“Yes…” he said. “She was a good girl. A kind, good girl. I was fond of
her.”
She was silent, not able to speak just then.
“She was kind to me,” he went on. “Not like the rest of ’em… Come
nearer!”
She approached, stood before him, looking down at him. But, in his
corner, with his cap pulled over his brow, she could see little of his
face.
“I’m alone,” he said. “All alone. I’m old, and I’m rich. Everyone
wants me to die, so that they can get my money. There isn’t a soul in
this house who doesn’t want to see me dead.”
“Oh, no!” she protested, dismayed.
“It’s true, my girl,” he said, grimly. “Every one of ’em. I come here,
from time to time, always looking to see if I can find one trace of
the old family virtues. But I never do. They’re like a pack of wolves.
I keep on coming, because they’re the only living relations I have.
But I take my precautions!”
She did not quite understand him.
“I don’t--” she began.
“I take my precautions!” he repeated. “I don’t trust one of ’em. There
isn’t one of ’em I’d like to meet on the stairs in the dark, if I had
any money in my pocket.”
“Oh, don’t!” she cried, appalled. “Don’t think things like that!”
He chuckled, then grew somber.
“See here, my girl!” he said. “I’m going to stay here a week. You be
my ally for this week, and you won’t regret it.”
“I’m ever so sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid--”
“Yes, you will!” he whispered. “You’re your mother’s daughter. You
won’t desert an old man. Not _now_. Not _now_. _Don’t you feel it?_”
“Feel--what?” she faltered.
“Death,” he said. “It’s very near.”
Her healthy young instinct revolted against this.
“I certainly don’t!” she said, sturdily. “I wish you--”
“But you’ll stay?” he persisted, still whispering. “You’re young. You
can spare one week. You’ll be well rewarded. One week, that’s all.”
She hesitated, doubtful and unhappy. The thought of another week in
this house was intolerable, yet still more intolerable was the idea of
refusing this miserable, futile old creature.
“Miles said he hadn’t a friend in the world,” she thought. “That’s a
horrible thing…”
“Your mother was a kind, good girl--” he said.
“All right, I’ll stay,” she said, quickly.
Chapter Five.
Mrs. Frick’s Gentleman
It was raining the next morning, and as Di awoke, she lay in bed,
looking out at the gray sky, depressed and disheartened as she had
never been before in her life.
“Only seven days more!” she told herself. “Perhaps only six--if he
counts yesterday. I can certainly stand it for that long.”
And then what? To go back to New York and look for a job, probably an
ill-paid and uncertain one. She couldn’t expect to find another
Angelina--and who else would particularly appreciate her amateurish
services? She saw herself going from one job to another, always
worried about money, growing older and lonelier and shabbier…
“What’s the matter with me?” she thought, half-frightened by this
mood. “I’m only twenty-three. I needn’t begin to despair. Angelina
will help me to find something, when she comes back from her
honeymoon.”
She found it curiously difficult to believe in Angelina just now;
above all to believe in Angelina’s often-expressed friendship for
herself.
“She doesn’t really care about me,” she thought. “If she did, she
couldn’t have gone off like that. She’s utterly forgotten me by this
time. There’s no one but Mrs. Frick. And even she probably won’t
answer my letter.”
She sprang out of bed.
“This won’t do,” she said to herself. “That’s like Miles. I _won’t_ be
sorry for myself. I never was before. It’s this household. They’re
not--very cheery.”
She put on a dressing-gown and went down to the nearest bathroom for a
cold plunge. But even that did not restore her usual debonair courage.
The house was so still, there were none of those pleasant
early-morning sounds that one hears in other houses; nothing but the
rain driving against the windows. She imagined the meek and miserable
Wren, preparing a meager breakfast downstairs…
“I haven’t had one decent meal since I got here,” she thought.
She tried to dismiss that idea, but without success; she could not
banish the memory of the exquisite coffee made by Angelina’s French
cook, the hot rolls and fresh butter, grilled shad-roe and bacon, or a
bit of sole with lemon… On a gray morning like this, there would have
been a fire in the dining-room; Angelina, of course, would have been
still asleep, and Di alone at the table, with a beautiful breakfast
before her. And the whole house filled as usual with that atmosphere
of expectation and haste and gayety; the telephone ringing, the maid--
“Perhaps I’ll get a letter from Mrs. Frick this morning,” thought Di.
Not only did she want the money, but she wanted a letter, a friendly
word from Mrs. Frick, from anyone.
She dressed and went downstairs. The lounge was empty; she went into
the dining-room, and saw the one little table covered with a coarse
white cloth. She crossed to the swing-door by which she had seen Wren
pass in and out, pushed it open, found herself in a pantry, went
through that and found the kitchen.
Wren was standing at the sink; above him was a window with a broken
pane through which the rain was blowing in; at his feet was a litter
of tin cans and papers and potato peelings; the room was altogether
the dirtiest, most dismal and repellant she had ever seen.
“Good-morning!” she said.
He jumped violently.
“Good-morning, Miss,” he said.
“Did you manage to get a chance to post my letter?” she asked.
“Yes, Miss. The night you gave it to me.”
“Then perhaps--” she said. “Has the mail come this morning?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Nothing for me?”
“No, Miss.”
“Is there another delivery?”
“Yes, Miss, about four o’clock.” He looked at her with an anxious
smile. “If you’ll wait in the lounge--I’ll have your breakfast ready
in a moment, Miss.”
“Oh, thanks!” she said, and returning to the lounge, walked up and
down restlessly. It was not appetizing, to contemplate anything from
that kitchen. And no letter.
“It’ll come in the four o’clock delivery,” she told herself.
Then she noticed that the telephone which had stood on the desk was
gone.
“Suppose a letter _had_ come and I--didn’t get it?” she thought.
It was a mistake to think of things like that; she opened the front
door and stepped out on the covered porch, with the instinct to seek
in the open air a solace for her vague fears and doubts. From the
sodden ground, from the woods, came the fresh, cool fragrance of
Spring; the sky was gray, but it was not sad out here. She drew in a
deep breath, and began to reason with herself.
“I’ve promised to stay a week,” she thought. “And I’ve got to stop
being so morbid and silly. There’s nothing--”
“Breakfast, Miss,” said Wren, from the doorway.
She went into the dining-room, and tears came to her eyes at the sight
of what he had done. There was a clean cloth on the table, and in the
center a vase holding two feeble violets; her napkin was folded
fan-shape and standing in a glass; there was a half-orange, carefully
cut, in a chipped saucer.
“How nice!” she cried. “How--pretty everything looks! How--nice!”
His dismal face brightened.
“Thank you, Miss!” he said. “It’s a pleasure to do anything at all for
you, Miss.”
Just as she had finished, Aunt Emma appeared.
