“I don’t--want to hear…” she said.
“But you’re going to hear,” said Aunt Emma. “It was in this room that
I last saw her alive. She came here, to me, in a lamentable condition.
She had found out for herself what your father was. She realized that
he could never make a living for her, and her own health was too much
impaired for her to contemplate any sort of work. I was fond of Inez,
but I had seen from the beginning that she was pitiably maladjusted.
Like you, she was incapable of facing reality. Like you, she believed
that she ‘needed’ things that do not exist. She demanded a love and
loyalty from other people which is never given. She wanted to be
‘happy.’ You are like her.”
Her voice stopped; the dark room was silent. Then in a moment she went
on:
“She was in despair because she couldn’t ‘do anything’ for you. She
was perfectly convinced that she had been born for the express purpose
of ‘doing’ things for other people. And because her ill-health made
that impossible…”
Her strong fingers closed upon the girl’s arm.
“Come here!” she said, and led her to the window. “She wrote her name,
here, on the sill. It is too dark for you to see it, but her name is
here. You see those three pines, standing together? That is where she
died.”
Diana could only look, with dilated eyes, at those three black trees.
“Here, from this spot where you are standing,” said Aunt Emma, “she
threw herself out of the window. Because she could not face life as it
is.”
Her grasp on the girl’s arm relaxed.
“Now perhaps you understand,” she said, “why I warned you against this
room.”
“No…” said Diana.
“You’re like her,” said Aunt Emma. “Too much--like her.”
Chapter Thirteen.
A Will Is Made
Diana remained silent, motionless, infinitely withdrawn from the woman
beside her. A measureless sorrow weighed upon her, something beyond
the natural grief and pity she must feel at hearing the story of her
mother’s death. This was bleak, hopeless woe; it was as if she, too,
had come to the end of all dear and pleasant things: before her lay
the garden, somber, in the dusk; behind her the empty room, haunted by
that poor spirit…
“Am I--like that?” she thought. “Not able to face life as it really
is?… I’ve managed to get on--without very much, but I’ve always
thought there was something better round the next corner… And suppose
there isn’t? Suppose there’s never going to be any more for me--than
this?”
Aunt Emma had said the stock was tainted. Was she, too, tainted with
some fatal instability, some moral weakness that would leave her
always friendless, poor, a failure? She had nothing--and from him who
hath not, even that which he hath should be taken…
All the anxieties, the bewildered distress of her childhood, came back
upon her now; her school-days, when she had been sent to one little
private school after another, always trying to adjust herself, always
aware that disastrous changes might come at any moment, never knowing
that feeling of security and permanence so vital to a child. And as a
young girl, there had been no dances, no pretty clothes, no good
times; she had had to be her father’s “pal,” he had taken her with him
where he wanted to go, had lived as it suited him.
Only those months with Angelina had been happy, in spite of the
strange and varied duties. She had loved Angelina; she had been alive
there, energetic, alert, gaining every day in self-confidence.
But evidently Angelina had not cared at all about her; she had gone
off and forgotten Di.
“I don’t think anyone could ever care much for me,” she thought.
“Now!” said Aunt Emma’s voice, startling her in her bitter reverie.
“Don’t stay in here any longer, Diana.”
Di did not answer or move.
“Come!” said Aunt Emma. “For a suggestible mind, the scene of a
tragedy is not wholesome. In a room like this. But never mind! Now
that I have explained, I think you’ll keep your ideas about Uncle
Rufus to yourself. He’s not legally competent to make a will--but it
would be extremely difficult to prove that. There would be only your
word against Doctor Coat and Purvis and myself and others. And the
word of a hysterical person isn’t worth much. No… He’s done as he
wanted to do with his money, and it’s to your benefit. You need money
more than an ordinary person would. You’re not capable of earning your
own living. You’re hysterical and unstable, badly educated and
trained.”
Di listened to this without protest. Perhaps it was true… She thought
of her mother, who had stood here, where she herself was standing; her
mother who had found life too hard, and had put an end to it. Perhaps
it had been dark, twilight, as it was now, and when she had died out
there, under the pines, perhaps she had seen a sky like this, soft,
merciful, with one silver star… And then had closed her eyes, and
drifted away into peace… Death was beautiful and blessèd, and life
was so hard… To close her own eyes and die--like her mother… She
raised her eyes to the sky, and sighed…
Then, suddenly and sharply, something awoke in her; something that had
brought her gallantly through all her young life. She straightened her
shoulders, and sighed again, a long sigh, as if she were waking from a
dream.
After all, it didn’t matter whether life were hard or not, whether it
were lonely and anxious.
“I don’t have to be happy,” she thought. “I’ve just got to do the best
I can. I’m not down and out yet! I’ll--”
There was a knock at the door.
“Emma!” said Uncle Peter’s voice, apologetically. “There’s a
taxi-driver here, asking for ‘a young lady.’ Shall I pay him--?”
“No!” said Di. “He won’t go, anyhow. I told him to wait.”
“Very well!” said Aunt Emma. “Then you’d better go.”
She crossed the room, and opened the door, and Di followed her.
“Please wait a moment, Aunt Emma!” she said. “I want to speak to you.”
“Peter, tell the driver she’ll be down in a few moments,” said Aunt
Emma. “Now!”
The door was open and the dim light in the corridor shone into the
room. She heard Uncle Peter running down the stairs.
“Well?” asked Aunt Emma.
For a moment Di was silent, struggling with a too rapid flow of
thoughts. As if that terrible depression had been actually a dream,
she felt a little dazed. It was difficult to come back; to remember
all at once…
But she knew now that the blackest hour of her life had passed, and
that she had conquered some nameless, formless horror.
“I want to ask you--” she said, “where Mr. Fennel is.”
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you,” Aunt Emma answered. “But no doubt the
police will find him before very long.”
“No. I don’t believe that,” said Di, briefly. “Something’s happened to
him.”
“Is this a presentiment?” inquired Aunt Emma. “People of your type are
very fond of presentiments and strange, occult feelings. Do you ‘just
_know_’ that something’s happened to Fennel?”
“It’s not very occult,” said Di. “I’ve got some pretty definite
information.”
“Then take it to the police,” said Aunt Emma. “You’d better do that,
anyhow. You’ll feel easier. Tell the police that we’ve murdered
Fennel. And Wren, too, isn’t it? And that we are now engaged in
murdering Uncle Rufus. And any others you feel worried about.”
