Ophelia

Now I concentrated on my central theme—revenge. I put a figurative pin on my battle map by deciding to get well. My second pin consisted of dressing and going downstairs to breakfast the following morning. I felt very confident as I joined Julian but, alas, I had erred—as Julian, after his initial surprise, gently pointed out.

Since it was a warm day, I had slipped into one of Miss Margaret's thin silk dresses. It fitted me well enough, though it was a little snug at my chest and hips, a trifle loose at the waist. I had adjusted it correctly, zipping the zipper, fastening all the buttons, I can plead only eagerness for my oversight for, certainly, I had seen her put on her clothes often enough to know that she had always worn undergarments.

I was really very angry now, especially since Betsy had watched my triumphant descent. I heard her talking about it with Mrs. Mason as she dried the dishes in the kitchen after breakfast.

"Not a thing—not a stitch beneath, Mrs. Mason."

"Do tell," breathed Mrs. Mason.

"You could see everythin' she's got. I 'bout liked to fall over. I was that embarrassed—and her lookin' at Mr. Julian, bold as brass."

"Well," said Mrs. Mason tartly, "it's not as if he hadn't seen it all before."

"It's awful!" gasped Betsy.

"Scandalous," agreed Mrs. Mason. "If it wasn't for the memory of poor dear sainted Miss Margaret, I wouldn't stay in this house two minutes. A person's gotta think of their references an' their character, after all."

"Yeah," said Betsy, "that's what everybody I know tells me."

Much as I regretted the loss of my house, I rejoiced that Mrs. Mason and Betsy had also been deprived.

 

Julian regarded my return to health with less enthusiasm than I had anticipated. At first he seemed to think I was bluffing, for he insisted I spend a good part of the day resting, and though I had proved myself capable of dressing and undressing without help, he still gave me some assistance.

"You mustn't tire yourself, Ophelia," he warned me repeatedly.

Finally, however, he was convinced that physically, at least, I had "recovered," and one morning he drove me into town and saw that our one good department store provided me with everything that I needed. I loved the pretty dresses he bought me and admired the lacy undergarments, even though I still dislike wearing them. Sometimes I leave my underwear in the drawer and wear only a slip and dress. Fortunately, no one seems to notice my little deception.

Even more repugnant to me are shoes—which I dare not go without in public—they were a difficulty to me from the first. I had not been able to wear Miss Margaret's shoes (they were too large for me). I had to put on my first pair in the store and I nearly came to grief. Twice, I caught myself falling forward on my hands, but still I agreed to let Julian buy me several pairs of different colored pumps, sandals, and evening slippers; I knew I needed them, and besides they were so becoming on my beautifully shaped feet that I could not resist them. Each night, in my room, I practiced. In two weeks I could wear any shoe I chose with perfect confidence.

I had also acquired several boxes of nylons so sheer that my fingers actually ached to ladder them. In my old life, I had sometimes amused myself by waiting until Betsy or Mrs. Mason had an afternoon off and then, when they were dressed in their best clothes, I would, with a quick flick of my paw, create a fine run. There is quite an art in obtaining the desired effect—if you want to watch it progress down the entire leg, you aim for a spot just above the knee. I always managed to pull three threads, thus lending my effort width as well as length. Aesthetically speaking, a dark stocking gives much more satisfaction than a light; sheer black, naturally, is best of all. How my little prank used to enrage Mrs. Mason, Betsy, and the other women on whom I occasionally practiced. Oh, what I would give to… but I must not pine for the past.

If "clothes make the man," they are even more important to the woman. Once I had accepted them as an inescapable fact of my life, I also accepted my new existence more fully. Unclad, I had been little more than a transmuted cat. Clothed, I felt myself a member of the human race. I also discovered within myself a real talent for dressing well. I have, as I have often been told by both men and women, unerring taste, innate style, and presence. I know what colors become me; good grooming is second nature to me. I am immaculate, graceful—"the glass of fashion and mould of form," as Shakespeare's Ophelia so felicitously phrases it. (I have an understandable preference for Hamlet, surely the most literate of all his plays.)

Of course with "the return of my strength," new problems arose. Foremost among these was my presence in what the community erroneously termed "Julian Brewster's house." It was, as I later discovered, a source of sincere agitation to numerous people, all of whom derived their misinformation as to my activities from Betsy and Mrs. Mason. While most of the village expressed its opinion in cold glances (the women), or overfamiliarity (the men), Dr. Murdoch, the minister of Miss Margaret's church, confided his displeasure directly to Julian. He arrived on a day when I was sleeping in my room, but I heard about his visit from a source I still tapped, eavesdropping on the eavesdroppers—Betsy and Mrs. Mason—in the kitchen.

"Your big ears're goin' to get you in trouble one of these days," began Mrs. Mason, who always felt it her duty to censure Betsy.

"You wanna hear what he said—or not?" demanded Betsy, unrepentantly.

"All right, what'd he say? You better tell or you'll bust."

"He said it wasn't fit for no young lady to be livin' under the same roof with somebody who wasn't attached." She giggled. "I felt like askin' him how he knew she wasn't attached. I'll bet they're attached several time a night."

At this obscure observation, the cook choked and told Betsy to get on about her business and stop being so crude. However, after Betsy left the room, I heard Mrs. Mason laughing loudly to herself. I wondered what had amused her.

The gossip increased after the minister's visit, which, I discovered, had culminated in Julian's amused refusal to be intimidated by clerical disapproval. That slumbering Puritanism, common heritage of all New Englanders, awoke and Julian found himself considered seducer rather than benefactor by the men, while the women castigated me. The storm broke into print via an editorial in the small local weekly newspaper—the Clarion.

The Clarion article caused me more anguish than I could have deemed possible; I was not troubled by its sly remarks about my ambiguous position in "Brewster's cottage." The problems that its publication caused me were considerably greater. Not the least of them was the return of Mr. Dillon who arrived on the very day the newspaper appeared on the stands.

I had been asleep in my room when I was woken up by the all too familiar crunch of gravel under tires; while Julian had a car, I felt sure Mr. Dillon was approaching. A few minutes later, my suspicions were confirmed; I heard his voice in the hall. Quickly, I stole to the railing over the staircase and pressed against it, listening. He seemed less calm than usual.

"You can sue, Julian," he was saying. "It's libel."

"Sue? Surely you don't think I'd go to court over a piece of backstairs gossip. It can't hurt me."

"What about Ophelia? What about her good name?"

I pressed my fingers against my mouth, stifling my laughter.

Julian also treated it as a joke. "Ophelia has no name—good or otherwise."

"I am serious, Julian," said Mr. Dillon coldly.

"Too serious, old man, if you'd pay attention to the cheap insinuations of a rural weekly. Now stop talking about that fool article and tell me why you really came."

There was a pause before Mr. Dillon said heavily, "You don't believe me?"

"I find it difficult to believe you concerned about anything in a paper 'fit only to wrap around fresh-caught cod'—your description, by the way, Dan. So if it isn't the Clarion piece, it must be something else, or I don't know you."

"I guess you don't know me, Julian. I guess you don't know the people around here very well—it's a long time since you spent your summers here. You've forgotten what this village is like."

"Remind me, Dan," said Julian, lightly.

"Sons of the Puritans settled it."

"I haven't forgotten that. My ancestor was one of 'em."

"You've grown away from your background. You've lived all over the world; these people, on the other hand, have a strong kinship with the past. They don't hold with what they call 'goings-on.' Ophelia shouldn't be staying here with you, Julian. She ought to be in a nursing home, where she'd get professional care, where no breath of scandal could blow on her."

"Keep the courtroom eloquence for your jurors, Dan," advised Julian, still with a thread of humor in his voice.

"Listen to me, Julian; I know a place where you could send her-—run by the most respectable people, clients of mine. They have a fine reputation—their specialty is nervous disorders."

I felt my hair rise. Tremors of fear shot up my spine; Mr. Dillon wanted to take me away. Supposing Julian agreed? Breathlessly, I waited.

"I have other plans for Ophelia," Julian said.

Mr. Dillon voiced my thoughts. "What other plans?"

"Helgar Nielsen," said Julian. "I've written to him. I had a reply last week."

"The nerve specialist? But he's in Stockholm!"

"As a matter of fact, he's traveling in Africa, doing research on the tsetse fly, but he'll be home in another two and a half months—he's suggested I bring Ophelia to his sanitarium. If anybody can help her, he can."

There was a pause and then Mr. Dillon said, "But where will she stay until Nielsen returns?"

"Here," replied Julian. "I'm not going to be bullied by a scrap of newsprint."

I was hardly cheered by Julian's alternative. The idea of leaving my house to travel in the wide world—to carry on my deception in the presence of a disinterested and discerning stranger, chilled me to the bone.

"It seems to me that you're assuming a very big responsibility, Julian," said Mr. Dillon. "You could be steering yourself into a lot of trouble, you know. How'd she come to be in your well? Who put her there? For all you know, it could be some criminal element, the Mafia. Surely, she didn't get in there by herself!" (Unfortunately, Mr. Dillon could not appreciate his own irony.)

"I'm not unmindful of the fact that she might be in danger," said Julian. "I watch her carefully."

"How long can you continue this supervision—for another three months? What about your work? You didn't install that expensive lab for nothing. You can't neglect your research, Julian; it's too important."

In the midst of all my confusion, Mr. Dillon's statement was strangely soothing; if Julian had remained singularly unaffected by my numerous charms, at least I had lured him from that expensive new laboratory. My triumph, alas, was short-lived.

"My work isn't suffering. Ophelia is my work."

"Just how do you mean that?" said Mr. Dillon in a strange voice.

"Her condition; what else? It's a very rare form of amnesia—that's what Nielsen said in his letter, too. He said he'd never heard of anything quite like it. I'm preparing a report on it for him. It's a great opportunity, Dan, to study the disorder in all its peculiar manifestations; obviously large portions of the brain cells have been curiously affected."

My chagrin was hardly ameliorated by Mr. Dillon's loud snort of ugly laughter. "So—she's nothing but a scientific project, Julian. You're like me—born with icewater instead of blood in your veins—"

"Icewater!" Julian interrupted. "You? Then—you've changed since we were younger. I remember—"

"Cut the reminiscences, Jule; I have changed," said Mr. Dillon with a touch of asperity. "It's been books instead of blonds, for a long, long time."

"That makes the farmers' daughters safe and sorry, I guess," said Julian, laughing. "Whatever made you reform?"

"Let's not dwell on my past connections, Jule. We'd better think of a way to explain that your present 'association' is purely academic."

"Dan," said Julian, patiently, "I don't care what people think."

"What about Ophelia? Why don't you ask her to come down here? Ask her what she thinks—go on—ask her!" said Mr. Dillon urgently.

"She's sleeping, Dan—and besides, I don't want to trouble her with this. She has problems enough already."

"And one of them's being your pet guinea pig!" accused Mr. Dillon.

The argument continued a little longer and then, obviously feeling himself defeated, Mr. Dillon left. I hoped we had seen the last of him, but several days later he was back, summoned by Julian, and such are the complexities of this human life that I, much to my dismay, found myself actually grateful to my enemy.

The circumstances that eventually united us in our uneasy entente cordiale came about as an indirect result of that Clarion article. Piqued by an implied criticism of the department, the local police had insisted on photographing me: my picture, a flashphoto which depicted my startled features in a most unflattering manner, was inserted in the Leader, our daily paper, and subsequently picked up by the national wireservices; consequently, it ran on many a front page under the caption "WHO IS SHE?", with an accompanying paragraph describing my accident and resulting illness.

An avalanche of letters followed—half of which were written by what Julian termed "cranks"; the other half came from hopefuls who identified me variously as a missing sister, daughter, aunt, wife, and sweetheart. Julian ignored the one, and discouraged most of the others, dispatching Mr. Dillon to deal with them if they proved recalcitrant. However, in two instances, he was not so successful.

The first, indeed, he partially engineered. It began with a written communication from a Boston colleague. Julian read his letter over breakfast one morning, and divulged its contents to me with some eagerness.

His friend had suggested hypnotism as a means of probing my closed mind. The word was not unfamiliar; among Miss Margaret's books was a novel, Trilby, which I had read with some interest because of its many little illustrations. At the mention of "hypnotism," I immediately conjured up a picture of Svengali's repellent countenance. He had used hypnotism to cure headaches and to help the heroine sing on key. As I was afflicted neither by migraines nor operatic ambitions, I could not imagine how I could be helped—nor did I hanker to meet a Svengali face to face. However, when I detailed my objections to Julian, he burst into one of his rare fits of laughter.

"I'm sorry, Ophelia," he said finally, "but there's much more to hypnotism than that. It's a real science, now. Psychiatrists have obtained astonishing results with it. The man whom Bill Ames recommends is a well-known psychiatrist with a large practice. Bill says he was intrigued by the newspaper account and thinks he might be able to help you. I think you ought to see him."

While I had no idea what the man intended, I was on guard. I did not want my "closed mind" opened, but I did not see how I might refuse gracefully. Reluctantly, I gave my permission.

He arrived two days later and I received him in my bedroom. I felt safer there; I am always at my best in familiar surroundings. In spite of Julian's playful assurances, I had expected a Svengali—tall, thin, swarthy, clad in rusty black. This man, at least, was a welcome contrast—small, fair, plump, with blue eyes and close cropped gray-blond hair. He walked with a springy step—he literally bounced into my room—but though he smiled at me cordially enough, his eyes were cool and dispassionate. His scrutiny reminded me of Julian, whose detachment I have mentioned before.

Julian introduced us: "Miss Ophelia—Dr. Simon Cardew."

Dr. Simon Cardew's smile broadened as he observed, "Well, well, here's our famous amnesiac!"

I nodded, disliking the intensity of his gaze—he seemed to be looking through me rather than at me. I wanted to turn my eyes away, but I did not, fearing it might be interpreted as confusion.

"Yes," said Julian with a reassuring smile at me, "here she is! Shall I leave you together?"

"Don't, Julian," I entreated silently, but I dared not voice my misgivings. Certainly, there was nothing formidable about the doctor, and I had been told that he might help me. To show reluctance would only arouse suspicion. As Dr. Cardew acquiesced, Julian left the room. Dr. Cardew continued to smile but his silent appraisal unsettled me.

Nervously, I inquired, "Will hypnotism really help me?"

"It depends on whether you're a—good subject," he replied.

"Oh?" I inquired blankly.

"You have extraordinary eyes, Miss Ophelia—so green. You could probably hypnotize me." He laughed lightly. "Do you know what it means to be—hypnotized?"

Julian had explained the process to me so I nodded, eying him warily.

"I have a feeling you're afraid of me, Miss Ophelia. You mustn't be afraid."

"I'm not in the least afraid of you," I lied. Actually, I was terrified. I had to resist this man, and since I did not know how he meant to subdue my conscious mind, I had to rely on my instinct. I prayed that it would not fail me.

