Chapter One.
A Rescue
Once more Di went through the house. Everything was in immaculate
order, yet it had somehow the look of a place that had been savagely
looted and was now abandoned and forlorn. All the bureau tops were
swept bare, all the tables; in every room there were great gaps, where
Angelina’s flamboyant things had been.
Angelina’s own room was simply horrible. Standing in the doorway, Di
felt the tears rise in her eyes at the sight of that desolate neatness
where only yesterday there had been such wild and joyous disorder.
“I’m--tired,” she said to herself, to excuse her weakness.
And she had reason to be tired. Angelina’s wedding had been like a
cyclone, and Di had been whirled along like a leaf in the gale. She
had done everything for Angelina; she had seen the caterers and
arranged for the wedding breakfast, she had sent out the invitations,
had listed the presents and engaged detectives to keep an eye on them.
She had stood for hours while Angelina’s dresses were fitted upon her,
she had packed Angelina’s trunks and bags. And she had interviewed the
reporters.
There had been plenty of reporters, for Angelina’s wedding had been
sensational, like everything else she did. The newspapers recalled to
their readers the past exploits of the beautiful Angelina Herbert, her
marriage at eighteen to Hiram Herbert, a millionaire of sixty, her
suit for divorce three years later, charging her husband with artful
“mental cruelty,” her trip through Borneo all alone--except for a
cousin, a secretary, a camera-man and one or two others--her attempt
to fly in her own plane to Mexico that had ended in a crash near
Asheville.
This second marriage of hers was very satisfactory for newspapers. She
had married young Porter Blessington, another millionaire, who had
spent six months in prison for assaulting an officer in the discharge
of his duties, during a little fracas in a night club. She had gone in
her car to meet him as he came out of jail and they were married the
next week.
Set down in black and white, these things did not appeal to Di; if she
had merely read about her in the newspapers, she would have thought
Angelina a pretty objectionable type. But in actual life she had loved
her.
“She just--forgot,” she said to herself.
Just a little oversight on the part of the beautiful Angelina, to go
off and leave Di without a penny. She had meant to do something regal,
to make a lavish gift, but she had forgotten even to write the
promised letter of recommendation that would help in getting another
job.
With a sigh, she was closing the door of that desolately neat room,
when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror of the
dressing-table. That image depressed her. She was pretty enough in a
way, but it was not a way that anyone noticed; a slender, fair-haired
girl with blue eyes and a detached, absent-minded air. She had exactly
suited Angelina, because she was intelligent and well-bred, and
marvelously patient, but there was only one Angelina. Other people
would require different qualities in a secretary, more skill in
shorthand and typing, a more business-like presence; other people
would dislike her queer, cool little air of reserve. She knew, because
before she had come to Angelina a year ago, she had gone about looking
for a job.
“I’ve had more experience now,” she thought. “I’m not _quite_ such a
fool now.”
Only, in her heart, she wasn’t so sure of that. Would anyone but a
hopeless fool be in a situation like this? Another secretary would
have reminded Angelina of the salary due her, of the letter of
recommendation.
“Perhaps she’ll remember and send me a check,” thought Di.
In her own room she put on her hat and coat and went downstairs. Her
trunk stood there, and her bag, and on the hall-table was a great mass
of flowers which had yesterday decorated the drawing-room.
“Connor’s late,” she thought.
Naturally Connor, Angelina’s superb chauffeur, would not put himself
out for Di. He was stopping for her as a favor; his term of service
was over, and the car was to be put into storage that afternoon. But
she had to wait for him, because in her purse there was only one
solitary quarter, not enough to get her trunk expressed.
“I’ll find _something_ to do to-morrow,” she told herself.
But though she was resolute enough, she was not too hopeful. So many
things had happened to her; she had known so many anxieties and
sorrows. Even as a child, care had weighed upon her. Her father had
been a clever and remarkably unsuccessful man, and she had had to
share his vicissitudes.
“I make a _friend_ of you, Di,” he often said. “I don’t put myself on
a pedestal, like the average father. We’re friends--pals.”
Only, she had been such a very young friend, such a bewildered pal. It
had been rather hard to hear about troubles which she could not help
or even quite understand. Worst of all, he had sometimes talked to Di
about her mother, in a tone of noble generosity.
“She was a fine woman, Di,” he would say, “but she never understood
me. Well--it was probably my own fault. I never could plead my own
cause… I tell you, Di, a good woman can be pretty hard. _Damned_ hard,
sometimes.”
Di had not enjoyed this. Her mother had died when she was four, but
she had not forgotten her. And it was then, in those troubled
childhood days, that she had developed her aloof reserve. She had
learned to listen and to say nothing.
Her father had, apparently, intended never to die. For he had loved
his child, in his way, and he would surely not have wanted to leave
her without a penny, with no friends, with no preparation for life but
a queer, patchy education from various small private schools. But he
had died, and here she was.
“Plenty of girls are alone in the world,” said Di to herself. “They
almost always are, in books… I’ll get a job to-morrow, all right.”
The bell rang and she opened the door. It was Connor with a cigarette
between his lips, sign of his perfect independence.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Di. “Can you manage my trunk?”
“Sure!” he said, with lofty good-humor.
It was certainly not very large or very heavy; he got it down the
steps and strapped it on behind the car.
“Come on, Miss!” he called.
Di was still in the hall.
“I thought we could just leave these flowers at St. Vincent’s
Hospital,” she said.
“Haven’t got time,” said Connor.
She was in no position to argue the point just then, so she left the
flowers, taking only a small bouquet for herself, and started down the
steps. And met a young man running up.
He stopped at the sight of her, and took off his hat.
“Hello!” he said. “Am I too late? Show all over?”
“I don’t quite--” she began, puzzled.
“The wedding,” he explained. “Angelina’s wedding.”
“It was yesterday,” said Di, looking at him with considerable
curiosity. For he had not the appearance of one of those casual,
careless people who forget dates or come late. He was a good-looking
young fellow, dark, very erect, very neat, and there was about him a
remarkable air of cool, composed energy.
“Sorry!” he said. “May I have one of these? Little souvenir…” And
stooping, he took a gardenia from the bouquet she carried. For a
moment their eyes met; then, with a smile he turned and ran down the
steps again and set off along the street at a rapid, easy pace.
“I wonder who _he_ was?” thought Di, and forgot him as soon as she got
into the car.
She had telephoned that morning to the landlady of the rooming-house
where she had spent a horrible month before she had got her job with
Angelina, and the landlady had said there was a vacant room she could
have, at seven dollars a week. She had highly unpleasant memories of
that house, but she did not know where else to go.
“And Mrs. Frick knows me,” she thought. “If I went to a strange place,
I’d be expected to pay in advance.”
The house was downtown in Greenwich Village, but there was nothing
Bohemian about it, a dingy old house and very respectable. Mrs. Frick
was looking out of the window, and saw Di arrive, in a Rolls-Royce
driven by a chauffeur in uniform, and carrying the most expensive sort
of flowers.
“Hm--…” said Mrs. Frick to herself.
She opened the front door, with a faint, faint smile, and Connor
brought in the trunk.
“Top floor!” said Mrs. Frick.
Connor immediately hated her.
“Is zat so?” he said. “Then you better call a couple o’ butlers.
Good-bye, Miss Leonard!”
The door banged after him.
“Well,” said Mrs. Frick. “_I_ haven’t got anyone here to take that
trunk up all those stairs.”
“I’ll--find someone,” said Di. “Top floor, did you say?”
Mrs. Frick led the way upstairs, three long flights, and opened a
door. It was the meanest little room, the chilliest, most depressing
little room in the gray light of a February morning.
“I hope I shan’t have to stay here long,” thought Di.
Mrs. Frick was standing in the doorway.
“There’s a clean towel,” she said.
“Yes, I see, thank you,” said Di, longing to shut the door.
“I told you on the telephone, didn’t I?” said Mrs. Frick. “This room
is seven dollars a week.”
“Yes, you did,” said Di.
Mrs. Frick stood there. And, in desperation, Di said what so many
other people had said to Mrs. Frick.