“Do you care to work a little this morning?” she asked, dryly.
“Glad to!” said Diana, and they went upstairs together.
“Can you take dictation?” asked Aunt Emma.
“Not in shorthand. But I can manage pretty well in longhand, if you
don’t go too fast.”
“I shan’t go too fast,” said Aunt Emma, with a chilly smile.
She was not over-friendly this morning; indeed, the girl perceived in
her something that would have been irritability in one less
self-controlled. She lit a cigarette and began to dictate, slowly,
with long pauses. Her subject was “suggestibility” and her theory was
unpleasant. She spoke of the “average” human being, and Di felt
completely average herself. This average human being, said Aunt Emma,
does not act from instinct, as is popularly believed.
“His actions,” said Aunt Emma, “are almost always the result of
suggestion from a superior mind. He will, under the influence of
suggestion, act in a manner directly opposed to his natural instinct.
This was very noticeable during the late War, when the normal instinct
of self-preservation was entirely overcome by the insistent suggestion
of the leaders in various countries.”
“But,” said Di, “perhaps war’s just another instinct. Animals fight--”
“An animal--” said Aunt Emma, “fights to defend itself or to remove a
rival. I have not yet seen an animal fighting for the convenience of
another animal. To continue: The profound instinct of woman for
maternity is diverted, and in many cases, perverted, by the
suggestion--”
She went on, tranquilly analyzing the utter idiocy and helplessness of
that average human being.
“By a proper use of suggestion,” she said, “a superior mind can, with
very little effort, exercise complete dominance over an unlimited
number of average minds.”
“Do you mean--” said Di, apologetically, “that you can make other
people do things--?”
“I can,” said Aunt Emma, “I do.”
“Not me!” thought Di.
“Yes!” said Aunt Emma, as if the girl had spoken aloud. “You too.”
“Please just try! I do want to see how you do it!”
“My dear child,” said Aunt Emma, “naturally it is essential that you
should not know what I want you to do. You must always be persuaded to
imagine that you are acting in your own best interests.”
“Have you been making me do things since I’ve been here?”
“But what should I particularly want you to do?” said Aunt Emma,
blandly. “I hadn’t considered my words as having any personal
applications. They are merely notes, to be worked later into a little
article.”
Diana said no more, and they worked together until lunch time. No one
else appeared at the table but Di and Aunt Emma, but when they had
finished, and went into the lounge, Uncle Rufus was coming slowly down
the stairs. He was still wearing the checked cap, the overcoat and
muffler.
“Good-morning!” said Di. “Are you going out?”
“No!” he said, so sharply as to startle her. “I want to speak to you,
when your aunt is out of the way.”
Aunt Emma paid no attention to this; she lit a cigarette, and went
over to the door and opened it. A current of cool, sweet air blew in,
stirring her gray hair.
“The rain is over,” she remarked, and stood there, smoking in calm
satisfaction, until her cigarette was finished.
“Do you want me to go on, Aunt Emma?” asked Di.
“_I_ want you here!” said Uncle Rufus.
“_Je vous en fais cadeau_,” said Aunt Emma, almost gayly, and went up
the stairs.
Uncle Rufus settled himself back in his chair.
“Now, see here, my girl!” he began. “Come nearer! There! Now I want
you to know that it’ll be well worth your while to look after me.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that!” she protested. “I’ll be glad to
keep you company, but I don’t _want_ anything for it.”
He leaned forward and stared at her. She had not yet had a good look
at his face, and even now she saw only his piercing eyes under bushy
eyebrows.
“I can’t believe that!” he said.
“Please don’t mind my saying it--but don’t you think it’s a mistake to
be so--suspicious?”
He gave a thin, little laugh.
“Suspicious?” he said. “Look here! Put your hand on this cap.”
She touched it, and found it stuffed with some sort of wadding. Then
he began to unwind his muffler, the length of which surprised her; it
went round his neck three times.
“See?” he said.
“But I don’t--”
“Hard for anyone to choke me with this on,” he said, re-winding the
muffler about his neck. “And this cap would considerably deaden the
force of a blow on the head.”
“Oh! You’re mistaken!” she cried. “Nobody--”
“You don’t know ’em,” said he. “And I do. I always carry a good bit of
money with me, in case I should suddenly fall ill. Might not be able
to speak--but my money’d speak for me. I shouldn’t be carted off to
die in a public ward with _that_ in my pocket. So far, my loving
family here have been considerate because they’re hoping I’ll change
my will and leave ’em something. But if ever they felt _sure_ I
wouldn’t do that, then they’d get rid of me, for the sake of what’s in
my pocket.”
“But if you think such horrible things, why do you come here?”
“I’m old,” he said. “I haven’t anyone. When I was young, I didn’t
care. I didn’t want anyone. But now I’m old. I need someone!” He
caught her sleeve. “I want to trust someone!” he cried. “And I can’t!
If I could trust _you_--if I thought you’d stand by me--I’d leave it
all to you! All that money!”
“But I don’t want it, Uncle Rufus,” she began, when he collapsed, sank
down in his chair as if she had dealt him a cruel blow.
“Don’t--want it!” he whispered. “All that money…?”
“I didn’t mean to be rude or ungrateful,” she said, hastily. “It’s
very kind of you. I do appreciate it. Only, I mean--you don’t have to
offer me that. I’ll be glad to do what I can for you without--that.”
“No,” he said. “Nobody gives something for nothing.”
“Lots of people do. Haven’t you ever met any--ordinary people, who
were just kind and decent?”
“Nobody’s kind and decent,” said Uncle Rufus.
She fell silent after that, sitting near him, lost in her own
thoughts.
“It’s a sort of insanity,” she thought, “to feel as he does. How
horrible! How pitiful!”
She glanced at him, saw him with his chin sunk on his chest, a
grotesque bundle of clothes.
“I wonder why he cares,” she reflected. “If I thought the world was
like that, I’d be obliged to anyone for putting me out of it.”
The loud twittering of a sparrow made her turn to the window; the sun
had come out now, warm and bright.
“Wouldn’t you like to come out and get some fresh air?” she asked, but
he did not answer.
She was longing herself to get out into that gay world, where the rain
drops glittered and the sparrows chirped.
“I haven’t had any exercise since I came here,” she observed,
apologetically.
Still he did not answer, and drawing nearer, she stooped and looked at
him. Under the shadow of the cap-brim, she saw that his eyes were
closed. She opened the front door again and went out on the porch, sat
down on the built-in bench there, with a sigh.
“I wonder where Miles is!” she thought. “This would be such a perfect
afternoon for a walk. And Uncle Peter--”
“Miss!” whispered a voice behind her, and turning, she saw Wren
standing on the grass below the porch.
