Part 15

"Oh, she's in league with you and Joy. I know all about it! She spies on me--hides things from me--tells on me! She and you are trying your best to get rid of me--the doctor said so! You are plotting to destroy me right now!" she flashed out, turning to me, her lips quivering with excitement. "I can tell! I know! You may go, too, Mr. Castle, I'm through with you, too! Leave this house, please!"

I tried to pacify her, thinking that, distraught with the violent moods she had shown to-day, a reaction would soon come. She was almost hysterical, and I waited for the revulsion of feeling, without heeding her words. In a moment it came. It was as if an angel and a devil were contending in her for the mastery, but the angel won again.

She sat down limply in a chair that was drawn up to the secretary, and the tears came to her eyes. I saw Leah go out the front door and hurry down the lane.

"Oh, I'm so wretched!" Edna complained bitterly. "I haven't a friend--not even Doctor Copin. All he wants is my money, and all you want is Joy. Oh, Chet, let me be your friend! Let me be your friend--you may stay--I'll be good, sure I will! I'll do anything if you'll only love me and be good to me! I'll take Leah back; I'll dismiss the doctor. Why was I sent here, anyway? Nobody wants me, nobody cares for me!"

She looked up at me and held out her hand. It was the stricken deer appealing for protection to the hunters. I had never seen her so gentle and tender. It was, for the moment, as if Joy herself were pleading for her life.

As I stood there, watching her, debating what to do, her head dropped to her left hand. With her right she had taken up a pencil which lay there, and was abstractedly making marks upon the blotter--circles and crosses and zigzag scrawls. But, even as she turned to me again, her eyes softened, I saw her right hand move more regularly over the paper blotter. She was writing, and writing automatically, without looking at what she was doing. A sudden idea came to me that the writing was inspired by some subconscious, subliminal self and I must let it have free play, that I must divert her thought from that hand.

So I walked up to her and touched her head, stroking her soft, brown hair. "Poor girl!" I said; "I wish I could answer your questions; I wish I might help you. Perhaps we can think out a way. We'll talk it over and see."

Her hand was still writing, as she looked up at me and listened.

"But you must tell me all about the doctor, and what he is doing. Is he coming own here to-day?"

She leaned affectionately against my side, her hand still working unconsciously. "I don't know," she said. "He may come on the eleven o'clock train, perhaps."

This was unexpected. I had little time, then, in which to act. But now her hand had stopped, and I bent over her shoulder to look at the blotter.

She turned her face to me again and said: "Won't you please kiss me, Chet? You've never kissed me! I'm sure you've kissed Joy!"

Then, following my glance, she saw the writing for the first time. "Oh, how funny!" she cried. "I've been writing! I didn't know it. What is it, anyway?" Then she read aloud:

"'_Don't hesitate! Cut off my head and my tail! Hurry! White Cat._'

"How absurd!" she commented. "See, it isn't my handwriting at all! It isn't anything like it. But it's like--it's Joy's!" she burst out, and she jumped up, staring at me. "What does it mean?"

I had recognized the handwriting at the same instant, and was as surprised as she.

"It's Joy's!" she repeated, her voice now almost a scream. "Oh, but she is a cat! I believe she's trying to get rid of me. She wants you to kill me! Tell me, Chet, what does it mean?"

I didn't answer, for the shock of this communication bewildered me. It was like the voice of a ghost, urging me. It was Joy, calling up from Edna's subconsciousness. I was sure of it.

"It's Joy!" she cried a third time as she got the meaning, too. "She's trying to call you, through me! She loves you, and you love her. I knew it! You're trying to murder me! But I'll not let her have you! I'll kill you first!"

She stood with her little fists doubled, shaking with fury, her nostrils dilated, her cheeks gone white, her lips apart, showing the little uneven line of clenched teeth. The strap of her gown had fallen partly off, leaving one smooth, creamy shoulder bare, the golden wreath of laurel was tipped sidewise in her hair.