Diana reflected for a moment.
“She let that detective come and search the house. She’s not afraid of
the police. She feels sure that they can’t find out. And what can I
really tell them? There’s no proof of any crime--anything having
happened to Mr. Fennel. Only that letter, and that could be explained.
I’m the only one who can find out. I have the upper hand. This is my
chance. The taxi is waiting outside.”
She chose her words with care.
“Aunt Emma,” she said, “if I’m to have Uncle Rufus’s money, and you
want to share it, I’ll have to know about Mr. Fennel.”
“You’ve already promised me a share,” said Aunt Emma. “But no doubt
you are always able to find satisfactory justification for breaking
your word.”
Her cool contempt was having its usual effect, sapping the girl’s
self-confidence, making her feel weak, petty, contemptible.
“All right!” she said to herself, “I don’t care! I’m going to see this
through, anyhow.” And aloud:
“I’ll make a bargain with you,” she said.
“I’m afraid,” said Aunt Emma, “that making a bargain with you is
rather uncertain.”
“Then you _could_ make a bargain?” said Di, quickly. “You _do_ know
what’s happened to him?”
“That’s quite intelligent!” said Aunt Emma, in a tone of pleased
surprise. “You must be considerably interested in this man, to wake up
so.”
“I am,” said Di.
“And what bargain do you propose?”
“If you’ll tell me where he is and what happened to him, I’ll sign
some sort of paper, giving you a certain sum.”
“Unfortunately you haven’t a penny.”
“When I get it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Aunt Emma, “but I’m afraid that won’t quite do. A
very short time ago you were moved by an impulse of gratitude to offer
me a share of any money you might get. This gratitude has apparently
evaporated now. You are now, as far as I can see, actuated by an
infatuation for this man you scarcely know. If this infatuation
should--not be requited, you would resent giving me anything. And you
would no doubt find excellent reasons for repudiating this ‘paper’ you
are always speaking of. I suppose that idea comes from your father.
Probably he signed a good many ‘papers’ in his time.”
“Very likely,” said Di. “But I don’t quite see…” She paused a moment,
then she went on, deliberately. “You said you asked me here so that
Uncle Rufus would take a liking to me and leave me his money. But if
you can’t trust my word, and it’s no good signing a paper, how did you
expect to get any of it?”
“Really,” said Aunt Emma, “you have more intelligence than I gave you
credit for.”
“I’m just beginning to think…” said Di, half to herself.
It seemed to her of vital importance that she should think, that she
should remain quiet and cool, unmoved by the elder woman’s scorn,
unconfused by the darkness gathering about her. She had no one but
herself to depend upon now.
“I’d like to know,” she said.
“I had,” said Aunt Emma, “three well-considered plans for obtaining a
share of that money. One of them has failed. But one of the other two
will succeed.”
“What is it?”
Aunt Emma did not answer, and looking at her, Di saw by the dim light
an expression that horrified her. For those blue eyes were regarding
her with a monstrous sort of pity, as one might look at the last
struggles of a trapped animal.
“What are--your plans?” she asked.
“We’ll leave that for the present,” said Aunt Emma; “and discuss this
bargain of yours. You wish to know what happened to Fennel. And I’m
not at all disposed to tell you. He was a very unwelcome intruder.
What’s more, if I do tell you, I have no sort of guarantee that you
won’t go off and never communicate with me again.”
“If you won’t tell me,” said Di, “I’m sure to do that.”
“Perhaps it’s better so,” said Aunt Emma.
Di paid no attention to this fencing.
“What do you want me to agree to?” she asked.
“Whatever you agree to will have to be in public,” said Aunt Emma.
“Purvis is a lawyer--”
“But you don’t want me to go to him and promise to pay you anything?”
“That would be somewhat crude,” said Aunt Emma. “Even Purvis would
find that--peculiar. After all, it’s really your affair, to find some
way of satisfying my not unreasonable demands without arousing
suspicion. I am certainly entitled to some of that money. From any
point of view. I am a nearer relation than you of Rufus Leonard. I
should use the money in an excellent cause. And it is due to me alone
that you are going to get it. I can’t make you give me anything, and,
apparently, the sole claim I have upon you is my knowledge of this
Fennel’s whereabouts. Naturally, I shall not relinquish my one
advantage without excellent security.”
“What do you suggest?”
“It’s for you to suggest,” said Aunt Emma. “I can think of nothing,
except that you might make a will in my favor--”
“A--will? But--”
“Oh, I see the drawbacks to that perfectly well!” said Aunt Emma, with
a frown. “In the first place, your Uncle Rufus may live for another
five years. And in the second place, there’s nothing to prevent you
from making another will to-morrow. The only value would be, that you
would be making a public declaration of your no doubt excellent
intentions. If you were to declare, in the presence of Purvis and Coat
that gratitude impelled you to assign me a share of your legacy, you’d
hesitate, after that, to refuse me a loan, when you inherit. It’s a
very poor plan--for me. I hope you can think of a better one.”
“I could tell Mr. Purvis that you’d lent money to my parents, and that
I considered it my duty--”
“No, thanks!” said Aunt Emma. “That puts me in a very unpleasant
light.”
Di was silent, thinking this over in her own characteristic way. She
was not cautious, not patient; she wanted to learn about Fennel in a
hurry, and be gone. She was certain now that he had been sent away by
some chicanery. An attempt had been made to discredit him in her eyes,
and probably something had been done to make her seem contemptible to
him. And she wanted to find him, and explain.
A new thought struck her, a thought that frightened her. Was it likely
that Aunt Emma would willingly let her meet Fennel, to compare notes?
He was not likely to let matters rest… No. Aunt Emma must somehow feel
herself quite safe from any future interference on the part of Fennel.
And what could make her feel safe?
“You--_promise_ to tell me where he is?” she asked.
“If I don’t,” said Aunt Emma, “you can very easily destroy any paper
you’ve signed, if my information doesn’t suit you.”
“That’s true,” thought Di. “Suppose I do make a will… She can’t very
well be planning to murder me. In the first place, as she said, Uncle
Rufus is still alive, that Mr. Purvis and Doctor Coat are here, and
the driver’s waiting. Even if she tells me a lie, there’s no harm
done. I’ll get away at once, and find some of his friends. And if
she’s lied, I’ll destroy the will--make another… No… I don’t see what
possible harm it can do, to agree to that now. I want to hear what she
has to say about Mr. Fennel.”