“I’m--expecting a check. If you don’t mind waiting a few days--”
Mrs. Frick remembered the Rolls-Royce and the chauffeur and was not
moved to pity.
“If you’ll make a deposit--” she said.
And it was impossible for Di to appeal to her. Her old habit of
reserve kept her silent, her sorry experience of life made her expect
no kindness and ask for none.
A bell rang downstairs.
“Excuse me a moment!” said Mrs. Frick. “I’ll be right back.”
As her footsteps died away, Di closed the door quietly, laid the
flowers on the bureau and clenched her hands.
“_Think_, you idiot!” she said to herself. “Hurry up! It’s your last
chance!… I’ll tell her she can keep the trunk until I get some money.
I couldn’t get it away from her, anyhow, without paying someone to
move it.”
Then Mrs. Frick might want to look in the trunk and would find there
some of Angelina’s discarded dresses, some photographs, a few
books--not a collection likely to appeal to her.
“I’ll help with the housework,” thought Di. “Make the
beds--sweep--anything she wants, until I get a check from Angelina, or
a job.”
She heard Mrs. Frick coming up the stairs now, and she went out to
meet her.
“Mrs. Frick,” she began, “I’ve been--”
“There’s a gentleman to see you,” said Mrs. Frick. “Your uncle.”
“My uncle?”
“That’s what he _says_. Your uncle,” Mrs. Frick repeated, frigidly.
“But it’s a mistake!” said Di.
Mrs. Frick smiled faintly.
“He can’t mean me--”
“He asked for Miss Leonard, and I told him,” said Mrs. Frick, “that
you were just leaving.”
“Look here!” said Di.
“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Frick, “but I just remembered I’d promised this
room to somebody else. You might try at 280. They sometimes--”
“All right,” said Di, briefly, and went past Mrs. Frick, down the
stairs. There in the lower hall stood her trunk.
“What can I do with it?” she thought. “If I leave it here, nobody will
let me come without paying in advance. And I can’t get it moved for a
quarter…”
And at that moment she learned a new fact. She saw that shelter was
more important than food. If she only had a room, she could have faced
hunger with fortitude; it seemed to her that she could even starve
without complaining if only she had decent privacy for it.
“There must be places…” she thought, “but I’ve never heard of them.
Perhaps I could ask--a policeman--”
She heard Mrs. Frick coming down behind her, and she moved toward the
front door; her hand was on the knob before she remembered that uncle.
He was so obviously mistaken that it did not seem worth the trouble to
go into the parlor and explain to him that she was the wrong Miss
Leonard. She went, only because it meant a little delay in leaving the
house.
Opening the door, she found a man in there, a little oddity in a
checked suit too large for him, and yellow shoes and a bright tie, a
sporting outfit that accorded well with his lean, nutcracker face. He
jumped up nimbly and stared at her.
“Well!” he said. “This Diana…? Poor old Harvey’s girl…”
She was too much surprised to speak.
“I’m your uncle Peter,” he continued. “You’ll have heard your father
speak of me.”
Di colored a little. She had heard her father speak of his family as a
unit--“the most contemptible, heartless crew that ever
breathed”--remarks like that. She had even heard him mention a
brother, but not by the name of “Peter”! He had used other names…
The sporting little man sighed.
“Yes…” he said. “Poor Harvey… Well! When we heard that he’d passed
away, we wanted to get in touch with you, but we couldn’t find you.
Only yesterday we saw in the papers all about the wedding of this Mrs.
What’s-Her-Name--mentioned a secretary--Miss Diana Leonard. That’s
poor Harvey’s girl, says I, so I telephoned the house half an hour ago
and I was told you’d just left, to come here. So…!”
He smiled and she smiled back at him.
“I see you’ve got your hat on,” he said. “In a hurry? No? Well, your
Aunt Emma--her idea was--perhaps you’d come to us--act as her
secretary, with the usual financial arrangement, y’know. Scientific
work, y’know.”
“Yes, thank you. I _should_ like it very much,” said Di.
He seemed a little startled by this very prompt acceptance.
“Well!” he said. “That’s excellent! Excellent!… Now, when could you
come? Next week?”
“I can come--before that,” said Di, a little unsteadily.
“Any day that suits you--”
“I can come--to-day,” said Di. “I was just leaving here, anyhow, and I
hadn’t exactly decided where to go. I--”
“Excellent!” he said, with a quick glance at her. “You wouldn’t care
to come at once, would you? If you would, I could drive you down. Got
my li’l’ car outside.”
“Yes, I _could_,” said Di.
“Excellent,” said he. “I’ll wait while you pack.”
“Everything’s packed. I have a bag… My trunk can wait.”
She did not care what happened to the trunk. Let Mrs. Frick throw it
down the steps into the street; nothing mattered as long as she could
get away from here, could have a roof over her head until she had time
to breathe.
“If it’s not too big I can take it,” he said.
“Here it is--in the hall.”
“I can manage that!” said he.
Di took up her bag; then she remembered the flowers.
“Just a moment, please!” she said, and ran up the stairs.
On the first landing she almost collided with Mrs. Frick. With a hasty
apology she was about to go on up, when Mrs. Frick stopped her.
“Miss Leonard! You’re never going off with that man!”
“Yes, I am,” said Di. “He’s my uncle.”
“You said he couldn’t be. You said it was a mistake.”
“Well, it wasn’t, after all.”
“Now, see here!” said Mrs. Frick earnestly. “Don’t you do it, Miss
Leonard! I’m sorry I was so hasty. You just forget what I said and
stay on here.”
Di was startled and touched by this tone.
“That’s awfully nice of you!” she said. “But, you see, I might not get
my check for some time, and I might not find a job, either, for weeks.
I was--pretty worried. I only have twenty-five cents--”
“Why didn’t you _tell_ me that?” cried Mrs. Frick.
“No use bothering you about it,” said Di. “And anyhow, it’s all right
now. I’m going to stay with my Aunt and Uncle--”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.”
“Don’t you go!” said Mrs. Frick. “I don’t believe he’s your uncle?”
“Oh, but he is!” said Di. “He knows all about me and my father… And
why on earth should he pretend to be, if he isn’t? I’m not exactly an
heiress.”
“Don’t you go!” repeated Mrs. Frick. “You’re young. You don’t know
what people there are in this world.”
“But nobody could possibly have any reason--He’s taking my trunk now.
I hear him.”
They both looked over the bannisters and saw the sporting little man
handling the trunk with surprising ease.
“Oh, dear!” cried Mrs. Frick. “I don’t like this! Stay here--”
“I’m awfully sorry, but you see--”
“Then ring me up!” said Mrs. Frick. “Promise to ring me up as soon as
you get there, and give me the address.”
“I promise!” said Di.
Chapter Two.
Di Breaks a Promise
It was a good car, and this uncle was a good driver.
“And I’m afraid I’ve got soft,” thought Di. “Demoralized. For I really
don’t care much where I’m going if only I don’t have to struggle for a
while. Or perhaps I’m just tired.”
Whatever it was, she was well content to sit back in the little car,
to feel the Spring wind in her face, to look at the streets in the
bright morning sun.
“Poor Mrs. Frick!” she thought. “So suspicious… _What_ would she have
thought of Angelina?”
Her uncle did no talking in the city traffic, but after they were out
of that, and headed toward Pelham, he began:
“Your Aunt Emma,” he said. “Y’know--very remarkable woman. Very!”
“Is she?” said Di, politely.
“Very!” he assured her. “She’s a professor. And a doctor.”
“Oh!”
“Psychology,” he said. “And so on. It’s all too deep for me… But…” He
was silent for a time. “Did your father ever tell you anything about
her?”
“I think I remember his mentioning her,” said Di, who remembered very
well that her father had occasionally mentioned a sister who was, he
had said, “hard as nails.”
“Too bad!” her uncle continued. “But poor old Harvey couldn’t seem to
hit it off with the rest of us. Always _was_ like that. I hope he
never said anything to set you against us?”
“Oh, no!” said Di.
“Well…” he said. “I hope you’ll be happy now--with your own people.”