“Miss!” he said, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “There’s a
gentleman to see you!”
“A gentleman?”
“Excuse me, Miss, but--” He glanced significantly at the open door.
“Where is he?”
“He’s just down the hill, Miss. There’s a clearing there, and I
thought--perhaps you’d prefer to speak to him there.”
“But who is he?” she asked, very much interested.
“He didn’t mention his name, Miss. I saw him coming up the hill, and I
stepped out, to tell him he was on private property, and he said he
was coming to see you, Miss. So I--said I’d fetch you.”
“But nobody knows I’m here.”
“Excuse me, Miss, but didn’t you write a letter?”
Could Mrs. Frick have sent someone, in answer to that letter?
“Excuse me, Miss!” said Wren, in a trembling voice. “Why don’t you
_go_, Miss? At once?”
She looked at him in surprise, and the thought occurred to her that he
was curiously anxious for her to go meet this stranger.
“Lord!” she said to herself, impatiently. “I’m getting as bad as Uncle
Rufus. What does it matter who he is or what he wants? It’s broad
daylight, and I’m capable of looking after myself.”
So she rose.
“I’ll go and see what he wants,” she said. “Thank you, Wren.”
She set off in the direction Wren had indicated, round the side of the
house to where a faint path began, among the trees. The ground was
still sodden, but the sun was warm; she went leisurely, partly because
she was happy to be out alone on this sweet Spring day, and partly
because she felt half-ashamed of her eagerness to see Mrs. Frick’s
gentleman. Any message, any contact with the world outside The Châlet
was so welcome to her.
Halfway down the hill she perceived the pleasant aroma of a pipe; she
went almost noiselessly over the ground carpeted with leaf-mould and
pine-needles, and she had a chance to observe the stranger before he
saw her.
Only, he wasn’t a stranger; she had seen that neat, dark young man
somewhere before. She stared at him with a frown. He was sitting on a
fallen log, in a little clearing, smoking a pipe, and he was quieter
than anyone else she had ever noticed. His lean, sunburnt hands rested
on his knees, his swarthy, handsome face was impassive, yet, in his
immobility, he was conveying an odd impression of alertness.
“Where have I seen him--?” she thought.
He glanced up then; he could not possibly see her through the trees,
yet he was looking directly at her. He rose to his feet and waited, as
she came on down the steep hillside.
“Good-afternoon,” he said, in a stiff, unsmiling way.
“Good-afternoon,” she answered, and waited for him to go on. But he
turned away to knock out his pipe.
“Very kind of you to come,” he said. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but
your man advised me not to go up to the house.”
She fancied from his stiff and correct manner, that he disapproved of
this, and she answered, with dignity.
“Yes. They’re--all resting…”
“I see!” he said, and suddenly his dark face was lighted by a
singularly vivid smile.
“I know!” she cried. “I knew I’d seen you! It was outside Angelina’s
house--Mrs. Herbert’s house--the day I left!”
He brought out a card from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Mr. James Fennel.”
“You know Angelina, don’t you?” she went on, very pleased. “I remember
you said--”
“Er--yes,” he said.
“Have you heard from her?”
“No,” he said, briefly. “I haven’t.”
“How did she know where I was?”
“I don’t suppose she does know,” he answered, with an unmistakable air
of annoyance.
Di looked at him, startled and a little angry at his manner.
“Then how did you happen to come?” she asked.
“Mrs. Frick sent me--with a note,” he said, and from his waistcoat
pocket took out an envelope.
“But I don’t see--!” she cried, more and more surprised.
The envelope was certainly addressed to herself; she turned it over,
as if seeking for mystic information. And he volunteered no
information whatever, only stood there, very erect, like a soldier at
attention.
“It’s very nice of you--” she said, dubiously.
“Oh, not at all!” said he.
There was a considerable silence.
“Well, thank you!” she said. “I won’t keep you--”
“Wait a moment, please!” he interrupted. “Mrs. Frick had some idea
that things were not altogether pleasant for you here. She--if they’re
not… There’s a train at 5.08.”
She could only stare at him.
“If you’d care to take that train,” he said. “I’ll come up to the
house with you, and wait while you pack.”
“But--thanks ever so much,” she said, “but I’ve promised my uncle I’d
stay the week out.”
“Look here!” said Fennel. “You look--rotten. Tell them I’ve brought an
urgent message--”
“I’d be ashamed to do that,” she said. “I promised to stay, and I’ll
have to. But--”
“But you’re unhappy here,” he said. “And you’re worried.”
“I am--a little,” she admitted. “But I think it’s nothing but--nerves.
Nothing could possibly happen to me--”
“Don’t say that,” he interrupted, curtly. “You don’t know!”
“But who on earth would want to interfere with me? I haven’t a penny
and I don’t know any secrets. I’m absolutely unimportant.”
“You’re not!” said Fennel.
She looked at him; their eyes met, and she smiled, her nonchalant and
doubtful little smile. Not yet in her life she had been of supreme
importance to anyone. People had liked her and had often been kind to
her; she had no grudge against the world. But she had never counted
for much. Her father no doubt had loved her, and had made her
childhood a sorry and anxious time and had died making no provision
for her. Angelina had been fond of her and had gone off and forgotten
her. She was not even very important to herself; she didn’t care much
what happened.
She stood where the sun shone on her bare head, still with that little
careless smile. But he did not smile at all; he looked at her with a
sort of cold anger.
“I’ve come--” he said, when a sound from above made her turn.
“It’s Uncle Rufus!” she cried.
The old man was scrambling down the hill-side, a ridiculous figure in
his voluminous overcoat and the cap pulled over his eyes; he slipped
and stumbled as he came, and clutched at the trees for support.
Diana ran to help him.
“Uncle Rufus!” she said, “I didn’t--”
He struck out at her blindly.
“No!” he cried. “No! You’ve betrayed me! you’re false and lying like
the rest--”
“Look here!” interposed Fennel.
“Hold your tongue!” cried the old man. “And get out!”
He stood with his arm about a tree, breathing fast, glaring at them
both with savage malignancy.
“I went to sleep,” he said to Di, “because I trusted you.”
“But I only went out for a moment, Uncle Rufus,” she said, so pitying
him for his futile and distorted anger, more futile than ever out
here, under the Spring sky. “There’s no harm done. Let’s--”
“I was asleep--and helpless!” he said. “I trusted you--and you ran
away. Ran out to meet your sweetheart--like a little servant-wench--”
“Look here!” said Fennel again.
The old man turned on him with a snarl. He tried to speak but no words
came. He lifted his arm, as if to hurl a curse, and lurched forward,
tottered a few steps, and fell forward on his face. He lay as still as
if he were a bundle of rags.
Chapter Six.
