Part 6

She let the book drop wearily. "It must end some way--why not that?"

I clasped her hand. "You must not think of it, Miss Fielding! It appals me."

"Well, I won't speak of it again. But I should be glad to have a friend who would help me, if worst came to worst."

"You forget that, in spite of what I know, I am still on the island, after all; I can't yet judge of such a necessity."

"Well, Leah and I will fight it out."

"You said, once, that I could trust Leah in everything. Do you still mean that?"

"Absolutely. In fact, you can trust her when you're uncertain of me. Do you understand? I can't make it too emphatic."

"I understand," I said.

It was almost time to go now, and so, while I went up-stairs to see that my things were ready, Miss Fielding and Leah got Hiawatha, fixed a collar and chain on him, and put him into the carriage, highly excited at the prospect of traveling. Leah shook my hand and looked into my eyes with gratitude.

Uncle Jerdon drove up to the front door, and I got in beside him and captured the frisky puppy, who proceeded to bite my hand playfully. It had been arranged that I was to send some one down to repair the automobile, and I permitted myself to hope that I might find in that a sufficient excuse to come back myself. So it was not altogether with a feeling of permanent parting that I finally gave my hand to Miss Fielding.

"Well, good-by, White Cat," I said, as Uncle Jerdon took up the reins.

"Good-by, Prince!" she answered, smiling.

We drove off, and, as we turned into the long lane which led to the highroad, I saw the two women standing in the sunshine, at the front door, and waved a last farewell to them. With all the sinister suggestions that had been crowding upon me, I could not bear to leave them alone. "White Cat White Cat," was still echoing in my ears.

Uncle Jerdon winked at me.

"Lord, she's as crazy as a loon, ain't she?"

"Do you think so?" I asked coldly.

"Plum' crazy. She ought to be into an asylum, and would be, if she had any folks to send her there. But she's a dandy when she's all right, you can bet on that!"

I did not encourage him to go on, and for the rest of the way to the station we talked of his rheumatism and the extravagance of his nephew's second wife.

*PART SECOND*

*I*

My machine had been repaired for a week, but I had not had it brought up to town, when I received a note from Leah. It was dated "Tuesday."

"Come down immediately," she wrote, "if you can think of a plausible pretext, but don't say that I sent for you. Miss Fielding will not ask you, herself, but we need you very much. I trust to you."

I took an early afternoon train the next day, and, finding no one to meet me at the station, engaged a carriage to take me over to Miss Fielding's place. My driver would, I am sure, have been glad to gossip with me upon the lady's affairs, but I headed off all his hints, knowing pretty well from Uncle Jerdon's insinuations what the tenor of the neighborhood talk must be.

Midmeadows was about four miles from the station, and a half-mile back from the county road. The house was approached by two long lanes overgrown with shrubbery and hazels, one from the seaside on the east, and one from the main road on the north. We took the latter, a wild and tangled wagon-track, filled with stones and hummocks, and worn into deep holes. The boughs of trees constantly scraped across the top of the buggy and often hung low enough to threaten our eyes. Near the house, the lane took a turn round the corner of an extensive, old-fashioned garden of hollyhocks, rose-bushes, poppies and violets, then swung up to the green, eight-paneled front door, with its transom of old bull's-eye panes. The copse came in close to the garden, partly inclosing it on two sides. To the right of the house vegetables were planted, with meadows beyond, and behind, the hill rose almost from the stable. The whole place had a charming natural wildness, and seemed, as indeed it was, miles away from any other human habitation; but it was not uncared-for; its natural features had been amended and composed with the care of a true artist.

The house itself was long and low, covered with unstained shingles. A great square brick chimney rose from the middle of the gambrel-roof. The lower windows were leaded and built out into wide bays, but they showed above the little-paned sashes of the original building. The front was almost hidden by climbing Cecil Bruner roses, now odorously in bloom. The southern side was lined with a row of geraniums which rose in huge bushes. Here, in the second story, was another bay-window of curious construction, somewhat resembling the stern of an old galleon. It was Miss Fielding's sitting-room, which I had not yet visited.