Then, in a quick whirlwind of passion, she snatched the silver-handled poker by the fireplace, raised it, and struck at me with all her strength. Slight as she was, and weak, ordinarily, her emotion gave her an unnatural power. The blow grazed my cheek, plowing a deep, ragged furrow through the skin. I grabbed the weapon from her, and she stood defiantly before me, blazing in all her finery.

The time had at last come to act.

*IV*

I may well say "act," for it was acting that was now necessary. I smarted from her blow, I saw in her a vicious, dangerous fury, with a devil snarling in her, but I had nothing but pity for her. How could I be angry? She was desperate, but it was the frenzy of an irresponsible spirit that urged her. And, moreover, she stood in my own bride's image, beautiful, splendid, virile. She was, in outward seeming, the woman I loved best in all the world. I had, I insist, nothing but the tenderest pity for her whom I must now, if I had the power, harry, harass, torment and destroy. But to accomplish this I had to play a part. I could show no trace of kindness or consideration. So I nerved myself and simulated rage when never was rage further from my heart.

"Oh, you would, would you!" I cried through my teeth, as villains do upon the stage. "Well, then, Miss Edna, it's time to talk honestly to you. I am in love with Joy, and I do hate you with all my heart! I would free Joy if I could, but you and the doctor are too much for us. I know what she's had to endure from him in your own person and her own, and rather than let her go through that outrage again, rather than let his lips touch hers, whether you consent or not, I'll kill you both. I can't touch her, for I love her, but I'm going to kill you, now!"

With that I drew a revolver from my pocket and took steady aim at her. Oh, I gave her time! The one thing I was afraid of, then, was that she would dare me to shoot. Luckily her nerve failed her.

She screamed and ran to the door like a deer. She screamed as she dashed up-stairs, tripping over her gown, calling wildly for Leah to come and save her. She screamed again and again as, giving her ample time to escape, I followed after her, shooting once, twice, thrice, stumbling up after her, muttering histrionic curses. There was no doubt that I had frightened her! But could I keep it up till she was literally beside herself with terror?

"Break the bone and let it heal right again!" I kept repeating to myself. But to break it--ugh! I shuddered and nerved myself again.

She had run into her room, slammed the door and locked it. I threw myself upon it and beat upon the panels with my hands. Again she screamed--the sound sickened me. I cried out that I would kill her, that there was no use in resisting, that I would break down the door. I shouted hoarsely enough, there was no need of pretending, now.

She came to the door and wailed.

"Spare me!" she cried. "Save me, Chet! You were wounded and fainting when I took you into my house. Didn't I do everything for you? How can you! How can you! What have I done?"

I fired again to stop her. I couldn't stand that reproach. Her screams broke out again. I could hear her overthrowing tables and piling them madly in front of the door.

Then her shrieks stopped suddenly, and I heard her running here and there as if searching for something. I heard drawers pulled open and emptied upon the floor, I heard chairs falling. Then there was an instant's lull.

Next, a muffled shot rang out. A bullet ripped through the panel of the door and buried itself in the mahogany wainscoting, missing my head by barely an inch. She had found her revolver--I had forgotten about that. The game was getting serious.

But now it was more necessary than ever to finish. I went down into the hall and shouted to King. He appeared at the dining-room door, his eyes as round as glass marbles, his mouth open.

"Get an ax, King, and bring it up here, quick!"

I went up again and, putting my pistol cautiously to the hole in the panel, fired another blank cartridge. My shot was immediately answered by her revolver, but the bullet went wild.

King came blundering up the stairs with the ax, showing a white mouthful of teeth. I had never thought it possible for him to show so much excitement, but he was quite wild. I took the ax and struck a heavy blow at the panel, splitting it open. Had I really wished to break down the door immediately, I would have aimed at the lock. But I wanted to draw her fire, and to torture her to the limit of suspense and fear.

She screamed again as the wood was ripped into splinters, and two more shots were fired in quick succession, only one of them going through the door. She had spent four cartridges now, and, as she held the last one, I had to act quickly so that she would have no chance to reload.