"I'm glad you're not afraid," he said softly. "Are you comfortable where you're sitting?"

"Very," I assured him, leaning back against my pillows.

"Good. To obtain the best results you must be—comfortable." He drew his chair closer to my bed. "You're sure you're comfortable?"

His insistence on my comfort made me, somehow, less comfortable, but I continued to nod and smile into his eyes.

"You look at me so frankly. You look into my eyes; that's good. Continue to look into my eyes. Listen to my voice—concentrate on the sound of my voice."

The sound of his voice might have pleased him, but I found it rather monotonous. Yet since I wanted to be cordial, I said, "It's a nice voice."

He frowned. "Listen but do not speak. Listen to my voice. Now, I want you to close your eyes."

My green eyes had evidently lost their fascination for him, I thought sulkily, as I closed them.

"Breathe deeply," he ordered.

As I expelled a long breath, he added, "You hear nothing but the sound of my voice. Nothing but the sound of my voice, nothing but the sound of my voice; do you understand?"

His voice was only one of many sounds in the room, for the windows were open; in the trees the birds quarreled incessantly, while below them the bees hummed in the honeysuckle vines. However, even my limited experience with men had taught me that they do not appreciate contradictions. Obediently, I nodded my head.

"You are falling into a deep slumber… a deep slumber… a deep slumber…" he said.

My curiosity was piqued and I decided to let him think I was sleeping. However, I did not expect him to twitch open my eyelid. In considerable alarm, I jerked my head back, asking indignantly, "What are you doing?"

"Why did you pretend you were sleeping?" he demanded accusingly.

"I thought that's what you wanted," I said innocently.

He clicked his tongue. "Miss Ophelia, you must cooperate, if you want this session to be of value to you."

I opened my eyes wide."

"I have tried to cooperate," I said.

He sighed, "No doubt—no doubt. Well, we'll try something else." He produced an ornament from his pocket, a crystal pendant attached to a long chain. Its faceted surface caught all the colors of the rainbow and splattered them on the wall.

"Watch this!" he commanded, and he began to swing it back and forth as he said in his measured tones: "Watch and relax… watch and relax… watch and relax… watch and relax… watch it swing back and forth… back and forth… back and forth."

His behavior was curious and his conversation increasingly dull, but with the advent of the pendant, I ceased to heed either. It fascinated me. It seemed to be coming closer and closer; its iridescent confusion of colors dazzled me. I raised my hand. Before I could stop myself, the bauble lay across the room under the dresser. I had batted it out of his grasp!

His involuntary exclamation restored me to my senses in time to prevent a worse indiscretion; convulsively I clutched the bedpost, restraining myself from leaping after my toy. I was torn between embarrassment and indignation. Why had he beguiled me with that pendant? I could think of no explanation for his actions. However, luck was with me; though I could not know it at the time, I chose the perfect question to put to a psychiatrist.

"Heavens, why did I do that?"

"You felt threatened by the pendant, Miss Ophelia?" he responded gravely.

"Oh, yes!" I exclaimed with some truth.

"It must have a deep subconscious meaning for you."

I felt I should agree. "It must."

Retrieving the pendant, he held it before me again and I, fearing a recurrence of temptation, hastily turned my face away. Again, I had been inspired.

"Yes," he mused, "you are really afraid of it. I wonder why?"

He tried a few more soothing approaches. Then, reluctantly, he admitted to Julian that I was not a good subject.

"Subconsciously, she resists me," he sighed. "But—for what it's worth—there's a deep-rooted fear of a swinging object… So much so that she felt she had to strike it from my hand. I refer to the pendant I use to induce trance."

Had that been his purpose? Julian had explained trance therapy to me, and I was immensely thankful for my error. If Dr. Cardew had succeeded in obtaining entrance to my unconscious mind, what might I not have revealed? And how would he have interpreted those revelations? I suppose he would have concluded that I had a severe delusion. The treatments would have been lengthy, and useless. In the end, I should still be imprisoned in some expensive sanitarium, my incomplete case history yellowing in a forgotten file. I have learned that mysteries science cannot explain are conveniently ignored. As it was, however, Dr. Cardew went out of my life when he left my house.

The next two days were uneventful for me, but filled with incident for Julian, who, in company with Mr. Dillon, continued to deal with people intent on establishing a relationship with me. On the afternoon of the third day, Julian, who had been rather cross all morning, was shut in the upstairs library going over more correspondence; I was in the parlor dozing over a book. I had seen Julian looking at this volume more than once and had concluded that it would be both interesting and informative—but to my disappointment, it proved singularly confusing; the sense of it actually escaped me altogether.

"Hicks, Althea, 41 Seaview Terrace… 432—561," I noted sleepily, "Hicks, Amber, 415 Courtland Road… 782-650, Hicks, Ambrose…" The doorbell rang, not once but several times. It brought Betsy out of the kitchen, scowling and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"All right… all right… keep your pants on," she muttered as she jerked open the front door: from where I sat, I could see her face; her mouth dropped open and her eyes bulged. The reason for her surprise was immediately apparent as, without waiting for an invitation, a tall man strode in. He had flowing golden hair and was oddly dressed in spotless white robes, secured at the waist with a knotted rope; his feet were bare. Confronting the astounded Betsy, he caught her in his arms and, planting a large kiss on her cheek, he intoned, "Love, love, love."

"Help!" howled Betsy, stumbling backwards. "Rape!" Ignoring her, he glanced round him and spotted me in the parlor. His eyes gleamed and, arms outstretched, he bounded over to me and stared at me with unwavering intensity. "It… is? Is it? Yes, I think it is!" he remarked incomprehensibly and then, triumphantly, "Sister Coralie. Yes, found at last. Come to Brother Florian!" Without further ado, he lifted me from my chair and held me tightly—helplessly—in his arms.

I have never relished being picked up so unceremoniously and my reaction, if regrettable, is I believe understandable at this affront to my natural dignity—a wriggle, a push, and a nip on the arm! With a pained exclamation, he released me and clapped a hand to his arm.

"You bit me, Sister Coralie," he moaned, "in anger not in love. It is true—yes, it must be true. You have forgotten everything—even me."

Thrown off guard by my own surprise and alarm, I articulated in a sibilant whisper, just bordering on my old hiss, "I've never seen you in my whole life!"

"Oh, Sister Coralie," he sighed, "this calls for meditation. I will draw upon my inner strength." Sinking to the floor, he assumed a cross-legged position, closed his eyes, and appeared to stop breathing.

Betsy, meanwhile, had recovered from her initial shock. Rushing over to him, she prodded him ungently with her foot. "Get outa here, you nut!" she yelled.

He gave no sign of having heard her, and Betsy's confusion returned. "M-Mrs. Mason," she stammered, "I gotta get Mrs. Mason."

"No," I said, "Mr. Brewster… he's up…" A most welcome voice interrupted me from the hallway. "What's wrong," said Julian, who had come down the stairs at that moment, in, as the saying goes, the nick of time.

"Mr. Brewster," gasped Betsy. "Come'n look at this kook!"

Though Julian's eyebrows rose at the sight of our visitor, he retained his poise and with that calm, as irritating as it was admirable, he asked, "How did he get in?"

"I opened the door and there he was! Pushed past me without so much as a by-your-leave," she spluttered. "Look at him—sittin' there—just sittin' there in the middle of the floor? You ever see the like?"

"You didn't find out what he wanted?" Betsy jerked her thumb at me. "Her, maybe. Seemed to know her."

I glared at Betsy. "I don't know him," I retorted, adding hastily, "At least I don't think I do."

"Seems to me he said he was her brother or she was his sister or somethin'," said helpful Betsy, whom I again longed to scratch.

"He calls himself Brother Florian," I explained. "Brother Florian!" repeated Julian. He approached the man. "Brother Florian, will you please tell us what you want?"

Brother Florian did not stir and his rigid immobility threw Betsy into fresh panic. She began to cry loudly.

With more patience than I should have shown, Julian patted her gently on the shoulder. "Go and get a drink of water, Betsy."

"Y-Yes, s-s-sir," she wailed, and she ran back to the kitchen, though not, I am sure, in quest of water.

In that moment, Brother Florian's eyes opened and, taking a deep breath, he addressed no one in particular: "I hear and obey." He bowed his head; then, gracefully, he rose and, seeing Julian, grasped his hand warmly. "It must be Mr. Brewster, our benefactor." Before Julian could speak, he added, "How can I express my gratitude?"

"For what?" inquired Julian.

"For sheltering our Sister Coralie," he returned, indicating me with a wave of his hand.

I darted a desperate glance at Julian; his expression was unreadable, his voice chill, as he demanded, "Am I to understand that you believe this young woman to be—uh—your sister?"

Brother Florian's emphatic nod flung his long hair forward; he pushed it back as he replied, "Yes, our Sister Coralie, from our brotherhood, but…" his eyes clouded, "she doesn't seem to know me." Absently, he rubbed the arm I had bitten. Any guilt I might have felt was wiped away by my outrage at this fraudulent identification. I wished that I had inflicted a deeper wound.

"She has lost her memory," said Julian. "I am aware of that," replied Brother Florian, "yet I had hoped against hope that some memories could never be banished—our flights into ecstasy. Our communion with…"

"Uh, Brother Florian," Julian interrupted, his noncommittal expression replaced by a wary look. In a soothing voice, he continued, "I am sure you can see she doesn't recollect any such—uh—journeys." More firmly, he added, "You'd better go now, Brother Florian."

"Go without Sister Coralie!" exclaimed Brother Florian, "I can't do that. I've come to fetch her. I don't know what mishap has robbed her of her memory, but once she's back in familiar surroundings, her slumbering senses must awaken."

I shrank away from him, desperately swallowing the series of spitting, hisses that threatened to force themselves from my quivering lips. "Julian," I managed to wail, "I don't want to go with him!"

I was in a dreadful quandary. I could not expose Brother Florian's lies without revealing a knowledge I could not, under the circumstances, possess.

Julian put his arm around my trembling shoulders. "Ophelia, surely you know I wouldn't allow him to take you away," he said.

"What right have you to prevent it?" demanded Brother Florian, frowning.

"What right have you to claim her?" responded Julian, coldly. "I have only your word that she is—Sister Coralie. I need more proof than that."

There was a pause before Brother Florian nodded. "You are right," he agreed. "Yes, you are right. You should not allow her to go with me—I might be any irresponsible person. As it happens, I am not. I tell you the truth—she is Coralie of the golden hair and enigmatic green eyes. Sister Coralie who was lost to us—and who is found; but you will have your proof. I will bring witnesses from the Colony."

"The Colony? What Colony?" demanded Julian.

Brother Florian's eyes widened. "My dear sir, did I forget to tell you that I am from 'Nirvana'?"

"You didn't tell me—but if you had, I should have been no wiser," said Julian. "How can you be from Nirvana?"

"Surely you've heard of 'Nirvana'?" exclaimed Brother Florian. "Our idyllic community—founded in the name of Love and Meditation by the Followers of the Incarnation of the Living Psambhava. Two miles up on the Post Road, turn left at the second traffic light after the Gulf station. We toil not—neither do we spin—but all God's creatures are welcomed in."

Julian's eyes narrowed. "Why did Sister Coralie leave this—idyllic community?"

"I didn't!" I cried and, ever mindful of my role, had to amend, "I don't think I did. I don't think I am Sister Coralie!"

Brother Florian ignored my outburst; he addressed Julian: "Wrapped in the ecstasy of our Affion hour, she must have wandered off. It is not the first time that one or another of our initiates has done so, but generally, as soon as they are once more aware of this plane of existence, they find their way home to us. We've been seriously disturbed about Sister Coralie; we had, in fact, feared the worst—until I happened to see the Leader, by the merest chance, I assure you, since we have little communication with the Outside, but the paper was brought to me by the grocer, wrapped around some produce. Stained and wrinkled as it was, I felt sure that I saw the likeness of Sister Coralie, and so I went forth to find her—and lo, I have been successful!"

"That remains to be proved," Julian reminded him.

"You doubt me—still?" Brother Florian ran his fingers through his mane of hair and sighed. "I suppose that you, as a scientist, lack sympathy for us. Scientists more than any other group of men question the validity of our philosophy. It is a pity. However, I am not here to convince or to convert—only to bring our little lost one back to her brothers and sisters."

As his gentle gaze rested on me, I had all I could do not to spring and bite him again.

"What is the nature—of your philosophy?" asked Julian.

"I could never explain it to an outsider," said Brother Florian.

"But you maintain you are founded in the name of Love and Meditation, hmmm…" mused Julian.

Brother Florian nodded. "In the name of Love and Meditation," he said solemnly, as he strode to the door. "We shall return in two days time if that is convenient?"

"Quite," assented Julian. "We'll expect you at four." No sooner had the door closed on Brother Florian than I ran to Julian. "Please, please—don't see him again!" I entreated. "He frightens me!"

He did. In his calm insistence that I was Sister Coralie, I read a self-confidence that filled me with dismay. "I'm sure I've never seen him. It—it's something I feel here." Dramatically, I pointed to my heart.

"I feel it here," laughed Julian, placing his hand on his head. "You couldn't be associated with anyone so far removed from reality, Ophelia, or I've seriously misjudged you."

Though I drew comfort from this observation, it puzzled me. In those days, I did not know that men attribute to companions the characteristics that please them most in themselves. In consequence, to Julian I was a realist; certainly, I was realistic enough not to disagree.

"Oh no, Julian," I said seriously. "I am sure that whatever my former identity, I could have had nothing to do with Brother Florian."

He patted my shoulder, absently. "I'll have Dan join us on Wednesday; this is his cup of tea."

Waves of frustration nearly engulfed me as I meditated on my inability to assert my claims. As resident owner of my cottage, I should have been able to close my door against Mr. Dillon and Brother Florian, too, but… Feeling sadly out of sorts, I rose. As I left the room, I heard Julian calling Mr. Dillon and, catching the little tremor of anxiety in his voice, I was comforted.

"He's afraid he might lose me," I told myself happily.

"Yes," prodded another part of my conscience, he wants to observe you. You're a scientific project."

Suddenly, I felt moisture in my eyes and in my nose as well. I sniffed—then, I shivered. These were the symptoms of distemper, dread scourge of felines! My mother had prescribed for it—what had she suggested? "Grass—eat lots of grass!"

I rushed into the garden to dose myself, but even as I knelt to pluck it, the sight of my own hand arrested me and I remembered. Laughing aloud in my relief, I went up to my room to rest. On the very borders of sleep, I recalled my symptoms and found them gone. I thought no more about them.

 

On Wednesday afternoon, Mr. Dillon arrived a good half hour before he was expected. He wanted, he told Julian, to speak with me. From my place at the top of the stairs, I heard him ask, "Do you suppose she'll see me?"

I longed to refuse, but could not. I had been preparing myself for this ordeal. I had to become acquainted with Mr. Dillon, for the sake of the pewter set as well as for my other purpose. The pewter set! The confusion of the last days had driven all thought of my project from my mind. As it reinvaded my consciousness, I acted on impulse and sped down the steps.

