours! Let me have a feel of it. Ah!"He prodded me a little. "Well, we're doing so-so," he went on. "If you were a football player you'd be up in five minutes. How's the head? I suppose you haven't had quite such a big one since you put on long pants. You're not having many long pants these days, I fancy, with that cracked bone in your chest, are you!" And so on. I tried to smile, and did not succeed till I had caught sight of Miss Fielding's face frowning over his shoulder.I was doing well, it seemed. It was nothing but a matter of time and patience. The worst of it was the shaking up, and for that, rest was all that was necessary.I answered his pleasantries, asked him the news in town, and thanked him for what he had done, which, indeed, was not much. If I have given the impression that he was an ass, that was not at all how he impressed me. Though he persistently refused to talk sense, and turned everything I said into jest, I was ready enough to believe that he knew his business and stood well in the profession. I got little more than this however, for he soon left for a talk—likely a professional one, I imagined—with my hostess. This lasted till, after an early dinner, he left the house to be driven back to the station by Uncle Jerdon. Idle and bored as I was, while alone, I speculated upon his relations with Miss Fielding; but from what I had seen I could hardly regard him as a rival. Still, I knew well enough that one could not predicate from a man's appearance how women might like him. Doctor Copin would not be here in attendance, much less as a visitor, unless there was some value in him. He evidently knew the place well enough to have been at Midmeadows often. It made me, for no particular reason that I could name, uncomfortable.It was still and warm, the beginning of the hush of twilight, the birds' chattering quieted, when voices came plainly up to me through the open window beside my bed. Miss Fielding and the doctor were coming round a corner of the house on their way to the stable."I wish when she comes, next time, you'd have Leah let me know," I heard Doctor Copin say earnestly."I won't promise to do that," was her reply."Why not?" he asked sharply."Why do you want to know?" she asked."You know well enough. You know how interested I am in her.""I wish Idid!"This was the last I could make out, for they passed into the yard behind the house. I heard the carriage drive off, and soon after Miss Fielding's voice inside the house, calling for Leah to come down. I thought that I detected a strain of excitement, even of alarm in her tones.A half-hour afterward, she came into my room with a chess-board, and asked me if I played the game. I was delighted to try it with her, though I was poor enough at it, and she beat me easily.She was quite as charming as ever, but, as I studied my strategy, she had time in the silent pauses to fall into little moods of reverie, letting the talk drop naturally. I was not too absorbed in my play to notice it, and once or twice I looked up from the board to see her face show a tragic expression, clearing, under my surveillance, with what seemed to be a forced smile. The little lines near her eyes seemed to have deepened since morning, and two vertical ones came, at times, cutting upright clefts between her brows. Once or twice she put her hand to her head suddenly. Her listlessness accented her grace, but she seemed distinctly older.After she had announced mate in three moves she awaited my capitulation. Then she put the board and men aside wearily."You'll find it desperately stupid here, I know, Mr. Castle," she began. "I wish we could be more amusing, but I'm a bit blue to-night.""I only reproach myself for not being able to make you forget it," I said. "As for myself, I always feel like the hero of a fairy tale when you're about."She gave her head a quick, backward shake, as if to free her mind of some disturbing thought. "Oh, I told you I was the White Cat, you know!" she replied. "Can't you imagine how interesting it must be for us to have any one here at all, and you most especially? Why, I feel that you are a friend, already. If it hadn't been so, I shouldn't have dared to confess so frankly that I'm depressed.""What can I possibly say of you, then, who have proved yourself so friendly? I shall be glad when it comes my turn to give, and yours to receive.""Oh, that time will come soon enough, I'm afraid," she said, folding her hands in her lap, and looking down at them."You make me quite long for it!""Oh, don't long for it!" she exclaimed, and then rose nervously to stand facing the lamp with a fixed, entranced gaze. "It will mean, perhaps, that I shall need all your sympathy, all your charity," she added, turning, ever so slowly, to look down at me."I will give anything you ask——""And I shall ask nothing," she put in quickly. Again she threw her head back with that quick, freeing gesture. I saw what she meant. It would be put to my tact and intuition.She held out her hand impulsively and put it into mine. It seemed very small and slight, and it was cold. Then, summoning a smile so rapid that it came and went in a flash, she bade me good night and left the room.For fully an hour after that, I heard her voice and Leah's in a steady, low conversation in the room across the hall. At nine, Leah came in to adjust the light and see that I wanted nothing. I fell into an uneasy sleep, waking at every cock-crow.
The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe White CatThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The White CatCreator: Gelett BurgessIllustrator: Will GreféRelease date: May 13, 2015 [eBook #48084]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE CAT ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The White CatCreator: Gelett BurgessIllustrator: Will GreféRelease date: May 13, 2015 [eBook #48084]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: The White Cat
Creator: Gelett BurgessIllustrator: Will Grefé
Creator: Gelett Burgess
Illustrator: Will Grefé
Release date: May 13, 2015 [eBook #48084]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE CAT ***
[image]Cover art
[image]Cover art
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Cover art
[image]"Chester," she cried, "take me." Page313
[image]"Chester," she cried, "take me." Page313
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[image]
"Chester," she cried, "take me." Page313
THE WHITE CATByGELETT BURGESSAuthor of VivetteA Little Sister of Destinyetc.With Illustrations byWILL GREFÉNEW YORKGROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS
THE WHITE CAT
By
GELETT BURGESS
Author of VivetteA Little Sister of Destinyetc.
With Illustrations by
WILL GREFÉ
NEW YORKGROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1907THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANYMARCH
COPYRIGHT 1907THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
MARCH
PART FIRST
THE WHITE CAT
I
I came to myself with a disturbing sense that something was wrong with me. My discomfort, increasing steadily, resolved itself into two distinct factors—a pain in my side at every breath and a throbbing ache in the top of my head. I realized that I was in bed, and the first strangeness of it struck me. I could not account for it. The wild, spicy odor of flowers came to me, adding to my perplexity. Then I opened my eyes.