A Disappearance
Fennel went down on his knees, turned the old man over, unbuttoned his
overcoat, jacket and waistcoat and felt his heart.
“Is he dead?” asked Diana, in a whisper.
“No…” said Fennel. “But--” He hesitated. “We’d better get him up to
the house as soon as possible.”
“We can carry him. I’ll help you.”
“No,” said Fennel. “If you’ll go on ahead, and see that things are
ready for him--and send someone back--”
She set off at once scrambling up the steep hillside, ran across the
grass to the house and flung open the front door.
“Wren!” she panted.
There was no answer, and she ran through the dining-room to the
kitchen, where she found Wren peeling potatoes.
“There’s been--an accident!” she said, breathlessly. “Old Mr.
Leonard--down there in the wood. Please go and help to carry him up to
the house.”
Wren gave her a sidelong glance, like a frightened horse and bolted
out of the room. She waited for a moment to get her breath and then
hastened up the stairs to tell her aunt. She met Wren coming down.
“I’m going, Miss!” he assured her, anxiously.
At the end of the corridor she saw her aunt come out of her room, and
lock the door behind her.
“Uncle Rufus--” the girl began.
“What man was that with you?” Aunt Emma interrupted.
Diana was a little startled.
“Fennel, his name is,” she said briefly. “Now what can I do?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said her aunt, and went past her, down the
stairs. As Diana followed her, Uncle Peter came tearing down, in his
hat and overcoat, and darted out of the door, slamming it behind him.
Aunt Emma went over to the window, and, lighting a cigarette, stood
there looking out.
“Can I--get his room ready--or something?” asked Di.
“And how do you propose to get his room ‘ready?’” asked her aunt.
“It’s been swept and dusted and the bed made. Did you contemplate
decorating it with flowers?”
“I only wanted to do something--” Di began, reddening a little under
that contemptuous tone.
“You’ve done quite enough, I should say,” observed Aunt Emma. “Ah!
There they are! Now go and open the door, and look zealous.”
Over the top of the hill came Fennel and Wren, carrying the limp
figure of the old man between them; they crossed the lawn and entered
the lounge.
“Upstairs,” said Aunt Emma, exactly as if she were speaking to
furniture-movers.
Just then a car shot past the house, and Di saw that Uncle Peter was
driving it. Aunt Emma turned away, leisurely extinguished her
cigarette, and went upstairs. And Di, feeling entirely superfluous,
followed her again.
Fennel and Wren were just laying the old man on his bed.
“Thank you!” said Aunt Emma. “Wren, go down and put on a kettle of
water to boil.”
Wren sidled out of the room at once, but Fennel stood at the bedside
looking down at the old man.
“Mr. Fennel,” said Aunt Emma, very amiably, “I don’t like to impose on
you--but our telephone is out of order, my brother has gone to fetch a
doctor, and I’ll need Wren here. If you’d be kind enough to go to the
drug-store and get a prescription made up--tell them to send it up at
once… It’s on your way to the station, so perhaps it’s not asking too
much--”
“Not at all,” said Fennel, briefly.
Aunt Emma sat down and taking a fountain pen and a note-book from her
overall pocket, wrote briskly for a moment.
“Now!” she said. “And if you’ll be kind enough to take this as quickly
as you can… Diana! You know where the linen-room is? Run and get me
four clean towels… Hurry!”
Di hastened out of the room and along the corridor. But before she
reached the linen-room, she heard Fennel coming after her. She
stopped.
“Please come again!” she said. “I haven’t had time to thank you
properly--”
He came close to her.
“See here!” he said. “I’ll be waiting for you in that same place in
that wood--at nine this evening. I’ll wait an hour, and if you don’t
come, then I’ll come here to the house for you.”
“Well… no, thanks,” she said, surprised. “You see, with Uncle Rufus
ill, I can’t--”
“Stand out of the way!” said Aunt Emma’s voice, so close that she
started. “I’ll get the towels myself, if you’re not going to help me.”
“Good afternoon!” said Fennel, curtly, and without another word or
glance, went off down the stairs.
Di opened the door of the linen-room and got down the towels from a
shelf.
“Now!” said Aunt Emma, “if you’re willing to be of any
assistance--when there’s no male spectator to appreciate it--”
“This isn’t the time to answer,” thought Di. “I’ve got to put myself
aside when Uncle Rufus is so ill.” And aloud: “What can I do?” she
asked, cheerfully.
“You can go into my room,” said Aunt Emma, “and type the short article
that you’ll find on the desk there. It must be posted to the _Medical
Journal_ to-night.”
Then there came to Di a very definite suspicion that her aunt wanted
only to get her out of the way. She had sent her brother off in the
car, Wren downstairs to the kitchen, Fennel on an errand… Fear crept
up in her heart like an icy tide.
“Good God!” cried Aunt Emma. “Can’t you do _anything_?”
“I’d--like to--stay with Uncle Rufus,” said Di, in an unsteady voice.
For she had abandoned him once, and then great disaster had happened.
And she would not abandon him again. She had promised to stand by him.
For a moment Aunt Emma looked at her, with her blue eyes like ice.
Then she laughed.
“Very well!” she said. “And perhaps you’d like to taste any medicine I
give him? Come along!”
They re-entered the room where the old man lay on the bed, motionless,
still in his grotesque cap pulled down to his ears, and his overcoat.
“Sit down over there, out of the way,” said Aunt Emma. “I’m going to
get some medicine.”
When she had left the room, it seemed to Di that the window might be
opened a little. And as she did so, she saw on the drive beneath,
Fennel, talking to Wren.
She could hear their words plainly.
“It’s for their own good, sir,” Wren was saying, earnestly. “There’s
so much harm they could come to, if they was to get out. I know, sir,
it _does_ give one a shock to see them looking out of the window like
that--but it’s for their own good.”
“There was a friend of mine, a doctor in Switzerland,” said Fennel.
“He had some cases like that in his sanitarium. Cretins, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He kept them out in the air, as much as possible--”
“Did that help them, sir?” Wren interrupted.
“I should think it would help anyone,” said Fennel. “But of course he
gave them some sort of treatment. Thyroid extract--”
“Thyroid extract, sir? Did that do them good?”
“I believe so. Some of them improved--grew taller, you know, and could
talk better. But isn’t your Miss Leonard a physician? No doubt she--”
“Would you mind spelling that, if you please, sir? That extract you
mentioned?”
Fennel did so, and Wren repeated it after him.
“Do you think it can be bought, sir--?” he began, when Aunt Emma came
out of the kitchen door.
“Wren!” she said.
The little man fairly cringed.
“I was just waiting for the kettle to boil, Miss--I--”
“Get in the house,” she said, carelessly, and he disappeared at once.
Then she and Fennel looked at each other. Diana waited, with
unaccountable dread, for what they would say. But they said nothing.