Mr. Dillon loomed before me in the hall, and for one agonizing moment I visualized myself crouching at his feet, my terrified eyes on a level with his silk-shrouded ankles, his dark trouser cuffs; when I found myself looking up into his eyes, the shock was doubly severe. He blinked as our glances locked, and for a second he stood absolutely still, staring at me. In spite of all my resolutions, I was unable to utter a single word in greeting. Julian, however, put me at my ease. Casually, he drawled, "Well, Dan, here's Ophelia."

I found the courage to speak, "Yes, here I am. I remember you… you're Mr. Dillon." Incredibly, no trace of my inner agitation was apparent.

Mr. Dillon bowed low, an exercise that seemed to astound Julian. "I'm charmed to see you again, Miss Ophelia. You are looking—very well."

"I'm much better," I agreed, hating his hard gray glance as much as ever.

"Ophelia's doing fine," said Julian, "except, of course, for this memory business."

"A pity about that," remarked Mr.-Dillon. "It must be difficult not knowing who you are."

"A constant torment," I sighed.

Mr. Dillon stared at me. "Believe me, Miss Ophelia," he said finally, "I'll do all in my power to help you."

Surprised into near-rudeness, I exclaimed, "You—what can you do?"

"You never know," he said, with a smile I liked less than his habitual frown. There was a look in his eyes which I could not interpret, but I felt threatened, intimidated by it. I told myself that my earlier associations with him still influenced me too immediately, but when Julian asked us, rather impatiently, I thought, to come into the parlor, I longed to be excused. However, mindful of my project, I settled myself in Miss Margaret's old armchair and tried not to resent Mr. Dillon's presence on the sofa.

As we faced one another, the three of us, I could not keep my thoughts from stealing back to my dreadful experience; and reviewing that event, I had increasing difficulty in meeting the penetrating glance of my murderer. The inexplicable silence was finally shattered by Julian, who appeared unaccountably annoyed with Mr. Dillon. "What's the matter, Dan?" he inquired with some asperity. "Cat got your tongue?"

Mr. Dillon unexpectedly winced, while I cried, "Why Julian! Whatever can you mean?"

"I thought you wanted to talk with Ophelia?" Julian said to Mr. Dillon.

"I do want to talk to her," said Mr. Dillon, and he lapsed into another spell of silence.

I found him bewildering. In the years I had observed him, I had never known him to be at a loss for words before. It occurred to me that he might be embarrassed.

"No doubt Mr. Dillon remembers my inexcusable rudeness at our first meeting," I said. "I must tell you—it was a nervous spasm; it had nothing to do with you."

My ingenious explanation pleased him. His hard smile actually glittered in his eyes. "That is reassuring, Miss Ophelia. I should hate to believe that I, myself, had frightened you."

"Why would I be frightened of you?" I asked, and in that very moment I was almost overwhelmed by the most abysmal fear.

"Why… indeed?" he smiled.

I wanted to leap from my seat and slide into one of my old sanctuaries beneath a chair. I cannot explain my sensations; they were entirely instinctive. But if I felt my heart pounding, at least I retained that inscrutable look that has been mine since childhood. At an early age, we learn the sign language of the tail which, among us, is the only polite form of emotional expression; in minutes of extreme agitation, we might bring our fur into play and even our backbones, but our faces usually betray nothing.

Julian spliced the severed ends of our conversation. "Well, now that we've reached that accord, let's think about Brother Florian."

"Coralie," Mr. Dillon literally shot the name at me. "Does it mean nothing to you—that name? Are you sure?"

"Nothing," I said.

"I told you that, Dan," said Julian coldly.

"I wanted to hear it from her own lips. I wanted to watch her expression. It stirs no latent memory, Sister Coralie?"

"None," I replied, glad that at least in this instance I could tell the entire truth.

"Satisfied, Dan?" said Julian.

"Satisfied?" repeated Mr. Dillon, never taking his eyes from my face. "Yes, I am satisfied."

It seemed to me that he had not answered the question, that he had made an independent observation about a matter far removed from our immediate crisis, but before I could explore that subject the doorbell rang.

Julian rose. "He's early."

Mr. Dillon glared, "He'll wish he'd never set foot in here by the time I've finished with him."

"Keep your legal detachment, Dan," said Julian with a slightly derisive smile.

"Will you open the door?" demanded Mr. Dillon. "Here's Betsy," observed Julian, as she approached the door. She opened it and jumped back hastily. "What're you after?" she hazarded warily.

"Show him in, Betsy," said Julian.

"There's three of 'em this time," muttered Betsy, sidling out of the way as Brother Florian and two other similarly clad people strode into the hallway.

With a wave of his hand, Brother Florian greeted us, introducing his companions as Brother Titus and Sister Lethia. As they both had long hair and identical white robes, it was difficult to differentiate between them until one said in a sweet but vague voice, "Sister Coralie, where have you been this long, long time?"

I had the odd feeling she was looking at me without really seeing me. Naturally, I declined to answer, turning my face in a pointed manner. If I had had a tail at that moment, I should have waved it.

"Young woman," rasped Mr. Dillon, "do you know this girl?"

Sister Lethia's cloudy gaze fell reproachfully on him. "Know her… she ought to be Sister Coralie."

"Ought to be?" repeated Mr. Dillon. "Isn't she?"

Brother Florian moved forward, "Yes, she…"

Mr. Dillon raised his hand. "I am questioning this girl," he interrupted, indicating Sister Lethia. "Well?" he glared. "Isn't she Sister Coralie?"

"She looks like Sister Coralie," she said.

"She is Sister Coralie—her image; physically and spiritually, too. I feel it," said Brother Titus earnestly. He came up to me, "Child, why did you leave us?"

Julian stared at him and laughed. "You are hardly old enough to use that particular form of address," he said—and truthfully, Brother Titus was hardly more than a boy.

Julian's question, however, seemed to shock him, for he said very earnestly, "I am an old soul, Brother—an old soul—old when this world began."

"We are all old souls," said Brother Florian.

"Yes," said Sister Lethia, "all of us. I knew Brother Florian when he was High Priest in the temple of Thoth, and I was the favorite Sisterwife to Ramses II."

"And I knew him when he thrust a raw and dripping leg of wild boar into a burning tree—a lightning-struck tree—and discovered fire!" said Brother Titus."

And I…" began Sister Lethia.

"If you please," interrupted Mr. Dillon, "your past—er—histories are of little moment, now."

"The past and the present are one," said Brother Florian.

"Have it as you wish," snapped Mr. Dillon, striding up and down the room—his courtroom attitude, as Julian later explained to me. "I've made inquiries about your Colony. I've spoken to people who have lived near it—and people who have lived in it and left it."

"That is your privilege, sir," said Brother Florian, calmly. "We do not attempt to hide ourselves from the eyes of the world. Ours is an abode of love—from this seed a mighty tree shall grow."

"With branches to shade the world," chanted Brother Titus.

"Yes, to shade the world," echoed Sister Lethia.

"Love alone can save the world," said Brother Florian.

"Love—alone."

"That's not the impression I received from one of your members—or rather former members—whom I interviewed this morning in a hospital ward," said Mr. Dillon, a gleam of triumph in his eyes.

"A hospital ward?" they echoed, almost in unison.

"A hospital ward," repeated Mr. Dillon.

"Illness is practically unknown at Nirvana!" protested Brother Florian.

"Love drives out pain," said Sister Lethia.

"Perhaps one can have too much love," said Mr. Dillon. "This girl seemed to think she'd had a surfeit. In fact, she is in a state of unenviable confusion—being unable to tell her physicians at the Center which one of her beloved Nirvana brethren fathered her child."

Looks of consternation passed among the threesome. Sister Lethia voiced her sentiments. "But why should it matter to her?" she asked reasonably.

"Indeed—why?" said Brother Titus, frowning slightly. "The souls whom we free in our communal love-making—that is what is important. The new souls, the old souls clamoring to invade this sphere, to search for inner strength and then move on—"

"Yes, that is the meaning of it," agreed Brother Florian, his hand on Brother Titus's back, "Well put, my son."

"She told me," pursued Mr. Dillon, "that you partake of a strange compound before your—uh—soul-freeing sessions. A compound with an opium base—supposedly a stimulant to the appetites."

Brother Florian frowned. "I don't know who this young woman can be," he said, "but she is sadly misinformed as to the nature of this preparation. It is not to stir our baser senses that we partake of it, but rather to experience love in its most transcendent form—to merge with the divine."

"To know ourselves entirely," added Brother Titus, "what we were, what we are, and what we will be."

"I am soon to be born again on Venus," whispered Sister Lethia.

"You might think you know about the future and the past," said Mr. Dillon dryly, "but you are a little confused about the present."

"We are not confused, any of us!" retorted Brother Florian. "All of us see with perfect clarity—beyond the flesh—into each other's souls."

"If you maintain that Miss Ophelia, here, was ever a member of your—Colony, you are confused. That is the kindest interpretation. There are others," said Mr. Dillon with sinister emphasis.

"You are an outsider," said Brother Florian, serenely, "so naturally, you regard us suspiciously, but if Sister Coralie had not lost her memory, I am sure she would embrace us—as we her."

He turned to me, his arms outstretched, but Mr. Dillon hastily stepped in front of me.

"Stand back," he thundered. "Don't come near her!"

"Dan!" said Julian.

With a palpable effort, Mr. Dillon controlled his temper. Finally, he spoke again. "Miss Ophelia may have lost her memory, but she has not—" here he paused, surveying his audience threateningly, "she has not lost her virginity!"

His meaning escaped me but its impact on our visitors was electrifying! They stared at each other in complete bewilderment.

In a stunned whisper, Brother Florian asked, "She's a virgin?"

"A—virgin?" echoed Brother Titus.

"But she can't be!" moaned Sister Lethia. "Nobody's a virgin any more."

"Miss Ophelia is a virgin," said Mr. Dillon. "Here's the proof of it." He produced a document from his briefcase. "This is a photographic copy of her doctor's report. When a young woman is found—naked in a well," he hesitated and flushed, "the first thought is… rape. Dr. Gerald Hargreaves, who examined her, (I must have been unconscious.) found no evidence of sexual assault; she is still a virgin. Would you care to see the report, Brother Florian?"

Brother Florian read the paper carefully. When he put it down, his eyes were puzzled. "She is a virgin," he announced to his companions.

"Then she can't be Sister Coralie," said Sister Lethia. "She hasn't experienced."

"No, she hasn't experienced," agreed Brother Titus, looking at me with pity.

"Golden hair and green eyes… but she can't be Sister Coralie," decided Brother Florian.

"No," said Sister Lethia, "she can't be."

Limp with relief, I relaxed against my chair. "I knew I couldn't be," I told Julian.

Brother Florian stared at me, and then turned to Julian. "I have made a grievous error," he said. "I beg your pardon."

"I can't say I'm sorry Miss Ophelia isn't Sister Coralie," smiled Julian, "but I hope you find your—missing companion."

"We will concentrate on the matter, as we have heretofore," sighed Brother Florian. He turned to the others, "Come, we must go now."

"Wait," commanded Mr. Dillon. "It's not going to be that easy, I'm afraid. I told you there were other interpretations of your—actions, kidnapping being one of them. And that's a prison offense!"

"Kidnapping?" repeated Brother Florian, looking helplessly at Brother Titus and Sister Lethia. They moved closer to him.

"Kidnapping," repeated Mr. Dillon, savoring the word. "Luring a defenseless young girl into a nest of perverts and…"

"Dan," protested Julian, "that's enough. You can't twist an honest mistake into a federal offense."

"An honest mistake…" began Mr. Dillon.

"Yes, an honest mistake," said Brother Florian, an unaccustomed angry sparkle in his mild eyes. "We operate on the principle of love, and our members come to us voluntarily. We'd never coerce an unwilling stranger into our ranks."

"I believe that, Dan," said Julian.

"Well, I don't!" exclaimed Mr. Dillon. "How can you believe anything anyone from that place says… a bunch of hopheads?" He glared at Julian, "After all my work—you're just going to let the matter drop?"

"Since it has been settled to my satisfaction, yes," said Julian.

"Very well," rasped Mr. Dillon, "you retained me—it's your decision. I hope you don't regret your kindness." Without turning his head, he addressed Brother Florian, "Get out, then. Out!"

His words were unnecessary. They had already drifted out the door, and the last we heard of them was Sister Lethia's plaintive question, "But Brother Florian, whatever could have happened to Sister Coralie, then?"

Mr. Dillon slammed the door. "They belong behind bars," he shouted. "Love! A synonym for promiscuity and licentiousness. That place is nothing more or less than a gigantic human stud farm!"

Julian's face was a study of annoyed amusement. "Since when have you turned Puritan, Dan?"

"I'm not ashamed of my Puritan blood," snapped Mr. Dillon. "The Puritans were fine upstanding men."

"They had many good traits, but bigotry wasn't one of them. Nor was cruelty. I don't like being unnecessarily cruel to man or beast, as I think I've told you before."

Mr. Dillon's eyes gleamed sardonically as he answered, "You did agree that my quick action at the time to which I believe you refer was not entirely—unwelcome to you."

I was positive that he was talking about my murder, especially when I saw Julian's flushed face. His answer convinced me that my suspicions were correct: "No, it was not—but if I had been consulted, I should not have agreed."

Until that moment, I had not been aware that I had any qualms concerning Julian's part in my demise, but at his words I felt as though a heavy weight had been eased off my heart. From that time on, I had as much trust of him as one of my essentially doubting nature could manage.

My animosity toward Mr. Dillon, however, increased threefold, but I did not want him to be aware of my feelings nor did I want their discussion to turn into the argument it showed every sign of becoming. That would not serve my purpose. Employing all my arts of duplicity, I practically purred the words, "Gentlemen, why don't we have a cup of tea?"

"Tea!" exclaimed Julian.

"Tea?" echoed Mr. Dillon.

"An absolutely inspired idea, Ophelia," said Julian.

"Inspired, indeed," said Mr. Dillon. He looked at Julian and Julian looked back at him. They laughed, and the tension between them relaxed to some extent.

"I'll have Mrs. Mason prepare it," decided Julian.

"May I serve you?" I inquired.

"That would be a pleasure," said Mr. Dillon, "to see your face behind the coff—er the teapot."

I thought Julian gave him a curious glance, but he merely nodded. "Of course you must do the honors, Ophelia," he said with a smile.

"I expect we'll use that lovely silver service in the other room?" I said. "Your aunt probably used it, too?"

"I suppose so, said ignorant Julian. Mr. Dillon, less ignorant, looked down quickly. I was positive that he blushed.

"Is it warm for you in here, Mr. Dillon?" I could not resist the question.

"Warm?" he replied. "No, it's pleasant enough. Why?"

"Your face seems flushed," I said, enjoying myself hugely.