The place was so dimly lighted that for some seconds my sluggish wits were unable to interpret the blotches of shadow and the vague glimmering spots. These, however, gradually resolved themselves into comprehensible forms. I perceived that I was in a strange room, large and airy; for even in the obscurity I got a feeling of free, clean space, and of that chaste emptiness which is apt to distinguish the guest-chamber of a well-kept house. I heard, now, the steady, deliberate ticking of a clock a little way off, and somewhere below was a small grinding sound, so low as to be almost a mere vibration, like a coffee-mill in operation. Near by, a door closed and latched softly.
I moved and attempted to sit up, but a sharp stab in my side warned me that my hurt was perhaps more serious than I had thought. There was a lump on my head, too, which probably accounted for my lapse of consciousness.
Setting my memory painfully to work, groping back through the darkness of my mind for something to explain the mystery, much as one might descend a dark, unlighted stairway, I came upon the last fact that had been recorded by my brain. I had been putting on speed—the road through the woods was straight, level and deserted—hoping to get up to town early in the afternoon. The steering-gear of my motor-car had given way. I had felt the wheels suddenly veer, then, before I put on my brake, the front of the car went down and the rear was thrown up and over with the momentum, sending me flying through the air.
I wondered, lazily, how much the machine had suffered. Then, I must have dropped off to sleep again, for when I next opened my eyes there was a flickering ray of light in the room. This time I was keenly alert mentally, desirous of some explanation of my situation. Where was I, and who had cared for me?
The light grew brighter, still wavering, slanting across the wall where it rocked and shifted, casting long, distorted shadows that danced up and down. Some one was evidently coming up-stairs with a light. The door was hidden by a projecting angle of the wall, however, and so for a few moments I saw nobody.
In those seconds the room was illuminated gradually more and more, showing a white-painted wainscot with a dull green wall above, where a few Japanese prints hung. Opposite my bed was a window with small, old-fashioned panes; there was another beside me. The rays glinted on the polished sides of several pieces of old mahogany furniture and flared yellow on brass candle-sticks and on the gilded frame of an eagle mirror. Finally the glare stopped its undulating, the shadows grew steadier on the wall, and, as I gazed eagerly for a first glimpse of my visitor, a young woman, bearing a silver candlestick, came into the room. She looked immediately over to where I lay, and then, catching my surprised stare, her expression changed wonderfully from a rather pathetic abstraction to an animated interest. With something not quite a smile on her face she walked nearer my bed, and stood for a moment without speaking, still looking at me. Her attitude hinted that she saw in me something—as if, for instance, it were a sort of picturesqueness which was unexpected enough to appeal to her imagination. She rested for a moment, poised and calm, but intensely attentive, fascinated.
And I, at the same time, was instantly conscious of so curious a sentiment that I must stop to attempt to describe it.
I conceived myself to be a connoisseur in women, and I estimated her at first sight as one unique, even extraordinary. But though to my mind she was indubitably beautiful, it was not her beauty that for the moment thrilled me. It was chiefly her "newness," the very novelty of her visitation. I felt a sudden, compelling desire to prolong the mystery of her presence rather than to have it explained. I tried, mentally, to delay her first word, to hold her back from any definite explanation till my eyes had had their fill of her—till they had, so to speak, solved her equation—till my wonder had spent itself in the vision, exhausting all its possibilities of delight. Her charm was, in its unexpectedness, so alluring, that she was like a pleasant dream which one lingers with and detains.
She was small, but her head was so exquisitely proportioned to her body that one did not notice her size. I have called her young, though she was twenty-seven, for her graceful figure and pose were still girlishly maintained. The shape of her small head was defined by a quaint coiffure, the dark, fine hair being banded in an encircling plait up past her tiny ears and over, like a coronal, showing a sweeping high-bred curve over her low brow. All this gave her a tender, virginal aspect; but her soft, deep brown eyes were so saddened by warm shadows below the lids, her mouth was so tremulously sensitive, with its slightly parted lips, and the little lines that women fear had begun to write her history so suggestively upon her face, that, as I gazed at her, I saw a woman who had lived and suffered, a woman as intense as she was delicate in all her moods.
She was clad in a bewilderingly feminine peignoir of lace and embroidery, open at the neck, and covered with another long, straightly hanging garment of shimmering pale-green silk, richly decorated with odd patterns. This gave her to my wondering eyes quite the appearance of a medieval princess, or the heroine of some old fairy tale. The impression was intensified by the long chain she wore, set with fire opals which flashed in the candle-light. From it, below her waist, there hung a golden star.
And, strangest of all, most provocative to my fancy, she also appeared, with extraordinary sympathy, almost with prescience, to feel something of my wonder as she paused and stood silent, retarding her greeting, in answer to my unspoken thought. While our eyes held each other in that marvelous communion, she did not smile; it was rather from her quivering mouth that I got the idea that she, too, was touched by the spell, and was keenly alive to the potentiality of the situation. She seemed to hold her breath lest the wonder should pass too soon.
That moment was as sublimely unreal as anything I have ever known, and, within its unmeasurable limits, as potent. It was tense, instinct with fine, secret emotions too faint for analysis. Messages came and went, electric. It was, in short, the psychological moment that comes but once to any friendship, and, coming, is usually hurried past without appreciation of its mysterious charm. It was that most suggestive of preludes, an instinctive, conscious pause upon the magic threshold of Romance. That she felt its quality also overpowered me. The minute passed like a falling star, and in its glory we seemed to travel miles together.
Then, with a visible effort, she spoke.
Her voice was light and clear, so expressively modulated that I have, despite myself, to compare it only to fairy footsteps passing over flower-tops. Its tones poised and hovered as if on the wing, though they were as sure as the melody of an old song. It was, above all else, graceful, and usually it held a trace of mental eagerness, but its characteristic quality came more from delicate nuances of feeling than from any vibrant intensity. It had the fluidity of running water.
With her first word she smiled, and some of the melancholy escaped from her eyes.