"You go down-stairs, King," I commanded. "Wait for her when she runs out. I'll chase her outdoors. She has only one shot left, so you needn't be afraid of her. I'll get that bullet, all right. Scream at her, scare her to death if you can, but don't touch her. If you do, by God, I'll kill you!"

He stole noiselessly down the stairs and disappeared. I tried another panel with the ax, but, as she was clever enough not to shoot, I reloaded my first pistol, and, taking what risk there was without thought, I seized the ax again and with one fierce blow smashed the lock to pieces. With the concussion the door fell partly in. I dropped the ax, put my shoulder to the door and swept the barricade inward, darting quickly through with my pistol raised.

She was handsome--terrible. Frightened as she was, she had control of herself yet, and was magnificently defiant, breathing in quick gasps with her mouth open, her bosom heaving, as if she were suffocating. Her embroidered waist was half torn off and hung away from her neck, revealing her brown-white breast, or perhaps she had torn the bodice open herself for air. Her golden wreath was gone. I saw it on the floor, trampled out of shape. Her hair had fallen over her shoulders, but its disarray was lovely. Her filmy, sparkling gown was rent and spotted from her falls.

She had taken refuge behind an overthrown table and stood with her revolver ready. Over her head was a drifting cloud of smoke, about her a wild confusion of disordered furniture. A shaft of sunlight played upon her disheveled costume. In the stable, I heard the dogs barking frantically.

So much I observed in one flash--the picture will always be with me as distinct as a photograph--but I had no time to speak, or even to think what I should do next, for, after that momentary pause, she bent forward deliberately and fired at me point-blank.

I felt a sting on my left arm where her bullet grazed, but, without stopping to find whether I was hurt or not, I fired with both pistols at once, and went forward at her. The sound of the double shot in the closed room was terrific. Her eyes, staring and fascinated, kept on me for an instant as if she were paralyzed, then she screamed again--her voice rivaled the pistol shots--and, suddenly pushing the table with all her might against me, she ran for the door. As she passed, I shot again. The din was maddening.

It was not my intention to finish with her there, though, and again I gave her a chance to escape, driving her before me. As she dashed out she brushed against a framed Madonna upon the wall and it came crashing down. She stumbled on the threshold--I thought she would never get away--and, moaning pitifully, she half ran, half fell down the stairway.

It was a dirty piece of business. I was sickened by it. But, having gone so far, I had no thought of stopping till I had accomplished my object. I gave her a moment's time, therefore, and then, leaving that horrid smoking chaos in her room, I followed her.

She had gone out the front door and turned the corner of the house, making, by some fatal impulse, for the stable. The barking of the collies had ceased, but as I got to the yard I heard it recommence in a higher and more violent key. It seemed incredible to me that she had sought refuge in the stable, but as I looked, I saw the great door rolled shut. When I came up to it, King came out of his cabin room.

King came out; but he was no longer the smiling, unctuous Celestial I had known. In that yelping, screaming clamor, I stopped to look at him in surprise.

He had fastened the mask upon his head and held the cymbals in one hand. With the other he dragged a package of fire-crackers six feet long, braided together in quadruple rows--there were as many there as in a hundred of the common Fourth-of-July packages. It was such an equipment as the Chinese use for their New Year's Day celebrations.

Before I could speak to him he had thrown the string into an empty barrel and had lighted the fuse. Immediately there was an uproar like a regiment of infantry firing at will. As soon as this was started, he took up his cymbals and began capering about, clanging them. The barking of the dogs rose frantically.

Surely, if anything could increase her excitement, this grotesque accession would, and I prepared for the last scene. The uproar inside now rivaled King's racket; Edna was screaming for help, and instantly it occurred to me that the dogs, who had always hated her, might be now upon her, and, if I did not act quickly, would tear her to pieces.

I tried the big door; it was held by something inside. Smashing in a window, sash, glass and all, with my naked fists, I climbed in and went through the harness-room to the carriage shed.

There she stood, now disarrayed to a shocking state, her shining golden skirt ripped half off, her bosom bare, her hair streaming. She was driven into a corner and was held there at bay by three snapping, yelping dogs. She had caught up a carriage whip and was slashing away so savagely that the collies dared not close with her, but I could see that it was only a question of a few minutes before she would collapse.