He spoke kindly enough, yet, she thought, with a curious lack of
warmth. An odd little man altogether; looking at him now in the bright
sunlight, she saw that his weather-beaten face was deeply lined with a
net of little wrinkles at the corners of his blue eyes.
“Is he old?” she thought. “Or just--battered?” And aloud she asked:
“Are you--Father’s younger brother?”
“Eh? Yes. Two or three years. Now, I almost hate to ask this--but did
you ever hear your father speak of Uncle Rufus?”
“Yes,” said Di. “Several times.”
“Hm. I’m afraid Harvey didn’t care much for the old man.”
“I’m afraid he didn’t,” said Di.
She remembered a letter her father had got from Uncle Rufus, and what
he had said about it.
“I simply asked him to make me a little loan,” he had cried to his
child, “and the damned old skinflint treats me as if I were a beggar!”
He had also spoken of Uncle Rufus quite often as “that damned old
hyena.”
“Of course,” Uncle Peter went on, apologetically, “the old man’s got
his little weakness… But he’s a very remarkable man. Writes books, and
so on. Very remarkable!”
“Is he at your house?”
“Not now. But he’ll be coming, for a visit. Y’know, I think you’ll
like him. You’re clever, aren’t you? Fond of books and so on?”
“I’m fond of books,” said Di, “but I’m afraid I’m not clever at all.”
“I bet you are!” he said, and added, sadly. “I’m the fool of the
family.”
She murmured some polite contradiction, and then, to change the
subject:
“It was awfully nice of you to look me up,” she said. “I really do
appreciate it.”
“Oh, rats!” said he, cheerfully, and they both laughed.
The countryside was beautiful that April morning, and the girl’s
spirits rose and rose. She asked so very little of life, expected so
very little; a chance of earning a moderate living, and a morning like
this were enough. She was not even especially curious. She was going
off bag and baggage, with this man she had never set eyes on before,
to a house unknown, unknown people, and she had scarcely asked a
question. That was her way. Since childhood, she had had to depend
upon her own fortitude, and there was, beneath her half-shy manner, a
fine, careless spirit of adventure, an odd little recklessness.
In those days with her father there had been so many disasters.
“I don’t know where the money’s coming from for the next meal!” he
often said.
But it had come. He had often said he was ruined, but somehow they had
gone on. And somehow Di, with her patchy education, her one-sided
experience, had been able to keep on after she was left alone. No one
else had been able to suit the beautiful Angelina, but she had. She
had done impossible things; she, who had never had two dollars in her
purse, had somehow managed to keep Angelina’s chaotic check-book
balanced. She, who was so diffident, had been able to talk to the
strangest people, to give orders to servants, to confront tradesmen
with exorbitant bills.
“I seem to fall on my feet!” she thought. “Look at this! If Uncle
Peter hadn’t come… But he _did_ come!”
He turned the car now up a road so lovely that she gave a cry of
delight. It was a road in the very heart of a wood of birches and
pines and oaks; only the pines were dark, the other trees, just
budding, were exquisitely delicate against the pure, blue sky. There
were no houses, nothing to disturb the sun-dappled peace.
“Nice, isn’t it?” said Uncle Peter. “Belongs to me… One of these days,
I’m going to develop it--cut down most of the trees, and put up some
nice little houses--what d’you call ’em?--that stucco, y’know, with
timbers--Elizabethan, isn’t it?”
It seemed to Di that “developing” was hardly the word for this place,
but she said nothing. They were going up a gentle rise now, and as
they rounded a curve, she saw before her a very peculiar house, a
large, wooden building, lavishly ornamented with little balconies and
gables, a forlorn old place, with uncurtained windows, weather-beaten
and in great need of paint.
“It’s a nice house,” said Uncle Peter. “The Swiss style…”
She glanced at him to see if he were laughing, but he looked
melancholy.
“It’ll have to come down,” he said. “Nobody’ll buy a place like that,
nowadays.”
The road led under a portico before the front door; he jumped out
nimbly, and held out his hand to assist Di. Then he ran up the steps
and knocked at the door, which was opened almost at once by a dismal
little man with red hair.
The interior of the house surprised Di. They entered what was
obviously a hotel lounge, furnished with wicker chairs and settees,
and with a counter at one end, behind which were pigeon-holes for
mail. It was all very neat, and quite empty, no clerk at the desk, not
a sound to be heard.
“I didn’t know…” she began, but her own voice sounded too loud here.
She turned to her uncle and found him whispering to the red-haired
man. And she could not help hearing what he said.
“Then _eggs_, you damned fool!”
The red-haired man raised his eyebrows sadly, and went off through a
door at the right, and Uncle Peter took up her bag.
“This way!” he said, and began to mount the stairs.
“I suppose they run the hotel,” thought Di. “But it doesn’t seem very
popular. Or perhaps this isn’t the season.”
At the top of the first flight they came upon the usual hotel
corridor, long, narrow, red-carpeted.
“Still,” she thought, “it’ll be rather nice to be in a hotel. More
lively…”
Her uncle had stopped, and now turned toward her, with an anxious
frown.
“I don’t know…” he said. “Maybe I should… Your aunt… Very remarkable
woman!”
As he spoke, a door at the end of the corridor opened, and a woman in
a surgeon’s white overall came out, and behind her, single file, came
two children.
“Emma!” said Uncle Peter. “Here she is--”
The woman had stopped, and was looking at him with a sort of steady
scorn. Then she turned and pushed the two children gently back into
the room they had come out of, closed the door on them, and advanced
to Diana.
“So this is Diana!” she said.
She was a sturdy, solid, little gray-haired woman, very erect, and she
was smiling pleasantly now. But Di was incapable of answering at that
moment. She had caught a glimpse of those children’s faces--pasty,
yellowish faces, with blank, dull eyes, and loose mouths, hanging
open…
“They’re idiots!” she thought, appalled.
“I wish I had known Peter was bringing you to-day,” Aunt Emma went on.
“We could have made some little preparations. Why didn’t you
telephone, Peter?”
“Never thought of it…” he muttered, apologetically. “Sorry, Emma.”
“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” said Di, making an effort to speak
brightly. “I accepted your kind offer so very quickly.”
Aunt Emma held out her hand, and Di took it, felt her fingers caught
in a strong grasp. This aunt was shorter than herself, a rather dumpy
little woman, with a plain enough face, yet there was something
unusual about her, an assurance that was curiously impressive. Her
blue eyes were fixed upon the girl’s face in candid appraisal; she was
studying her, with a disconcerting keenness.
“She’s looking right through me,” thought Di. “She sees that I’ve got
a safety pin instead of a button in the back of my dress, and that I
never remember dates.”
“See about lunch, Peter,” said Aunt Emma.
“I did, Emma,” he said. “I spoke to Wren.”
“Then show Diana a room,” she said. “You’ll understand, Diana, that
I’m very busy… Make yourself at home!” And with a pleasant smile she
went into the room again and closed the door.
“What does she--do?” Diana asked her uncle, in a whisper.
“Too deep for me!” he answered.
“But--those children--?”
“Don’t ask me! I don’t understand these things.”
“But I mean--” she went on, resolutely, “are they any--relation--?”
“Oh, Lord, no!” he said. “Emma’s adopted them, that’s all.”
He opened a door.
“Here’s a room,” he said, and hurrying on, opened another door. “And
here’s one--and here’s one. Take your choice! They’re all pretty much
alike.”
So they were; bare hotel bedrooms, close and dusty, with stripped
beds.
“Well, this one, thank you!” she said, taking the one furthest from
that in which those children were.
“Good!” said he, and hurried off down the corridor.
Di looked about her in dismay.
“I almost wish I hadn’t come,” she thought. “No, I don’t! That’s
silly. It’s a wonderful piece of luck for me. And perhaps more people
will come--perhaps there are people here already that I haven’t seen.”
A considerable noise outside brought her into the hall, and she saw
Uncle Peter and the red-haired man bringing her trunk up the stairs.
With a praiseworthy, but not very effectual, impulse to help, she
stepped back into the room and opened the door wide, back against the
wall. And as she stood there, out of sight, another door opened.