"Oh, you are better now! I'msoglad!"
The silver thread of magic that had bound as was broken, and the episode became real and humorous on the instant. I could not help smiling in my turn, for assuredly, from my point of view, I was, physically, decidedly the worse. I took it from her, by her remark, that I had been ill.
"Yes," I replied, "I suppose I must be better, since you say so, but I seem to be quite bad enough. How long have I been here?"
"Twenty-four hours. You have been a little delirious, you know. I was getting quite anxious about you, though the doctor said there was no danger."
She came nearer, and put her small beautiful hand upon my cheek. I noticed that she wore no rings. The touch of her fingers was soft and cool.
"I'm glad your fever has gone," she said, "Have you much pain?"
I felt sore all over, and there was trouble with my side when I moved; my head seemed to be splitting. But I was so much more interested in her, and how I came to be there, that I dismissed my symptoms with a shrug, and asked what had happened.
"You were thrown from your automobile," she said, "and you were pretty badly shaken up. There was a rib broken, and a slight concussion of the brain, I believe, but nothing serious. You'll have to stay here several days, at least, and keep quiet. Doctor Copin had to go back to town, and I must notify him that you are all right now. You mustn't fret about it, for you are perfectly welcome to stay here and it won't trouble us in the least. Only I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored. It's quiet here, and I'll be rather dull company."
"I'm not worrying, I assure you," I said. "I'm in no hurry to get well."
She smiled again, faintly but with a quick appreciation, and took a seat in an arm-chair which stood beside my bed. I caught a glimpse of a green silk stocking and an exquisitely small foot in a fantastically shaped slipper. She went on:
"I have been a good deal troubled because we have, of course, no idea who you are. I was afraid that some of your friends might be alarmed about you. So, if there is any one we can notify, or send for, give me the address and the message, and I'll send it over to the telegraph office at the Harbor, or I can telephone for you, if there's any one in town. Doctor Copin could call and explain your condition, if you prefer."
As she leaned her face on her slender hand and looked at me, she added: "Your motor has been taken care of, so you needn't worry about that. Uncle Jerdon hauled it into the stable, and it can stay there until you have a chance to have it repaired."
"You were good to take me in and to get a doctor," I said, watching the tiny vertical lines come and go in her forehead.
"Oh, Doctor Copin happened to be with me when you were brought in by Uncle Jerdon. I really don't know how you managed to escape with your life."
"I didn't deserve to escape. I was running considerably over the speed limit, I imagine. I wanted to get back to town early." How much rather would I have discussed the queer little corners of her lips that changed so distractingly, and the transparent shadow under her cheek-bone that spiritualized her whole expression now and again!
"Oh, I must take your message!" she exclaimed, a little embarrassed by the pause that had fallen.
She rose and went over to an antique secretary, bringing back a pad of paper and a pencil. Reseating herself, she waited for me to dictate. I thought a while and then gave her a short report of my condition to be sent to my partner. Having written this down she went out of the room quietly, leaving the candle with me. No sooner had she left than my pain returned. For the time I had forgotten all about it.
In spite of this, the thought of her filled me with a restful peace. I didn't in the least want to know who she was, so long as I might see her, and hear her talk to me in that smooth, melodious, eager voice, whose sound had established her convincingly as a lady of rare promise. The prospect of having to spend several days in her society, or at least near her, was as pleasant a thought as I could well imagine. The fruit of our moment was a mystery, rich and fragrant, which I wished only not to destroy. I found myself trying, in her absence, to recall each feature of her face, her poses, and her hands so keenly alive and full of graceful gesture. That I did not wonder who she was—what was her name, her situation, her history—came, perhaps, from the state of bodily weakness in which my accident had left me, but it seemed to me then that it was not merely the passivity of my physical state; it was an epicurean joy I took in tasting my impressions drop by drop.
Meanwhile, as I thought it all over, my eyes wandered over that part of the room visible in the candle-light, from the four-posted bed in which I lay, and almost unconsciously I noted the many evidences of taste and wealth. The furniture was all of antique style, undoubtedly genuine specimens of the best designs of the later colonial period.
The Japanese prints were the only pictures visible that I could see. They seemed like Utamaro's and Hiroshige's mostly, though near by were a couple of Yoshitora's and Toyokuni's brilliant actresses, veritable riots of color against the dull green of the wall. The floor was of oak parquetry, covered with Persian rugs of what I knew to be rare weaves. Altogether, the room had, in its severe formal way, the dignity of a museum.
She came back, after about ten minutes, with a tray of toast and tea, a jar of Bar-le-duc, and the most appetizing of lamb chops.
"Do you feel hungry?" she asked, setting the tray down upon a stand at the head of the bed.
As I assented most heartily, she leaned over and propped the pillows up behind my back, and then set the silver salver before me on the spread. Drawing up her chair, she sat down near enough to pour the tea and hand me what else I required. As she did so I noted the delicate way she held everything she touched—her fingers slightly parted naturally, curling like an acanthus leaf.
"You say that I have been out of my head?" I began.
"Yes, at intervals, since yesterday afternoon."
"I dimly remember it, now. Yes, it was curious. Somehow, though, it seems to me that there were two women here, though never at the same time, I think—but no doubt I got it all mixed up."
She looked down quickly, as if confused, but she replied, "Oh, it must have been Leah,—the other one. She's my maid; or, perhaps, rather more my companion. You must see her. I think she's wonderful. I wonder if you will!" She made the last remark under her breath, as if she spoke to herself rather than to me.
She went to the door and called, "Leah!" So few persons can raise their voices prettily, that I was delighted to hear it sound as musical as when she spoke to me. As she returned, the light shone on her soft-flowing, silken gown, making it look like frosted silver. In a few moments Leah entered the room, bearing a lighted lamp.