She glanced up.
“All right!” she said. “I’ll make a will. And you promise to tell me,
as soon as I’ve done that?”
“I promise. But it’s going to be very awkward for me. Purvis may
refuse to draw up a will for you. And if he makes any objections, if
he appeals to me, I shall certainly uphold him. I don’t intend to
appear in the light of a blackmailer, I assure you. You’ll have to
make your impulse plausible. And you’ll have to assure him that I know
nothing about it.”
“All right!” said Di, again.
“And even when you’ve done that,” said Aunt Emma, “the will won’t be
worth the paper it’s written on. I’m obliged to trust you to deal
honorably with me. I’m going to give you information that you can use
against me. I admit that there was a certain amount of
misrepresentation involved in getting Fennel away. I can count only
upon whatever sense of honor you have to prevent any further trouble
for me. And also upon your disinclination for a family scandal.”
“Misrepresentation…” What had Fennel been told to make him go away?
“I must know,” she thought; and aloud: “I’ll see Mr. Purvis now--”
“I doubt if you can manage him,” said Aunt Emma.
But Di, for all her honesty, her carelessness, was not without
subtlety. She made up her mind to “manage” Purvis, and to manage
quickly. And she did remarkably well. She found Purvis in the lounge,
reading, and she went up to him with an air of urgency.
“Mr. Purvis!” she said. “I’ve got to go back to New York at once, and
I don’t want to leave this house until I’ve made a will.”
“A will! But my dear young lady--!”
“Please let me!” she said. “Aunt Emma’s my nearest relation. And she
asked me here when it meant--a lot to me. I’d like to feel that if
anything should happen to me--a train accident, or anything--”
“But my dear young lady, at the present time… Your Uncle Rufus is--is
improving--”
“I know,” she said. “But you never can tell what might happen. And I’d
like to feel, before I go away, that I’d done that.”
He began to argue. But Di maintained her attitude of an illogical and
impulsive young creature, and that seemed to him perfectly natural.
What is more, as the heiress of Rufus Leonard, she had a new
importance to him.
And she was assisted by an interruption. There was a knock at the
door, and when she ran to open it, the taxi-driver spoke.
“Everything aw’ right?” he asked.
“Please keep on waiting!” she said, very low. “Don’t go away, please.
And if I’m not out in half an hour, please knock again and insist on
speaking to me.”
“_Aw_’ right!” said he, in a reassuring whisper, and closing the door
she turned to Purvis.
“My taxi’s waiting!” she said, plaintively. “Please let me just dash
off a will, leaving half the money to Aunt Emma. Even if it seems
silly--I’d _like_ to do it.”
Mr. Purvis, like almost everyone else, was rendered nervous by the
thought of a taxi-meter steadily ticking up a charge. He urged her to
wait, to come to his office the next day and discuss the matter, but
he was infected now with her sense of haste.
“I will come to your office,” she said. “This is just temporary--just
to make my mind easy before I go. Please help me! That meter must be
running up terribly!”
Very reluctantly he yielded, and took out his fountain pen.
“Just please say that half of anything I get is to go to Aunt Emma--”
“And the rest--?”
“Oh… I don’t know… To--Mrs. Frick.”
“Who is Mrs. Frick?”
“Oh, what does it matter!”
“It does matter,” said Purvis. “You don’t realize what you’re doing in
the least. Who is this Mrs. Frick?”
“Oh, don’t bother about her. Just say--my heirs and assigns--or
whatever they are.”
He argued again, and she became more and more obstinate.
“Well!” she said, with a sigh. “If you won’t, then I’ll have to find
some sort of lawyer in the village, on my way to the train. I’m sure I
have a legal right to make a will when I want.”
“Yes,” he said, shocked and distressed. “If you insist upon this--this
most irregular and unreasonable proceeding. Your aunt--”
“Please don’t tell her!” said Di. “Now!”
He drew up for her a brief will, leaving half of any estate of which
she might be possessed to her aunt Emma Leonard, and the remainder to
her legal heirs and assigns.
“I’ll read it to you--”
“No, thanks, I’m sure it’s all right. I’m in such a hurry--”
“I insist upon your reading it,” he said, sternly. “You cannot sign a
document you have not read.”
So she read it, or pretended to read it.
“Now,” he said. “We must have two witnesses. I’ll get Doctor Coat and
your Uncle Peter. And remember, young lady, you are coming to my
office to-morrow, to discuss the matter.”
As he began to mount the stairs, Di went to the window and looked out,
the taxi stood there, its lights shining on the drive.
“Thank God for that taxi-driver!” she thought. “I’m not--cut off.”
In a few minutes Mr. Purvis descended again, followed by Uncle Peter,
very jaunty, and Doctor Coat.
“State in the presence of these witnesses the nature of the document
you are signing,” said Mr. Purvis, frigidly.
“This is my last will and testament,” said Di.
And as she spoke those words aloud, she began to realize what she was
doing. As she took the pen in her hand, it seemed to her that she was
about to sign her own death-warrant.
Chapter Fourteen.
Miles Confesses
Doctor Coat signed, in a neat, small hand, and Uncle Peter added a
scrawling, infantile signature.
“Will you keep it for me, please?” she said to Purvis. “Thank you all
very much… Now, I’ll just run up to say good-bye…”
She ran up the stairs, and found Aunt Emma in the upper corridor.
“It’s done,” she said. “Signed and witnessed. Now please tell me--”
“Coat’s coming up!” said Aunt Emma. “I don’t care to be found talking
alone to you just now. Go down in the kitchen and ask Miles. He’ll
tell you all you want to know.”
“I don’t want--”
“Then you’ll have to want,” said Aunt Emma, and turning on her heel,
walked into Uncle Rufus’s room just as Doctor Coat’s benevolent and
stupid face appeared at the head of the stairs.
“I can’t wait!” thought Di. “I mustn’t be so cowardly about Miles. He
can’t make any trouble here, with Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis in the
house--and that driver out there. I’ll go and ask him anyhow. And if
he’s--impossible, I’ll insist upon Aunt Emma telling me at once. She
can’t get out of it. I can threaten to tell Mr. Purvis to tear up the
will.”
But she dreaded the thought of seeing Miles again.