He smiled, "I'm flattered to find you so observing, Miss Ophelia."

At his expression, my triumph fled. He looked pleased when I had meant him to be uncomfortable. Now it was I who felt uncomfortable. Nor did Julian's puzzled frown cheer me.

"Are we going to have tea?" I prompted.

As Julian went to order it, I prayed I would remember how to manipulate the utensils. I tried to conjure up a picture of Miss Margaret so employed, but Mr. Dillon derailed my train of thought.

"I've often taken tea here, but never in such charming company," he observed.

I felt no temptation to contradict him. "You were a friend of Julian's aunt, I believe?" I asked.

"Her lawyer, Miss Ophelia," he replied. "The many years separating us precluded—friendship, at least as I interpret it, between the sexes." His intense questioning look seemed to demand an answer—but I had none, and was thankful when Julian returned.

"You'll have to excuse me, Dan," he said, "I haven't thanked you properly for the way you handled this Nirvana business."

"Am I to be beholden to Mr. Dillon, too?" I asked myself.

"Briefly," whispered Miss Margaret in my ear. Her ghostly presence strengthened me.

"Nor have I thanked you, Mr. Dillon," I said aloud.

"I did no more than my duty as Julian's lawyer," said Mr. Dillon.

"You're too modest, Dan," protested Julian. "All that research—visiting hospitals and the like."

"I am generally thorough—the more so, I must admit when such a charming lady is in jeopardy. I'd feel a lot better if you'd let me put those misfits behind bars, though. I might be what you call Puritanical, but I don't hold with that phony philosophy. Those men are smart—they've got a good thing going for themselves—they know what they want."

"What?" I inquired.

"Miss Ophelia," exclaimed Mr. Dillon, "you can't have forgotten that?"

Julian gave me a curious look. "Perhaps she never knew, Dan," he said.

"No woman's that innocent," retorted Mr. Dillon.

"From my observation," returned Julian, "she may be."

"Then," said Mr. Dillon, with a wide smile, "we can stop asking from whence she came. The answer's Heaven."

"From my observation," repeated Julian, "that's an ingenious hypothesis, but fundamentally unsound."

"From your observation, eh?" said Mr. Dillon, staring at him. "And what are the limits you've set for yourself?"

"Limits, Dan?" returned Julian.

"Boundaries, then," said Mr. Dillon, a strange light in his gray eyes.

"It depends," said Julian.

Mrs. Mason's entrance with the teacart ended a discussion that had become more and more obscure to me. I had so little difficulty in pouring tea and handing cups around that I felt Miss Margaret's shade must be directing the operation, but I soon realized that I had been depending solely on myself, for, remembering other teas I had attended as a cat, I, without asking, served Mr. Dillon a cup of tea that had just the right amount of sugar (three and one-half lumps) and no cream.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, as I handed him the cup. "How did you guess? That's absolutely uncanny."

"What?" I inquired nervously.

"Yes—what?" asked Julian.

"She knows how I like my tea. I don't use cream—but I do take three and a half lumps of sugar."

I said the only thing I could, "A coincidence."

He was far more pleased than I felt the circumstances could have warranted. Julian, on the other hand, fell into a thoughtful silence. I was furious with myself, wondering if I would ever lose that false confidence which invites disaster. It is a family failing. My mother, who was fond of object lessons, never tired of citing the case of Cousin Willie, whose predilection for walking on narrow fences led him to what became his final stroll—over the railroad yard when the six-forty-three came thundering in.

"I must go—I'm sorry," said Mr. Dillon in a strangled voice shortly thereafter. "An—appointment. Thank you for the tea."

"Goodbye, Dan," said Julian—as the door slammed. "He was in a hurry."

Abrupt as his leavetaking had been, I felt only relief when he removed his objectionable presence. Limp, I sank down on the sofa, leaned my head against the cushions, and sighed wearily.

Julian looked concerned. "This afternoon has been too hectic for you," he said. "I'll take you to your room." He held out his arms.

Surprised, but thankful that he wanted to carry me, I clung to him gratefully. "Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmm."

"What did you say?" asked Julian.

"I was humming to myself," I answered. Fortunately, he was no wiser, since a purr can resemble humming, especially if you have no ear for music. However, to cover myself even further, I added, "I'm so happy that I'm not Sister Coralie."

We had reached the bedroom, and he put me down. "I was sure you couldn't be," he said.

"I hoped I wasn't."

"So did I," he answered, and he caught my hand in his. He seemed about to make yet another observation, but instead he patted my hand gently, "Rest, Ophelia—I'll wake you in time for dinner."

Julian let himself out of my room. I felt rather unsatisfied, but not wholly unhappy, until I really began to consider the events of the afternoon. I had accomplished very little. I had let Mr. Dillon go without a word—without a gesture, when I should have made every effort to win his friendship. Now, how could I get to know him better? A sense of failure pervaded my being.

My mood continued through supper, but Julian attributed my lack of spirits to my ordeal in the afternoon and insisted that I go to bed early. Sleep came late, as I pondered on the best methods of approaching Mr. Dillon again and discarded them all as impractical. In the morning I was still restless and unhappy. I dressed hastily and went down to have breakfast with Julian. To my surprise, his place was empty.

Betsy, who brought in my usual repast of eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee, informed me that he had gone into his laboratory. "He said not to let nobody bother him, Miss," she explained. "Guess he's doin' something scientific."

I had not been particularly hungry when I had come down, and at Betsy's words my appetite left me completely. I took no more than a swallow of orange juice, a sliver of bacon, a sip of coffee, as I wondered what that scientific "something" could be. It occurred to me that I had not seen the cellar since my accident. Why not renew acquaintances? Julian's strictures, I reasoned, did not apply to me; besides it was my house!

On opening the forbidden door, I stood for a second, stunned; in spite of the changes I knew had been made, I had, I suppose, expected to see the old, dusty, cobwebbed stairs that had led to a domain I had explored only in the most cursory manner. In those days, the cellar had been dim and dismal, full of bulky old trunks and discarded furniture in one room; in another stood all that remained of an ancestral wine-cellar; while a third had held antiquated heating equipment. Mrs. Mason had occasionally braved those forbidding passages in quest of brandy for the decanters upstairs, or to store objects Miss Margaret found too old to use, too cherished to destroy. My earlier visits to this sanctum had been in search of a mouse repast, but the difficulties of tracing and securing my prey in that cluttered interior had far surpassed any incipient pleasure in the hunt.

Now, as I started to descend, I was dazzled by a combination of white on white. The stairs had been covered by a hard plastic material, the walls newly painted, the stone floor scrubbed. The trunkroom was equally remarkable; in place of its dusty oddments stood neat gray files, while in one clean corner were piled large packing cases marked "Fragile" and "Glass." Indirect lighting illumined the whole.

As often happens in moments of great surprise, an inconsequential thought drifted through my mind. There was no place for any mouse to hide; but, as I quickly assured myself, there could certainly be no mice left in this immaculate, antiseptic interior. A second later, I found myself in error. On leaving the trunkroom, and entering the sector which had housed the wine-cellar, I saw that the splintering wooden shelves were missing, and that around the room a series of new steel shelving supported rows of small gray cages. My nose was tickled by a faint, familiar odor. I sped lightly across the room to examine the cages and found myself confronted by a strange phenomenon: numerous little white creatures with pink eyes, pink feet, pink-lined ears, and long bare pink tails! By shape and size and smell, they could be nothing but mice; more mice than I had ever seen in one place, wonderful mice, a rare breed, and—most certainly—a rare taste! A treat? I put my hand tentatively on the first cage of the line—there were so many! Under my hand, I felt rather than saw a panic-stricken scurrying through the sawdust-packed interior. The cage trembled; I thrust my fingers through the wires in a vain attempt to reach them. The door —where was the door?

"Ophelia!"

I leaped back, startled, as Julian came into the room. I could not speak. I could only stare at the wriggling, darting mice. He hurried to my side, his eyes following my fascinated glance.

"You mustn't be afraid," he said soothingly.

Afraid? His words meant nothing to me. I hardly heeded them, as I continued to look at the cages. I could not take my eyes from them.

"Ophelia," he was saying, "they're quite harmless. Besides, they are all in cages; they can't crawl up your skirts." He laughed.

I nodded, trying to regain my equilibrium, trying not to look at all those delicious little morsels I dared not touch.

"Come in here, away from them," said Julian, taking my arm. I had to go with him—for my own safety—but leaving that room was one of the most difficult feats I had yet accomplished, and the resulting nervous strain was overwhelming. I seethed with inner frustration. It took all my mother's careful training for me to keep my features bland and noncommittal; after all, I no longer had my tail! To my eternal credit, Julian was quite unaware of my turmoil. He was inclined, in fact, to philosophize.

"From time immemorial woman has feared mouse," he said. "Possibly it's a race memory."

"Oh?" I articulated feebly, hearing behind me those rustling sounds in the cages, louder than Julian's words, louder than my own voice.

"Look at your reaction," said Julian, "typically feminine. I suppose insects and snakes would also scare you."

"I suppose so," I said, trying to put the thought of the mice away from me, as I looked round this room. It had, I believe, contained only the boiler and the water heater before. It, too, was pristine white, replastered, scrubbed, and fitted with a small stove; also a complicated arrangement of glass tubing, beakers, and a panel of what I learned later were electric switches. Strange gurglings and bubbling issued from some of the beakers and acrid scents assailed my nostrils, though none of them quite banished the odor of fresh mouse-on-the-hoof. On the table stood a strange black instrument that proved to be Julian's microscope, for looking at it, he said, "I've been working at the microscope this morning—an interesting culture. I think I may have found something."

I nodded, and now that my thought patterns were less chaotic, I wondered about the mice. I felt sure he did not keep them for his cuisine. I forced myself to inquire casually, "Are the mice—your pets?"

"Pets!" He laughed. "No, they're purely for experimental purposes. I have a project concerning the study of intestinal bacteria, but I'm sure my shop talk wouldn't interest you."

I decided that the presence of the mice was a test I needed to pass. The rustle of their delicious pink toes on the sawdust floors of their cages, imperceptible to ordinary ears, beat on my heightened auditory senses like the clapper in an iron bell. To drown it out, I forced myself to answer, "But of course I'm interested. Do tell me all about it."

I looked at him with desperate attention. He was glad to oblige, and his voice did help to quell my trepidation. I understood little of what he said, but that he was unaware of my abstraction was apparent to me; I am afraid it gave me a false sense of confidence. I now know that men discussing projects dear to their hearts invariably assume their audiences share their interests. It is a pity I was not wiser in those days, for when his discourse finally ended I believed that I had regained my self-control. However, I did not intend to overtax my recuperative powers. I needed to leave the cellar and breathe fresh air. Thanking Julian for his informative discussion, I begged pardon for interrupting him.

"I'll let you go back to your work," I finished gracefully.

As it happens, he was eager to return to his microscope. I had seen him casting wistful glances at it as he spoke, so, though he made a polite denial, he was not averse to my going. I hurried out of the cellar like Odysseus fleeing the sirens, though I had not, unfortunately, wax stoppers in my nose. I rushed up the stairs, closing the cellar door and then the front door carefully behind me, erecting barriers between me and my base desires.

Standing on the porch, I drew breath after breath of clean air into my assaulted nostrils. Above me in the trees, a crowd of sparrows hopped restlessly from branch to branch, shrieking at each other in that unintelligible language they employ. Sparrows, I thought spitefully, are such stupid creatures. They exist only to be eaten! I was certainly not in the mood for their inane chatter and as I glared at them, my psyche, which had already been shaken so severely, received yet another jolt. An old but not treasured acquaintance—a squirrel—appeared.

I don't believe I have mentioned him; he is a nasty red little brute, who spends his days running up and down trees at tremendous speed and spitting nutshells down on one with disturbing accuracy. I used to be one of his favorite targets, and I never did get even with him. Miss Margaret had been very fond of him because, true to his shallow but acquisitive nature, he was exceptionally tame. He had always cadged food from Miss Margaret and, of course, he knew that I would never commit the indiscretion of chasing him in front of her. When we were alone, it was a different matter, but he was so fast on his feet and so agile at climbing that I could never catch him. Once or twice I had surprised him, but he always managed to elude me, flying up a tree and chortling at me from the hollow that contained his home. He was one of the few who had succeeded in infuriating me, and I longed to teach him a lesson he would not live to remember. I had never tasted squirrel. I imagined it might have a rather gamey flavor.

Well, while I was standing on the porch, my—friend emerged. Seeing me, I suppose he anticipated a meal; with his usual brashness, he danced out of his oak, leaped onto the railing, and dropped to the floor in front of me. He held his head in that calculatedly cunning manner he assumed for Miss Margaret's benefit; she had always termed him "cute." I decided to give him a little surprise. Imitating Miss Margaret's manner whenever she had food in her pocket, I knelt down and chirruped to him. Licking his plump chops, he began to hop toward me. As I continued to coo, my fingers tensed and all the old familiar hunting instincts primed my muscles. Closer and closer he came, blissfully unaware of my intentions. When he was within inches of my hand, I pounced. His startled squeak resounded through the garden, but before I had done more than feel his furry, pulsating body beneath my palm, he recovered himself and, wriggling through my fingers, he darted away. This time, I did not mean to let him go. I hurried after him, running clumsily on all fours, while above me those irritating sparrows all screamed at once! It was not until I fell over the garden hose that I came to my senses. Oh, I was so chagrined. I felt terrible. I, who had survived—who had, indeed, achieved a minor victory—in the cellar, had succumbed to ignominious temptation in the form of that satanic squirrel!

He, meanwhile, had clambered to safety on a high branch, where he lay quite limply, having obviously sustained a severe mental shock. I heard his breathy moans, but his discomfort brought me no elation. I got to my feet and in brushing down my dress, I found my palms scratched and bleeding. This minor discomfort was nothing compared to my sense of defeat. In spite of all my work, my painstaking struggle to achieve human identity had been thwarted by the combination of mouse and squirrel—my bestial nature had triumphed!

Yet another fear tormented me. Had I been observed? I cast a furtive glance over my shoulder at the house; to my relief, the shades in dining room, hall, and parlor were drawn against the sun, a summer ritual of Miss Margaret's still maintained by Betsy and Mrs. Mason. My late foster mother had inadvertently shielded me, but I derived little comfort from that. I prayed that her shade had not witnessed my delinquency. Bitterly reproaching myself, I rubbed my stained, stinging hands against my dress and wandered into the lane, barely aware of my surroundings.

I do not know how long I walked; I was too intent on my gloomy reflections. If Julian had seen me, what could I have told him? That nasty, horrid, ugly little beast of a squirrel! But I knew that I had no right to heap calumny on his head. The fault was mine—mine alone. I felt spiritually lacerated, the more so because, as I have mentioned, my self-confidence is inherently all-pervading. Now—not only did I have to wrestle with the problem confronting me—but with the problem of having such a problem. My thoughts were becoming more hopelessly entwined than the spools of yarn that I, in my boisterous childhood, had delighted in tangling, but any move that I might have made in the direction of clarity was abruptly halted as a sharp voice commanded, "Watch where you're going, my dear!"