I was surprised, I confess, after what my hostess had said, perhaps as a test of my sensibility, to see that the maid was a negress, but, after giving her my first glance, I was still more surprised to see that she was of a kind one seldom sees, the best type, in fact, of Northern negro. As she approached us she had the bearing of a woman of great refinement and a face which, though uncompromisingly dark, showed an extraordinary mental if not moral caste. Her skin was a warm brown, something of the color of a Samoan, though more reddish than mulatto in tinge. This, I found afterward, was the result of a remote crossing with American Indian blood; it was just enough to enrich the color, and to keep down some of the negroid fullness of the lips and modify the crispness of her curling hair. Leah might, indeed, be considered beautiful; what could not, at least, be denied, was the impression of character which was stamped upon her. It was patent in her face, her carriage and her voice. I watched her in admiration. There was a neatness and an immaculate cleanness about her, and I could easily understand how my hostess might regard her as a friend.
Leah's affection for her mistress was evident by the sympathetic manner in which she listened, and by the softness of her look when her eyes fell on my hostess. There was in that look more than the traditional fondness of a negro "mammy" for her charge. I felt immediately one of those quick reactions one sometimes has with servants, or with other persons whom social customs have relegated to a conventionally inferior position. It was a case of spiritual noblesse oblige. Seeing her so fine, so sensitive, so tactful, I was myself put unconsciously upon my best behavior. I could not forget this in any look or any word I gave her. I was constantly watching myself lest I, a guest, a man of a dominant race, should, in consideration and in delicacy, fall behind this servant, this negress. It was a curious delicacy she seemed to enforce.
I can give this effect of Leah upon me, but it is not so easy to describe the cause. She effaced herself, she kept her place rarely. But with all this, she radiated—she had a potent personality. She put down the lamp, she straightened the covers of my bed, answered a few questions, speaking in a rich contralto voice, and went out. That was all. But in those few moments she had impressed me.
It was, no doubt, because of my enjoyment in watching, silently, what went on, that gave my companion the idea that I was exhausted. She apparently inferred that I wished to be left alone, and, rising, she took the tray from my lap and set it down while she readjusted my pillows. Then, removing a little silver Nuremberg bell, she took up the tray again, and rose to leave me.
"I'll leave the bell here at the head of your bed, Mr. Castle," she said (she had learned my name, of course, when she took my message), "and Leah will be glad to do anything for you that you wish."
As she turned, she looked back, smiling.
"Oh, I haven't told you my own name, yet, have I? I'm Miss Fielding—Joy Fielding. There's nobody here but Leah and me, except Uncle Jerdon, our man-of-all-work, and King, the Chinaman. Midmeadows is a lonely place, though it's lovely in the summer. Well, I hope you'll be able to sleep well, and be much better in the morning. I'll hope to see you then. Good night." She left me after placing the lamp just out of sight.
Later, Leah entered, bringing me some books to read, in case I should be wakeful. I dipped into them all immediately, seeking for further evidence of Miss Fielding's taste. One was of poems, one of essays, one of short stories, and one a novel.
The house was silent. I heard nothing until quite late, when the two women came up-stairs to retire. By their voices and footsteps, I made out that Leah slept in the room next to mine, and Miss Fielding across the hall, farther off. There was some soft conversation, Leah's voice deep and rich, Miss Fielding's rising several notes above, always with that fluttering, delicate quality which I had noticed. Then the doors closed, and I heard nothing more except, somewhere below, a heavy rhythmic snoring which I assumed came from Uncle Jerdon's room.
There came to me now one of those weary, irksome vigils of the sick, when the darkness and the pain seem to coöperate to stretch out the hours to infinite lengths. I tried one position and another, I lighted the candle and put it out again, but my discomfort and my sleeplessness persisted. I could think of nothing else but Joy Fielding, Joy Fielding, Joy Fielding! I think that a little of my delirium returned, also; but all through my torment I kept repeating to myself that I did not want to know who she was. I refused to speculate upon that, except in ways that were romantic and fantastic. What matter-of-fact, commonplace explanation of her life there might be, I wanted to hold off as long as possible.
II
I was awakened early by the sunshine which came pouring across my bed from the window opposite, lighting up the white wainscoting and showing the room now, clean and brightly distinct to the least detail of the crisp Japanese prints upon the wall.
One sash and the window-shade had been left up, and I could see the slope of a hill which rose behind the house, seeming to shut the place in. The other window was filled with the waving boughs of an apple-tree. The day was fine and balmy; the fresh air of the morning swept deliciously over my bed. It was maddening to have to lie there helpless.
Before long I heard doors opening and closing below, and the sounds of preparations for breakfast—the rattling of a stove, a pump that squeaked whimsically like a braying donkey, the clatter of pots and pans, and a Chinaman's voice singing in a queer falsetto. With the odors of flowers and damp earth the smell of coffee came up to me, mingled, too, with a whiff from the stable. Then the clock, whose hourly chimes had measured for me the slow march of the night, struck seven with a peal of golden notes.
I heard footsteps come up-stairs to the hall outside my half opened door. There was a soft tapping across the way, and Leah's voice asked quietly:
"What would you like for breakfast, Miss Joy?"
I could just make out the reply in Miss Fielding's blithe tones:
"Oh, just a couple of butterflies' wings, Leah, and a drop of rose-dew, please."
How prettily it sounded! From another it might have seemed silly to me, but not from her. I was amused at her fancy. Miss Fielding, then, was a poet. It was all so in key with the freshness of the morning and the gay sweet sunshine!
I was more comfortable now, and more sane. So, as I lay awaiting her, I wondered how such a woman, so instinct with refinement and with the air of having had considerable social experience, was to be found in so far-away a place. I knew of no residences in this vicinity except an occasional farmhouse; it was remote even from any village. The sight of her as she appeared last night in her elegant negligée came back to me, like the scene of a play. I longed to see her again, to discover if, perhaps, I had not exaggerated it all, or even, perhaps, had dreamed of one so exquisitely gracious.