The place seemed deserted, for not even the dogs were visible. I got out and knocked, while my driver waited curiously to catch what was, probably, a rare glimpse of the mistress of the house.

Joy herself, wearing a white duck sailor suit, with a red handkerchief knotted about her neck, answered my knock. She held her hand to her eyes to shade them from the rays of the afternoon sun, so that I could not, at first, quite make out her expression. The first thing she showed, after her surprise, was a most cordial satisfaction at seeing me. She did not, apparently, expect me, but my presence delighted her. I saw next that she was in trouble. The very intensity of her welcome alarmed me. The two vertical lines between her brows were deeply cut into her forehead, her lips were quivering, there were dark circles under her eyes.

She drew me quickly into the library, and I saw terror in her look. Her cheeks were pale and wan. Her hand trembled, as it lay on the back of a chair where she leaned.

"Oh, I am so glad you have come!" had been her first speech, murmured in the hall, and it was repeated now as I stood before her. "I am so glad you have come! I need you so!"

I had fancied before that her face was one capable of expressing tragedy--not every woman's is. Tragedy shadowed her face now, giving her a newer, more dramatic beauty so moving that, despite my alarm, I could not help wondering at it.

"You are not well," I exclaimed.

"Oh, well enough--" she replied.

"Something is the matter--what is it?"

"Sit down and I'll try to tell you." She dropped into a chair, with her elbow on the table, letting her cheek fall into the hollow of her palm. Her eyes closed for a moment; the soft, long lashes shading her pale cheek. Then she shook herself and sat erect. "I'm so sleepy!" she moaned. "I haven't slept since night before last."

I sprang up from the window-seat. "Won't you lie down here and rest? Do!" I pleaded.

"Oh, I don't dare! I don't dare!" she cried.

"Tell me what is troubling you, so that I may try to help you!"

She looked up and said, "Leah has gone!" and she put out a hand that trembled with a despairing gesture.

"Gone?" I repeated. "Where!"

"I don't know where. I don't know when she went. I don't know even why."

"Do you fear she has met with an accident, then?"

"Oh, no, not that. Worse than that!" She spoke helplessly.

"Worse?" I could not understand.

"I mean I think I must have driven her away."

I still could not guess. "Why, how could you have done that? You mean that she took offense at something, perhaps?"

"Oh, I must have made it impossible for her to stay."

"But what did you do? She was devoted to you."

She sprang up and wailed out with bitter vehemence, "Oh, I don't know! I don't _know_! If I only knew, I could do something. But what can I do, now? She's gone. She was my right hand, my eyes, my ears, my memory--but it's not _that_! It's that I could have been cruel enough to her to drive her away. Where is she? Where could she have gone, do you think? I've waited and waited to hear from her, or for her to come back--two whole days! I didn't go to bed at all last night. I didn't dare, lest she should come while I was asleep."

"You expect her to return, then?"

She was walking up and down the room, her hands clasped behind her back tightly. I could see that she was on the verge of hysteria. She turned to me again, and said:

"Oh, Leah would never abandon me, never! She's too true for that. But she's afraid to come back!"

I went up to her and led her gently to the seat.

"Now," I said, "tell me exactly what has happened."

She broke out again wildly, her face twitching with excitement. "I don't _know_! Don't you _see_ I don't know? That's the horror of it! I may have killed her, for all I know!"

"Ah! Do you mean," I began, afraid to say it, "that you've forgotten?"

She stared at me. "Forgotten? Well, you may call it that. Yes, I've forgotten." She put her face into the pillow and began to sob convulsively. After this nervous crisis had spent itself she sat up, wiped her eyes and said with a faint, spectral smile:

"Oh, I'll have to tell you everything, now. I can't bear it any longer. It was bad enough while I had Leah to depend upon, but now I must have somebody to confide in, or I shall go mad--if I haven't already gone mad."

I looked over at the table where I noticed a coffee-pot and a cup on a salver. "How much coffee have you drunk?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Cup after cup. I've been drinking it all day to keep me awake."

"That accounts for your nerves. You must rest. If you sleep a little, you'll get your strength back."