It was my Joy in face and form, remember! It was her face that was distorted with terror, her form that was draped in glittering rags, it was her voice that rose, shriek on shriek, above the din, till my blood ran cold. It was her voice that screamed to me for help before she was torn to pieces. Its terror will be with me always.

"Oh, help me! Help me!" she cried.

But I steeled myself for the _coup de grace_. "Break the bone," I muttered, "and let it heal again!"

So I staggered to the great door, slipped the hasp and let in King, prancing, beating his cymbals, droning some savage chant. The sun shone full upon him, glinted on the brass cymbals and illuminated the red and white and black of his atrocious mask. He danced up to her, nearer and nearer. I watched her, spellbound.

Then, as I looked, I saw her face change. Her whip hand dropped, her staring eyes closed. She clutched at her naked breast, tottered and fell headlong, striking her forehead against a carriage wheel as she went down like a golden wave dashing on the shore. I sprang to catch her, just too late. But the next instant I was down on the floor beside her, beating the collies back, protecting her from their teeth by my own body. Even as I did so they drew off, stopped their fierce snarling and lay down, panting, to watch me quietly. How my hopes rose at this! How eagerly I waited for the prostrate form to revive. Outside, the last of the fire-crackers popped at intervals in the smoking barrel.

"Get some water!" I cried to King.

He threw off his mask, and dropped his cymbals with a clanging clash and was off through the big door.

The next moment I looked up from the pale scarred face on the floor, to see Doctor Copin standing at the entrance. Leah, wide-eyed, staring, was behind him.

"What in hell's the matter?" he demanded, and he looked in astonishment at the scene, at the flaccid body in its magnificent disarray, at me holding her passionately in my arms.

I watched her face for the first sign of life, and did not answer him. His presence mattered little, now, in my agonized suspense.

"For God's sake, Castle, what does this mean? Are you all mad? What has happened? What the devil are you doing here, anyway? Let me see to Miss Fielding, please."

I attempted to hold him off with one hand, but he seized me roughly before I was able to resist, and threw me to one side. He dropped to his knees, looked at the face and felt for the pulse. I took my revolver from my pocket and pointed it at him.

"You take your hand off her, or I'll make you!" I cried.

Quick as a flash he turned and looked at me bravely. "Shoot if you dare!" he said. "This is my day, and this is my Miss Fielding. I take no orders from you, sir. It's my duty as a physician to revive her. She'll send you packing herself, when she comes to."

I was, after all, so fearful of her condition by this time, that I was glad to take advantage of his skill. It would soon be settled one way or the other, at any rate. So I said:

"All right, then, if she asks me to go, I will. But we'll wait and see."

And so we stood, facing each other, for a tense moment, then turned to her again. King came running in with a basin of water. Leah took it, stooped down and began to sprinkle the pale face.

At that moment I saw Minnehaha look up, and crawl, whimpering, to her mistress' side. Chevalier and John O'Groat followed her. Joy's eyes opened. I sprang to lift her up.

"Edna!" the doctor cried.

"Joy!" I called, myself.

Life came flooding into her face, and I knew intuitively that it was Joy--Joy illumined, now, in some secret way, by the knowledge of our victory.

"Chester!" She smiled wanly up at me. "Chester, send him away! I want to be alone with you! I have something to tell you!"

"Miss Fielding!" the doctor exclaimed, "I must see you a moment first."

She turned to him and a wave of crimson swept over her cheek.

"I beg your pardon, doctor, I'm no longer Miss Fielding. I'm Mrs. Castle, and I beg you to leave immediately!"

Then, still holding my hand close in hers, she looked up at Leah and drew her down beside us.

"Oh, Leah, dear, we've won! _We've won!_"

THE END

* * * * * * * *

*A FEW OF*

*GROSSET & DUNLAP'S*

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*NEW, CLEVER, ENTERTAINING.*

GRET: The Story of a Pagan. By Beatrice Mantle. Illustrated by C. M. Relyea.