Fennel took off his hat, and with that vivid smile of his, turned
away, went off down the hill.
Di closed the window noiselessly, and sat down on a chair at the other
side of the room.
“What does it _mean_?” she asked herself. “What does it _mean_?”
For she was absolutely certain that beneath all the things she could
see and hear there was something else, some meaning she could not
grasp. It was as if she were watching a play in a foreign language;
she could see the actors, watch their gestures, their entrances and
exits, hear their words, but never seize the significance. She did not
even know who was the villain of the piece, or who the hero.
Fennel… Was he cast for a minor part; had he just “walked on” in this
one scene and now was gone, not to appear again? A curious feeling of
regret seized her, almost of desolation, because he was gone. She was
left alone here with Uncle Rufus; she was his ally, pledged to stand
by him, but was he _her_ ally? She could believe that there in the
wood, in his last conscious moment, he had positively hated her.
She rose, and went over to the bed to look at him. But she turned away
hastily; he was so grotesque, so horrible, lying there in his overcoat
and cap, his eyes closed, an expression of bitter malice on his sallow
old face. She pitied him, that man who had grown old without a friend,
she was willing and determined to help him, but she could not feel any
affection.
“Is he--very ill?” she wondered. “Dangerously ill? It seems to me that
Aunt Emma’s doing precious little for him… But of course I don’t know.
Perhaps there’s nothing that _can_ be done. She ought to know. And Mr.
Fennel seemed satisfied. If he’d thought there was anything--queer, I
don’t believe he’d have gone away without a word… But he wanted to see
me this evening… He certainly wasn’t thinking of a lover’s tryst.
Perhaps he had something to tell me--something I ought to know. It was
a mistake to say I wouldn’t go. I’m sorry I said I wouldn’t.”
That reminded her of the letter he had brought from Mrs. Frick, and
taking it out of her pocket she tore it open. Folded inside the letter
she caught a glimpse of green, and drew out a ten-dollar bill.
Ten dollars! Freedom and independence! She could get away from here,
buy a railway ticket, pay a week’s rent for a room, and look for a
job. And it seemed to her that any job on earth would be joyous and
delightful after this. Any job, where she was free to come and go,
where there were people to talk to, an ordinary existence. She was
about to read the letter when the sound of a car outside sent her to
the window again, and she saw Uncle Peter, driving the roadster, and
wedged in beside him, two portly, middle-aged men. Such respectable,
such blessedly _ordinary_ looking men! The thought of them coming into
this house filled her with immense relief. They were coming, and she
had ten dollars. At the end of this promised week she would go…
Aunt Emma entered the room.
“They’re here!” she said. “Run down and tell Wren to come up at once.
We’ll have to make the patient a little more presentable for Doctor
Coat.”
“Oh! Is one of them a doctor?” asked Di, better pleased than ever.
Then there couldn’t be anything really--queer.
“Don’t stop in the lounge to speak to them,” said Aunt Emma. “And
you’d better not come back, just yet. Wait in the kitchen until I
come.”
But Di felt that no human power should keep her from speaking to those
blessedly ordinary men.
“Why don’t you want me to speak to them?” she asked briefly.
Aunt Emma looked at her.
“I suppose,” she said, “that you meant to trip in, like a little
ingénue in a play, all curls and dimples and they would be enchanted.
But in the first place, they’re here on business, and they’ve never
heard of you. And in the second place, you’re not looking quite your
best. You might take a glance in the mirror.”
“No, thanks,” said Di, turning scarlet.
“Then please send Wren at once.”
She went downstairs, and hurried through the lounge without turning
her head, traversed the dining-room and entered the kitchen. There sat
Wren, with his head down on the table, a forlorn little figure.
At the sound of her step, he jumped up.
“Miss Leonard wants you right away,” said Di.
“Yes, Miss!” he answered.
Then, glancing nervously over his shoulder, he came nearer to her.
“Miss!” he whispered. “If you’ll kindly not mention this…” And he
thrust a piece of paper into her hand and hurried out of the room.
With considerable curiosity, she opened the scrap of paper, to see
what Wren wanted to say to her.
“Nine o’clock. J.F.”
That was not a message from Wren. Putting the paper into her pocket,
she crossed the kitchen and opened the door, stood there to enjoy the
clear air and to think. The sun was going down. The sky was tranquil;
in the trees the birds were chirping their evensong.
“I _will_ go!” she thought. “He wouldn’t ask me if it wasn’t
important. He’s--trustworthy.”
It was so great a comfort to feel that, after all, he hadn’t walked
off, was not gone; she looked forward with eagerness, with impatience,
to seeing him, hearing his cool, unemotional voice. Nothing would
confuse him, ever, nothing could deceive him, his quiet dark eyes
would see, would judge, would understand--
“How idiotic!” she said to herself. “I don’t know the man. I never
spoke to him before to-day. I don’t even know why he brought Mrs.
Frick’s letter.”
It occurred to her that the letter might contain some explanation of
Fennel. She felt in her pocket for it. The ten-dollar bill was there,
and the note Wren had just given her, but Mrs. Frick’s letter was
gone.
“I must have dropped it up in Uncle Rufus’s room,” she thought, very
much distressed. “Well, I certainly can’t go to look for it now. I’ll
have to wait.”
This was a singularly unpleasing idea, for she was morally certain
that Aunt Emma would read the letter if she saw it.
“She’d do anything she wanted to do,” thought Di.
Just then she caught sight of a figure breasting the hill, outlined
clearly against the pale, clear sky. It was Miles, handsome and
debonair and cheerful, carrying under his arm a package wrapped in
blue paper. He caught sight of her and waved, and she waved back
again.
“Hello, dear!” he said, as he came nearer.
That was an unpromising beginning, but she answered amiably.
“Hello, Miles!”
He came into the kitchen and handed her the package he carried.
“Present for you!” he said.
“Thank you, Miles!” she said. “But first I’d better tell you… There’s
bad news. Poor Uncle Rufus--”
“There couldn’t be any news bad enough about _him_,” said Miles.
“No, seriously, Miles, he’s very ill.”
“Stuff! He’s always getting ‘very ill!’”
“No, but this time… He came down to that little clearing in the wood
after us, and he had some sort of attack. We thought he was dead--”
“Who’s ‘we’?” asked Miles.
She saw that she had made a mistake, but she was not going to be
intimidated by Miles.
“A Mr. Fennel and I--”
“Who’s Mr. Fennel?”
“A friend of mine.”
“Look here!” said Miles.
And then it began, that scene she dreaded.
“You might have told me there was another fellow, and not let me make
a fool of myself, thinking of you all day in the city… bringing you a
present.”