“What’s all this noise?” demanded Aunt Emma’s voice, sternly.
“We’re getting up the girl’s trunk,” said Uncle Peter, in his usual
apologetic tone.
“Make less noise!” she said. “You disturb me. You shouldn’t have
brought the girl like this, without warning me.”
“But you told me to make her come!”
“Very well. Now hold your tongue,” said Aunt Emma, and her door closed
again.
The trunk was now carried past Di and set down, and without so much as
a glance at her, Uncle Peter hurried off again. Wren, the little
red-haired man, stood wiping his hands on his coat.
“I’ll make up the bed for you, Miss,” he said. “And air the room,
while you’re down at lunch.”
He was such a subdued little man, so shabby, so forlorn in appearance,
that Di suddenly gave him her last quarter.
“Thank you, Miss!” he cried. “I--thank you, Miss!”
Pocketing the coin, he stood before her, as if irresolute.
“I’ll bring you towels, Miss,” he said. “And if there’s anything else
you want, there’s a bell here, Miss. Better ring several times, Miss,
in case I’m not within hearing at the moment… Thank you, Miss.”
With his hand on the knob, he added:
“And if you’ll excuse me, Miss--I’d advise you to keep your door
locked when you’re not in the room. Those--little ones is very
_mischeevous_. Thank you, Miss!”
He went out, closing the door behind him.
“I certainly shouldn’t like those children to get in here,” she
thought. “I--don’t think I like being here, very much.”
Then it occurred to her that it would be a matter of considerable
difficulty to leave this house now. She had no money for train fare,
no money at all.
“Of course if I asked him, Uncle Peter would drive me back to the
city, I suppose,” she thought. “Only, it would be pretty awkward to
say I’d changed my mind. Although they’re not very hospitable. ‘The
girl’--I wonder why they asked me? Out of charity? No; because they
couldn’t possibly have known how bad things were for me.”
The room seemed unbearably close to her; she went to the window and
opened it. And there before her were the trees, the dark pines, the
old oaks, so close to the house, too close, shutting out all the rest
of the world…
Something stirred in her heart, a formless and nameless fear. Wasn’t
this like a prison?
“What nonsense!” she said to herself. “I’m tired, that’s all. It’s
been a worrying morning. After I’ve had some lunch--”
There was running water in the room; she washed, and brushed her hair,
and then began to unpack her bag.
“There may be other people staying here,” she thought. “I hope so. And
I must telephone to Mrs. Frick.”
She thought of Mrs. Frick with an unreasonable friendliness now. She
was impatient to telephone to her.
There was a knock at the door, and opening it, she found Uncle Peter
there.
“Lunch, if you’re ready,” he said.
Since they had reached the house, his manner was undeniably changed;
there was a worried, absent-minded air about him now.
“I’m ready,” she said. “And, by the way, what’s the address here,
please? I’d like to telephone it to a friend.”
“Well…” he said. “You’d better ask your Aunt Emma.”
She stared to him in astonishment.
“I mean--” he said. “She doesn’t like her work interfered with.”
“But that won’t interfere with her work, will it?”
“Better ask her!” he said, and stood aside to let her go down the
stairs.
As they passed through the lounge, she turned her head to make sure
that she had really seen a telephone on the desk, and she was
curiously relieved to see that there was one.
At the end of the lounge were sliding doors, pushed a little open now
and revealing a big dining-room. And her heart sank at the sight of
it. The tables were drawn up against the walls, and the chairs stacked
on top of them; near the window was one small table laid with cloth,
and at which Aunt Emma was already seated.
“I suppose the season hasn’t begun yet,” said Di.
“What season?” asked Aunt Emma.
“I mean--don’t more people come here, in the Summer?”
“Nobody comes here unless by my invitation,” said Aunt Emma. “This
isn’t a hotel any longer.”
“Just--you and Uncle Peter?”
“That’s all.”
“It’s--” said Di, glancing about the big, empty room. “It seems--such
a large place.”
“It is a large place,” said Aunt Emma.
Silence fell. Presently Wren came in, bringing a remarkably meager and
unappetizing lunch, a burnt and curdled little omelette, bread and
margarine and tea, and one banana each.
Di thought of past lunches, in Angelina’s house; she thought of
broiled chicken, rice croquettes, mushrooms, crisp salads.
“I’m spoilt!” she thought. “This will do me good.”
At least there was plenty of bread; she ate three slices and drank the
black bitter tea, and felt better.
“Aunt Emma,” she said. “Do you mind if I just telephone this address
to a friend?”
“The telephone is disconnected,” said Aunt Emma.
Chapter Three.
Di Makes Up Her Mind to Leave
Di was forced to admit that the situation was--uncomfortable. She
could not go out anywhere to telephone because she hadn’t a penny.
“Well, I can write!” she thought. “There’s no such tearing hurry.”
And she also made up her mind that she must begin being Aunt Emma’s
secretary at once, so that she could earn something.
“May I help you this afternoon, Aunt Emma?” she asked.
“We’ll see…” said Aunt Emma, with an enigmatic smile. “If you’re
ready--?”
Di had now eaten everything in sight, and she rose as her aunt pushed
back her chair. They went up the stairs together, along the corridor,
to the room at the end. Aunt Emma took a key from the pocket of her
overall and unlocked the door.
It was a profound relief to the girl that those children were not
there. The room looked pleasantly business-like, with a large
flat-topped desk, very neat, and a typewriter on a table, and the
afternoon sun shining in at the window. Aunt Emma placed a chair
before the desk for Di, and seated herself behind the desk, facing
her.
“Well!” she said, looking steadily at the girl, “what do you know
about cretinism?”
It was remarkably like being at school again, and Di felt the old
sensation of defensive resentment.
“Not--very much,” she answered.
“How much? What would be your definition of cretinism?”
Di thought very hard.
“Well…” she said. “I think--it has something to do with
the--excavations they’re making in the island of Crete.”
“Good--God!” said Aunt Emma.
She opened the drawer of her desk, took out a cigarette, lit it, and
leaning back in her chair, stared at Di.
“A revelation of character,” she said. “You’re one of those persons
who can’t say ‘I don’t know’… Cretinism is a form of idiocy. There
are--” She paused, and smoked for a time. “There are,” she went on, “a
great many varieties of idiocy in this world.”
Di grew red.
“The world is largely peopled by idiots,” said Aunt Emma. “Of
different grades. Most of them attain a development sufficient for the
demands of daily life. They can read and write and they can act upon
the suggestions of superior minds.”
All this time she was steadily regarding Di with a faint smile, and Di
began to grow angry.
“I dare say I’m an idiot myself,” she said, “but I hope I can be a
little useful to you. I can type--”
“Can you read?”
“Read?” Di repeated.
“I mean, are you able to read a book which is not fiction?”
“Yes,” said Di.
“Then take this,” said Aunt Emma. “It’s written by your Uncle Rufus.
Kindly read the first chapter and then give me a terse résumé.”
Hot and angry, Di took the big volume that was pushed across the desk
to her.
_Some Observations Upon the Natural Limitations of National Cultures_,
by Rufus Leonard.
She turned the pages, with a somewhat strained air of intellectual
interest.
“I suggest that you begin at the beginning,” said Aunt Emma. “The
first chapter will do for the present.”
“I _won’t_ lose my temper!” said Di to herself. “She has a perfect
right to test me before she takes me as a secretary.”
She turned to the first page and began to read. But it was like a
nightmare; she had to read sentences over and over, to understand
them, and even then, the ideas were hazy to her. And all the time she
was aware of Aunt Emma smoking and steadily regarding her. She turned
a page.
“One may, for diversion, take a metaphysical view of the problem; one
may play with the assumption that the ethos--”
It was no use. She felt that if she had time, and if Aunt Emma were
not staring at her, she might manage something, but not in the present
circumstances. She closed the book and glanced up, meaning to say
that, frankly.