Startled, I glanced up to see a woman standing directly in my path. I had nearly walked into her! Odd that I had not sensed her presence. That fact did not depress me; perhaps I was becoming more human than I had thought.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you," I apologized, noting drearily that her abundant and rather frowsy hair was squirrel red. She, too, was thin, spry, and slightly built; she fastened alert hazel eyes on me, and with a frankly curious stare she said, "You must be Julian Brewster's house-guest."

"Yes, I am," I said defensively, expecting the usual disapproval.

She only smiled. "I'm Minnie Troy," she extended a thin brown hand. "Pleased to meet you, Miss—Ophelia. Isn't that what they call you?"

"Yes, that's what they call me," I answered, adding bitterly to myself, "Ophelia, the cat."

"My goodness—whatever did you do to your poor hands?" she exclaimed. "They're all scratched up!"

Looking guiltily at them, I thrust them behind my back. "I—uh—fell," I said, lamely.

"Dearie me, let me give you a little first aid," she said. "I've got a nice soothing ointment in my purse. Always carry it around for emergencies." Opening an immense bulky leather pocketbook, she thrust in an exploring hand, and a second later triumphantly produced a small white tube, the contents of which she insisted on squeezing into my palms. It felt good and it did take away the soreness. I remarked on its quick action and she seemed pleased.

"It's something I concocted myself. I'm by way of being a bit of a chemist—not in Mr. Brewster's league, of course. Small things."

As she talked, I had been looking around me and I realized that I had completely lost sight of my house. "Gracious!" I exclaimed. "How'd I get here?"

'That's what everybody's been wondering," she returned.

"I didn't mean that. I meant—here. Where am I? I—I think I'm lost."

"Oh?" she laughed. "If you're looking for Brewster's place, it's not far. You just go that way—and when you reach an old lightning-struck oak lying on its side, take a right. You'll be back in home territory."

I stared past her pointing finger. "Did I come that way?"

"Goodness," she ejaculated, "don't tell me you've forgotten!"

"I—I wasn't looking… I was… thinking," I broke off, feeling stupid.

She laughed again and patted me on the shoulder. "Don't worry, my dear. Everyone's entitled to lose his way once in a while. Now—if you go along that path, I promise you'll be heading in just the right direction." She glanced at a small watch which she wore round her neck. "Goodness, is it that late? I have to be getting on home to give my poor animals some breakfast. Goodbye, Miss Ophelia, I've been hoping I'd meet you. Want you to come visit me one of these days."

"Thank you," I said, "I should be delighted." I meant it, for she had been kind, far kinder than any other woman I had met, with the exception of Miss Margaret.

Yet, a few minutes later, I questioned her benevolence for it seemed to me that I was wandering farther and farther afield. When I turned right at the fallen oak and came upon the tall, narrow gray house with the slate roof and staring windows, I was completely confused.

Then terror walked out of its slim white door in the person of Mr. Dillon! "You!" he exclaimed, running toward me.

I wanted to flee, but I knew I must face him. Chance had deposited me at his door; destiny required me to remain. The hiss that had risen to my lips was swallowed, and I managed to say, almost calmly, "Mr. Dillon, you startled me!"

"And you have certainly startled me," he replied. "Whatever brought you here?"

"Minnie Troy," I thought angrily, wondering if she had misdirected me on purpose or if she had acted out of a similar confusion.

"What are you doing here, Miss Ophelia?" he repeated. "Did you run away from Julian?" His voice was tinged with amusement and something else which I could not define, but his eyes were hard and singularly intense.

"Run away?… Why should I want to do that?"

"No reason," he answered. "I was only teasing." Again his tone quivered with undefinable nuances, but I made no attempt to decipher them.

"I was just taking a walk," I explained, "and I lost my way. Perhaps you could direct me. I'd like to be getting back."

"I don't think you'd better try walking home; it's too far and these woods are very confusing. It's fortunate that you came here. Won't you come in and have some tea with me? I haven't had my morning cup yet."

I was compelled to reply that I should be pleased. He took my arm, but this was too much for me. Involuntarily, I backed away. He seemed chagrined but managed a reassuring smile, "I hope you're not really afraid of me?"

"Afraid?" I countered. "I've told you before that I wasn't."

"There is no reason to be, my dear. I'm the most harmless of men. And certainly you, above all others, my dear Miss Ophelia, would never have anything to fear from me. I am quite determined that we must be the greatest of friends."

"I hope so," I answered, a sinking feeling possessing me as I saw that we had come to his threshold; though he made no attempt to touch me again, the very act of walking into his house filled me with a host of unpleasant sensations. I did not want to set foot in that cool, dark hall, but as I hesitated I heard Miss Margaret's whispering, "Now, Ophelia. The time is at hand!"

An early Christian martyr confronting lions could have felt no more terrified than I, as I stepped over that sinister portal; I very nearly screamed as the closing door neatly severed all the sunshine.

"Trapped," I commented inwardly.

"No," whispered my ghostly mentor, "you're not."

Mr. Dillon escorted me into his parlor, a large room with an old stone fireplace, furnished with pieces similar to those in my house. Having heard Miss Margaret describe them to admiring acquaintances, I made the proper identifications, hastily attributing my knowledge to conversations with Julian.

"You've assimilated it very well," he said approvingly. "You must admire early American craftsmanship."

"Very much," I said, looking at a beautifully inlaid desk, "but this is not early American, is it?"

He shook his head. "You're very discerning. I like that. No, this desk came over on the Mayflower. Our family was among the early settlers of Plymouth." A gleam of pride shone in his eyes.

I longed to answer, "So were mine." My mother maintained that an ancestor traveled in that crowded ship, being brought along to subdue the rats. She had not been particularly effective at this pursuit; her severe sufferings at sea are, I think, one of the causes of my antipathy to water. However, I could scarcely boast of this intrepid feline or her subsequent success in populating the colonies, so I contented myself with an admiring smile and an absolutely inspired question, "Julian tells me that a lot of fine pewter came over on the Mayflower. Do you have any yourself?"

Mr. Dillon's eyes sparkled, "Pewter? Are you interested in pewter, Miss Ophelia?"

"I like what I've seen. Julian inherited some nice pieces."

"A few," said Mr. Dillon unabashed, "but if you're fond of pewter, you've come to the right house. Let me take you into my dining room and show you—my collection!"

"A collection?" I breathed. "You have a collection? Oh, do show me."

His dining room was large; at each corner stood an oval alcove fitted with shelves that were loaded with pewter. More pewter was set on the mantelshelf and on a long mirrored sideboard. Though there was an eye-dazzling array of candle-holders, pitchers, jugs, mugs, plates, and platters, I had no difficulty in finding Miss Margaret's tea service; it stood by itself on the center of the sideboard, polished bright as silver. I fairly flew to it.

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Oh!"

"I knew you'd appreciate this," he said, delighted by what he must have believed to be a fellow collector's fanaticism. "It's one of the finest sets of its kind—made by a master craftsman in the early seventeenth century, and signed. See." He turned over the sugar bowl and showed me the marking which I knew better than he did. "It's practically priceless," he said.

He was wrong. It had a price. Eight lives.

I very nearly purred over it, but, valiantly restraining myself, I merely commented on its graceful lines.

"There's rather an amusing story connected with it," he told me. "One of these days I'll explain how I came to possess it." The sly triumph in his tones made me long to scratch him.

I replied, "Really; why can't you tell me now?"

He shook his head. "I think I'll save it for another time. We'll have many more—conversations, I'm sure, Miss Ophelia." He insisted on, showing me other prizes in his collection, and though I longed to remain at the side of my treasure, dutifully I walked back into the living room with him.

"Will you have tea now?" he said as we sat down.

"I've just finished breakfast," I said.

He frowned. "You're taking your breakfast rather late, too."

"I had a—restless night," I told him.

I did not understand why my remark should have infuriated him. "Did you?" he growled. "Bad dreams?"

"I don't remember any dreams. It was a warm night."

"Oh," he said, then added earnestly, "Ophelia, if—you need any help… tell me."

"Help—from you, Mr. Dillon?"

"Does it seem strange that I should want to help you?" Again he appeared to mean more than he said, and to expect that I understood. Perplexed, I asked, "In a—legal way?"

"Do you need legal advice?"

He had moved too close to me again and I was very uncomfortable. He kept touching my hand or my arm; each time I felt the pressure of his fingers, I remembered the well—seeing it yawn beneath me, feeling his cruel grasp at the back of my neck. "Answer me, Ophelia." I stared at him silently, loathing him. Perhaps he sensed my hostility, for in rather an uncertain voice he inquired, "What—what's on your mind?"

"I could never tell you," I answered truthfully enough.

"You can trust me, Miss Ophelia. Julian and I are old friends—and he is my client—but I'd still never betray your confidence."

"I'll remember that," I assured him.

"Please do!"

Suddenly, he began to pace back and forth; then he whirled on me, "Ophelia, who are you?" His abrupt question had an intensity that startled me, but I recovered immediately.

"But you know my trouble?" I told him.

He stared down at me. "I know—but I wonder if you're telling me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth!" He took a large leather-bound book from the desk. "Do you solemnly swear it?"

Before I could answer, he laughed and put the book away. "Of course, I'm only teasing you," he said. "I put my legal robes and role aside when I'm home. I like to—relax—when I'm home, so I shan't cross-examine you any further. If you are playing your own little game, go on. You have my permission."

If I found his "teasing" unsettling, I did not mean to let him know it. I sighed, "Oh, Mr. Dillon, if only that were true. If only I could remember. You cannot imagine what a trial it is to me—to know nothing, nothing at all. It's terrible." I edged my words with despair, and attained my desired effect.

Much moved, he responded, "There must be some way I can help you, Ophelia… Ophelia… Ophelia… why are you called… Ophelia?"

It was not a time for honesty. I murmured, "It… it seems to be my name, I think." Pushing back my hair wearily, I sighed, "Oh, dear, I shouldn't have taken such a very long walk. I'm really exhausted. Would you be kind enough to telephone Julian—so he can come for me."

"I'll take you…" He snapped his fingers in irritation, "No—my car's in the shop. It won't be delivered until after lunch. Must you leave so soon?"

"Yes, please. I'm dreadfully tired. I want to go right to bed."

I could not understand why this innocuous observation made him turn purple. He looked away quickly. "Yes, that—that's wise. Bed is the place for you… when… when you're tired."

Nodding, I leaned my head back against the sofa and let my eyelids droop. He stared at me for another second, then, with a long sigh, he telephoned, slamming the receiver down noisily.

"Busy," he snarled. It really was a snarl. He tried again several times and finally succeeded in reaching Julian. "Hello," he said angrily; then, with an effort, he managed a pleasant tone, "It's Dan… Lost?… No, that's why I called you… she's here… took a wrong turn in the woods… You'll have to ask her that, Julian… No, I shan't let her stir a step—not that she has any intention of doing so—she asked me to call you, after all. Goodbye."

He slammed the receiver down again. Turning toward me, he said sarcastically, "Your—uh—benefactor was worried. Frantic!"

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry," I said, meaning it. He dismissed Julian with a wave of his hand, "That's what he gets for being so damned careless. If you were… with me, I… I'd never let you out of my sight." There was no mistaking his throbbing sincerity. Once more, I felt uncomfortable, and unable to think of a satisfactory response. He saved me the trouble, "You haven't had your tea, yet."

"Please don't bother about it," I begged.

"It's no bother. You'll find I make very good tea… brewed to perfection, if I do say so myself. I have it every morning and I'm hard to please."

"No cook—or housekeeper?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Just someone to do the heavy work. I never have—at least I never used to like the idea of a woman living here full time; I… I'll get you that tea."

I had the distinct impression he had meant to say more than he had, but I did not waste my time wondering about it. The pewter occupied my thoughts. I tried to calculate how long it would take for him to prepare his "perfect" tea. Would I have time to sneak into the dining room, snatch the pewter set, and… no, I would have to be more subtle than that. If theft were my answer, I must have no apparent connection with it. My crime needed careful planning. I was pleased that he lived alone. As I considered various possibilities, Mr. Dillon returned with a large tray on which he had set two china mugs and a steaming kettle.

Though it is difficult for me to compliment Mr. Dillon, it is only fair to acknowledge that the tea was excellent. I sipped it slowly, and as I savored its aroma I dreamily saw myself, mask and cap donned, climbing stealthily into one of my host's upper windows. I would be, I reminded myself gleefully, a cat-burglar.

Mr. Dillon misunderstood my smile. "I can see you like my tea," he said, gratified.

"It's lovely."

"You must come to dinner sometime; I'm a good cook, too."

Dinner! If he invited me to dinner, I could hide a pistol or club in my purse, and at the appropriate moment… I wondered which would be more effective. I favored the club, which I would bring crashing down on Mr. Dillon's head.

"Would you like to come to dinner, Ophelia?" he asked.

"Perhaps I would," I said, wondering if I could break his head with one blow or two?

"When?"

A loud knock at the front door saved me from committing myself. It was followed by another and yet another. Mr. Dillon hurried to. the door. "My dear Julian," he protested as he opened it, "no need to break it down."

Julian ignored him. Hurrying into the parlor, he stood over me angrily. Words literally spewed from him: "What in hell possessed you to wander off in those woods by yourself?" he demanded. "Don't you realize that you're still in danger?"

"In danger?" I repeated.

"In danger!" he exclaimed. "We don't know anything about you—how or why you were put in the well. Your assailant might still be lurking around here!"

I took refuge in a meek, "I'm sorry, Julian, I—I didn't think."

"It's not Ophelia's fault, Julian," interposed Mr. Dillon.

"I've told her often enough that…" began Julian.

"Do you remember what I told you?" interrupted Mr. Dillon. "Do you remember that I warned you she needed professional supervision. She's had a severe shock, you know. I'm not, of course, implying that she has any mental trouble—but she's still inclined to be dreamy and absent-minded. In short, she needs the sort of care that you can't give her, Julian, and that's what I told you two weeks ago!"

Panic surged through me. The conversation was being guided down dangerous paths. Hotly, I defended Julian. "He's been very careful. This morning he wanted me to stay with him in his laboratory, but I—I couldn't—the… the odors." I felt my face burn even though my excuse was logical enough.

Julian gave me a grateful smile. "It was my first real session in the lab since Ophelia arrived," he said defensively.

"Will it be your last?" inquired Mr. Dillon.

"I shan't wander away again," I told them. "I've learned my lesson."

"And she's a fast learner, Dan, I assure you."

Inexplicably, Mr. Dillon frowned, but before he could speak, I interpolated, "I didn't meet any dangerous people, after all. Only Mr. Dillon—and certainly he's not dangerous." I managed to utter this outrageous falsehood with a straight face.