“On the borderline,” Aunt Emma had said, and alcoholism would soon
send him across it. Was that true? Her father “technically insane,”
Uncle Rufus a paranoiac, Uncle Peter mentally deficient… all of them…?
And she herself?
“I won’t think about that now,” she said to herself.
But she had thought of it, and the horrible shadow would not leave
her. She went down the stairs and into the lounge, where Purvis and
Uncle Peter stood talking together; she went past them without a word
and into the dining-room that was in complete darkness.
“My last will and testament…”
“What have I done?” she asked herself, stopping halfway across the
room. “I wish… I hadn’t…”
But even here, through the window, she could see the lights of the
waiting taxi, her link with the world outside. She went on,
resolutely, pushed open the swing-door, went through the pantry and
into the kitchen.
Miles was sitting on the edge of the table, smoking. He glanced at her
as she entered, but he did not speak or move. He was white as chalk,
and on his handsome, wasted face was a queer, blank look.
“Miles!” she said, in as matter-of-fact a way as she could manage.
But he did not answer.
“Miles,” she said again. “Please tell me what happened to Mr.
Fennel--”
He sprang to his feet, stood looking at her with dilated eyes.
“Aunt Emma said you’d tell me--” she went on, unsteadily.
Still he did not speak; she looked at him, and was appalled by the
expression on his face.
Then suddenly anger flamed up in her.
“Miles!” she cried. “Stop--staring like that! Miles! Can’t you talk
like a human being…? I--I’m sick and tired of all this… Where’s Mr.
Fennel?”
“He’s in hell!” shouted Miles.
She caught him by the arm and tried to shake him.
“Tell me!” she said. “I _will_ know!”
“You’ll never see _him_ again,” said Miles, with a laugh.
That laugh brought her to her senses. This was not the way to handle
Miles. Her hand dropped from his arm; she drew a long breath and
began, in a friendly, easy tone.
“Please tell me all about it, Miles. Aunt Emma told me to come and ask
you.”
“I can’t!” he groaned.
“Yes, you can, Miles!”
He flung himself into a chair, and covered his eyes with his arm, a
childish and pitiable gesture.
“Oh, Di!” he said. “Oh, Di!”
She laid her hand on his shoulder.
“Come on, Miles!” she said, encouragingly.
Evidently he was filled with remorse for whatever part he had played
in this affair, and she was sorry for him. But no doubt he was
exaggerating as usual; she would have to sift out the truth from his
words.
“I didn’t think--I _could_ do _that_,” he said, still with his eyes
covered. “I didn’t mean to… But it was because I love you so… She
promised to help me. She said you’d marry me. And you would have loved
me, if he hadn’t come. You liked me at first. If he hadn’t come…”
He let his arm fall, and looked up at her, with a sort of anguished
bewilderment.
“That night when we cooked the dinner together, Di… That was the
happiest hour I ever had in my life… Then when you went upstairs to
dress, she told me she’d heard you promise to meet that fellow at nine
o’clock, in the clearing… She said I could stop it. She told me she’d
keep you in the house as long as possible, and I could meet him. I was
to tell him that you and I were secretly married and ask him to lend
us enough money to get away, and ask him to clear out for a few
days--for your sake--so that no one could question him. She said that
would disgust him with the whole show, and that if he thought _you_
were mixed up in everything he’d simply drop it--anyhow, until you’d
had a chance to get away… But when she couldn’t keep you in the
house--when you ran out like that, Di, I--couldn’t stand it. To see
you, hell-bent on meeting another man… I went after you. I only meant
to stop you… But I missed you, in the dark. I couldn’t find you… I
went to the clearing, and I saw him standing there… He had heard me
coming… I found I had Uncle Rufus’s loaded stick in my hand. I don’t
remember taking it. I swear I had no idea of--of _that_--when I left
the house… But when I saw him… Di, I didn’t mean to do that! I swear I
didn’t!”
Her hand had fallen from his shoulder; she was leaning against the
table, looking and looking at him.
“What--was it--that you did?” she asked.
“I only struck once, Di I swear it…! And then I heard someone coming
down the hillside, and I dragged him back, among the trees. It was
you…! Oh, God, Di! You called him! You sat down there--and waited for
him--you called him again… And he was lying there, not ten yards from
you… all the time…”
She stood as if frozen with horror. He was still speaking, but she
could not hear.
“Lying there…” she thought. “When I called to him… Dead--_murdered_…”
Suddenly she caught Miles’s sleeve.
“Miles!” she said. “No… Miles, perhaps it’s not true… Miles, you’re
not--_sure_…?”
“I wish to God I wasn’t!” he said. “After you’d gone, I tried… But
he--was gone…”
“Gone?” she echoed, catching at any straw. “You mean disappeared?”
“No!” he said. “Disappeared…? No. He lay there. I didn’t know what to
do with--it… I thought--I’d go mad… I dragged him along--and pushed
him into the old quarry… And--later… I went back again--and called
him…” His hand covered hers that lay on his sleeve. “That’s why I
wanted to kill myself,” he said. “But now--I don’t care. They’re sure
to find him. I don’t care. I’m ready--to go.”
“No, Miles--” she protested, almost mechanically.
“I am, Di,” he said. “I’ll be glad to finish.”
He rose, stood looking down at the ground, with a look somber and
austere.
“She’s told me, often enough, that I’m not to be trusted. And it’s
true. I’ve never done anything but harm. I never could. I’m ready for
the police, whenever they come…”
“Aunt Emma will help you,” she said, with the same mechanical
kindness.
“She doesn’t know what I’ve done. I’m not going to tell her. She’d get
me out of it. There’d be more lies and lies and lies… And there’s
nothing ahead for me, Di. I’ve been thinking over--everything. My
whole life… I’ve always done what she wanted. She was the only one who
did anything for me. My father never had any money. She sent me to
school and to college. I suppose she was good to me. But she always
told me what a weak, good-for-nothing devil I was… It didn’t help
much… But she was right… Di, there in the wood, something--happened to
me--something sprang up inside me… I’m not fit to live.”
There was no instinct for revenge in the girl, no impulse to
retaliate. The death of this wasted, broken boy could in no way
compensate for the life he had taken; it could give her no possible
satisfaction to see him punished. But she could not pity him. Not now.
She was thinking of Fennel.
It seemed to her the greatest misfortune possible that she was never
to know him better, never to see him again. It seemed to her as if the
vital, the significant part of her own life had ended with him.