“I see!” said Aunt Emma. “I thought so. No… You are emotional, instead
of intellectual. I do not assert that I can read a physiognomy. I
consider that a preposterous claim. But give me fifteen minutes’
observation of anyone, of the involuntary gestures, the manner of
walking, speaking, and so on, and I will know that person better than
his own mother would.”
Di essayed an uncertain smile.
“I’m awfully sorry I can’t help you,” she said. “I hoped--”
“You can help me,” said Aunt Emma. “You say you can type. I’ll give
you some work at once.”
“Thank you,” said Di.
“I shall be glad to have you here,” Aunt Emma proceeded. “Your father
and I were never in harmony, but your mother was very agreeable.
You’re very like her.”
Di turned her head away quickly. It was almost intolerable to her to
hear that name mentioned. All through her lonely and troubled life she
had held as her heart’s secret the tenderest image of that mother she
could not remember. She had virtually needed something to cling to,
some ideal, and she had found it there.
There was a considerable silence; when Aunt Emma spoke again, her
voice was grave and kindly.
“You remember her at all?”
“No,” said Di, very low.
“Your father, no doubt, often talked to you of her.”
“No. Never. He--didn’t like to talk about--her.”
Aunt Emma pushed back her chair, rose, and coming out from behind the
desk, laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“Work is the panacea,” she said. “Now, my dear! Here is a little
article of mine which I’d like you to type. ‘Basic fallacies of the
Montessori Method.’ The main fallacy is this. The Signora Montessori
imputes to children a capacity for independent action which is so
rare, even in adults, as to be remarkable.”
She lit another cigarette.
“The immense majority of human beings have no independence,” she said.
“The suggestibility of the human race has never yet been fully
realized. It is my intention to publish some observations in that
field before long… And now, there is the typewriter, and here is
paper.” With her hand on the door knob, she looked back at Di. “Knock
on the door if you want to leave the room,” she said. “I shall be
conducting experiments in the corridor, and a sudden interruption
would be very disagreeable.” And she went out, closing the door behind
her.
Di stood looking at the closed door.
“I--really don’t think I can stay here…” she said to herself.
But how was she to get away, without money? The idea of borrowing from
her aunt or her uncle was most distasteful, nor could she think of any
decent excuse to make for a sudden departure.
“I was so willing to come,” she thought. “I can’t rush off and hurt
their feelings, when they were kind enough to look me up and ask me
here. I’ve just got to make the best of it.”
She uncovered the typewriter, and took up her aunt’s neat manuscript;
it was easy to read, and she finished a page quickly. Then, as she was
putting in a new sheet, she heard footsteps outside the door,
shuffling up and down the corridor. There was no sound of voices;
nothing but those dragging footsteps.
“It’s those children!” she thought, and the room grew stifling to her;
it was like a prison. She got up in haste, and opened the window,
leaned out, breathing with relief the cool Spring air. Then, beneath
her, she heard a voice:
“Hello!”
She leaned further out. Directly beneath her was another window, open,
and the voice, which was Uncle Peter’s, came from the room inside.
“Hello!” he cried again. “What’s the matter, Central? Well, try them
again.”
“But he’s telephoning!” she thought. “Then the telephone _can’t_ be
out of order--”
“Hello!” he said again. “Oh! So you’re there!… Now, see here, Miles!
Your aunt wants you to come out at once… What?… I don’t care… No, I
can’t!… No, I haven’t a damned cent… Oh, pawn your watch--do anything
you want, but come out here at once, d’you understand?”
Di drew back into the room.
“That’s an idea!” she said to herself. “I’d forgotten that watch.”
She remembered now a wrist-watch Angelina had given her, an absurd
little thing, no larger than a five-dollar gold piece and not much
thicker. It had needed expensive repairs to set it working again, and
Di had put it away and not given it another thought, until Uncle
Peter’s words reminded her that it might at least provide a railway
fare back to New York.
“And if I just had the money to go,” she thought, “If I felt that I
_could_ go, then I shouldn’t mind staying. It’s simply this feeling
that I can’t get away…”
Very well; but how to convert the watch into money? She thought that
over for a time, and then, with a sudden inspiration, began to write a
letter.
“Dear Mrs. Frick:
“_Here I am, safe and sound. The address is_ --” _Here she left a
blank, to fill in later._ “_You were so friendly this morning that I
feel encouraged to ask you to do me a favor. Enclosed is a little
watch. If you could possibly--_” _She hesitated a moment. Mrs. Frick
was probably too respectable for pawnshops_--“_manage to sell it for
me, and send on the money, I should be very much obliged._
“_I have already started to work as my aunt’s secretary, and I am sure
that in a little while everything will be all right. But just at the
moment, I am pretty hard up. If you can get me three dollars for the
watch, it would be a great help._” _In spite of her Bohemian
upbringing, Di realized that this was an extraordinary letter._
“_I hope this won’t bother you_,” _she added._
“_Sincerely yours,_
“Diana Leonard.”
Then she addressed an envelope, put the letter into it, tucked it
inside her blouse, and set to work upon her aunt’s manuscript with
energy.
It was a nice job when she had finished; she was pleased with it. She
sighed and stretched and, leaning back in the chair, with her hands
behind her head, let her thoughts drift. The sun was going down, the
sky was bright and calm… Angelina and her new husband would be at that
inn in the Berkshires now. They would probably be having tea.
“I’d like tea myself,” she mused. “A _very_ large club-sandwich--and
coffee éclairs--”
The door opened and Aunt Emma entered.
“Finished?” she said. “That’s very nice… Now, my dear, have you a
pretty dress with you? Something light… I’m expecting your cousin for
dinner.”
“What cousin?” asked Di, startled by the news and by the change in her
aunt’s manner, so kindly and solicitous now.
“Your Uncle Peter’s son.”
“I didn’t know he was married.”
“You might have known,” said Aunt Emma, with a grim smile. “A man like
Peter couldn’t help getting married. He’s a widower now, though… I
think you’ll like Miles… Have you a pretty dress?”
“Yes,” said Di. “Angelina--Mrs. Herbert--Mrs. Blessington I mean--gave
me lots.”
Aunt Emma smiled.
“Run along and put one on,” she said. “You’ll be glad of someone your
own age to talk to.”
“She _is_ nice!” thought Di. “Asking this cousin on my account. Now if
only there’s a good dinner!”
She dressed, in a green chiffon frock that suited her very well; she
took pains to look her best, curiously excited at the prospect of
meeting this cousin. Indeed, she was a little surprised by her own
emotion.
“Silly!” she thought. “I suppose it’s because I haven’t any family.”
Coming out of her room a little before six, she found Uncle Peter in
the hall, lounging against the wall, smoking a cigar. He still wore
his jaunty checked suit and brown shoes, but he had a quieter necktie,
a more subdued air.
“Hello!” he said. “How nice you look!”
“Oh, thanks!” she said. “Uncle Peter, can you lend me a stamp?”
“Haven’t such a thing!” he answered. “But if you have any letters to
post, give ’em to me, and I’ll look after ’em.”
“Thanks! All right!” said Di.
But somehow she did not want to give him her letter to Mrs. Frick.
They went downstairs together, into the lounge. It looked very
pleasant there now, with three shaded lamps glowing. Di seated herself
in an armchair, by an artificial palm, and Uncle Peter stood beside
her with his hands in his pockets, whistling under his breath. And an
equable illusion took possession of her. Here she was, in a charming
dress, sitting here in the house of her own people; this cousin was
coming; nice, interesting things would happen.
“I’m an idiot,” she thought, “to imagine there’s anything--queer here.
It’s heartless of me to feel this way about those poor little
children. No doubt they’re getting the best sort of treatment--perhaps
they’ll be even cured… No; there’s nothing here to be--silly about. It
was kind and generous of them to ask me. I’m lucky to be here.”
Just then Uncle Peter sighed and stirred, and as she glanced up at
him, a singularly disturbing thought came to her. He had been waiting
outside her door… Was he guarding her?
The impulse seized her to find out, to make sure if she really were
guarded, not permitted to go about alone in this house. And at the
same time she was aware of a great reluctance to make this test.
Better not. Better let well enough alone…
She sat very still for a few minutes, then she rose.