Mr. Dillon's good humor returned. "No," he said complacently, "I'm not dangerous, but…"

"He wears sheep's clothing in the summer," laughed Julian; "it's cooler."

Mr. Dillon ignored him. "As I was saying, Ophelia, I'm not dangerous, but it was a risk. I'd feel dreadful if anything ever happened to you."

It was evident, even to my prejudiced eyes, that Mr. Dillon liked me. I should have been pleased at my conquest but, as usual, his continued proximity was becoming very wearing.

Meanwhile Julian was saying, "Yes, it would be dreadful if anything more happened to poor Ophelia, but I'll take extra care it doesn't—even if it means making her my lab assistant."

It took all my willpower to restrain my shudder. Spending all day near those mice would be an agony too fearful to contemplate.

Mr. Dillon may have sensed my distress. "I don't think Ophelia would relish that, Julian. And in my estimation, it would be a dreadful waste—all those charms kept in a cellar, hidden from view."

"She wouldn't be hidden from my view," returned Julian.

"Finders-keepers, eh?" snarled Mr. Dillon.

The tension I had noticed once before had risen between them again. As before, I dispelled it. "Julian," I moaned, "I am so tired all of a sudden. Can't we go home?"

My plaint brought them both to my side. I achieved a pale, wan smile which, I hoped, emphasized my exhaustion. Julian's comforting arm went around my shoulders and met Mr. Dillon's, across from him. They looked at each other and both emitted harsh unmusical sounds which passed, I think, for laughter. Mr. Dillon withdrew his arm. "Take her home, Julian," he said superfluously.

"I mean to," replied Julian coldly.

"Now, please, Julian," I sighed.

"Be nice to Daniel," prodded Miss Margaret's windborne whisper.

"Daniel?" "Mr. Dillon!" Reluctantly, I produced a slow smile for Mr. Dillon, coupling it with a look that Julian and other gentlemen term "sphinxlike." "Thank you for your— hospitality," I murmured to him.

That ugly red flush stained his cheeks. "You've no need to thank me, Ophelia. I'm glad I could help you. And though Julian promises to prevent it, I hope—if you're ever lost again, I'll be the one to find you."

"Agree with him," said Miss Margaret.

"No!" I told her.

"Agree with him," she commanded.

"I hope so, too," I told him, hating myself, especially when I saw Julian's eyes.

"Are you ready, Ophelia?" he asked, with a return to the impersonal coldness I abhorred.

I nodded and followed him dolefully out to the car. Julian started the motor and we sped off while Mr. Dillon was still bidding me farewell.

As we whirled away, I pondered on Miss Margaret's spiritual instructions. Why had she insisted I flirt so shamelessly with Mr. Dillon? Angrily I questioned that elusive specter, but received no response. Not one comforting whisper consoled me. I could not see how I had helped myself by encouraging my enemy to that extent. I knew the pewter was in his possession; I had even ensured a dinner invitation which might help me to canvas his house more thoroughly, ascertaining what windows would afford me entry. All my extra effort had accomplished had been the estrangement of Julian.

As it happens, Miss Margaret's counsel had been clever. I had made an impression on Mr. Dillon that served me better than the most carefully conscious plotting and planning. Categorically, its effect on Mr. Dillon was cataclysmic. (I am beginning to like words with "cat" in them.) For illustration of my contention, I submit the following excerpts from Mr. Dillon's diary:

 

Wednesday, June 6

Called at Julian's. Saw her again. Spoke with her. God in heaven, even more beautiful than remembered. Could scarcely take eyes off her. Damn Julian. Stubborn fool... Situation with Nirvana people plain; white slavers. Would have put whole nefarious crew in jail, but Julian too soft-hearted… Beautiful. God, she is beautiful. At first, I felt her unfriendly toward me—the way she stared at me, so silently, but later changed my mind. There is a message in her eyes for me—me alone. Curious business about tea, too. Sensed what I like. That proves affinity. God, she is beautiful. Can't get her face out of my mind. Hated to leave but feelings had mounted to such fever pitch, was necessary, might have had—unfortunate accident. Control slipping to alarming degree.* Wanted to touch her. Why did Julian have to be there? It was me she wanted. Still have odd feeling have met her before. Other life? Bosh. Reincarnation; myth. Only one life. Convinced of that. Yet, cannot help feeling destiny brought us together again. Destiny? Am I raving? Another myth! Am not given to such romanticizing. Eyes, eyes, eyes. Strange how cannot get eyes out of my mind. What latent memory do they stir? Must see her again—without Julian, damn it! How do I arrange it? Julian unfriendly.

* Obscure. (0)

 

Later:

As read over paragraph am aghast. Have struck last reference to Julian. Unprofessional to exhibit such antipathy to client—to friend. Must remember we are friends. Old friends. Many years standing! Friends! Julian has impeccable character, no matter what is said in village. Ugly gossip mere conjecture… Where there's smoke… ? Is she still a virgin?… Nonsense; when have I paid heed to village idiocy? Must go back to bed. Tired. Will think about situation in morning. Morning always brings fresh perspective.

 

Later:

Have heard clock strike every hour. Cannot sleep. Tried counting sheep, could not see sheep—saw her instead, leaping over fences, leaping toward me. What sort of relationship does she have with Julian? Has he taken advantage of her? Possessed her? Robbed her of her virginity? Blast our modern laxity! Has no right to detain her in house. She looked at me so pleadingly.* Begging me for help, no doubt of it. Must rescue her. Must take her away. Will not rest until have accomplished task. Quest! Better take pill. Need sleep.

* Pure imagination. (0)

 

Thursday, June 7

Another sleepless night faces me? Had devil of time working today. Could not concentrate on what old Mrs. Rigsby was telling me about her damned daughter-in-law's argument with the insurance company. Who cares what the silly bitch does? How in hell did Rigsby Jr. come to marry her? Ankles like telephone poles, face like cow. Eyes like green pools in the forest, hair as golden as a sunbeam, a pale sunbeam. Love her paleness. Skin so white. Must see her again.*

* I think I am hot wrong in assuming he means me—not Mrs. Rigsby's daughter-in-law—good illustration of man's confused mind. (0)

 

Later:

Fitful slumber, thought I saw her eyes, luminous in the dark. Reached out to touch her—was dial of clock. Flung clock across room, shattering it. Must remember to buy new one. Do not understand myself. Must see her again. Can't arouse his suspicions. Friend. Ha! Why worry about Julian? Do I need him? Do I need friendship or business? Have enough work without him. Lord, Lord, Lord, the thought of her in his house, in his arms, in his bed.* What can I do? How can I rescue her?

 *This continued emphasis on bed! (0)

 

Friday, June 8

She has been here! She has been here in my house. Can scarcely believe it. Miracle. Found her just outside door. Explained had lost way. Very ill at ease. Our meeting seemed to shock her into repetition of original reaction. Fortunately, succeeded in calming her. Persuaded her—with some difficulty—to enter house. As walked in, fastened remarkable eyes on me. There was unfathomable enigmatic expression in them. What does she think? What does she think—of me? Her nervousness returned as I closed door. Wonder why. Her memory is gone. Then why does she fear to enter the house of a man? Her fear must arise from new memories—new experiences—with what? With men? With Julian? What has he done to her? No—not feasible. She likes him.

Most welcome experience having her here in house. Had opportunity to observe her closely, once more. How can I describe her to my own satisfaction? Remains elusive—like creature from another world. Why? Is it her walk? Is it that low husky note that occasionally creeps into her voice? Her eyes? How compelling they are! I feel she wants something from me. What?*

Once over timidity, she became fascinated with house. Wandered from room to room downstairs. I made surprising discovery; interested in Early American furniture, quite knowledgeable. Also admired pewter collection. Had no difficulty in ascertaining that Brewster service one of most valuable acquisitions. Touched it with caressing motion. Touched it as I should like to touch her. There—have said it. Have admitted it to myself, at last. Had always been amused by romantics who claimed love—or attraction, since don't believe in love—can drive a man mad!** Damn, damn, damn, believe they are right. How I enjoy watching her move. She has a sinuous grace that sets her apart—beside her, all other women are clumsy.*** I know that if I were to possess her, it would be the ultimate experience.**** This afternoon, I was in hell—what an effort it cost me to be polite and cool—and to call Julian. I could scarcely make myself pick up the telephone ... and then I had to explain that Ophelia… Ophelia… Ophelia was with me. Lousy pens they make these days—no pride in craftsmanship***** Hate ballpoint pens, fragile, breakable. Why am I writing at this hour? Must rest. Will rest—will sleep—will—merely a matter of self-control.

* What could he think I wanted? (0)

** There—I knew it, what could he know of love? (0)

*** At least he has a certain good taste. (0)

****But not for me. (0)

***** Hole in paper, here. (0)

 

Julian was very uncommunicative on our ride home, which proved to be longer than I had anticipated.

"I must have walked further than I thought," I said.

He gave me a side glance and observed in a grim tone, "You covered quite a bit of territory."

Innocent as I was, I felt guilty. I feared he might suspect I had sought Mr. Dillon on purpose and was about to mention my encounter with Minnie Troy, when his car turned in my driveway and stopped with a jerk near the house. Julian escorted me inside.

"You've had a taxing morning," he said coldly. "I expect you'll want to go up and rest." He turned away from me.

I felt rejected, but with the indifference I have always carefully cultivated, I replied, "Thank you, Julian, I am tired. If you don't object, I think I'll spend the rest of the day in bed." (Actually, I feared to tempt fate any further.)

"As you please," said Julian.

I ran upstairs without another look at him. Once I had settled myself in bed, I made one more plea to Miss Margaret's stubborn specter. "Why?" I demanded. "Please, why?" No answer came.

I was preparing to doze when suddenly the telephone rang and rang again. I heard Julian's voice in the hall.

"Hello—Dan!"

Dan? What did he want? Slipping from my bed, I walked softly into the hall and crouched at the banisters, trying to glean as much as I could from Julian's side of the conversation.

"Yes," he was saying, "she's all right, thank you… We agreed I was careless… speak to her? No!" He paused; I could hear his fingers beating an angry rat-a-tat-tat on the table top… "I didn't mean to be abrupt… you can't speak to her now because she's sleeping… She—uh—dozed off in the car… had to carry her inside… her health's still uncertain, you know. Yes, appearances are deceptive… Dinner? I'm sorry, Dan, she's not up to that, yet… Shall I give her a message? As you choose, then… Goodbye."

He slammed down the receiver with a crash that would have waked me, I am sure, if I had been sleeping. I hurried back to my room. I was most surprised. Why had Julian, who shared with Miss Margaret a stern New England conscience, lied? However, I did not dwell on that aspect of the conversation—I was more concerned with what Mr. Dillon had said. He had invited me to dinner, there was my opportunity—but Julian had refused. I thought of secretly telephoning him, myself; then I remembered that the telephone was a device I had not yet mastered. With a frustrated snarl, I crawled back into bed.

(Note: insert from Mr. Dillon's diary, follows.)

 

Later:

Why can't I sleep? This afternoon's experience keeps recurring; in my mind's eye I watch her enter, then I follow her from room to room, watching her every move. God, it was so damned difficult for me to let Julian take her away from me—wanted to knock him down—wanted to… but instead, had to watch while he escorted her out of my house—watch and smile "like a little gentleman" as Mama would have said. The house felt desolate without her. Christ, she was here such a brief time* and I feel my life has changed. Must see her again. How? Damn Julian, why did he refuse to let her come to dinner? His tone vibrated with suspicion on the telephone. Is he jealous? Why, God damn it, why? What is she to him? He would have me believe—nothing. But I don't trust him. What happens when they are together? Together in the long hours of the night. Disgusting!

Two centuries ago, the city fathers would have had him flogged in the public square. I might have delivered the lashing myself. What satisfaction it would have been to see him on pillory, my leather whip biting into his narrow white back, turning it scarlet. I'd have whipped him until he screamed for mercy—until his skin hung in shreds. I would castrate him! Yet, when he came to my house, I could do nothing except mutter idiotic pleasantries, the while I felt the whip handle in my grasp.

I am sure she has very little real feeling for him. He is a convenience to her. Her eyes are cold, remote, indifferent, yet her movements are so sensuous. How can I describe them? She seems to fold herself against him, to nestle, to cling, but yet she barely touches him. God, God, God, I will go mad!

* Brief—it seemed a hundred years to me. (0)

 

Later:

Who am I? My name is Daniel Theobald Dillon, III. Specialize in civil cases. Finest families in community retain me… Am sure to be judge in due time. Am thirty-seven years old… never married. Keep reason for that in mind. Have never loved any woman. Women have one function for me—biological. Have never had any lasting affection—be frank, have never had any affection at all for them. Change women as regularly as change linen—almost. Discovered long ago fidelity palls. Don't wish to have women meddling in private life. Too much to say for themselves. Would try and change habits (mine).

Have always been satisfied with the status quo. Not fond of children. Brother Andrew has three—enough to propagate line. Do not wish marriage. Am happy as bachelor, very happy. Variety—spice of life. There—that is my credo. Must remember it. Must remember how comfortable I am, how satisfactory is present way of life. Would be miserable if changed. Know myself. Know that I must—see her again. Have almost irresistible urge to break into Julian's house—take her. Where can she sleep? Saw her first in Miss Margaret's old room. Is she still there? Not bloody likely! Sleeps with him, no doubt, wherever that bastard beds. What man could keep her under his roof and not take full advantage of opportunity. Poor child! I can see her with him—I can see him running his hands over… God, I can't stand it! No wonder she seems languid and sleepy most of the time. Her nights must be…* Poor thing! I wonder how many times he …** It isn't legal. Must look up Mann Act Statute; must be police matter. God damn that son of a bitch to hell, he's tearing her apart!

* Apologize for unfinished sentences, but reproduced faithfully from original text. (0)

** Most annoying—but again, fault of text. (0)

 

Later:

My name is Daniel Theobald Dillon, III. Am thirty-eight and successful lawyer; father was successful lawyer, grandfather judge, ancestor presiding judge in witch trials. Unstained reputations. I have brought new wealth into firm. Am Daniel T. Dillon, III. Successful lawyer. Must be detached. Will interrogate self.

 

Q: Witness is man of property, respected in community, I understand?

A: True, your honor.

Q: Hardly type of individual to lose head?

A: True, your honor.

Q: Can obtain satisfaction—release—from any number of women?

A: Any number.

Q: Why does witness find himself so fascinated by this woman, Ophelia?

A: Because she is—is—is beguiling… fascinating. Because… Damn, I'm losing my mind. Why indulge in childish fantasy? Why can't I sleep? Ifs nearly five in the morning. Five in the morning and haven't closed eyes all night! Can't rest in this bed now—Christ, am I a schoolboy? I shouldn't have thought about the way she moved her… posterior portion* My name is Daniel T. Dillon, III. Successful lawyer, eventual judge, even senator or President. Daniel T. Dillon. She has a pretty little behind. Fingers itch to feel it.