“Don’t be silly!” she said firmly. “You can’t imagine that I’ve lived
for twenty-three years and never made any friends. Let’s see the
present! I love presents!”
But he snatched the box away.
“You needn’t be so dam’ patronizing!” he said. “I’m not a child.”
“You’re acting like one,” she said. “Oh, Miles! Don’t let’s quarrel!
I’m so--so tired…”
“What about _me_?” he interrupted. “Why, the night I came here, I was
so sick I had to be carried into the house.”
“Oh, was that you?” she cried, relieved; but added hastily, “I’m
awfully sorry you were sick, what was it?”
“You know dam’ well!” he said. “They’ve told you. It was bootleg
whisky. It’s killing me.”
As if in a nightmare, she knew what would come next. He would now go
on to say, with considerable profanity, that no one else cared what
happened to him, so why should _he_ care? Just as her father had used
to do, with that same perverse insistence upon his unique unhappiness.
That, just as she had never known how to manage her father, she could
not now manage Miles. She was not a managing sort of girl: she had no
desire to rule, or to influence; she was only ready to help as best
she could.
“Miles…?” she said, with that dubious little smile. “Sit down and
light a cigarette. It’s good for the nerves.”
For answer he slammed the box on the floor and set his heel on it,
trampled on it until the wrapping and the box inside were burst, and
she could see a beautiful assortment of chocolates being mashed. And
she, who had in her time endured so much, and with such fortitude,
began to cry.
Miles looked at her, astounded.
“I didn’t mean--”
“No!” she cried. “When you hurt people--you never expect them to _be_
hurt…”
“Diana!” he said, really alarmed by her tears. “Diana… I’m sorry… I’ll
get you another box…”
“It’s not _that_!” she said. “It’s just everything…”
He came to her side, and took her hand, almost timidly.
“I didn’t mean to act like this!” he said, miserably. “I’d been
thinking of you all day--and looking forward so to seeing you when I
got back. You poor little kid! I meant to be--different. Diana, please
give me another chance! _One_ more chance! I’ll take hold of myself,
dear! I have tried to be different since I met you. I haven’t touched
a drop since that night. Say you’ll--”
“Diana!” said Aunt Emma’s voice. “Will you be kind enough to cook the
dinner?”
Di glanced up, so startled that she forgot the tears still wet on her
cheeks.
“Wren will have to sit with your Uncle Rufus,” said Aunt Emma. “He
won’t have anyone else with him; he won’t even see Doctor Coat. So
I’ll have to ask you to help me out. There’ll be the Doctor and Mr.
Purvis and your Uncle Peter and Miles and you and I--six of us. Just a
simple dinner, naturally.”
“But--I’m awfully sorry--” said Di, “but--I’m afraid I don’t know--”
“Very well!” said Aunt Emma. “Then, Miles, you and your father will
have to cook the best sort of dinner you can. Perhaps Diana will be
able to turn on the light in the dining-room and put the chairs at the
table.”
“She and I will get your dinner,” said Miles. “There’s nothing Diana
can’t do, when she puts her mind on it.”
Aunt Emma turned, and walked off, erect and composed, and Miles went
to Diana and put his arm about her shoulders. She sighed to herself,
wondering what new mood this signified, but glancing up, she saw in
his face a look that profoundly touched her, a sort of despairing
appeal.
“Di,” he said, “if I could always be with you… I--I don’t _mean_ to
be--like I am… If you loved me--we could go away from this dam’ place…
I haven’t any money, or any brains, or any character, but if I had
you, I’d get them all. If you cared--”
“Miles,” she said. “I _do_ care. I’ve liked you ever since I first saw
you.”
“But not my way,” he said.
She did not answer. He bent and kissed the top of her head, and moved
away.
“Let’s cook?” he suggested.
“You see,” Diana explained, “Father and I never exactly did any
housekeeping. He liked to eat in restaurants.”
“I’ve never had a home in my life,” said Miles. “So between us we
might be able to manage something pretty original.”
He glanced about him, then, taking the lid of a saucepan, he shoveled
up the mess of chocolates and threw it into a pail. He made no more
apologies, no more complaints; he only tried to help.
The larder was disconcertingly bare. They found one tin of soup which
they diluted lavishly with water; they found a slab of bacon and six
eggs, and a large vegetable which baffled them.
“I think it’s a turnip,” said Di. “Anyhow I’m sure it’s a tuber; I’m
going to treat it like a potato and peel it and boil it.”
“Those bananas--” said Miles. “They seem pretty crude… Can’t we make
some tasty little what-not out of them! Mash them?”
His good-humor, his willingness, made the preparation of that dinner
the pleasantest hour Di had spent in a long time. She was so immensely
glad to laugh again. She forgot, for that hour, all her anxieties, she
even forgot poor Uncle Rufus.
“Now!” she said, at last. “I think we’ve done all the harm we can. If
you’ll please start setting the table while I dart upstairs and brush
my hair. I’ll help you when I come down. I shan’t be a minute!”
As she hurried out of the brightly-lit kitchen, she looked back over
her shoulder, and saw Miles watching her. She smiled at him and went
on, her heart warm with a feeling of comradeship and good-will. She
went through the dark dining-room, and looked into the lounge. They
were all in there, Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis and Aunt Emma and Uncle
Peter, but fortunately they were gathered in a group under a lamp, and
the rest of the lounge was fairly dark. She traversed it hastily,
keeping close to the desk, and ran up the stairs.
And then, as soon as she reached that upper corridor, her happiness
deserted her; she was in another world now, where there was no youth,
no laughter, only sordid suspicion and chilly loneliness.
Her conscience reproached her for having forgotten Uncle Rufus. After
all, she was staying here only on his account; she had money enough to
leave now; nothing kept her but her promise to him.
“I’ll just look in and see him,” she thought. “And speak to Wren.”
She went down the dim corridor to Uncle Rufus’s room, and knocked
softly at the door. There was no answer and she hesitated to knock
louder, for fear of disturbing the old man. She tried the knob and the
door opened.
To her surprise, the room was black, and from the open window a
current of air blew cold on her face.
“Wren!” she whispered.
There was no answer; no sound at all.
Fear seized her; she stepped back into the hall and closed the door
again.
But she knew she must go back. She could not leave the old man there
alone in that dark wind-swept room. Once more she opened the door and
felt for the switch; she turned it, but no light came.
“Wren!” she whispered again. “Please answer!”
The window-shade flapped in the draft made by the open door. But there
was no other sound. She groped her way toward the bed, filled with a
thought that turned her blood to ice.
But the bed was empty. She felt over it, from head to foot, and it was
empty.
Chapter Seven.
The Monstrous Night
Back in her own room, with the light turned on and the door locked,
she tried to think coolly.
“Of course, they may just have moved Uncle Rufus into another room,”
she said to herself.