Leah, also, was a part of the strangeness. She had none of the disturbing beauty of the quadroon—her beauty was withoutdiablerie, it was far from showing any sensuality. It was even spiritual in type. Her face, as I brought it up, was more than intelligent, it was lighted by an inward vision. The more I thought of her, the more I wondered if I had not been tricked by my impressionability, by the strangeness of my adventure, by the glamour of the night awakening. To put it to the test, I took advantage of Miss Fielding's suggestion and rang the bell.
Leah appeared in a few moments, and came a little shyly into the room. She wore a clean, fresh, crisp gown of blue, like a hospital nurse's uniform, and was as trim and dignified. No, I had not been mistaken. The light of day showed her still more remarkable than I had remembered. Her regular features, her smooth, coffee-colored skin, her well-kept shapely hands, all testified to an extraordinary breeding.
"Are you ready for your breakfast, sir?" she asked. Her voice was like honey as she inquired how I had passed the night, and apologized for Uncle Jerdon's snoring.
"I'll bring your water first," she suggested, and retired noiselessly, to return in a moment with a bowl, some towels and toilet articles.
She seemed a little embarrassed by the situation, but assisted me in sitting up. Then, finding that I could do for myself well enough, she went down-stairs, and by the time I had finished my washing, she was back with the tray.
"Miss Joy will be in to see you in a little while, sir," she said as she made me comfortable with dexterous adjustments of my pillows.
But for her "sir," she had in no way acted as a servant, though, on the other hand, she had assumed no attitude of equality. I could not help admiring the fine neutrality she maintained without committing herself to either role. All my first impressions of her were intensified by this demeanor, and I awaited the opportunity of assuring her by my own manner of my lack of prejudice on account of her color. Indeed, it was not long before I was almost as unconscious of it, so far as any social distinction was concerned, as a child might have been.
Miss Fielding came in a little later, dewy and shining, dressed all in white—an embroidered linen blouse and a short skirt of serge, which made her seem even younger than I had remembered. The sight of her expressive, thoughtful, eager face, and the music in her sympathetic voice gave my room quite another aspect. It became a stage again where last night's drama would go on. How long I had waited for her, and now she was come! Only an invalid, perhaps, can understand the difference in atmosphere in that first quick sight of an expected delightful presence to one who has waited for the weary hours to go by and bring the wished-for vision.
She made a few kind inquiries as to my condition, moving meanwhile about the room, disposing of the fresh roses she had brought, lowering the window-sashes and raising the shades, rapid and graceful as a bird on the wing. She was all modern, now; the medieval princess had given place to something more complex, and as much more interesting. Every word, every inflection of her voice, every gesture of her hand, every expression of her mobile face showed subtlety of thought and sentiment; she was obviously a creature of fine distinctions, of nuances of feeling, though at present her talk was as simple and joyous as a child's. That simplicity of hers, however, was the simplicity of a Greek temple, made up of subtle ratios and proportions, of imperceptible curves and esoteric laws.
She drew up a chair, at last, and sat down beside me. We looked at each other frankly, and smiled, aware of a common thought, the desire to prolong the situation as far as we might. This quickness of her imagination was a delight. But the game was becoming too humorous, now, in broad daylight, for us to keep it up. Our romance was in danger.
"I'm bursting with the obvious," I remarked.
She shook her finger at me with spirit. "If you dare!"
"Oh, I'll not be the first. Man though I am, I can restrain my curiosity."
How quickly her face changed! An almost infantile look came into it, as she said:
"There are so many more curious things than curiosity, if you know what I mean. Curiosity is such a destructive process, don't you think?"
"And this is creative? The not satisfying it, I mean."
"Yes, wonder is—and mystery. It ramifies so. It splits the ray." She made a queer, mystical gesture, all her own.
"Oh, it quite blossoms!" I said. "I breathe all sorts of perfumes never smelt."
Her eager look came back, and she smiled joyously. "How quick you are! I wish we could keep it up a while! I should have liked to marry Bluebeard! What a splendid dowry he gave! Oh, I would never have opened the door! There was so much more outside than in, wasn't there? But now the role is yours; you must be Bluebeard's wife—or Robinson Crusoe. Oh, you must stay on the island—this island with me, and not try to get off. There are a few little places we can explore without danger—will you be satisfied with them?"
Somehow I got the spirit of it, as at hearing some words of a strange language eloquently spoken. She was warning me off—but from what? I would find out soon enough, should the meaning need to be made more definite. It was like a game of jackstraws; if I did not play gingerly I should bring down the commonplace upon us. My situation was delicate—it almost seemed that I had arrived, in some way, inopportunely.
But she had gone on. "Did you read my books?" she asked, taking up one of them.
"I read that one—the poems. I got quite lost in them."
"Which ones?" She looked up from the book eagerly.
"The Journey, and,—" I hesitated, "—The Riders." I was watching her face earnestly.
"Oh, how right you are!" She was perfectly simple about it. There was no conceit in her. "It means, doesn't it, that we already have a language? But you must read the essays, too. Then maybe we'll have a philosophy."
"I'll explore them with pleasure." I tried to keep the appeal out of my voice. "I have such a lot of things to do before I go."
She got this quite as I intended. "Well, we'll be perfectly natural and let come what may, as it seems to be all decided for us. We won't force the game. But I'm afraid you'll never be contented. You'll leave the island first, I'm quite sure."
I protested; she shook her head slowly. I knew she was thinking very hard of something. Her smile was wistful, her eyes, always fixed on mine, were almost somber in their expression.
"Would you dare promise?"
I knew now there was something behind all this; some fear of my presence.
"Shall I?" I fenced, more to draw her on than from any doubt of her meaning or reluctance to agree with her wish.
"It's base of me—it's foolish, too, for it can really do no good. But, you see, I don't quite know you, do I?"
"And don't quite want to?" I was unkind enough to say, but only with the same motive as before. I wanted to get at the bottom of it—find out what it was she dreaded, and dared not acknowledge that she did.
She was a little hurt and said that it wasn't fair to say so, that I wasn't playing the game. I was properly contrite, and, for the moment, gave up the duel.