The wild free life of an Oregon lumber camp furnishes the setting for this strong original story. Gret is the daughter of the camp and is utterly content with the wild life--until love comes. A fine book, unmarred by convention.

OLD CHESTER TALES. By Margaret Deland. Illustrated by Howard Pyle.

A vivid yet delicate portrayal of characters in an old New England town. Dr. Lavendar's fine, kindly wisdom is brought to bear upon the lives of all, permeating the whole volume like the pungent odor of pine, healthful and life giving. "Old Chester Tales" will surely be among the books that abide.

THE MEMOIRS OF A BABY. By Josephine Daskara. Illustrated by F. Y. Cory.

The dawning intelligence of the baby was grappled with by its great aunt, an elderly maiden, whose book knowledge of babies was something at which even the infant himself winked. A delicious bit of humor.

REBECCA MARY. By Annie Hamilton Donnell. Illustrated by Elizabeth Shippen Green.

The heart tragedies of this little girl with no one near to share them, are told with a delicate art, a keen appreciation of the needs of the childish heart and a humorous knowledge of the workings of the childish mind.

THE FLY ON THE WHEEL. By Katherine Cecil Thurston. Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher.

An Irish story of real power, perfect in development and showing a true conception of the spirited Hibernian character as displayed in the tragic as well as the tender phases of life.

THE MAN FROM BRODNEY'S. By George Barr McCutcheon. Illustrated by Harrison Fisher.

An island in the South Sea is the setting for this entertaining tale, and an all-conquering hero and a beautiful princess figure in a most complicated plot. One of Mr. McCutcheon's best books.

TOLD BY UNCLE REMUS. By Joel Chandler Harris. Illustrated by A. B. Frost, J. M. Conde and Frank Verbeck.

Again Uncle Remus enters the fields of childhood, and leads another little boy to that non-locatable land called "Brer Rabbit's Laughing Place," and again the quaint animals spring into active life and play their parts, for the edification of a small but appreciative audience.

THE CLIMBER. By E. F. Benson. With frontispiece.

An unsparing analysis of an ambitious woman's soul--a woman who believed that in social supremacy she would find happiness, and who finds instead the utter despair of one who has chosen the things that pass away.

LYNCH'S DAUGHTER. By Leonard Merrick. Illustrated by Geo. Brehm.

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* * * * *

*GROSSET & DUNLAP'S*

*DRAMATIZED NOVELS*

*A Few that are Making Theatrical History*

MARY JANE'S PA. By Norman Way. Illustrated with scenes from the play.

Delightful, irresponsible "Mary Jane's Pa" awakes one morning to find himself famous, and, genius being ill adapted to domestic joys, he wanders from home, to work out his own unique destiny. One of the most humorous bits of recent fiction.

CHERUB DEVINE. By Sewell Ford

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A WOMAN'S WAY. By Charles Somerville. Illustrated with scenes from the play.

A story in which a woman's wit and self-sacrificing love save her husband from the toils of an adventuress, and change an apparently tragic situation into one of delicious comedy.

THE CLIMAX. By George C. Jenks.

With ambition luring her on, a young choir soprano leaves the little village where she was born and the limited audience of St. Jude's to train for the opera in New York. She leaves love behind her and meets love more ardent but not more sincere in her new environment. How she works, how she studies, how she suffers, are vividly portrayed.

A FOOL THERE WAS. By Porter Emerson Browne. Illustrated by Edmund Magrath and W. W. Fawcett.

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THE SQUAW MAN. By Julie Opp Faversham and Edwin Milton Royle. Illustrated with scenes from the play.

A glowing story, rapid in action, bright in dialogue with a fine courageous hero and a beautiful English heroine.

THE GIRL IN WAITING. By Archibald Eyre. Illustrated with scenes from the play.

A droll little comedy of misunderstandings, told with a light touch, a venturesome spirit and an eye for human oddities.

THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL. By Baroness Orczy. Illustrated with scenes from the play.