Then suddenly she rebelled.
“No!” she thought. “It’s cowardly and contemptible to go on this way,
making up explanations for everything, pretending there can’t be
anything wrong. Suppose there is, and I’m just letting it go on? I
ought to make sure. I’ve got to see Uncle Rufus with my own eyes.”
There was a knock at her door.
“See here!” said Aunt Emma. “Will you be good enough to come down to
your dinner at once? Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis are hungry.”
“Then I’m sorry for them,” said Di, and opened the door. “Aunt Emma,”
she said, “where’s Uncle Rufus? I went to his room, and he wasn’t
there?”
“Nevertheless, he is in his room,” said Aunt Emma. “Perhaps with your
customary ineptitude you went to the wrong room. It’s not likely that
he’s gone out for a walk.”
“I’d like to see him.”
“Unfortunately, he wouldn’t like to see you. He never wants to see
anyone but Wren in the course of these attacks. To-morrow, when he’s
better, you can see him. And in the meantime, why not come downstairs
and tell Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis your suspicions? A doctor and a
lawyer--you couldn’t ask for anything better.”
There was something in the older woman’s cold insolence, something in
her voice, her look, that was beginning to tell heavily upon Di. She
resented it, yet in her resentment there was a sort of despair, as if
her spirit warned her that she was no match for this woman. In every
encounter she was worsted; each time Aunt Emma was able to convince
her that she was a fool.
And she felt herself a fool now, as she went downstairs. Her aunt
introduced the two strangers to her, Doctor Coat, a courtly old fellow
with a white mustache and a handsome face, and a pleasant, rather
stupid smile; Mr. Purvis, stout, grave, and a little pompous. Was it
likely, if there was anything wrong here, that Aunt Emma would ask
them to come? It was utterly impossible to suspect them of anything
even mildly irregular.
They all sat down to that atrocious dinner, and though the stout Mr.
Purvis looked rueful, neither of them seemed surprised. They were
apparently at home here, and accustomed to Aunt Emma’s style of
living; and they talked, without constraint, of Uncle Rufus.
“Do you think there is any chance of his seeing me to-night, Emma?”
asked Mr. Purvis. “If there is, of course I’ll wait as late as I can.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Anyhow, he asked for you, and he knows
you’re here.”
“Poor Rufus!” he said, with a sigh.
“Well,” said Doctor Coat, in his comfortable and kindly way, “he’s
been through a great many of these attacks. And with Emma’s splendid
care, we’ll hope that he’ll come through this one. There’s really no
need for me here. Although, of course, I quite understand how you feel
about it, Emma. If anything should happen there’d be criticism… Yes…
quite so… If he can be persuaded to make a will, he’ll feel very much
better. Set his house in order… quite so!”
Then he turned to Diana.
“I hear he’s taken a great liking to you,” he said. “Very nice, I’m
sure.”
“I don’t know,” said Di. “I’m afraid--”
“She’s almost morbidly self-distrustful,” said Aunt Emma,
interrupting. “Like her poor mother.”
Mr. Purvis and Doctor Coat both looked at Di with a sort of sympathy.
“Come, come!” said the doctor. “Nothing so remarkable in his taking a
liking to a charming young lady like you. He was really attached to
your mother.”
A silence fell.
“I’m going to meet Mr. Fennel at nine o’clock,” Di was thinking. “I’m
going to tell him every single thing, and get his opinion. I want to
know if I’m just a morbid idiot, imagining things, or if there’s any
reason for being--uneasy. He’s an outsider, he’ll be unprejudiced.”
Mr. Purvis began to talk now, about the League of Nations; he
addressed himself entirely to Aunt Emma, and so did Doctor Coat.
Occasionally they spoke to Di, amiably enough. Their manner toward
Miles was one of distinct disapproval; he was evidently in disgrace.
Peter Leonard they quite ignored.
Half-past eight, and they still sat at the table over the demi-tasses
of astonishingly strong coffee Di had made. She was growing restless
and impatient, looking down at her wrist watch under the table.
“But he said he’d wait an hour,” she thought. “There’s plenty of
time.”
She had ceased to listen to the conversation that went on; she was
lost in her own confused and displeasing thoughts. And suddenly she
had a sort of vision of this scene, as if she were detached and
viewing it from a distance. This abandoned hotel in the woods; that
black empty room upstairs; those most unfortunate children shut up
somewhere; down here this dismantled room with chairs and tables piled
against the walls and at this one table, this group. Uncle Peter,
incredibly trivial, the “grasshopper” his son had called him; Miles,
half-base, half-fine, and wholly reckless; Doctor Coat with his
courtly air and his stupid smile; Mr. Purvis with his pompous
gravity--and herself… All fools…? All puppets of that composed,
gray-haired woman?
“She wanted me to come here and I came,” thought Di. “She wanted me to
stay and I’m staying. Is everything I do really what she has
planned…?”
It was a singularly disturbing thought. More and more did she long to
see Fennel, the outsider who could give her an unprejudiced opinion.
She thought of him; how kindly he had spoken to poor Wren, remembered
his air of quiet confidence, his steady glance…
“I didn’t realize how nice it was of him to come all this way with
Mrs. Frick’s letter,” she thought. “I didn’t even thank him…”
Aunt Emma had risen and everyone else rose too, and proceeded toward
the lounge. Twenty minutes to nine now.
“Come, Diana!” said Aunt Emma.
“I’ll just wash the dishes first--”
“There’s no need for that. Wren will come down early to-morrow
morning.”
“Then I’ll just clear the table--”
“No,” said Aunt Emma. “Leave everything as it is.”
For a moment Diana stood looking at her.
“I ought to take things in my own hands,” she thought. “I ought to say
I’m going out for a few minutes. She couldn’t stop me, before all
these people. This is the time. This is the time to speak.”
It was curiously difficult to speak, but she did speak.
“I think I’ll go out--and get a breath of fresh air,” she said.
“Miles will go with you.”
This was a battle.
“No, thanks,” said Di. “I’d rather go alone.”
She was aware that everyone was listening; she was aware that her wish
to go out alone surprised them all. But she was desperate. It seemed
to her a matter of vital importance that she should conquer, should go
out openly and freely.
“I’m sorry,” said Aunt Emma, composedly. “But I can’t permit it, my
dear. This is a very lonely spot. If you object to Miles’
conversation, he can walk behind you.”
She was beaten. She _could_ not say before all these people, that she
was going out to meet a man--“like a servant wench” Uncle Rufus had
said. And what is more, she did not need to tell Aunt Emma that. Aunt
Emma knew already.
They all passed into the lounge and sat down; all except Diana.
“I _will_ go!” she thought. “And I’ll go openly, too.”