“He came to meet me,” she thought. “If it hadn’t been for me, he would
be alive now.”
Miles was still talking, but she did not listen. Nothing mattered at
all now; there was no object, no motive left. She could not care what
she did, or what happened to her. She wanted to get away, alone and
think.
“Well… Good-by, Miles!” she said, with a polite little smile.
She was not even aware that she had interrupted him in the middle of a
speech.
“Di…” he cried. “Where are you going?”
“I’m just going back to New York, Miles. I’m--tired.”
“You’re going to _leave_ me, Di?”
“Miles,” she said, with a sort of despair. “I’ve got to go. I--can’t
stand any more.” As she turned away, the swing-door was pushed open,
and Mr. Purvis entered.
“This taxi-driver insists upon speaking to you,” he said, severely.
“I’ll come--” she answered, and followed him into the lounge, where
she found the driver standing with his back to the door.
“I’m coming,” she told him, with that same polite little smile, and
went toward the door.
“But--your bag?” he said.
“I don’t care. I’ll send for it later,” she said.
“My dear young lady!” protested Purvis. “Surely you’re going to say
good-by to your uncle?”
Again she had forgotten Uncle Rufus. She was very reluctant to leave
him like this, yet it seemed to her certain that if she went up those
stairs, she would not easily come down again. She had her chance now
to get away and she must take it.
“I’m coming back very soon,” she said, and, indifferent to Purvis’s
shocked face, she followed the driver out of that accursed house. The
Spring night was cool and fresh, she drew a deep breath.
“When I’ve had time to think,” she said to herself, “I’ll find some
way to get him away from there. But I can’t think just now.”
The driver opened the door of the cab; she had her foot on the step,
when a window on the floor above was opened and Doctor Coat’s voice
called, in a tone of severe indignation:
“Miss Diana! One moment, if you please! Your uncle wishes to speak to
you for a moment!”
She began to cry. Fatigued and miserable tears, like a child.
“I--can’t!” she called back.
But Doctor Coats had closed the window and retired, and she knew she
had to go.
“Well, shall I keep on waiting?” asked the driver.
“Yes,” she said, and once more entered that house. After all, Doctor
Coat was upstairs, Mr. Purvis was in the lounge, the driver was
waiting. Nothing could happen to her. And in any case, she could not
refuse to hear what the old man had to say.
Once more she mounted those stairs to the dimly-lit corridor above,
and went to Uncle Rufus’s room.
But Doctor Coat was not there; the room was empty except for the old
man lying on the bed with his face to the wall in the almost dark
room. She went over to the bed.
“Uncle Rufus!” she said, softly.
He turned his head; she had a glimpse of something in his eyes that
made her cry out. Then a hand pressed over her mouth, her wrists were
caught behind her back. She struggled in vain, her wrists were tied,
and her ankles; the hand over her mouth was supplanted in a flash by a
handkerchief; she was jerked backward, someone lifted her feet,
someone else her head.
It was Aunt Emma who held her bound ankles. She looked straight into
those blue eyes. Then she was carried into the next room, laid on the
bed; she saw Aunt Emma and Uncle Peter go out; she heard the key turn
in the lock.
“The driver won’t go away,” she thought. “I must keep my head. I
musn’t…”
She felt the world slipping away from her, there was a roaring in her
head, a swirling blackness before her eyes. It seemed to her that the
handkerchief over her mouth was smothering her; she tried to raise her
bound hands, and fainted.
* * *
Mrs. Frick… Someone was speaking of Mrs. Frick. She tried to call out,
and realized that she was gagged. It was Aunt Emma speaking in the
corridor outside.
“No. I don’t know who this Mrs. Frick is. But if--she’s a friend of
the poor child’s…”
“Well, then…” said Mr. Purvis’s voice. “I’d better tell that
chauffeur, eh? Tell him to communicate with this Mrs. Frick?
Apparently she gave him the address.”
“Yes,” said Aunt Emma, with a sigh. “He’d better advise Mrs. Frick to
come out here to-morrow and see the poor child. It’s a little beyond
me. I’ve knocked and knocked on her door, but she refuses to answer.”
Doctor Coat’s voice intervened.
“You don’t think, Emma…? We ought to--er--force an entrance?”
“No…” said Aunt Emma, with hesitation. “I’m afraid that would make her
worse… An hysterical condition like hers is only intensified by
attention. It seems to me, Matthew, that if she’s let alone, she’ll
come to her senses more quickly. But if you advise--”
“No,” he said. “No, I agree with you, Emma. No… Most unfortunate…”
“I noticed,” said Purvis’s voice, “that she was distraught. As to that
fantastic idea of making a will…”
“I’m sorry you humored her,” said Aunt Emma gravely.
“Yes,” said Doctor Coat, in the same grave tone. “A mistake, Purvis.
She has this notion that she’s responsible for her uncle’s illness… Of
course, in a way, she _is_. If she hadn’t run off like that to meet
this man…”
“Fortunately,” said Aunt Emma, “Rufus seems to be doing very well. But
it’s quite possible, of course, that he may take a turn for the worse.
And if he should, I’m afraid it would completely unbalance her… She’d
believe she had practically killed him. I can only hope that this Mrs.
Frick will take her away.”
“You don’t consider her… er--?” said Doctor Coat.
“Insane?” said Aunt Emma. “Not at all. She is uneducated,
impressionable, childish. But no more insane than nine people out of
ten. Her father encouraged her to believe in her own importance. She’s
capable of the most irrational actions, due to her faulty training and
her lack of reasoning ability… If I had time and opportunity, I
believe I could do a good deal with her. She’s attracted to me--as
you’ve noticed. But I have my hands full, just now. I shall be glad if
this friend, this Mrs. Frick--will come and take her away to-morrow.”
“Well!” said Purvis. “We’d better be going now, Emma. You’ll let us
know, of course, if poor Rufus is worse…? I’ll explain to the driver
then, that he’s to notify Mrs. Frick, as she told him to do… Very
unfortunate.”
“Yes,” Aunt Emma agreed. “But to-morrow morning when she finds her
uncle improved, she may be more reasonable. Good-night, Matthew!
Good-night, Sam!”
In desperation, in a passion of helpless anger, Di had struggled to
call out, to make any sort of sound that would attract their
attention. And, as she heard their answered “Good-night, Emma!” she
deliberately rolled off the bed on to the floor, with a thud that made
her dizzy.