God damn it, why fight it? When, where, and how will I lay her? God almighty, these sentiments are unworthy of education and heritage. Graduate Harvard Law School. Scion of fine Massachusetts family. Signer of Declaration of Independence in Tree.** Must conquer unreasonable appetite. Who is this woman? A waif? A stray—found naked in a well. Naked, naked, naked!!! I see her lying naked in his bed. Must have her. Must, must, must!!! Brain too weary to devise way. Must sleep. Will change sheets—try again.

* With my muscular control, who needs a tail? (0)

** Tree? (0)

 

If I had known the discomfort I had caused Mr. Dillon, I should have been much happier in my self-imposed exile upstairs that long weary day, but I knew nothing; consequently, each hour seemed to last forever. The book I had taken to beguile me palled. Sleep eluded me. Late at night, I was still bored and restless. Finally, I got out of bed again and settled myself on the window seat, hoping that the moonlight would soothe me. As an owl winged noiselessly down from the tall oak tree, I wished that it would find and devour the squirrel. Again, I was reminded that I must feel grateful to my nemesis; the episode had pointed up the ever-present danger of regression. But, as Julian had told Mr. Dillon, I was a fast learner. Surely my ambivalence would end? Like an answer to my unuttered question, a throbbing, wailing cry rent the air.

Unthinkingly, I thrust open the window, leaning out eagerly, waiting, yearning to hear that sound again! It was repeated and its music charmed me, thrilled me, invited me to join the song and dance. Impelled by instincts I could not define, I slithered forward on the sill, my answer rumbling in my throat. Yet, before it escaped my lips, I shut them, clamping my teeth together, turning my barely articulated response into a cough. I dared not heed that—midnight invitation. It was forbidden, just as it had been on the days and nights Miss Margaret had locked me on the upper porch, where I had writhed in an agony I barely understood.

My knee hurt me. Looking down, I saw that I had driven my long nails into my flesh. I gazed at my hands—had they been paws, I might have leaped into that moon-drenched garden. I should have landed near the laden magnolia tree, I should have plunged into the dewy grasses, climbed the old white fence, and then, face to face, heart to heart with the tempter, contemplating his sleek… My dream vanished; horrified, I slammed my window shut against the blandishments of that roving tom, and, flinging myself face downward on my bed, I crushed the pillows against my ears.

Sleep, full of chaotic dreams, brought me little refreshment. I woke with a real headache and in a vile mood. Standing at my window to watch the sky turn golden with new sunshine, I resorted to an old habit and willfully ran my nails down the voile curtains, the resulting damage being more extensive than anything I had previously achieved. I contemplated it with an obscure satisfaction until a cough distracted me. Looking down, I saw Julian walking in the garden. I started to call to him, but remembered that our previous parting had been rather strained. My faultless feminine instinct warned me that I must look my very best when he saw me again. Accordingly, I hurried to draw my bath, and, searching through my new clothes, found a dress he had praised particularly in the store.

I decided to wait and greet him at breakfast; I had already learned that men are in their best humor when they are eating. However, when I came into the breakfast room, only an empty cup hinted at Julian's presence. Betsy, who was in the act of removing it, said, "He's in his laboratory, Miss. My, he certainly is busy, I guess."

I concealed my disappointment. "I imagine he must be."

She started out, then paused. "Oh, Miss, he said to remind you—you wasn't to go outside."

She stared at me with a goggling curiosity which I found as annoying as the admonition. I had given Julian my promise. Surely he knew me well enough to realize that I would keep my word. Or perhaps he did not feel he knew me that well; actually, how much of my true self had I revealed to him? Part of the chasm separating us would never be bridged and, indeed, how much did I know about him? What inaccessible worlds lay behind his eyes?

"Is anything the matter, Miss?" asked Betsy, hopefully.

At least her character was easy to read: her resentment of Julian had extended to me; it was evident in everything she said, in every grudging service she performed. Nor was Mrs. Mason difficult to understand; she, too, held me in aversion, but as I did not covet their good opinions, I was not troubled. I did not, however, want to give Betsy the satisfaction of seeing my uncertainty. I looked at her coldly. "Nothing's the matter, Betsy, but it's kind of you to inquire. Might I have breakfast now, please?"

"Yes, Miss," she said hastily, "right immediately." I suppose she thought that I did not see her grimace as she hurried out.

Alone I grew depressed again. All manner of morbid fancies plagued me. If, in establishing what Miss Margaret believed was a necessary rapport with Mr. Dillon, I had alienated Julian, what would be the outcome? In my ignorance of the world, I fell back on my extensive reading. Gloomily, I pictured myself, cast like Eve from Paradise, a lonely pensioner, a latter-day Jane Eyre, languishing in an O. Henry furnished hall-bedroom, eating a miserable Oliver Twist brand of porridge in the chill of Poe's bleak December.

Even more menacing was the thought of expulsion—expulsion from my house, which Julian could decree. Then, too, there would be separation from Julian. Suddenly, inexplicably, in my mind's ear, I heard the wail of that wandering tomcat and wondered why it should occur to me now—when I was thinking of Julian—thinking about him with more intense concentration than I had ever lavished on anyone save myself. Julian had nothing in common with a tomcat; he was a human being like Miss Margaret—no, not anything like Miss Margaret. I had been fond of her, in the friendly way that we are usually fond of human beings. Actually, until this moment, I had had much the same feeling for Julian—or so I had thought. Yet, I knew myself to be wrong. Could I—love him? The word had little real meaning for me. My mother used to tell us, "Dogs love; that is their weakness. We accept devotion graciously, and, if we are in the mood, return it affectionately, but we do not love—that is our strength." A misty image of Father flitted across my inner vision—his green predatory eyes, my mother's snarling, defensive, ready-to-be-dangerous attitude toward him. That is often what passed for love among us—and it was not the sentiment described in my novels. That had to do with chaste kisses, melting looks, deep breathing, and pounding hearts.

Julian's eyes were cool; he had never kissed me, though of course I had been kissed by the minister's children, who squeezed me breathless, too, with that savage passion so often displayed to us. As for me, the sensations I experienced with Julian were neither in my heart nor my lungs but further down and farther up—below my stomach and in my throat. Also I kept wanting to touch him—I had touched him, had been cared for and carried by him—but to rub myself against him, to bite his chin, these I had not done nor would such gestures, I suddenly realized, be any more adequate to express my confused and chaotic feelings than the ear-scratching or throat-stroking I used to enjoy would now please me. I did not know what I wanted from Julian… and Julian, what did he think about me?

He was kind, even-tempered, patient, pleasant, detached. Aside from his earlier annoyance with Mr. Dillon over the Brother Florian affair, he had showed little sign of temper until yesterday. Occasionally, I had seen a softened look in his eyes as he regarded me but coupled with that was the disheartening knowledge that he also observed me scientifically. Perhaps he had some fondness for the mice in his laboratory, too. Yet, if Mr. Dillon had dallied with a mouse, I do not think Julian would have resented it. He had resented Mr. Dillon's attentions to me and he had seemed to dislike my pretended encouragement of Mr. Dillon. Was it jealousy? It seemed so—but could I be sure? I had seen him every day for weeks, but how well did I know him?

I had never even been in his room. He stayed in the one that Miss Margaret's widowed father had occupied until his death. She never went in there and I had seen it only when Mrs. Mason put mothballs in the closets. I decided to go upstairs and look at it—perhaps it would speak to me about Julian. Rooms do speak of occupants—its voice had belonged to an old, dying man—now what would I hear?

I went up to the chamber, moving as softly and as stealthily as I had in the days when I had wanted to surprise a mouse or gopher. The door yielded to the pressure of my hand and I slipped inside. Again, I had to reorient myself from the world of knobby furniture legs, glass castors, tangled and frayed old extension cords. I had, of course, strolled on the dresser top, even during my infrequent visits, and remembered it as full of dim tintypes in heavy wooden frames. They had vanished. The massive, marble-topped highboy was innocent of pictures and yellowing lace scarf alike. Two neat ivory brushes, a squat round bottle, and a silver-framed photograph stood in their place. I looked at the picture—a dark-haired young woman smiled back at me. An inexplicable anger seized me, as I stared at her, until I noticed that she was regarding me with Julian's eyes—his mother, no doubt. Immediately, I forgave her for a fault I could not name.

The old brass bed was still unmade, its sheets twisted and the pillows doubled up, with little tendrils of feathers escaping from their ticks—evidence of a restless night? The night table, too, had been swept clean of scarf and gimcracks; on its shining polished surface lay an open book and more books peeped from the cabinet that had contained the porcelain commode. A new standing lamp had been placed near the bed. I opened the closet door—a few suits hung inside—clothes meant little to Julian. The obtrusive scent of mothballs, of medicine, of age, had gone; the air was flavored with the odor of mouthwash and cologne—he did not smoke. I liked it—it meant Julian. I liked the room. It had the faintly austere quality I had observed in Julian. But its inhabitant was still a cipher to me.

Life would have been less complicated if I could have claimed my inheritance—claimed it without displacing Julian. I drifted back into the hall and down the stairs, wandering through my rooms, looking around me with a proprietary eye. It was with a growing sense of disapproval that I realized there had been a number of changes in the positioning of chairs, tables, ornaments, etc. Angrily, I began to put them back in their accustomed spots; the procedure took longer than I had anticipated. It was over an hour before I had the room looking as it had under the reign of Miss Margaret. The exercise made me sleepy, and, curling up on the sofa, I fell into a deep refreshing slumber.

"Ophelia… Opheeeeeeeelia…" I heard the call in my dream. I was deep in a pleasant meadow, down among the new spring grass, chasing a butterfly. What did they want? I supposed Miss Margaret was worried about me.

"Kitty… kitty… kitty…" they called.

With a little snarl, I tried to drown out the sound. Let Miss Margaret wait! I would return to her in due time—but in my own time, as usual.

"Nice pussy… nice kitty…" They would not leave me alone. Damn Miss Margaret! I wanted the butterfly. It was such a large one; it had purple markings on its wings, and a fat succulent body. Butterflies are a cat's caviar.

"Puss… puss… pussssssss." The butterfly, almost at claw tip, inexplicably grew shiny and hard, changing into a Venetian glass vase on the coffee table beside me. My dream had ended, but I had woken with that annoying summons still echoing in my ears, "Ophelia… here, Ophelia… nice Ophelia… kitty… kitty, kitty!"

I sprang up with an angry mew that froze on my lips as I realized that the voice belonged to Betsy, who was in the upstairs hall. Casting a nervous glance downward, I was reassured as to my transformation, but wondered what could have aroused Betsy's hunting instincts once more. Would she never cease searching for her lost meal ticket?

"Ophelia," she entreated loudly, "where are you hiding, you naughty, naughty cat? I know you're here."

Suddenly, the kitchen door was flung open with such force that all the china in the dining room rattled. Mrs. Mason hurried out, clumping angrily up the stairs. "Are you at it again?" I heard her demand.

"Mrs. Mason," said Betsy solemnly, "that cat's still in the house!"

"In the house? Now look here—I'm good'n sick of your crazy notions! Get it through that dim brain once and for all—Ophelia's gone, damn that mean varmint's evil soul to hell."

From the retreating sound of her footsteps, I gathered she was about to return to her domain, but Betsy must have grabbed her arm for she grunted, "Here, now, lemme go!"

"Come'n look, Mrs. Mason, you gotta com'n look. I got proof she's here. Proof; you understand?"

"What sorta proof?"

"Curtains!"

"Curtains?"

"Ophelia's been up to her old tricks with the curtains. Come'n see."

Trembling, I sank down. Betsy had discovered my error. What would be the outcome? My entire fate seemed dangling from a torn curtain!

I heard Mrs. Mason's heavy tread veer in the direction of the bedroom. I slipped into the hall and crouched at the lowest stair, hardly breathing.

"Here!" I heard Betsy's triumphant announcement. "If that ain't our Ophelia's work, Mrs. Mason, what is?"

"Fancy that!" exclaimed Mrs. Mason. "Many's the time I've pulled her off… it's queer, mighty queer, but if she's here why don't she show herself? Opheeeeeelia… kitty, kitty, kitty."

"Puss, puss, puss," called Betsy, adding gleefully, "We'll have this house, yet, Mrs. Mason!"

"It's ours, by rights," agreed the cook. "If that damned cat hadn't…"

"Mrs. Mason," said Betsy, "she didn't… go anywhere, I mean. She's here in this house. I feel it. I got the sight, you know. I had me a Scotch grannie—an' she passed it on to me. We'll find her, Mrs. Mason."

I had heard enough. I rushed back to the sofa and huddled down into it, shuddering. Suddenly, I heard Miss Margaret's voice in my ear, saying in her cool precise manner, "Now don't be nonsensical, Ophelia. How could those two silly women ever guess the truth? Stand up to them; you'll see."

Her dry chuckle, and a ghostly prod in the region of my ribs, restored my equilibrium almost immediately. How could anyone guess the truth? How indeed? In this prosaic age, there is no margin for fantasy. Confidently, I returned to the hall and, standing on the lowest stair, I called sweetly, "Mrs. Mason."

There was a pause before she responded, panting heavily, "Yes, Miss?"

"Are you doing my room now?"

"Betsy is, Miss," she said in a reproving tone, "Betsy does the housework."

"Then will you tell Betsy that I'm so sorry about the curtain."

"The curtain, Miss?" repeated Mrs. Mason, walking to the head of the stairs and peering down at me.

"The c-c-curtain?" squeaked Betsy, over her shoulder.

"I'm afraid I tore it rather badly. I got it caught in the window, somehow, and I thought I could pull it free."

"It was you?" wailed Betsy.

"Yes, I'm awfully sorry. Do you suppose it can be mended?"

"Don't worry about it, Miss," groaned Mrs. Mason, "it don't matter. What's a curtain."

She walked heavily down the stairs, her large shoulders drooping, her expression dismal. I heard groans upstairs from the similarly affected Betsy. Another rattling slam of the door indicated that Mrs. Mason had returned to her kitchen.

The crisis was over! I was so relieved that I felt like dancing. I whirled round and round in the empty hall like a mechanical doll in a Japanese jewelbox and, as I spun, I laughed and laughed, thinking how wonderfully safe I would be in a world too old and too wise to believe in magic. Suddenly, two arms caught me—holding me tight! Startled, I looked up to find Julian.

"Why, Julian," I cried gaily, still laughing.

He released me quickly. "I was afraid you'd get dizzy," he apologized. "I—hope I didn't startle you—but I didn't want you to get dizzy."

"Thank you, I'm not at all dizzy," I said, wondering what he could have made of my antics.

"I've never seen you so… so…"

"Crazy?" I supplied, self-consciously.

"Exuberant, I should have said. Happy," he corrected. "You seemed happy to me." He looked at me very intently. Had I given him new scientific data for the report he was compiling? His next question seemed to justify my suspicions.

