"Ah, you know how glad I'd be to! But I really must get back. I've
imposed on your hospitality unconscionably, already."
"Oh, well," she turned to the window, "if you're going to pay me the
conventional compliments, we won't press it."
"If you knew what an immensely unwarranted interest I've begun to take
in you, you'd spare _me_," I replied.
She held out her hand to me, her graceful fingers slightly divergent,
exquisitely posed. "Thank you for your gallantry," she said. "You came
out of the dark, were literally dumped here, you know, and it has been
wonderful that we have understood each other as well as we have." She
stayed my interruption, with a wave of her hand. "Oh, I understand you,
I think, at least well enough to be sure of you. But, let's be
frank--you don't _quite_ understand me, yet. You don't quite approve of
me. Nevertheless, you like me, and we can be friends. It may indeed be
that I shall put you, sometime, to the test, and give you the chance of
proving it. Until that time comes, you'll have to stay on the island,
Mr. Castle, I'm afraid."
I saw by these words that she must have forgotten her revelations of the
night before. It didn't seem quite fair not to let her know. So, risking
her displeasure, I came out with it.
"May I venture to remind you of what you said last night?"
She looked hard at me. "What did I say? What do you mean? About what?
We talked of so many things, you know." She was embarrassed, on the
defense, watching eagerly my first word of enlightenment.
"About your memory," I prompted.
"My memory? I don't quite recall--" Her lips were parted and her fists
closed a little as she waited.
"About your having amnesia, you know."
Her hand went to her heart.
"I only mention it," I said, "because I don't want to take advantage of
any ignorance you may have concerning my position--and what I _do_ know.
If you have forgotten possibly, I think I ought to tell you, for I can't
pretend to be on the island when I am not. It seems to me that quite in
spite of myself I've got off it. What you said about Doctor Copin----"
She caught me up, now, a little wildly, discarding further attempt at
evasion. Her face had suddenly grown white. "What did I say?" she
asked.
"Oh, only that he was treating you for the amnesia," I replied. I
couldn't possibly repeat the rest of it.
She put her hands to her face for a moment, hiding its expression. Then
she withdrew them, compressed her lips, and, tipping her head back a
little, shook it with the old gesture, as if to regain control of
herself. Then she came up to me and put both her hands on my shoulders.
"It isn't your fault, I know, Mr. Castle. But you _are_ off the island,
and I'm afraid--that it's all over, now."
"Isn't it really all begun, rather?" I replied.
Her hands dropped to her sides, and she walked away to the window. "Oh,
I don't know, I don't know!" she moaned. "You have made me think
terrible things. But never mind. I didn't want you to know about me, I
hoped we could be friends without. I couldn't risk it, I can't risk it
now. You mustn't try to find out, you mustn't even wonder. Just be a
little sorry for me--and wait."
She sat down in the broad window-seat, and laid her head back for a
moment among the silk pillows, with a wearied settling of her body,
closing her eyes. I didn't know what to say or do, so I did nothing,
and was silent. She sat up again, took the crystal prism that still lay
there, and gazed into it abstractedly, as if she were seeing visions.
Then, still holding it, she looked up at me with a faraway smile. It
was a new expression I saw on her face; it had the pathetic look of some
elf, lost in a strange, terrible land. At last she said, "Come over
here, and sit down beside me, please!"
I did so; and, still fondling the prism, which shot prismatic colors
into the room, she said, as with great effort:
"Did you ever, in your childhood, read the story of the _White Cat_?
It's a fairy tale, you know."
The name had struck me as familiar when she used it before, but I could
not recall the story.
"It was one of those tales of the three quests, wasn't it?" I said.
"Yes; there are many variations of the same theme. It is the story of a
king and his three sons. The father decided first to leave his throne
to the one who would find the smallest dog in the world; then he gave
them another quest, to find a piece of cloth that would go through the
eye of a needle. Of course, the youngest son won each time, but the
king wasn't contented, and for the final test commanded them to find the
most beautiful lady in the world."
"And the youngest son won, of course. He always does, but he never plays
fair. He's always helped by a fairy godmother or something."
"Of course. Such are the ethics of Fairyland. This prince was helped by
a white cat. While he was on his travels he found her castle in a deep
forest, and he was carried in by invisible hands."
"Just like me," I remarked.
She looked at me for a moment with an amusing expression of surprise,
and a timid smile crept to her face. "That's so, isn't it? How queer!
Why, I'll have to give you my little Hiawatha, to carry it out, won't I?
Will you take him?"
"Oh, if you would!" I said. "I'd love to have him. It will be
delightful to have something that has belonged to you."
"He's not the smallest dog in the world, but he's yours."
"And the third quest?" I reminded her.
"The third quest was the hardest of all. He came to White Cat's castle
again, and he stayed a year. They had a most delightful time together."
"I can understand _that_. Just as we have had."
Her gaze went down to her feet. "Yes, just as we have had here at
Midmeadows."
I reached over and took the prism from her hand. I couldn't help
wanting to touch her, however casually.
"And of course--you don't need to tell me--he did find the fairest lady
in the whole world."
She smiled dimly and clasped her hands. "Thank you," she said, not too
absorbed to pay me most graciously for my compliment. Then, more
seriously, she added, "Yes, I am the White Cat. That is the way you
must think of me, when you have gone. The enchanted White Cat!"
I dared not answer. All the peculiar moods she had shown me came up for
a new vision. So she knew that something was the matter, something of
which her amnesia was only a symptom. She had never come so close to it
before. I stooped down, took her hand and carried it to my lips.
"White Cat," I said, "I don't know whether you are enchanted or not, but
I know you're enchanting!"
"Be careful I don't scratch you!" she said, a little bitterly.
"Ah, White Cat never did that, I'm sure."
"Yes, once, when she was invisible. The Prince doubted her. Do you
know how it ended?" she asked.
"How?"
"White Cat told the Prince that, to destroy the fatal work of the
fairies, it was necessary for him to cut off her head and her tail and
fling them into the fire." She put her hand gently upon mine. "Would
you do that for me, if I asked it?"
I puzzled with it. There was something tragic in her tone, but I was
quite at a loss to interpret her symbolism.
"Would it ever come to that? Are you likely to call on me?" I asked
her.
She tipped back her head again, shaking away some unpleasant idea.
"Ah, this is only the first quest, you know. You may never come again to
my palace. But _would_ you?"
A dreadful meaning came straight from her eyes to mine.
"No, I'm afraid I would not. It would be too terrible!"
She threw off a light laugh, and rose and walked to the book-case beside
the chimney. Here she took down an old, tattered, red-covered volume and
rapidly turned the pages till she found her place. Then she came back
to her seat beside me, and, pointing to the lines, read aloud:
"'I!' exclaimed the Prince. 'Blanchette, my love! I be so barbarous as
to kill you! Ah! you would doubtless try my heart; but rest assured it
is incapable of forgetting the love and gratitude it owes to you.'
"'No, son of a king,' continued she, 'I do not suspect thee of
ingratitude. I know thy worth. It is neither thou nor I who in this
affair can control our destiny. Do as I bid thee. We shall both of us
begin to be happy, and, on the faith of a cat of reputation and honor,
thou wilt acknowledge that I am truly thy friend.'"
"But it ended happily, like all fairy tales. So will yours, I'm sure," I
remarked.