I was awakened early by the sunshine which came pouring across my bed from the window opposite, lighting up the white wainscoting and showing the room now, clean and brightly distinct to the least detail of the crisp Japanese prints upon the wall.
One sash and the window-shade had been left up, and I could see the slope of a hill which rose behind the house, seeming to shut the place in. The other window was filled with the waving boughs of an apple-tree. The day was fine and balmy; the fresh air of the morning swept deliciously over my bed. It was maddening to have to lie there helpless.
Before long I heard doors opening and closing below, and the sounds of preparations for breakfast—the rattling of a stove, a pump that squeaked whimsically like a braying donkey, the clatter of pots and pans, and a Chinaman's voice singing in a queer falsetto. With the odors of flowers and damp earth the smell of coffee came up to me, mingled, too, with a whiff from the stable. Then the clock, whose hourly chimes had measured for me the slow march of the night, struck seven with a peal of golden notes.
I heard footsteps come up-stairs to the hall outside my half opened door. There was a soft tapping across the way, and Leah's voice asked quietly:
"What would you like for breakfast, Miss Joy?"
I could just make out the reply in Miss Fielding's blithe tones:
"Oh, just a couple of butterflies' wings, Leah, and a drop of rose-dew, please."
How prettily it sounded! From another it might have seemed silly to me, but not from her. I was amused at her fancy. Miss Fielding, then, was a poet. It was all so in key with the freshness of the morning and the gay sweet sunshine!
I was more comfortable now, and more sane. So, as I lay awaiting her, I wondered how such a woman, so instinct with refinement and with the air of having had considerable social experience, was to be found in so far-away a place. I knew of no residences in this vicinity except an occasional farmhouse; it was remote even from any village. The sight of her as she appeared last night in her elegant negligée came back to me, like the scene of a play. I longed to see her again, to discover if, perhaps, I had not exaggerated it all, or even, perhaps, had dreamed of one so exquisitely gracious.
Leah, also, was a part of the strangeness. She had none of the disturbing beauty of the quadroon—her beauty was without diablerie, it was far from showing any sensuality. It was even spiritual in type. Her face, as I brought it up, was more than intelligent, it was lighted by an inward vision. The more I thought of her, the more I wondered if I had not been tricked by my impressionability, by the strangeness of my adventure, by the glamour of the night awakening. To put it to the test, I took advantage of Miss Fielding's suggestion and rang the bell.