She sprang up suddenly, her gripped fists raised, her head thrown back in a sudden new access of alarm. "Oh, no, no, no! You don't understand! I _daren't_ sleep! I'm afraid--afraid! How do I know what may happen, now when I'm so worn out!"

I had done considerable thinking while I was away, and I had done some reading as well. I was beginning now to make it out, piece by piece, and put it together in an astonishing whole. It was too late, in this crisis, for reserves, too late for me to keep to my promise of not trying to know. The girl was distraught and alone. And, indeed, the door to the cupboard where her skeleton had been hidden was now well ajar.

"You are afraid, you mean, of the _other_ one?" I brought it out deliberately.

She stared at me, like a somnambulist.

"Yes," she whispered, "of the 'other one.'"

Then for the first time, and quite unconsciously, I think, she used my name. It seemed so natural to me that I was not surprised.

"Oh, I'm so glad you know, at last, Chester. I'm so glad that it will be easier to tell you." She put her hand on my arm and looked up at me in tenderest confidence. "Now you know why I called myself the 'White Cat.'"

"Yes, I see. Don't be alarmed. I'll help you. You must calm yourself and we'll find out a way. I know _her_, you know."

"Yes, I know you do. You must tell me all about her, sometime. How you must have hated me!"

"Perhaps I can manage her, but no matter about her, now. We must think it all out, and decide calmly what to do. I'm not afraid. Trust me, and I'll see you through. It will all come out right, I'm sure."

I went on so, purposely iterating such phrases to lull her, and key down the intense strain which wrought upon her. Her eyes kept on me, and I saw my influence work--my suggestion, I might say, since it was purposely hypnotic. Her hysteria made her abnormally sensitive to the treatment. She relaxed her attitude slightly, sighed, and dropped back among the silken pillows behind her.

"Oh, you're so good!" she breathed. "You _will_ help me, I'm sure. You have helped me already! You're so strong--it's such a comfort to have you here!" She reached her hand out shyly and put it in mine, where it lay, small and cold. It was the first time she had done so, except under the direct stress of an earnestness strong enough to rob the act of any personal suggestion. It was a distinct caress, fearless and genuine.

"Now," I said, "begin at the beginning, and tell me all about what has happened."

She took it up again with a new courage. "As I've said, I don't know when Leah left. I only know that when I rang for her yesterday morning she didn't come. I went into her room and she wasn't there. She wasn't down-stairs. King didn't know anything about it."

"Nor Uncle Jerdon?"

"Uncle Jerdon has been away for three days, visiting his nephew, who's ill. You see, she--the other one--was here for two days running. It hasn't happened so for years. So whether it happened, whatever did happen, on Monday or Tuesday, I can't tell. Leah might have left either day."

"How do you know that 'the other one' was here for two days?"

"Only because Sunday is the last thing I remember before yesterday morning. The doctor was down then. You know that there's a hiatus when she's here--a perfect blank in my memory. I lose time, as she does, when I'm here."

Her mention of the doctor started a new train of thought, but I put that by for the present, to tell her of the letter I had received from Leah, which made it probable that she had left on Tuesday, the second day of "the other one." The situation was serious enough, I was sure, for me to disobey Leah's injunction to secrecy.

"Oh," said Joy, "that relieves my mind a little. It shows that Leah had a plan, and she must have stayed somewhere near here, expecting you, though how she happened to miss you, I don't see. It's quite right for you to have told me, for I had already telephoned to you--to-day, after you started. I was surprised to see you appear so soon, for that reason. I was at my wits' end yesterday, but I hated to drag you into this. But what could I do? Doctor Copin has gone out of town for a few days."

"I'm glad you sent for me," I said. "I shan't have to feel that I'm intruding. But now the question is, why doesn't Leah come back? Why didn't she wait for me at the station?"

"She must have been awfully frightened, to have gone away like this," Joy said.

"Perhaps _she_ discharged her--I know she complained of Leah a good deal."

"Yes, I've thought of that. But I fear it's even worse."

"In any case, there's no reason why she shouldn't come back, now that 'the other one' has disappeared," I said.

"How can Leah tell?" Joy exclaimed. "How will she know whether it is I or 'the other one'? We're really the same person, outwardly. There's no difference that she could recognize unless she talked to me. That's what has terrified me."