"Why are you so happy?" he inquired.

Perversely, I declined to satisfy his curiosity with one of my lengthy falsehoods. I shrugged. "Does there have to be a reason? I just am."

He smiled. "I'm glad to hear it. You must be feeling much better."

I felt a stab of alarm. Did he want to be rid of me? A recently acquired axiom occurred to me. I would be brave. I would "take the bull by the horns," as it were. "Am I well enough to leave you, Julian?" I inquired.

"Leave me?" he repeated incredulously. "Where would you go?"

I looked down. "I—don't know. But can I take advantage of your kindness much longer? I—am so ignorant, Julian. I have forgotten so—much, but it seems to me I cannot stay here forever."

It took considerable effort for me to express that particular sentiment, and, when I had done speaking, I felt that peculiar moisture in my eyes, once more. This time I had no difficulty in identifying it as tears.

"Ophelia," began Julian, "you mustn't think of leaving. You must…"

The telephone screamed. As its shrill demands reached me, I felt as if an infinitely delicate veil had been rent asunder! Panic seized me. I did not want Julian to touch that telephone. I wanted him to let it shriek itself into silence.

"Julian, don't answer it," I cried, but he had already cupped the receiver to his ear and I don't think he even heard my protest.

"Yes?" he inquired. "Oh, it's you." He frowned. I wished that I were closer to the telephone; I wanted to listen. Yet to have followed Julian would have seemed impertinent, so I remained where I was, straining to catch any illuminating shred of sound. I was unsuccessful. Julian always had a habit of pressing the receiver very close to his ear. The only clue to the conversation was a growing doubt and disbelief in his eyes. Little could be divined from his answers.

"You did? I didn't ask you… What has your reputation to do with it?… I see. I suppose I must be grateful for your interest… Today? Must it be today?… Wouldn't tomorrow do?… Together?… I see… Very well, I'll drive in. You're sure of this? Pictures?… It's damned difficult for me to believe… You've seen them?… No, I shan't… No, not until I've seen them for myself… Yes, I trust you, but…"

He gave me a peculiar glance. I felt positive that he was discussing me. His voice grew angry. "I'll not make any judgments, I tell you—it might still be false… Yes, I do prefer to believe it. I find it very difficult to… after all I, too, am a trained observer. Well, we shan't speak about it now. Yes—right here. Three o'clock, then. Yes, I'll start immediately. Yes, alone. I agree. It would be better. Thanks."

After he put the receiver down, he stared at it for a long moment. I did not like the quality of his silence. A pulse began to throb in my throat. It seemed to me that the entire room had darkened.

"Bad… news?" I asked.

"Bad news?" he repeated, without turning around. "I suppose," and he pivoted slowly to face me, "that must depend on how you look at it." His voice was chilly, his face devoid of expression.

"How you look at what?" I said nervously.

"Ophelia, are you…" he stopped, and then suddenly smiled at me strangely and repeated, "are you honest… are you fair?"

"Hamlet!" I identified swiftly.

"Hamlet?" he said—"How could you know, you who have forgotten everything?"

"But I—I have just finished reading Hamlet," I faltered, wondering if Julian had suddenly gone as mad as the melancholy Prince. But I did not read madness in his eyes—only distrust, and that expression vanished quickly, too, as he said with another odd smile, "But of course you have, my Ophelia. And there's nothing wrong with your present memory—only with your past. Well, we must talk about it some more—but not now. I'm going to the city this afternoon. Something has come up. Something urgent."

Julian was leaving me alone? I did not want him to go! It was more than an idle wish for his company. It was prompted by sheer terror. Terror for which I had no explanation and no name.

"The—city?" I said. "Boston?"

"Boston," he replied.

Having no idea where Boston was, I immediately located it at the end of a vast desert of distance. "Must you go? Must it be today? Can't you wait?" I demanded.

"I'm afraid not, Ophelia."

My unreasoning fear increased. "It must be very pressing whatever takes you there. What can it be?" I had tried to speak lightly, unconcernedly, but I spoiled my effect with an uncontrollable quaver.

He did not appear to notice my agitation. "It's business—far too complicated and dull to explain." His smile was not successful.

"Could it have anything to do with—me?"

"You? Why would you think so?" he demanded, suspiciously.

"I thought someone else might have discovered something about me… perhaps another Brother Florian. I suppose the police are still making inquiries."

He studied me without speaking, his eyes troubled and questioning. Finally he said, "No, it's not another Brother Florian. It—it has to do with some unfinished business of my aunt's. That was her—business manager calling from Boston." With some relief (for he had produced a satisfactory explanation) he added, "I'm going to meet him in the city this afternoon."

I could have reminded him that his errand hardly required the aura of secrecy with which he had invested it—or the immediacy to drag him to the city—but I only nodded. I dared not probe further, even though I was now sure that the telephone call had concerned me. Yet, who knew anything about me? Dr. Cardew? Brother Florian? Surely neither would bother Julian again? Mr. Dillon. Mr. Dillon! He must have been the caller, but why hadn't Julian said so?

"Must you drive in alone, Julian?" I asked. "Can't I come with you? I should like the ride into Boston. Perhaps I've been there before. If I saw it again, maybe old memories would stir?"

Julian looked into my eyes, "Ophelia—is there something you haven't told me?"

"About—what?"

"Something about you? Something you might be afraid to let me know. If there is—something—I'd rather hear it from you than from… strangers."

Since it would take a very strange stranger to know the real truth, I decided it would be safe for me to become angry and indignant. "What could I possibly tell you about myself, Julian? What do I know?"

"Nothing. You don't know anything, do you?" I thought I discerned a vein of sarcasm in his question.

"No," I said, "I don't know anything."

"I'd better get cleaned up," he said, starting for the stairs.

I hurried after him, catching his arm, "Julian, what is it? You act as if you—you distrust me."

"But I shouldn't?" he inquired, turning to stare at me.

The obscure terrors that tormented me vanished in the heat of anger. "No, you shouldn't distrust me!" I snapped. "I've never lied to you!" That lie left my lips with utter sincerity. In that confusing moment, I felt as hurt and abused as if I had been absolutely truthful with him.

"Well," he sighed, "then it seems I must go to Boston." With that obscurity, he drew away from me and continued up the stairs. A moment later, his door slammed.

Puzzled and depressed, I went back into the parlor and, sitting down on the sofa, I gazed out of the window into the garden. I found myself contemplating the old oak which had been, according to Miss Margaret, planted by the same seventeenth-century ancestor who had built the wishing well. I remember her showing guests his initials—J for Jonathan, B for Brewster—cut into the bole. Despite its origin, I had no particular fondness for the tree.

Once, in my kittenhood, I had pursued a dragonfly which, to tease me, had danced up, up, up toward the spreading topmost branches of the gigantic oak. Tantalized by its brilliant blue body, its iridescent wings, I had followed, climbing higher, higher, higher, until suddenly I found myself balancing precariously on a swaying young branch, too green to support even my insignificant weight. Dragonfly forgotten, I had striven to save myself, inching back, step by trembling step, until I had gained the trunk from whence, barely aided by my incipient claws, I had finally managed to crawl onto a stronger limb, where I had remained, shivering and wailing, distances above the unfriendly earth. I had been rescued by our gardener's enterprising young assistant.

My dreams were still haunted by that experience and, as I now looked at the tree, I told myself that I was in a similar situation. Julian, by his unexplained but obvious suspicions, had thrust me onto the trembling branch again. Who could rescue me?

"Lawks!" Betsy's startled exclamation was followed by the clatter of her falling dustpan. She ran into the other room bawling, "Mrs. Mason! Mrs. Mason!"

The kitchen door banged open. "Now what?"

"The h-h-house is h-h-haunted!" gulped Betsy.

"Haunted!" exclaimed her immediate superior. "Who says so?"

"I do. I seen it. With my own eyes!"

Surreptitiously, I looked around the room, hoping that I, too, might glimpse my unseen ally, Miss Margaret. I was disappointed. Could Betsy actually have the "sight" she claimed to possess?

"What did you 'see'; a spook?" demanded Mrs. Mason.

"C'mon, I wanna show you somethin'," moaned Betsy, fearfully. She ran back into the parlor, followed by a disapproving and disgusted Mrs. Mason, whose long-suffering expression revealed that she had about reached the limits of her patience.

"Well? Where's your ghost?"

Betsy turned completely round in the middle of the room, pointing. "There, there, there, there, and here!" she exclaimed, finishing at the mantelshelf. "Don't you see? It's the same—I mean it's been put back, everythin'—the way it was when Miss Margaret was alive!"

Mrs. Mason looked around her. "I don't see that…"

"I tell you, it has!" gasped Betsy. "You don't clean this place. I do. An' I made everythin' different, an' now it—ain't no more."

Glaring at Betsy, Mrs. Mason demanded, to my relief, "What right've you to go messin' around with the furniture, anyhow?"

"What right have I… whadya mean—what right? I clean the room every day, don't I?"

"You was hired to clean it, not decorate it."

"Now, lissen, Clara…"

"Who you callin' 'Clara'? I'll have you remember I'm Mrs. Mason to you. You're gettin' too sassy for your own good."

"Sassy? Me?"

"Nobody else. Anybody goin' to change this room around, it'll be me."

"We'll see what the ghost has to say to that!"

"Ghost, huh? You been at the whiskey again?" Mrs. Mason strode across the room and picked up the whiskey decanter from its place in the cabinet, staring at it suspiciously. "That's the only kinda spirits you been seein', I'll bet." She held it up to the light and nodded. "As I suspected, it's down again."

"It's a damned lie; I ain't touched a drop. Anybody been at the booze, it's Mr. Julian!"

"Or the ghost?" inquired Mrs. Mason, with deadly sarcasm.

She replaced the decanter on the shelf and was about to begin another diatribe when Julian came back down the stairs. He was dressed in a light summer suit and carried a briefcase.

"Ah, Mrs. Mason," he said. "There's been a change in my plans today. I shan't be eating dinner here. I'm going to Boston. I might not be back until morning."

"Morning?" I gasped.

Traces of his earlier antagonism still colored his voice. "I'm sorry, Ophelia," he said coldly, "but my plans are uncertain."

My dormant fear woke again. "Oh, please, take me with you!" I begged, "I don't want to stay here alone."

"Why are you so nervous all of a sudden? Yesterday, you walked in the woods alone. Today…"

"But you said it was dangerous! You told me I am in danger," I reminded him. It was the best excuse I could muster for his satisfaction, and mine, since I still did not know why I was so frightened.

He put his arm round me for a second. "Ophelia, you've nothing to worry about—as long as you stay here, in the house. Mrs. Mason and Betsy will be with you—"

I derived no comfort from that. "I want to go with you!" I insisted.

He shook his head. "It's out of the question. I don't know how long this business will take."

"I don't mind waiting. I'll sit in the car."

"It's too long a drive. You're not well enough to attempt it."

"Yes I am," I cried imprudently, "I've never felt better!"

There was a rather painful pause. "That's nice to hear," he said finally, "but I'm afraid you must stay behind. If you become too nervous—lock your bedroom door."

I could not continue my argument. He would only grow more mistrustful, thinking, perhaps, that I feared to let him go without me because I was afraid of what he might discover. I was certain that he expected to discover something. The thought of being without him appalled me. I did not understand my feelings at all. Under ordinary circumstances, I hated to leave my house. It was my shelter—my security—but today it seemed less fortress than cage.

Julian opened the front door and the warm summer sun tossed a handful of golden beams on the hall floor. Over Julian's shoulder, I saw the serene blue sky and marked a robin's flight. In the face of such a peaceful setting, my fears seemed groundless. I bowed to the inevitable. "I'm being foolish, Julian. Do have a nice time in the city."

"A nice time? I'm not anticipating a nice time—business is never as pleasant as… Goodbye, Ophelia." He hurried down to his car. I followed, watching silently. As he backed out of the drive, I waved and he saw me. He leaned toward the open window and seemed on the verge of saying something, but, evidently changing his mind, he stepped on the gas and speeded up, waving back at me as he went. I followed his car with my eyes until it disappeared through the far gate. Saddened, I went slowly back into my house. Mrs. Mason stood in the hall, the telephone now pressed against her ear. Her plain face was unbecomingly bisected by a broad smile.

"That's real nice of you, sir," she was saying. "Only, it ain't our day off and…"

Betsy, who was standing nearby, tugged at her sleeve, "What is it?"

"Shhhhh," cautioned Mrs. Mason. "Yes, sir. You will, sir? That's very kind. Well—in that case, we'd love it. We'll be expectin' you, sir. You're sure it won't be more'n two hours? I gotta start dinner for Miss Ophelia. Okay? Thanks ever so much, sir."

As she replaced the telephone, Betsy pulled at her sleeve once more, "What'd he want?"

Mrs. Mason slapped her hand away, but she said in an unusually good humor, "He wants to give us tickets for the matinee of that real expensive show they got in town. The one about sin in Rome."

"You mean that thing everybody's comin' here to see on account of it got banned in Boston?" demanded Betsy.

"That's it," said Mrs. Mason. "He wanted to give 'em to Mr. Julian an' her—but seein' as he's gone for the day, he thought we might like to use 'em. They're for this afternoon."

"Gee," said Betsy, "that's great. We better get dressed."

"On the double!" replied Mrs. Mason.

"You—you're going out? Both of you?" I asked, hesitantly.

Mrs. Mason turned hastily. "Oh, Miss," she gasped, "I didn't hear you come in."

"You never do," said Betsy in an accusing voice. She looked at me. "You move so quiet—as quiet as a cat."

I repressed an involuntary start. "Did I understand you to say that you're going out this afternoon?" I repeated.

Mrs. Mason's manner was a curious blend of humility and hostility. "We got tickets to a movie, Miss. It's a real expensive one. Costs as much as the theayter—Mr. Dillon can't use 'em—and he's givin' 'em to us. One of his rich clients sent 'em."

"Mr. Dillon!"

"We won't be gone more'n two hours at the most, Miss," said Mrs. Mason.

" 'Sides, you don't have no call to get scared, Miss," added Betsy. "Practically nothin' ever happens out here."

"You just gotta lock all the doors, Miss," said Mrs. Mason, "like Mr. Julian said."

In spite of the fact that they had obviously made up their minds to go, the two women regarded me rather anxiously; I offered no more arguments. "I hope you enjoy yourselves," I said without rancor.

"Oh, thank you, Miss," said Mrs. Mason.

I nodded and walked slowly up the stairs. Mr. Dillon had a plan; the plan involved me, and the entire house seemed to whisper that I must stay and face him. I heard Mrs. Mason call, "We'll hurry right back, Miss. We won't stop for nothin'. The minute the show gets out, we'll skedaddle!"

I leaned over the railing to reply, "It doesn't matter, Mrs. Mason. Take your time. Take all the time you want."

I went into Miss Margaret's—my—bedroom and began to prepare for Mr. Dillon's visit.

Part Four