As she stood by the window, Miles came over to her and offered her a
cigarette. She was glad to accept one now, and as she took it, she
looked at him, anxiously, half hoping that he might understand, and
help her. But his face was white with anger; his glance was filled
with anger and bitterness. He knew too, why she wanted to go.
“I’ll pop up and see how the invalid’s getting on!” said Uncle Peter,
brightly, and rising went running up the stairs, two steps at a time.
No one else spoke, a stiff silence had fallen upon the little company.
Miles had gone to his seat near the lamp.
Di opened the front door and stepped out, closed the door behind her
and began to run toward the hill; she did not stop until she had
reached the dark shelter of the trees. As she paused here a moment,
she heard someone coming after her, running. She stopped behind a tree
and waited.
It was too dark to see, but she was certain that the figure which ran
past her was Miles. He went on plunging down the hill-side.
“Suppose he meets Mr. Fennel?” she thought, in alarm. “And tells him I
can’t come?”
Into her heart came the quiet conviction that Fennel wouldn’t believe
him, wouldn’t believe anyone. He had come to speak to her; he had said
he would wait for an hour and then come to the house, and he would do
that. She trusted Fennel as she had never yet in her life trusted
anyone. Miles would not be able to send him away. Fennel would not go
until he had seen her.
The night wind was sharp; hatless and coatless, in her thin dress, she
shivered. The pines rustled in the dark and, close to her, a little
owl gave its trembling cry.
She waited and listened.
“It must be nine o’clock,” she thought. “He’s there and Miles will see
him. Perhaps he’ll pretend to go away, and then come back. Or perhaps
he’ll insist upon seeing me…”
“Perhaps he didn’t go to look for Mr. Fennel at all,” she thought. “He
may simply have gone to the village--or rushed back to New York in a
rage.”
She began cautiously to descend the hill, straining her ears to catch
any sound. But there was nothing but the rustle of the pines in the
wind, and the cry of the little owl. She thought of Uncle Rufus coming
down here this afternoon, and she shivered.
At last she was in sight of the clearing and the faint starlight
showed it empty. But anyone could be standing in the shadows… She did
not like the thought of Miles, standing there waiting. She remembered
his white, angry face…
She waited and waited. If Fennel had pretended to go away, he would
come back. Was Miles here, waiting for that?
Her teeth began to chatter with cold.
“Suppose I caught cold?” she thought. “Got ill--in that horrible
house?”
She felt chilled to the bone already.
“I won’t stand this!” she said to herself. “There’s no reason why I
shouldn’t see Mr. Fennel or anyone else, if I want to. I won’t hide. I
won’t be--secret. If Miles is there, very well! I’ll tell him what I
think of him for spying on me.”
And she stepped down into the clearing. Was that something stirring
among the trees?
“Mr. Fennel!” she cried.
No one came, no one answered.
“Mr. Fennel!” she called, again, her voice rising to a high note of
fear.
This would not do, panic lay this way. With an effort, she stopped
calling, and stood there, waiting. In the faint light of the stars,
she could not see the dial of her watch. She did not know how long she
had waited or must wait. Only she would endure it for as long as she
could, for surely he would come.
She sat down on that fallen log, where she had seen him this
afternoon, curled up her feet as best she could under her short skirt,
folded her arms about her chest, and kept her vigil; in supreme
physical misery, cold and cramped, in dread, in dismay. Sometimes she
imagined she heard someone coming, and called his name, but there was
never any answer. And at last she began to see that he was not coming.
She would have to go back to that house, to face Aunt Emma, to endure
another scene with Miles. And after all she had no friend.
“If I had that ten dollars with me,” she thought, “I’d never go back.
I’d take a train for New York _now_. There’s nothing illegal in not
wearing a hat and coat.”
But she had left the money in the pocket of her jersey when she had
changed her dress before dinner. And there was her promise to Uncle
Rufus.
Again she had forgotten Uncle Rufus. She got up, sick at heart, numb
with cold, and began to climb the hill. She had promised to stand by
him, and she could not leave him there, ill and helpless.
Light was shining from the windows of the lounge; she had no desire to
go in there. She went round to the back of the house and quietly
opened the kitchen door. The kitchen was dark, but the gas stove was
lighted, under a singing kettle; it was blessedly warm. She sat down
in a chair near the stove, to wait until this wretched chilliness was
gone, before she must pass through the lounge on her way to the
stairs.
“He didn’t come,” she thought. “But I know he meant to come. I know he
_will_ come soon. He knew there was something wrong. He’ll come.”
She was weary, almost exhausted; she nearly went to sleep there by the
stove. But she heard that footstep. She sat up straight, her heart
beating fast. Had he come to the house, as he had said he would?
Surely that was someone coming up the back steps…
Then a door opened beside her, the door which led to the cellar, and
clearly outlined in the bright light that shone behind him she saw
Uncle Peter, pallid, grimy, without a collar, breathing hard, and on
his face, a wild terrible look.
She gave a cry, and he leaped forward like a cat. His hand was pressed
across her mouth, holding her head against the back of the chair. She
struggled but she could not rise, could not make any sound. Then he
drew back; she was about to cry out again when his fist shot out and
caught her on the point of the jaw and she collapsed unconscious.
* * *
When she opened her eyes again she was lying on a bed. Her head ached
cruelly; she felt deathly sick and giddy. It was utterly dark, she
could see nothing, hear nothing; for a few minutes she could not
remember.
Then it came back to her… Uncle Peter, the trivial, the cheerful, the
one person in this house she had thought negligible…
She sat up. At first giddiness and the pain in her head forced her
back on the pillow again, but the second time she felt better. She put
her feet on the floor and still faint and dizzy, stood upright,
holding by the head of the bed. She must find out where she was, what
this dark prison was.
Her groping hand touched a little table, and a great hope sprang up in
her. Moving nearer, she felt the lamp; it was there; she turned the
switch and the light came. And with a sob of relief she found herself
in her own room.
A little Paradise, it seemed to her, the safest, cosiest place in the
world. She looked about her at her own belongings with the delight of
one who has made a long and terrible journey and is at last home
again.
Then she heard a noise in the corridor outside; a dragging, shuffling
sound. She leaned forward in her chair. The wind had risen; that sound
could be the branch of a tree brushing her window… Only it was coming
nearer.
She knew now that this room was not safe and snug, but desperately
exposed and that there was no corner where she could hide; she was
sick and shaken, and defenseless.
Something scratched at her door. And not near the knob, but close to
the floor, like an animal. She did not stir.
“Miss!” whispered Wren’s voice. “Oh, Miss! For God’s sake, let me in!”
She went to the door, but with her hand on the knob, she hesitated.
“What’s the matter?” she whispered back.
“Miss! Oh, let me in, quick! For God’s sake!”