Then, for the first time, I saw the dilemma. How, indeed, could Leah know? The same woman, the same clothes--but yet, how different! "Have you no sign?" I asked. "Haven't you ever arranged it with Leah so that she can tell?"

"Oh, not for a case like this. It has never been necessary. You see, the change always comes at night, at least always during sleep, so that when I wake up she can tell right off, by asking me what I'll have for breakfast. We've arranged it so that I shall always give a fanciful reply, and let _her_ give an obvious commonplace one. But now, Leah daren't come in, for she knows that if I should happen to be 'the other one,' there'll be the same terrible something that happened before--a quarrel, or worse."

"Still, there are some apparent differences. You dress differently, it seems to me. You usually wear white. Won't Leah know by her experience of you both?"

"Oh, no; you can't tell. _She's_ so whimsical--sometimes she'll do one thing, and sometimes another, like a child. You can't depend on her. She's tricky, too."

"I could tell, I'm sure--by your eyes. Hers are darker, and the pupils are dilated, aren't they, usually?"

"Yes--but Leah daren't come near enough for that, don't you see? Oh, she must be in agony, poor girl! But how do I know? She may be dead!"

"You forget that she has written to me since leaving."

"Oh, yes--that is a relief. But I may have hurt her."

"Oh, Joy! Don't say _you_ could have--it was not you, it was Edna."

"Well, how can I tell whether or not I'm responsible?"

"I don't think she would have struck her," I said.

"No? She did once, though. She stabbed Leah with a carving-tool on the wrist. It always sickens me to see that scar. Oh, she has a temper! Poor Leah!"

She lay back on the cushions again and closed her eyes. Her hand had relaxed in mine.

I looked at her, so wearied and pale, and said softly:

"You just drop off to sleep for a little while, and I'll think it over--"

She nerved her body, and pulled herself up.

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed. "I'm dying for sleep, but don't you see I can't? If I should fall asleep who would it be that would awake? It might be _she_."

"By Jove!" I cried, "I hadn't thought of that!"

"I've thought of nothing else. That's why I've stayed up and kept awake while I am so exhausted. If Leah comes back, she must find me here, and not 'the other one.' I must see her and find out what has happened--we must arrange for everything and decide what plan to adopt to circumvent _her_. Oh, I _must_ keep awake!" Even as she spoke her head dropped again heavily.

"You can't tell, then, when the change is likely to come?"

"Sometimes I have a feeling--a premonition--like that night, don't you remember, when I was so blue? I knew that I was going to change. But usually I can't tell. _She_ has come lately, about two days in the seven, but irregularly. It's almost always after a deep, heavy sleep. You remember how late _she_ used to lie abed? That's what worries me now. I'm absolutely exhausted, and if I do fall asleep, I'll go down deep. So deep, I'm afraid, that I'll change. Can you think what a horror that is to me? I must stay up till Leah comes. You must promise to keep me awake by every means in your power. But even then, what are we going to do? How can we arrange a way for Leah to get along with her?"

"That's where I come into the game," I said. "I think I can solve that problem."

"How did you get on with her?" Joy asked timidly. It was quite as if she were asking about another woman, and feared to commit an impertinence. "Do you like her?" she added.

"She's not to be compared to you, of course. But there's much that's likable about her, and at least, we get on beautifully. And so we shall this time, if she'll only let me stay. That's the difficulty."

"Oh, _she'll_ let you stay, she'll be only too glad. She likes you, Leah says." Her brows drew together, and I wondered how much she knew.

"Well, then, I'll undertake to make her keep Leah."

"Oh, if you can do that--on any terms--we can stand it, both of us. Leah will suffer anything, I'm sure, rather than leave me."

"One thing more, then--since I must have all the information if I am to do anything--what does _she_ know?"

"About me? Nothing, I think. At least she has never been told, I mean--we've always kept it from her. She thinks she's the only one."

"I don't see how that can be possible!"