“I’ll just run up and get my handkerchief,” she said.
“I’ll send Wren,” said Uncle Peter.
“He wouldn’t know where to find it.”
“You can tell him,” said Uncle Peter, cheerfully.
“I’d rather go myself,” she said, a little unsteadily.
“I’ll hop along with you, then,” said Uncle Peter. “These lights have
a way of going out, and you’d get lost in this barn of a place.”
She turned away her head, so that he might not see her face. A panic
fear was rising in her; she wanted to get away; she must get away.
“Don’t--_bother!_” she cried, and ran toward the stairs. A bad thing,
to run. One hears footsteps running behind, one shrinks from the
dreaded touch of a hand on the shoulder… She fled up the stairs,
darted into her room, slammed the door behind her and locked it,
turned on the light and sank into a chair, her hand against her racing
heart, and her eyes upon the locked door.
She began to grow a little quieter, her breathing less labored; she
was ready to reason with herself, when the light went out.
She sprang up, all her fears redoubled. There was a soft knock at the
door.
“I won’t answer!” she thought. “I won’t--I can’t…”
She stood motionless in the dark, staring before her. There was
another knock.
“Miss!” came a hissing whisper. “It’s Wren, Miss.”
“What do you want?” she asked, whispering herself.
“I’ve got an electric torch here for you, Miss. If you’ll open the
door--”
She did not answer. She thought if _anything happened_, if she called
out for help, who in this house would hear or care? Her panic rose to
a climax. And then, in an instant, she mastered it; she drew a long
breath, and crossing the room, unlocked the door.
The light of a torch shone full in her eyes, dazzling her.
“Excuse me, Miss!” whispered Wren, covering the torch and holding out
another one. “I thought… If you’ll excuse me, Miss. I appreciated your
kindness to-day. If there’s anything I can do for you, Miss…”
By the light of her torch, she could see his pale face, his anxious
eyes; she looked and looked at him, but she could not understand him.
Was he honest and well-disposed to her, or was he furtive and
treacherous?
“If there’s anything I can do, Miss--” he repeated.
She decided to take a chance.
“I wish you’d post a letter for me,” she said, with a fair attempt at
a casual manner. “I haven’t any stamps just now, but--”
“Give it to me please, Miss,” he said.
“It’s not quite ready. If you’ll wait--”
“I’d better not, Miss. If you’ll leave it were I can get it--”
“How would one address a letter here?” she asked, quickly, infected by
his air of haste.
“The Châlet, Miss. East Hazelwood. Just tell me where I’ll find it,
Miss.”
“Under the bureau-scarf,” she began, but he had turned away.
“I’ll look after it, Miss,” he whispered and was gone.
She stood in the doorway, listening. There was nothing to hear; not a
sound of any sort; not a light anywhere except the little beam of the
torch she held. But her moment of panic was over; she had herself well
in hand; a sort of anger filled her. She went along the corridor, and
leaning over the bannister, directed her torch toward the lounge
below. And the light fell upon Uncle Peter, stretched out in a wicker
chair, smoking his cigar.
“Hello!” he cried. “Who’s that?”
“Diana,” she answered, and began to descend the stairs.
“I suppose that blamed idiot will have the wit to go down in the
cellar and change the fuse,” he observed. “I don’t understand these
things, but Wren does. Poor wiring in the house. I warned you!”
“Well, there’s no harm done,” she said, affably.
She sat down near him in another chair, and waited.
“I’ve made a fool of myself,” she thought. “Rushing upstairs like that
and slamming the door. Uncle Peter was only good-natured. The lights
_do_ go out. And he didn’t come after me. He just sat here, smoking. I
don’t know what’s the matter with me--imagining all sorts of things.”
“Hark!” said Uncle Peter.
She started nervously.
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Car coming,” he said, and now she heard it too, coming up the drive.
What was coming? Who was coming?
There was a step on the veranda, and then an appallingly loud bang on
the front door.
“Lend me your torch,” said Uncle Peter, and taking it, crossed the
room and opened the door. But he let no one in; he stepped outside,
closing it behind him.
She was left now in utter darkness. She heard a murmur of voices
outside, and she was groping her way across the lounge to the door,
when the lights came on. She hurried then, and looked through the
uncurtained glass of the door. A car stood out there and the
headlights shone along the drive. And she had a glimpse of two men,
carrying between them a limp body; then they passed beyond the stream
of light, and she could see them no more.
“This is too much…” she thought. “I can’t--”
Her knees were shaking; she sat down again. And presently the front
door opened and Uncle Peter re-entered, dapper and cheerful.
“Was there an accident?” she cried.
“Accident?” he repeated, staring at her. “No. What made you think
that?”
“I thought I saw…”
“Why, it was just a fellow looking for a room,” he said. “You know,
this place used to be a hotel, and people still come now and then.”
Very cheerful and reassuring, Uncle Peter was. But on his cheek and on
his shirt-front were two black smudges. Very like coal-dust. Very like
the smudge one might get in a cellar. Smudges such as one might get in
going down to turn off the current.
“I’m going,” she thought. “I’m going to leave here to-morrow, if I
have to walk to New York. Perhaps it’s all--imagination--but I--don’t
like to imagine things like that.”
Chapter Four.
Di Makes a Promise
No cousin Miles appeared that night. She and Aunt Emma and Uncle Peter
sat down to dinner by themselves; a very poor and insufficient dinner,
and Wren waited upon them. There was little conversation; Aunt Emma
seemed distrait, and directly they had finished she said “good-night”
and went upstairs.
“What about a little game of cards?” asked Uncle Peter. “I’ll show you
how to play Russian Bank, Diana.”
She had nothing to read and no desire to spend the evening shut up in
her room, so she accepted willingly. But first she went upstairs,
filled in the blank in Mrs. Frick’s letter with the address, put the
tiny watch into the envelope, sealed it and slipped it under a corner
of the bureau-scarf. Then she returned to Uncle Peter. They sat in the
lounge and played; they were both cheerful and good-humored. But all
the time Di was thinking to herself:
“To-morrow evening, I shan’t be here. This is the end.”
It was not long before Uncle Peter began to yawn, and to become
absent-minded, and when Di said she thought she would go to bed, he
sprang up with alacrity.
“I like to get up early,” he explained. “Like to get out while the dew
is on the grass, this time o’ year. Used to ride before breakfast,
when I had a horse.”
He sighed and she glanced at him, baffled. Was he really a simple and
kindly man--or wily and evil?
He made no offer to go upstairs with her, but stood at the foot of the
stairs until she had reached the top.
“Night!” he called. “Sleep well!”
She locked her door and sat down, with the torch handy. What if he had
run down in the cellar and turned out the lights? That might have been
nothing but rather a childish retaliation because she had run away.
Very well; that might be that. But what about those two men she had
caught a glimpse of carrying another between them?
“I don’t know!” she cried to herself. “And I don’t care! I’m tired of
all this! I’m going away.”
Then she remembered the letter, and raised the bureau-scarf. It was
gone.
“It doesn’t matter,” she thought. “I don’t care what’s happened to
it.”
She undressed then and got into bed, and fell asleep at once; slept
profoundly all night. When she awoke the sun was up, shining into the
room, it was a clear, gay morning. But she did not feel gay. On the
contrary. Whatever dreams she had had were utterly forgotten, yet some
faint, sorrowful impression remained.
She got up reluctantly, went to the nearest bathroom for a cold dip,
and dressed.
“I don’t know what excuse I can possibly make,” she thought. “Or how I
can get to New York, or what I’ll do there. But I’m going. After I’ve
had some breakfast, I’ll be able to think of a way.”
Pale, unusually serious, she went down the stairs. And there in the
lounge she saw a stranger, a tall, fair-haired young man, sitting
stretched out in an armchair, and smoking a cigarette. When he caught
sight of her, he rose.
“Good God!” he said, staring at her. “You’re not this Diana, are you?”
“That’s me!” she answered. “Are you Miles?”
He held out his hand, and when she gave him hers, he kept it in a firm
clasp.