"Let it be a promise, then," I said.
At this, I thought she looked relieved; and that she should be so at my bare word touched me. It did cross my mind that, perceiving my adaptability to this sort of affair, she might perhaps have taken an adventitious means of heightening the romance of the situation with such innuendo; but she seemed to me to be altogether too direct for that, and too sapient, as well.
"Thank you. I may hold you to that promise. Does that seem ungracious?"
There it was. There was most definitely something which she didn't wish me to know, and which my advent jeoparded. I was truly sorry for her now, and a little embarrassed at my position. Meanwhile her eyes were steadily questioning mine, as if to make sure that I was to be trusted. I took up her last remark to relieve the tensity of her mood.
"You couldn't be ungracious, I'm sure. I should as soon suspect Leah!"
She laughed more freely. "Oh, I'm so glad you appreciate her! That says more for you than all the rest."
"The rest?" I insisted, quite ready for a compliment.
She gave it to me with her head a little on one side, and her right eyebrow, the irregular one, whimsically upraised.
"Yes. Your keeping it up so well, you know."
"Oh, I'll keep it up! It's the chief charm of being here, flat on my back, in a strange place. I'm sure it will be most amusing."
"I'm not so sure. I'm full of moods and whims—you're going to be terribly disappointed in me sometimes—though that sounds like vanity—and I may take advantage of your complaisance, of your promise, that is. I hope you won't regret it."
So it rested, my promise not to be too inquisitive (for I took its meaning to be that), given and accepted. It quite whetted my appetite, you may be sure. If all this talk seems fine-spun, it is my fault in the telling of it, for in the give-and-take we perfectly understood each other. I can not, of course, give her delicate inflections, but these, with her looks and gestures, said as much as her words.
But if this equivocal conversation was vague and shadowy, she could pass into the sunshine as deftly. She seemed to do so now, as she rose and went to the open window and whistled. A chorus of barks answered her. She turned to me.
"I must go down to my dogs," she said. "I wish you could see them—that is, if you like collies. I have five, all thoroughbreds—they're beauties! You'll have to get acquainted with them as soon as you're able to go down-stairs."
She leaned a little out of the window and called, "Hi! Nokomis!" drawing out the vowels. A deep bark responded.
"Hiawatha!" she called next, and she was answered by a sharp, frenzied yelping. "Minnehaha!" followed—she almost sang the name, which was replied to like the others. Then Chevalier and John O'Groat greeted her in turn.
"I'm going to take them for their morning run," she said, as she left me. "I'll examine you on the essays when I come back."
She went down, and soon after I heard her talking, evidently to Uncle Jerdon and to King. Then the barking rose ecstatically, receded in the distance, and finally was lost. I took up the essays and read for a while. My head was much better, and my soreness was slowly disappearing, but the constrained positions I had to hold to keep my rib from paining me made me too weary and impatient to put my mind on my book. I could hardly wait for Miss Fielding to return, and lay inert, watching the flies drift lazily through the sunshine that filled the room, hoping that Leah, at least, might come in to break my ennui. I welcomed even the hoarse, squeaky cry of King's pump, the occasional crowing of a rooster, the twittering of birds in the apple-tree, and the many little homely sounds of country life. The fragrant perfume of the roses in the room was a blessed reminder of Miss Fielding's kindness.
In a half-hour, I heard the dogs approaching, and she came into the room again, hatless, bringing a new breath of June with her. Her hair was blown to a silky veil through which her eyes shone and her rosy cheeks glowed as she smiled at me over the footboard of my bed. Throwing off her little white bolero, a saucy thing with black velvet collar and cuffs, she went to the mirror and gathered up the loose strands of hair, tucking them in, here and there, with deft touches of her fingers, and adjusting them with dark tortoise-shell pins, until her little head, coiffed high, was as smooth as a cat's.
She came up to the bedside and was quick to notice by my nervous movements that I was suffering. Sitting down she began to tell gaily of her walk over the hill, and, as she spoke, my aching was calmed as if she had laid a finger on the electric switch that controlled it. Then she suggested reading to me, and took up the volume of poems we had discussed.
Her voice was not quite intense enough for strong emotion; it had not the momentum, so to speak, to carry the lines along with the swing and rhythm necessary. It was too light for that, but it more than made up for it by its sympathetic tenderness and the delicacy of its inflection. Her tones lulled me, and I fell asleep.
In the afternoon she brought her mending, and we talked for a couple of hours or so, always keeping, as she expressed it, "on the island." What personalities we discussed, that is, had no reference to her history or her plans. She warned me off very cleverly several times when the talk approached her circumstances or even her moods and tastes.
When she confessed that she played a little on the piano and violin, I positively insisted upon my rights as an invalid to be amused. She rolled up her work and went to get her violin without excuses or apologies.
I waited with considerable anxiety to hear what and how she would play, not committing myself as to my own choice of composers. She began in her own room, and through the opened doors I heard the strains of thePrize Songplayed with great verve and sentiment. I was delighted. She came, still playing, into my chamber, her sleeves rolled up (she said she could not play else), and accepted my compliments graciously and simply. Then, walking up and down, absorbed, she gave me fragments of Cesar Franck's sonata for the violin and piano. To watch her, supple, virile, rapt, to note her clever, accomplished technique, her passionate, free-armed command of the bow—I have seldom seen such a splendid attack or so sure and true a vibrato—was a joy beautifully associated with the clarity and subtle craftsmanship of the master.
So she ran on, alternating her renditions with scraps of talk that showed a keen musical sense and an appreciation of the radical, ultra-modern movement of the time. Next she burst into a vibrant, dramatic Polish folksong that excited me like a fire. And finally, as atour de force, her eyes dancing as she watched me over her shoulder with some new audacious devil in her smile, she enchanted me with a vivid piece most astonishingly enlivened with flights of technique—trills, brilliant chord passages, and runs with the upward and downward "staccato bow." Then she threw down her fiddle and came up to me, laughing.