“What’s that?” asked Purvis.
“The children,” said Aunt Emma. “They’re in that room.”
The faint squeaking of someone’s shoes died away. For a few minutes
there was absolute silence. Then Di heard voices below, in the
driveway; the engine started, the door of the cab slammed, the tires
crunched over the gravel. They were gone.
She had thought that nothing mattered, that she did not care what
happened. But it was not so. Every valiant and healthy impulse of her
soul rose in revolt against this ignominy, this defeat. She lay still,
gathering her strength.
“Everything’s come out just as she wanted it,” she thought. “I’ve made
my will. I’ve played into her hands perfectly… Now she thinks she’ll
get rid of me. She has some plan all made, of course… Well, it won’t
succeed! I’ll do something. I’ll find some way…”
She had read stories and seen pictures of people who escaped from
bonds like hers, who freed themselves from more urgent dangers than
this. And she tried; she tried to narrow one hand so that it would
slip out of the bandage that held her wrists; tried to move her
ankles. But she had never realized before how it hurt to have one’s
hands tied behind the back, or the pain of a gag. And worse than
anything were the tides of panic fear that threatened her again and
again, in this utter helplessness. She could not make a sound; she
could not even sit up; her struggles had no other effect than to leave
her panting, desperate, with a cold sweat on her forehead. She lay
quiet again, in the dark room.
And then an appalling thought struck her.
If Aunt Emma were to profit by that will, not only must she herself
die, but Uncle Rufus must die first. That will had condemned him to
death, as surely as if she had sent a bullet through his head; perhaps
even at this moment--
She remembered the utter terror she had seen in his eyes. First
Fennel, and then this forlorn and helpless old man, both to die
because she had made fatal errors…
She strained her ears, to catch any sound from that next room, and
once more that panic desperation assailed her; she tugged wildly at
her bonds, made strange stifled sounds that frightened her.
She did not know whether hours or minutes went by. There were periods
when she was scarcely conscious, and other times when she reflected,
with a cool, impersonal lucidity.
“If Aunt Emma’s going to let Mrs. Frick come out here to-morrow, that
means that she’ll be ready for her. She couldn’t possibly afford to
let me talk to Mrs. Frick. She can’t afford to let me go--after this.
She doesn’t mean to let me go… There’s no one to help me. She can make
Miles think and act as she pleases. Mr. Fennel’s--gone… Wren’s gone.
Mr. Purvis and Doctor Coat will believe what she tells them. The
taxi-driver’s doing just what I told him to do--notifying Mrs. Frick.
I’ve got to help myself.”
But how?
“I don’t know,” she said to herself. “But I won’t give up. I shan’t
struggle any more. I’ll save my strength. I’ll try not to think of
what’s happened…”
She made a gallant effort to remember poems she had learnt in school,
to fill her mind with fine and beautiful thoughts. But while she
repeated lines to herself, horrible images came into her mind: Uncle
Rufus in his terror, Fennel at the bottom of that old quarry. Fennel,
above all. She could see him so clearly, could recall the tones of his
voice, his vivid smile.
The door opened, and a sturdy white figure stood before her, outlined
against the dim light in the hall. She paused a moment, and then
entering the room, screwed a bulb into the electric light socket and
turned on the switch, closed and locked the door, and kneeling beside
the girl, untied her hands.
Di gave a smothered scream of pain as her arms dropped to her sides
and the blood began to circulate. Aunt Emma untied the twisted
handkerchief that had cut so cruelly into the corners of her mouth,
and that done, sat down on the edge of the bed.
“My God!” she said, with a sigh.
Her face looked drawn with weariness, its fresh color vanished; she
sat staring at the ground.
“Miles has told me,” she said. “What folly! What criminal folly! All
my plans ruined…”
Di sat down in a chair, and tried with numb, clumsy fingers to untie
her ankles.
“Everything ruined…!” Aunt Emma went on. “And I’m dragged, against my
will, into a dangerous and repugnant course… I never forsaw this…” She
sighed again. “It’s too late now,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Uncle Rufus--?” asked Di, with dry, stiff lips.
“He doesn’t really matter,” said Aunt Emma. “It’s you I’m thinking of.
It’s you I’m sorry for.”
Her ankles freed, Di looked up, into that tired, middle-aged face,
framed in gray hair. This could not be a criminal, a monster of
duplicity and evil…
“Then--if you’re sorry--” she began.
“I’ve never disliked you,” Aunt Emma went on, indifferent to her
words. “I hoped at first that you’d marry Miles. That was my first
plan. That would have kept the money in my control. And it would have
been a very good thing for him. But that failed. And now that you know
what he’s done… That’s the end, of course.”
“What--do you mean?” asked Di.
“Why, that you can’t live,” said Aunt Emma, sighing again. “And I’m
sorry.”
“Do you mean,” asked Di, “that you’re going to try to murder me?”
“There’s nothing else I can do,” said Aunt Emma.
They both spoke in ordinary, normal tones, sitting in that commonplace
hotel bedroom, filled with the garish light of the unshaded bulb.
“You can’t expect not to be found out,” said Di. “Mrs. Frick will make
inquiries. Even Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis will ask questions.”
“I think I’ve planned it pretty well,” said Aunt Emma. “But I didn’t
come here out of mere wanton cruelty--to gloat over you, and so on.
I’m really very sorry. Only, it’s a question of my safety, the
opportunity to go on with my work, against your life; and naturally…
The idea of killing you is horrible to me. And no doubt to you, also,”
she added, politely. “I thought--I hope you’ll take the way I shall
suggest. It is as your mother did. It will look quite natural to
outsiders. Coat and Purvis believe that you were filled with remorse
for your uncle’s condition. They’ll see that when you heard of his
death--”
“His death…?”
“You committed suicide,” Aunt Emma went on. “I give you my word to
make it as easy as possible for you. The ground out there slopes down
pretty sharply. The chances are that it will be a fatal fall. But if
it isn’t, if you’re injured and in pain, I’ll attend to you
immediately. I’ll see that you don’t suffer at all.”
“And if I don’t do that!”