"It does seem strange; but then, you know she's mentally undeveloped. In some ways she's a mere child. And then, too, she has never known it to be any different--why should she suspect that there is another personality--that she isn't the real Joy Fielding? She's conscious that she loses time, so to speak, and she thinks it is only the fault of her memory."

I thought it over a while. Then I said: "She wouldn't say much about it to me, and so I didn't quite get her point of view. It baffles me. She must know that she does things in the lapses, even if she doesn't recall them."

"I don't know that she's even aware of that. She may think that she's unconscious, during these lapses, but most likely it is just like dreams. Even if we vaguely remember them, for a moment, we forget them, and they don't seem to have been real--or, perhaps, they're like delirium, or insane intervals, of which she has no memory. Why, a man may even be simply drunk, and not recall what he has done, and that self is, really, a different personality."

"But," I pursued, "do _you_ forget, too?"

"Yes. That is, almost always. At times I have had vague formless memories, as one has of dreams--that's about as much as this second life ever is associated with my normal one--if what I now have is the normal--how do I know even that? But I have known about the duality almost from the first, and of course Leah keeps me informed of everything that happens. You see, sometimes I'm not even aware that there _has_ been a lapse--I don't realize that it isn't just the next day. Leah tells _her_ as little as possible about me. She's easily managed and put off, usually, but somehow of late she seems to have grown stronger. She seems to be developing mentally. It frightens me a little."

"You don't think that anybody has told her, possibly?" I suggested.

"There's nobody to tell her. Of course Leah never would."

"Uncle Jerdon?"

"Oh, he thinks I'm crazy, and he never talks, anyway, I'm sure. He doesn't realize what's happening, for, after all, we're not obviously different; _she_ might be taken for me in some queer mood, I mean," she added.

"King?"

"I believe he thinks that I'm possessed of a devil. Which I think I am!" She paused to smile faintly. "Anyway, he minds his own business. I have an idea that he has a reason for wanting to keep quiet."

"Or, lastly, then, the doctor?" I put it hesitatingly, yet I wanted to know what she would say. Her answer was prompt.

"He wouldn't tell, I'm sure. Why, he wants to cure me. It would spoil all chance of that, I think, if _she_ knew."

I wasn't so sure of the doctor, after what Leah had said to me, but it would do no good, now, to mention that. She had trouble enough at present not to worry her with new doubts.

"Then, is it possible that she might have come across some evidence of you, in your writings, or something that would arouse her curiosity?"

"Oh, I think she hasn't the least suspicion. As I said, it must all seem natural enough for her to lose time--she has always done so. Everything is accounted for to her by the fact that she forgets. Of course, I am careful to hide everything that is strictly my own, anything, that is, that she would not understand. Leah keeps all my private letters under lock and key. I'm very careful, for I've been on my guard since it first began."

"How long?" I asked.

"Ever since I was thirteen. That's when she came first."

"It's incredible!" I exclaimed. "Of course, I've heard of such multiple personalities, of the celebrated ones, but they've seemed only like queer, improbable cases out of a book--monstrosities. Or I've regarded them as half-crazed or hysterical or somnambulistic. But _you_, Miss Fielding! You seem so beautifully sane, so poised, so complete--it's like a fairy tale. Oh, you are the 'White Cat'! You are under a spell!"

"It's only because I'm not a poor girl that I'm not a mere 'case,' I assure you. You don't know what a life I've led, how every physician I've had has wanted to study me, or put me in a sanatorium or a hospital or an asylum or worse. Yes, if I hadn't the money, I should probably be in a mad-house at this moment. Do you realize how easy it would be for a physician to put me there? From the ordinary point of view, I'm virtually insane part of the time. I have been in great danger, Chester. But, having some money, I have been able to get away from people and seclude myself and retain my freedom--if you call it freedom to be cheated out of part of your natural life! I have had Leah, and she was enough. She understands, she's loyal, and she is, above all, wise and good."

"But the doctor--what about him?"

"Of course I must have a physician at times, and Doctor Copin is a good one, and interested in my case. He has been most kind to me. Of course I _am_ interesting, though, psychologically, and he's probably written a monograph about me for some medical society already. But I have him chiefly for medical troubles, and to keep general run of this thing, enough to advise me."