That evening she had another delight for me, coming to my bedside and reading Villon and Verlaine in the original, translating the old French for me when I was perplexed by theargot. And for the picture, I need only add that Leah was of the circle, and made her own comments!
III
There was, next morning, a little dialogue much like that which I had overheard the day before, except that this time it was "stewed rose-leaves with a small pot of sunshine," which Miss Fielding was fanciful enough to demand. I wondered what, after such a pleasantry, she did have; for I took it to be some joke between her and Leah, who, no doubt, translated the metaphor into something more substantial.
As I ate breakfast, I could hear Miss Fielding singing in her room. She came in before I had finished my egg and coffee, bringing an armful of new magazines. This time she was dressed in pongee and wore a short string of graduated white coral beads which was mimicked, when she smiled, by her little teeth.
"I've found out about you—quite by accident, though, Mr. Castle, really," she said gaily; and, opening one of the magazines, she tapped with her hand the picture of a country house my firm had just rather successfully completed. "So you're an architect! And I'm the first to get off the island, after all!"
"It doesn't matter, I suppose, so long as I stay on?" I asked.
"Oh, this doesn't by any means absolve you of your promise," she answered, examining the illustration carefully, still standing at the foot of the bed.
"You aren't really very much wiser, are you? There are architectsandarchitects, you know."
"Yes," she said, apparently thinking of something else. "Quite as there are women and women," she added, turning over the pages idly.
"There's only one ofyoursort!" I exclaimed.
A queer smile passed and was repressed upon her lips, molding them into new curves. "Yes, only one ofme."
"I don't exactly mean that, either," I went on. "The fact is, rather, that there is more than one of me. There's the architect and the man in me—and how many more! One is always astonishing the others. Aren't there, after all, several of you, Miss Fielding?"
She gave me a frightened glance, then tossed the magazine on the bed. It wasn't petulance; she seemed to be disturbed at the subject.
"Oh, I'm only a White Cat!" she said cryptically.
She seemed anything but that, to me.
"I'll tell you about it sometime—perhaps," she added. "But not now."
She stood with her hands behind her back, raising herself on her toes, and changed the subject. "I'm awfully anxious to show you this house, now that I know you're an architect. It's one of the oldest hereabout, and it was a wreck when I bought it. I've had it all done over inside, and I shall expect you to compliment me on my taste, for it's mainly my own ideas."
"What I've seen of it is charming—but a bit impersonal, perhaps."
"Oh, this is only the guest-chamber. One doesn't inflict one's ideas on the transient visitor. Of course this is a bloodless, sexless place. You'll find personality enough in my room, I fancy. I hope you'll be able to get down-stairs by day after to-morrow, and have a chance to look about at the place. I'm sure you'll love Midmeadows. I'm expecting the doctor down here this afternoon, and he'll probably be able to tell you how long you'll have to stay. I do hope you won't get well too fast, Mr. Castle."
"Trust me for that," I said. "I give you fair notice, I shall probably do some malingering. But I shall be glad to see the doctor, if only to make sure that I can impose on him."
My heart sank, nevertheless, at the thought of his interruption of our idyl. I felt an illogical right to her by discovery, a certain franchise in her good graces that Fate herself had given me. The possible weakening of our alliance, however, was only the negative side of my annoyance. The positive aspect was that Doctor Copin seemed to be an old acquaintance, even a friend; for Miss Fielding had mentioned that she was going to walk over to the Harbor to meet him. It was possible, even—and the idea was poison—that she was in love with him. Well, I must needs wait and see him before I decided as to that chance.
I asked her to call her dogs again, and, seeing that it might amuse me, she offered to bring Nokomis, the best-behaved, and matron of the kennel, up to see me. I accepted eagerly, and, from the window, she called her favorite.
Nokomis was one of the most beautiful collies I have ever seen, a tawny red, or sable, with white ruff, feet, and tail-point. Her head was very finely shaped—not too dull for keenness, nor with too much of the silly greyhound's tapering muzzle, as not a few flat-headed prize-winners, bred chiefly for color and coat, have. She had dark brown eyes set with that obliqueness that gives the breed its characteristic look of brightness, kindness and craft. Her small ears, as she entered, were semi-erect, giving her, as she stopped with her head slightly on one side, the sharp, doubtful expression of the fox. She came with her flag up, as if she were on exhibition before judges, marched to Miss Fielding and waited for orders.
"Isn't she a darling?" Miss Fielding said affectionately, rubbing her pet's neck. "You hasn't got flappy, saddle-bag ears and a high forehead and a velvet jacket,hasyou! I don't see no snipey nose! Hasn't she got an 'honest, sonsie, bawsint face,' Mr. Castle? Only it isn't 'bawsint.' And look at her gawcie tail, wi' upward curl!' She has old Cockie herself for an ancestor,shehas!"
Nokomis gravely stood on her hind legs with her forepaws on her mistress' skirt, panting—smiling, I might well say. Then, in obedience to a word and a gesture, she dropped and came over to me in so dignified and friendly a way that I fell promptly in love with her. Her outer coat was abundant, straight and stiff, the under one so thick and soft and furry that I could not find the skin. Her ruff was magnificent, her chest deep and strong. I was sure she would be a good worker; her wit had already been proved.
Miss Fielding was pleased with my appreciation, and consented to having Nokomis remain, and so, for the rest of the day, except for occasional inquisitive excursions, she lay on the floor beside my bed, thumping her tail and listening attentively whenever I looked down to speak to her.
Early in the afternoon Miss Fielding put on a fresh linen waist and corduroy skirt to set out for the station. Before she went she moved about the room, readjusting the flowers, drawing a shade or two which threatened to let the sun into my eyes, renewing my pitcher of water and so on, giving me in five minutes a dozen evidences of her tact, thoughtfulness and consideration. Then, with a last warning to Nokomis to take good care of me, she went away, leaving the apartment depressingly empty.
