She shrugged her shoulders and said: "Oh, I haven't got the kind of
brain for chess."
My mind leaped over the remark, obviously untrue, to get to the other
side of the perversity, where I might see more clearly.
"But it's incredible!" I cried. "How do you get along? How do you
account for things? Do you mean to tell me that you can't remember
yesterday, for instance? Not even what you did?"
She was growing more and more impatient. "No--sometimes I don't know how
much time I've lost at all. You see, it's like being asleep, that's
all. That's what Doctor Copin comes down here for."
"Oh, I see!" I exclaimed.
"That, and other things--" she hinted coquettishly.
"Ah?" I raised my eyebrows. "Among the other things, I suppose, is the
fact that you're perfectly charming."
"Oh, I don't think he quite ignores that," she laughed, and then, her
mood changing, as if it had been pent up by such serious discussion and
sought relief, she bounded away and galumphed madly up and down the
room, waving her hands.
After dinner we spent the evening by the fire. She had put on an
evening gown of black net over silver tissue, in which she looked more
like a princess than ever. But it was only the costume now; her
demeanor was far from royal. She snuggled herself into a bunch on the
fur rug by the hearth, disclosing one slender ankle and a stocking of
snaky silver silk. Had she not been so slender and _petite_, I might
almost say she sprawled, though her hoidenish abandon was not quite
immodest. She had her coffee and a cigarette or two, chattering a
steady stream meanwhile. I could get no more about her malady out of
her; the subject seemed to annoy her. But I could not get it out of my
mind. I went back over what had passed, and found that her explanation
accounted for much that had baffled me. Still, it did not account for
everything. It did not account, for instance, for the way she now
treated me.
[Illustration: After dinner we spent the evening by the fire.]
She got up, after a while, as if annoyed at my abstraction, and began to
roam up and down the room.
"I guess coffee makes me a little drunk," she remarked. I did not quite
get the point of this till she stopped behind my chair and ran her
fingers through my hair carelessly.
"What a jolly wig you've got, Chet! Your hair is almost as fine as
mine."
The familiarity made me, I confess, somewhat uncomfortable. I was
neither a prig nor a prude, but her talk of the afternoon had wrought on
me. I couldn't quite see my way. I didn't at all like, for instance,
what she had said about Doctor Copin's coming down--for more than one
reason. Perhaps it was this, more than any instinctive dislike of her
unconventionality, that put me on my guard with her, and made me appear
to ignore what I acknowledge, in other circumstances I might have been
tempted to take advantage of. For she was distinctly making up to me. I
could see that very plainly. She did like me. So I was unchivalrous
enough, or chivalrous enough, if you like, to try to keep her at arm's
length, though that is putting it rather too strongly.
It was not so easy, though, that night, with the seclusion, the
comfortable open fire, the soft lights, and the rain outside. The
situation was romantic; I was alone with a pretty girl, prettily gowned,
and quite frankly desirous of a little more intimate companionship than
I vouchsafed. Somehow I was rather proud of myself, having at that
time, after all, such hazy reasons for forbearance. I scarcely need add
to this that I was becoming fond of Miss Fielding, in spite of the
puzzling mystery about her. She was alluring in any mood. My
intuitions, however, were all for caution.
With such distractions the hours flew fast. The candles burned low and
flickered till we talked only by the light of the fire. She told me a
good deal of her life as a girl--there were no lapses of memory at that
time--how she had been left an orphan and had always been more or less
of a hermit thereafter. Part of the time she played with my hand, quite
as a child might. Part of the time she sat, her chin at her knees,
gazing into the dying flames in the fireplace. Then she would smile,
look up suddenly, and quote some nonsense rhyme, or make fun of my
discretion. Her body was never quite still; she was nervous and
restless. If nothing else about her moved, her toe would be describing
little circles on the rug.
She and Leah helped me up-stairs at ten o'clock. Miss Fielding flung me
a cheery "Good night, Chet!" and went into her room alone.
A few minutes after, I heard a soft tapping at my door. Leah was there
with a jug of milk and some biscuits.
"I thought you might like something to eat, perhaps, before you went to
bed," she said. "Miss Joy forgot to speak of it."
"Thank you, Leah," I said, taking the little tray. I was about to close
the door when she gave me a look that delayed me.
"Did you want anything else?" I asked.
"Do you mind if I speak to you for a minute?" she asked. She stopped
and listened intently for a moment.
"Leah, where in the world are you?" Miss Fielding called impatiently.
Leah, spoke in an undertone to me. "Please wait. I'll be in as soon as
I can." Then she went into Miss Fielding's room.
I left my door ajar and sat down by the window. The rain had ceased,
and a full moon was breaking through masses of drifting cumulous clouds
over the top of the hill behind the house. I could hear the dogs
snapping and growling occasionally in their sleep, and below, in his
little box of a room off the library, Uncle Jerdon's deep snoring. I
must have been there for fifteen minutes before Leah reappeared with her
candle. She shut the door noiselessly and came softly up to my side.
"Mr. Castle, how are you feeling, now?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm afraid I'm getting well," I said, smiling. "Why? Do you think
I ought to be leaving?" I asked the question jocosely, but she took it
up with seriousness.
"I'm really afraid you'd better, Mr. Castle." She looked me square in
the eyes. Her own shone very wide and deep.
"I don't wish to hurry you," she went on, "but it will be much better
for you to leave as soon as you can. You'll forgive me for mentioning
it, won't you? I hope that you won't think that I don't realize my
position; but--I can only say that I am doing what I think is best. If
I weren't so sure that you are a gentleman, and a friend of Miss Joy's,
I'd never dare mention it. But, oh, there'll be trouble if you stay,
and Heaven knows we've had trouble enough." Her voice grew lower at the
end of her sentence, and then she breathed poignantly, "Oh, _please_
go!"
I felt a pang of self-reproach and a great pity for her. "Oh, I'll go!"
I reassured her. "I understand. Or, at least, if I don't quite
understand, I'm sure you're quite right. I think I can get away
to-morrow morning, if you'll get the carriage for me."
"I'll attend to that. Uncle Jerdon can drive you to the station. And
don't, please, mention it to Miss Joy that I spoke to you about it. She
may ask you to stay--she likes you, really; but she doesn't know what I
know, and I don't dare tell her." She clasped her hands and pressed
them closely to her breast in the intensity of her feeling, as she
added, "You must help me, Mr. Castle! I have nobody else to turn to."
"Are you sure that I can't help you by staying here?" I asked. "I'll do
anything you suggest. Why can't you trust me? I dread to think of your
having to fight it out alone, whatever it is."
"Oh, I don't dare to tell--I have no right to tell," she moaned, turning
half away, looking down. "Indeed, I wish I might. It's breaking my
heart." She turned to me again with a desperate glance. "We'll get on,
somehow."
"The doctor will help you, won't he? Surely you can trust him?"
She gave me a frightened look, and her white teeth shone through her
parted lips, gleaming in contrast to her fine dark face. Then her eyes
strayed again, and she said, slowly, "Do _you_ think he can be trusted?"
"Why not?" I replied, watching her sharply. "How, at any rate, can I
tell, after having seen him only once?"