“Well, you’ll have to go out of that window,” said Aunt Emma. “If you
won’t do it voluntarily there’ll have to be a very unpleasant
struggle.” She rose. “Think it over!” she said. “Think of your mother
in this room. She found that life wasn’t worth living. And it isn’t
for you either. You’re ineffectual, incompetent. You’re of no value to
anyone. There’s nothing ahead of you but a lifetime of poorly paid
work.”
She unscrewed the bulb and put it in her pocket. Di made a rush for
the door, but it shut in her face, and the key turned outside.
Chapter Fifteen.
A White Figure
She was free to move about now; to call for help if she wished; she
was left quite undisturbed to make what plans she could for her
escape.
And she could make none. It occurred to her to knock on the wall of
Uncle Rufus’s room, but she decided against it. It would either
frighten the old man still more, or wake in him hopes that she saw no
way to realize. Or perhaps he could no longer hear anything…
She would have done anything possible to help him, but she could think
of nothing. There had been, in that talk with her aunt, something that
robbed her of the last hope. Her death had been arranged in so cool
and matter-of-fact a way; she herself was so utterly negligible; there
was nothing in her aunt to which she could appeal.
If this were to be her last hour, she meant it to be a good one,
undaunted by fear and weakness. She faced her danger with courage and
dignity. She thought of all the happy moments she had had, of all the
people who had been kind to her, with a regret that was almost
impersonal. It seemed to her that the past was already immeasurably
remote. She thought, above all, of Fennel.
Then her mind turned to her childhood, and she tried to remember her
mother. Here, in this room, her mother had battled with despair and
anguish, and had lost. The room seemed filled with that tragic
presence. In the darkness, the daughter tried to recapture some
childish memory of that face, that voice; she wanted to feel near to
her mother. She wanted to understand how her mother could, of her own
free will, have left her child.
Was it because, after all, life was not worth living?
“If she could come back, just for a moment,” she thought. “If she
could tell me why she wanted to die--and what she found--on the other
side… How could she bear to leave me?”
Aunt Emma had said that some strange and disturbing thing lingered
here… If only she could pierce the veil, could come closer to that
presence…
“Mother…” she said, half-aloud.
She had no one else to love. It seemed to her that if her mother would
draw near to her, and she could go--with her… It would be good to go…
Why not? Why wait for a horrible and futile struggle? Did not the very
walls of this room whisper to her--“Life is cruel, and death is
peace”--Why not go to her mother…?
She rose, and crossed the room to the open window. Here, on this very
spot, her mother had last stood… Out there--
An awful fear choked her; her heart seemed to stop. For there, at the
foot of the dark pines, lay a white figure.
“Mother!” she said, inaudibly.
Her mother had come back, to show her the way. One instant, and she
could lie there too--
“Miss Leonard!” said a voice behind her.
She turned, to see a figure standing there in the dark. Another ghost…
She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came.
“Steady!” said the voice. “Steady, dear girl!”
His arm was about her shoulders, and she clutched his coat
frantically.
“How can you come!” she whispered. “You were dead, too.”
“Never was less so,” he answered. “But come now. Let’s get away.”
“How--could you come?”
“I found the kitchen door open, and I saw the back stairs, and came up
them. I didn’t know where you’d be, or whether I’d be--welcome. But I
saw this door locked, with the key outside. Didn’t want to knock, you
see, so I walked in.”
“He said--he killed you.”
“His mistake, whoever he was. I was knocked out for a while. Then I
found myself lying in a quarry, and I got up and came out. I went to a
doctor--but I only told him I’d been in an accident. I haven’t told
the police or anyone. I wanted to see you first. I’d have come before,
but--I was a little--bothered by that whack I got. Now let’s clear
out.”
“No! We can’t leave Uncle Rufus without--”
“Uncle Rufus!” he repeated. “But look here! You needn’t worry about
_him_.”
“I do! You don’t know--”
“I know one thing,” he said. “The poor old fellow was dead when we
carried him in--”
“No! He’s--there--in the next room…”
“He’s dead,” said Fennel. “I’m sorry if I’m--blunt, but--”
“Come and see!” she cried. “If it’s not too late.”
“Wait a minute! I--you see, I don’t exactly understand what’s going on
here. And I’m sure you don’t. That’s why I didn’t call in any outside
help. I wanted to know first how much you’re--involved in this.”
“I don’t know exactly what you mean.”
“I mean,” he said, “have you promised to conceal anything--given any
sort of help--done anything that could get you in trouble with the
law?”
“I--don’t know,” she said, doubtfully. “I don’t think I have.”
“Good!” he said, “Then we don’t care how much of a row we raise, do
we?”
“But if I had--?” she asked.
“Then I’d have had to get you away quietly.”
“But did you think I might have done something--wrong?”
“No,” he said, “Nothing wrong, and nothing silly. But you might have
made a mistake. And there’s something going on here. When we carried
the poor old fellow in, I saw that he was dead. But your aunt behaved
as if he were alive. That’s why I wanted to see you that evening. I
wanted to tell you, and get you out of the way before the big break.
Now it’s too late. Now you’ll have to be mixed up in it.”
“I did do one thing. I made a will. You see, Uncle Rufus had left his
money to me, and I made a will leaving half of it to Aunt Emma.”
“How did she work that?”
Di hesitated a moment.
“I wanted to find out what had happened to you. We made a bargain--”
“I see!” he said, and was silent for a moment. Then he took his arm
from about her shoulders and moved away a little.
Everything he did was right, every action, every word of his was
perfectly clear to her; she knew how he felt about things; she knew
that he understood her. His quiet acceptance of the situation had
steadied her, made her feel resolute and safe.
“The trouble is,” he said, “that there are three men here, and my
wrist’s broken--”
“Oh!” she cried.
“It’ll mend. But we’ll have to manage carefully. Somehow we ought to
get a look at the man in the next room. I want you to be able to swear
that he’s not your uncle… I’ll just take a cautious survey.”
He went over to the door, but he did not open it. She came to his
side.
“I _was_ a fool!” he said. “When I unlocked the door, I left the key
there. And now we’re locked in.”
For a moment they were silent.
“What about the window?” he said. “You were looking out when I came
in--”
“Oh, it was horrible!” she cried. “I thought I saw something… I was
nervous…”
They went together to the window--and it was still there, that white
figure.
“Do you--see it?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said.
“I thought--it was my mother. She--died like that. She--fell from this
very window…”
He reached for her hand and held it.
“No way to get out of here,” he said. “Can you shoot?”
“Shoot?”