“I thought you were going to be repulsive,” he said. “I mean, they
told me to come out here and meet a cousin who was helping Aunt Emma
with her damned work. So I thought horn-rimmed spectacles--_you_
know--one of these _nice_ girls.”
She liked him at once; she felt perfectly at home with him. His young
face was a little haggard, his blue eyes looked tired, but there was
about him a debonair good humor that immediately attracted her.
“When did you get here?” she asked, trying to pull away her hand.
“This morning,” he answered and held her hand still tighter.
A silent struggle ensued, in the course of which she freed herself.
“You must have got up pretty early,” she observed.
“Doesn’t necessarily follow,” he said. “Perhaps I just _stayed_ up.”
She could believe that; there were unmistakable marks of dissipation
in his handsome face, and she was sorry.
“You’re not a scientist, are you?” he asked.
“Mercy, no!”
“Then what are you, when you’re not here?”
“I was a sort of secretary,” she answered, “to Mrs. Herbert--”
“Not Angelina?”
“Yes!” she said, eagerly. “Do you know her?”
“I know the fellow she’s just married. Porter Blessington.”
He knew these people she knew, and they entered upon one of those
absurdly inane yet somehow fascinating conversations: “Do you know
so-and-so? Oh, and do you know Mrs. This, or Mrs. That?”
His acquaintance was very large, and Di was able to place him pretty
well. She had met other young men like him in Angelina’s house,
well-dressed, good dancers, remarkably good bridge-players, agreeable
and amusing fellows, who get plenty of invitations for dinners, dances
and week-ends. But who had no austere scruples. She did not conceive
any great respect for her cousin Miles, but she liked him, and it was
a pleasure even to hear the names of Angelina’s friends, to be
reminded of those glittering, hurried days.
“Did you ever meet--?” she was beginning when Aunt Emma appeared. She
was wearing a spotless white overall, and white shoes and stockings;
everything about her was fresh and neat and of a simple dignity. Her
plump face, framed by her short gray hair, was rosy and wholesome, and
very kindly in its expression this morning.
“Good-morning, Diana!” she said. “Did you sleep well? We’ll have
breakfast now, Miles--”
“No, thanks!” he said. “I don’t feel much like breakfast.”
“Go and take a little walk,” said she, and led the way to the
dining-room, where she rang for Wren.
“She’s evidently seen Miles before this morning,” thought Di. “Could
it--? Oh, I hope not!”
Could it have been Miles who had been carried into the house last
night?
“I’m an early riser,” said Aunt Emma. “I’ve had my breakfast, long
ago. But I’ll sit with you, and have another cup of coffee… It
occurred to me that it might be advisable to talk to you a little
about your Uncle Rufus’s work. You seemed to find his book--difficult.
So I propose to give you an elementary survey.”
She lit a cigarette, and leaning back in her chair, began to talk. And
then for the first time, Diana began to understand Uncle Peter’s
description of his sister as a “remarkable woman.” All the time the
girl was eating, her aunt went on, in her pleasant, assured voice; she
never once hesitated for a word, she made of a very dry subject a
thing of interest, by her perfect clarity. She had the instinct of the
born teacher; she _knew_, without asking, just what needed explaining,
what needed emphasizing, just what words to use.
“Now!” she said. “Is it clearer?”
“Much!” said Di, respectfully.
“I suggest,” said Aunt Emma, “that you spend the morning looking over
your Uncle Rufus’s book again. He will appreciate it, if you are able
to talk to him intelligently about it.”
Di followed her aunt upstairs, with a feeling of remorse. For she did
not intend ever to see Uncle Rufus, ever to talk about his boring
work, or even to think of it again, once she got away. She took the
hateful volume which Aunt Emma handed to her, and sat down alone, at
Aunt Emma’s desk.
“I shouldn’t have let her take all that trouble, explaining,” she
thought. “The least I can do now is to make an effort. It’ll probably
do me good.”
But she could not keep her mind on the book.
“I need exercise,” she thought, “Well, I’ll get plenty when I start
looking for a job! But I wonder… I wonder if, after all, I hadn’t
better wait for a day or two, and just see if I get an answer from
Mrs. Frick. Then I shouldn’t have to borrow any money.”
It was Miles who had made this change in her mood. His coming had
altered everything; the atmosphere of the house was different now, not
lonely and “queer,” but cheerful and interesting. She could smile now
at her fears of last night. What had happened? Nothing at all!
It was a very, very long morning. Once she opened the door cautiously;
the red-carpeted corridor was empty, the sun shining in at the window.
She came out, unreasonably nervous, as if she were committing some
treachery, and went to her own room. The bed had been made; everything
was neat and tranquil. She darted back to Aunt Emma’s room, and took
up the book once more, with a sigh.
At one o’clock, Uncle Peter knocked at the door.
“Ready for lunch?” he asked.
She was something more than ready; she was very hungry. There had not
been one good, solid meal since she had come here. She joined her
uncle promptly, and they went toward the stairs. Hearing her aunt’s
voice below, Di looked down, saw her in the lounge, standing very
straight, hands clasped behind her back, a calm, ironic smile on her
lips. Before her stood Miles, and the sight of him startled the girl.
What was that expression he wore, resentment, shame, bitterness?
“And if you play the fool--” Aunt Emma was saying.
Uncle Peter coughed, and she looked up and saw them. There was no
change in her calm, ironic smile, but there was a great change in
Miles. As she reached the foot of the stairs, he came toward Di with
an eager air of pleasure. And she felt quite sure that the eagerness
was forced and insincere.
The lunch was quite as poor as all the other meals she had had here.
Aunt Emma was silent, in her somewhat majestic fashion, as if no one
here were interesting to her; Uncle Peter was absent-minded, drumming
on the table with his fingers. Wren moved about, forlorn and meek as
usual. And Miles kept on with that strained cheerfulness. She played
up to him as well as she could, because she was sorry for him.
“See here!” he said, abruptly. “Like to take a drive this afternoon,
Diana?”
“Oh!” she began, and stopped, glancing toward her aunt. “I’m hoping I
can help Aunt Emma--”
“There’s nothing of vital importance,” said Aunt Emma. “A few hours in
the open air will be good for you.”
Miles pushed back his chair and rose.
“All right! Get your hat and coat, and I’ll bring the car around.”
She ran up the stairs, very pleased at the prospect of getting out,
and was down again in five minutes. The car was standing before the
house, the same car in which Uncle Peter had driven her down.
“You didn’t waste any time!” she said.
“I want to get away from this damned house!” he said, vehemently. “Hop
in!”
“I’d like to stop somewhere and telephone--”
“All right!” he interrupted. “Get in!”
As soon as she was seated, he started the car with a jerk; before they
were out of sight of the house she realized that he was a poor driver,
nervous and careless.
“Don’t go so fast!” she protested.
He went down the hill and turned the corner in a way that made her
gasp.
“I really don’t enjoy this!” she said.
“Sorry!” he said, and slowed down a little. “Only, I’m so dam’
worried… Lord! You’d think I was a criminal--simply because I’m not
much good at business. I’ll admit I’m a dud at money-making, but
that’s no _crime_, is it?”
“Oh, dear!” thought Di. “That’s so awfully like poor Father!”
“It’s Uncle Rufus’s fault,” he went on. “He’s been hell-bent on making
a satisfactory heir out of me. He’s made me try all the things that
appeal to _him_--wanted me to be a chemist, and then a lawyer--and now
it’s this business. Never troubled to find out what _I’d_ like.”
“What would you like to be?” she asked.
“I’ll never be anything now--but a failure,” said Miles.
Her father had used to talk in that same way, determined to be a
failure; taking a sort of bitter pride in it, as if he were revenging
himself upon an unworthy universe. And because she had loved her
father, in spite of his weaknesses, she made allowances now for Miles.
“I think people can be pretty much what they want,” she said.
“All right!” said Miles. “I want to be a millionaire. Now, while I’m
young.”
“You’ll be young for quite a while longer.”
“I’m twenty-seven,” he said. “And a rotten failure. There’s not one
living soul who cares a tinker’s dam’ about me.”
“Your father--” she suggested.
