*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'm _so_ glad!"
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 cooeperate 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?"