Leah came in occasionally, however, to see if I was comfortable, but I could get little talk from her. She answered all my questions, looking at me with her melting, deep brown eyes, which were really not a little like those of old Nokomis, but volunteering no remark of her own. Between the two I managed to be fairly patient till, at about three o'clock, Miss Fielding returned with the doctor. I was aware of their approach for some time before they arrived by the joyous barking of the collies in front of the stable. At this Nokomis pricked up her ears, but was too well-bred to pay more attention. I had laughed at her for yawning wide with her wolf-like jaws, and she was sensitively on her dignity.
Doctor Copin was tall and thin and younger than I had expected; and like most young doctors he attempted to make much of his years by a pointed, reddish beard. Nature had assisted him in this attempt, also, by removing enough of his hair to give him a shiny bald forehead almost to the crown of his head, and making him near-sighted enough to require strong eye-glasses. But all this could not induce me to think him more than twenty-seven or eight years of age. His eyes were of that china blue which, with red hair, is so apt to give a selfish, heartless expression, which went very well with his general bloodlessness. Except for those protruding blue eyes he might, with his yellowy-brown suit and his slender, long hands, have been an animated caricature, done in red chalk. Worst of all, to my mind, he made puns.
He approached me with the jocose air affected by physicians, and looked me over with a grin. I could see, under his sparse beard, that he had a lizard chin receding comically.
"Well, Mr. Castle," he said, "I expect you haven't been climbing any more trees with your machine lately, have you? Feeling like Adam, after the creation of Eve, with that fourth rib of yours! Let me have a feel of it. Ah!"
He prodded me a little. "Well, we're doing so-so," he went on. "If you were a football player you'd be up in five minutes. How's the head? I suppose you haven't had quite such a big one since you put on long pants. You're not having many long pants these days, I fancy, with that cracked bone in your chest, are you!" And so on. I tried to smile, and did not succeed till I had caught sight of Miss Fielding's face frowning over his shoulder.
I was doing well, it seemed. It was nothing but a matter of time and patience. The worst of it was the shaking up, and for that, rest was all that was necessary.
I answered his pleasantries, asked him the news in town, and thanked him for what he had done, which, indeed, was not much. If I have given the impression that he was an ass, that was not at all how he impressed me. Though he persistently refused to talk sense, and turned everything I said into jest, I was ready enough to believe that he knew his business and stood well in the profession. I got little more than this however, for he soon left for a talk—likely a professional one, I imagined—with my hostess. This lasted till, after an early dinner, he left the house to be driven back to the station by Uncle Jerdon. Idle and bored as I was, while alone, I speculated upon his relations with Miss Fielding; but from what I had seen I could hardly regard him as a rival. Still, I knew well enough that one could not predicate from a man's appearance how women might like him. Doctor Copin would not be here in attendance, much less as a visitor, unless there was some value in him. He evidently knew the place well enough to have been at Midmeadows often. It made me, for no particular reason that I could name, uncomfortable.
It was still and warm, the beginning of the hush of twilight, the birds' chattering quieted, when voices came plainly up to me through the open window beside my bed. Miss Fielding and the doctor were coming round a corner of the house on their way to the stable.
"I wish when she comes, next time, you'd have Leah let me know," I heard Doctor Copin say earnestly.
"I won't promise to do that," was her reply.
"Why not?" he asked sharply.
"Why do you want to know?" she asked.
"You know well enough. You know how interested I am in her."
"I wish Idid!"
This was the last I could make out, for they passed into the yard behind the house. I heard the carriage drive off, and soon after Miss Fielding's voice inside the house, calling for Leah to come down. I thought that I detected a strain of excitement, even of alarm in her tones.
A half-hour afterward, she came into my room with a chess-board, and asked me if I played the game. I was delighted to try it with her, though I was poor enough at it, and she beat me easily.
She was quite as charming as ever, but, as I studied my strategy, she had time in the silent pauses to fall into little moods of reverie, letting the talk drop naturally. I was not too absorbed in my play to notice it, and once or twice I looked up from the board to see her face show a tragic expression, clearing, under my surveillance, with what seemed to be a forced smile. The little lines near her eyes seemed to have deepened since morning, and two vertical ones came, at times, cutting upright clefts between her brows. Once or twice she put her hand to her head suddenly. Her listlessness accented her grace, but she seemed distinctly older.
After she had announced mate in three moves she awaited my capitulation. Then she put the board and men aside wearily.
"You'll find it desperately stupid here, I know, Mr. Castle," she began. "I wish we could be more amusing, but I'm a bit blue to-night."
"I only reproach myself for not being able to make you forget it," I said. "As for myself, I always feel like the hero of a fairy tale when you're about."
She gave her head a quick, backward shake, as if to free her mind of some disturbing thought. "Oh, I told you I was the White Cat, you know!" she replied. "Can't you imagine how interesting it must be for us to have any one here at all, and you most especially? Why, I feel that you are a friend, already. If it hadn't been so, I shouldn't have dared to confess so frankly that I'm depressed."
"What can I possibly say of you, then, who have proved yourself so friendly? I shall be glad when it comes my turn to give, and yours to receive."
"Oh, that time will come soon enough, I'm afraid," she said, folding her hands in her lap, and looking down at them.
"You make me quite long for it!"
"Oh, don't long for it!" she exclaimed, and then rose nervously to stand facing the lamp with a fixed, entranced gaze. "It will mean, perhaps, that I shall need all your sympathy, all your charity," she added, turning, ever so slowly, to look down at me.
"I will give anything you ask——"
"And I shall ask nothing," she put in quickly. Again she threw her head back with that quick, freeing gesture. I saw what she meant. It would be put to my tact and intuition.
She held out her hand impulsively and put it into mine. It seemed very small and slight, and it was cold. Then, summoning a smile so rapid that it came and went in a flash, she bade me good night and left the room.
For fully an hour after that, I heard her voice and Leah's in a steady, low conversation in the room across the hall. At nine, Leah came in to adjust the light and see that I wanted nothing. I fell into an uneasy sleep, waking at every cock-crow.