“My father’s a--grasshopper!” said Miles.
She tried not to laugh, but her lip trembled with suppressed mirth,
and presently he laughed himself.
“Well, haven’t you noticed it?” he demanded. “The way he jumps around,
so busy, doing nothing. He’s like the grasshopper in the fable, too;
he hasn’t put anything away for the Winter.”
“I suppose Aunt Emma’s the industrious ant,” said Di.
“Not she!” said Miles. “Ants work for the good of the whole crowd, and
she doesn’t give a hoot for anyone or anything but her own affairs.”
“I don’t know…” Di protested. “Look at those children--”
“I don’t want to look at them,” said Miles. “I saw them once, five
years ago, and that was enough.”
“Five years ago! They must have been babies then--”
“No, they weren’t. I never know what size kids are supposed to be, but
I should think they were six or seven then. Lord! I came in
unexpectedly and there they were, at the table, with Aunt Emma. They
were imitating her. Every time she’d lift her spoon, they’d do the
same, and slobber the soup, or whatever it was, all down their
dresses. It was a beastly sight.”
“But don’t you think it’s a fine thing for her to try and help them?”
“No,” said Miles. “Naturally I don’t. Not when she’s so damned
heartless to me. If she can get Uncle Rufus’s money, I’ll never see a
penny of it. Only, I don’t think she will get it. She may get on very
well with idiots, but she doesn’t know how to manage a man. You’ll see
for yourself to-night--”
“To-night?”
“Didn’t they tell you he’s coming to-night?”
“No,” she answered, startled. She remembered that only this morning
she had confidently thought she would never see Uncle Rufus. Last
evening she had believed to be her last evening in that house. Yet
here she was.
Once more the very unpleasant notion assailed her that she was in a
net, entangled there by a hundred invisible threads; as long as she
was passive, she could feel herself free, but when she tried to move,
the threads tightened.
“Miles!” she said, with a sort of haste. “I want to telephone. Stop
somewhere, will you?”
“All right!” he said. “On the way back.”
He turned up a lane, and stopped the car by the roadside.
“Uncle Rufus comes out every few months,” he said, “to see if anyone’s
improved enough for him to alter his will. At present, everything’s to
go to some society he belongs to. He’s the world’s worst. He hasn’t a
friend on earth. Of course, the idea is, that you’ll make a hit with
him--”
“I?”
“He liked your mother,” said Miles.
Her heart contracted, at the mention of that name.
“Did you ever see my mother, Miles?” she asked.
“When I was a kid. I don’t remember very well, but I think she was
like you.”
A warm sense of kinship filled her; here was one of her own people,
her cousin, who had seen her mother. She turned toward him, eagerly.
And was disconcerted to see him taking a flask out of his overcoat
pocket.
“Have a spot?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” she said.
She did not consider herself responsible for the conduct of other
people, she had never imagined herself as anyone’s guiding star or
guardian angel, and it would have seemed to her only offensive and
meddlesome to remonstrate with him. But she was sorry, very sorry.
“You ought to make a hit with the old boy,” he said. “Or with anyone.
You’re the prettiest, sweetest girl I ever saw.”
“Ah! You don’t know me!” said Di. “Let’s get along now, Miles, so that
I can telephone.”
He took a second drink and then caught her hand.
“Diana!” he said. “The first moment I saw you--”
“Please, Miles, don’t spoil everything!” she said, in distress.
Then he grew angry and bitter.
“You’re like everyone else,” he said. “Simply because I don’t make
money--”
“All right!” said Di. “Let’s not argue now. Let’s get along--”
Her self-control, her coolness, increased his anger. He accused her of
despising him, of having heard and believed false reports of him from
Aunt Emma.
“You won’t even listen to me!” he said. “You won’t even give me a
chance!”
“I can’t help listening to you,” said Di.
She had been through scenes like this before, with her father. He had
used to tell her that she was “heartless,” “unnatural,” “selfish,”
then, quite suddenly, he would become remorseful, and tell her she was
a “little angel.”
“Diana!” he cried, “I’ve talked like a brute to you. Can you forgive
me?”
“Of course!” she said. “Just forget about it.”
But that tone did not satisfy him. He wanted something more dramatic,
and she was quietly determined to keep to a matter-of-fact good humor.
“Diana!” he said. “I’m just about at the end of my tether. Some day
you’ll know…”
Her father had used to say: “Some day, when I’ve gone, you’ll
realize--”
A sorrowful weariness overcame her. She was so tired of this, so sorry
for Miles, his weakness, his fatal self-pity. And she felt that she
must bear with him, as he had with her father.
“Diana, you don’t know what a rotten time I’ve had!” he said.
And he told her a great many of his latest troubles. He was in debt up
to his ears, his creditors were pressing him, he couldn’t find a job
worth taking; his health was impaired. She listened with kindly
patience, but she could think of nothing helpful to say, only:
“I’m awfully sorry, Miles.”
At last he talked himself out, and grew sad and resigned. He started
the car and turned home; all the way he was respectful, courteous,
almost humble in his anxiety to please her, and she responded
good-humoredly, but with an effort. She was glad to see a light in an
upper window of The Châlet, glad even to get back there.
He stopped the car, and helped her out, as if she were a princess.
“_Sure_ you’re not angry, dear?” he asked.
In the dusk his face looked very pale, very young and haggard. She
could think now that Miles was a tragic figure.
“Very sure!” she said, and gave his hand a friendly squeeze.
It was not until then that she remembered the telephone-call she had
wanted to make.
“Well, to-morrow, then!” she thought, with a sigh. “I wonder if Wren
has posted that letter? If he has, I might get an answer to-morrow.”
She pushed open the front door and entered the lounge; it was dark in
there, not with the blackness of night, but filled with twilight
shadows; the willow chairs creaked, as if unseen occupants were
stirring uneasily. And she did not like this shadowy, rustling place.
A crack of light shone through the sliding-doors into the dining-room
and she thought she heard someone moving in there.
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t go and ask Wren if he’s posted the
letter,” she thought. “There’s no reason for all this caution and
secrecy.”
How did she know there wasn’t any reason for it? In this dim silence
it was easy to believe that there might be many reasons…
“Oh, nonsense!” she said, aloud, and crossed to the doors. But they
would not open. She pushed at them with all her might, filled with a
great desire to get into that lighted room. Behind her in the lounge a
chair creaked loudly; too loudly; she heard something like a stifled
sigh.
“Wren!” she called.
From the dining-room came a distorted echo of her own voice.
“’En! ’En!”
Shambling steps were coming toward the door, in there. She sprang
back, groped for a lamp, and pulled the chain. As the light came on,
she gave a shaky sigh of relief. Of course there was no one here…
But as she turned her head, she saw, in a corner, a strange huddled
little figure, staring at her.
She stared back, speechless. It was a man with a checked cap pulled
far down on his forehead, and wearing an overcoat and muffler. He had
drawn up two of the wing-chairs before him, so that his corner was a
sort of cage, and there he sat staring at her.
“Who--are you?” she asked, unsteadily.
“You must be Diana,” he said. “You’re very nervous, it seems to me.
I’m your father’s uncle. You’re very nervous. I don’t understand that,
and I don’t like it. You’re young; you look healthy. Why should you be
nervous--if you have a good conscience?”
“I’m not nervous,” she said, briefly.
“You are,” he said. “You were in a panic, trying to open that door.”
There was something in his voice and manner which roused in the
good-tempered Diana an irritability hitherto unknown to her.
“I suppose I felt that there was someone in here,” she said. “It’s
enough to make anyone nervous.”
“No, it’s not,” said he. “When I was your age, nothing could upset my
nerves. That was because I was moderate in eating and drinking, and
took plenty of exercise. _You_ smoke yourself silly with cigarettes
and ruin your digestion with cocktails and dance all night--”
“I do not!” said Di, indignantly.
“What do you do, then?”
“It’s impossible to answer--a question like that.”
“Stand nearer the lamp,” he commanded. “Well, you don’t look like your
father. You’re like your mother’s people. Good, sound stock. Hm… Like
your mother…”