“I have an automatic, but I can’t do much with my left hand.”
“I never even saw one, except in the movies,” she said. “And I’m
afraid--I _couldn’t_ shoot anyone--even if I knew how.”
“Of course you couldn’t,” he said. “I was only thinking of shooting
the lock, so that we could get out.”
“I’ll try it.”
“I’m afraid it would--”
Something fell past them, something like a great white bird and struck
the ground with a terrible thud, and did not move.
And from the next room came a scream.
“My child! You’ve killed my child…! Let me _go_…! My child…”
“It’s Wren!” cried Di.
“Stand here!” said Fennel. “You can see the white doorknob. Stand
close--there. Aim just below the knob. Pull the trigger.”
The noise dazed her. And in the next room that wild voice was still
shouting; some article of furniture was overturned with a crash.
“Try again!” said Fennel’s quiet voice beside her. “Not so high.”
Again a stab of flame and the crash of the shot, and the splintering
of wood.
“Too low!” said Fennel. “Now! This time you’ll do it.”
She aimed with desperate care, tried to steady her shaking hand. Her
finger was on the trigger, when there came a yell from the next room.
“Help! Help! Murder!”
The shot went wild.
“Last bullet,” said Fennel. “Never mind, dear. You’ve splintered the
wood. I’ll see if I can kick through that panel.”
“Help!” yelled that voice.
“We’re coming, Wren!” she called, with all her strength.
Fennel gave the door a well-directed kick; a second.
Then another shot sounded, there was a cracking, tearing sound, and
Fennel collapsed on the floor.
“What happened?” she cried. “Oh, what’s the _matter_?”
“Stand away from that door!” he shouted.
But she was on her knees beside him. She spoke to him, but he did not
answer. All noise had ceased in the next room, all noise everywhere
had ceased; there was a silence that seemed to ring in her ears.
“James!” she said.
“Yes?” he answered, in his ordinary, composed voice.
“What’s happened to you?”
“I got a bullet in the leg,” he said. “Through the door.”
She was passionately determined to be as quiet, as cool as he; she
_must not_ disappoint him.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
For answer he laid his head back against her shoulder, and she began
to stroke his forehead.
Outside the pines stirred in the breeze, and far away a dog barked and
a motor horn sounded.
“I must get him to a doctor,” she thought.
They were locked in this room. And God knows who or what was in the
corridor outside. Even if she could get out, how was she to leave him
alone in this horrible house while she went for help? He might be
bleeding to death, dying here, now, with his head against her
shoulder. No one knew they were here. No one would come.
“James,” she said, “can you move?”
“I--can,” he answered, “but--I don’t care much about moving--just
now…”
“I’ll bring the chair for you to lean against,” she said. “I want to
look around.”
She pushed the chair so that he was propped up against it, and then
she stood behind, in the dark, and tried to think. Other people had
escaped from situations like this… She could not make a rope of
sheets, to lower herself from the window, for there was only a
mattress on the bed.
“If I threw out the mattress,” she thought, “and then jumped… If I
missed it, if I hurt myself, he’d be worse off than ever. Perhaps I
can kick the door panel in…”
She had an unconquerable aversion to making any more noise. But it
must be tried. She had started forward, when a sound outside made her
jump. Was it possible…? She went to the window; her glance fell
indifferently upon the two white figures that lay there; she strained
her ears to catch that sound again.
No doubt about it; a car was coming up the hill.
“This way, please!” she called. “_Please_ come here! Please come here!
This way! I need help! Please--!”
Her light young voice seemed to float off on the breeze; there was no
answer. Now she could see the glare of the headlights as the car
turned the corner.
“Please come here!” she cried, desperately. “This way!”
“My darling child!” called back a strong, beautiful voice. “What _are_
you doing?”
“Angelina!” she cried. “Don’t go away!”
The car had stopped and Angelina sprang out, and ran along the path.
She stopped suddenly, and bent over the white figure lying there.
“What’s this?” she cried.
“Angelina! Get in somehow--”
A man had got out of the car, and stood beside Angelina, looking up at
the window.
“Come in!” cried Di, in a fury of impatience. “There’s someone hurt
here. I’m locked in. Hurry up!”
They both disappeared round the corner of the house, and for a long
time she heard nothing.
“James!” she said. “Could anything happen to them…?”
“Nothing can happen to Angelina,” he said.
Then she heard voices outside, Angelina’s voice. The key turned in the
lock, the door was flung open, the light of an electric torch shone in
her face.
“James is hurt,” she said, in a quiet, dignified voice.
And that was the end of her strength.
Chapter Sixteen.
“It’s Over”
She opened her eyes to look into the face of Doctor Coat, who was
bending over her. She stared up at him in wonder; he gazed back at her
with an expression so unutterably woebegone that her heart sank.
“James…?” she asked.
“The young man? Doing very nicely,” he answered. “And how are _you_
feeling now?”
She forgot to answer him. She was looking about the shabby little
old-fashioned room where she lay on a sofa; the chairs ranged against
the walls, the ancient magazines upon the center table, evidently
Doctor Coat’s waiting-room. Then at last she was really out of that
house…
“What happened?” she asked.
But Doctor Coat turned away his head.
“Oh, please tell me!” she cried, alarmed, and, as he turned back to
her, she saw tears in his eyes.
“I have known Emma since she was a child,” he said. “I can scarcely
grasp this… I… find this… very hard… to credit…”
She was sorry for him, but, in her anxiety, she could not spare him.
“Please tell me about Wren!” she said.
“Now, my dear Miss Diana!” he said, with a pitiable attempt at
professional cheerfulness, “put off your questions until you’ve had a
good rest. To-morrow--”
“I can’t wait--a minute! It’ll make me much worse, not to know. Is
Wren--?”
“It’s horrible!” he cried. “Unbelievable! A holocaust…”
He began to pace up and down his shabby, brightly-lit little room,
intolerably stirred, filled with bewilderment and grief.
“Three dead!” he said.
“Who? Oh, if you’d just please tell me! Can’t you see…?”
“Yes, I can,” he said. “Only, it’s so difficult… I haven’t quite
grasped it yet… They sent a chauffeur for me, and I went… I hadn’t
been warned in any way. I thought of course it was Emma who had sent
for me… I went to Rufus’s room--and I found Wren there, dying from the
effect of a murderous assault made upon him; he said by Peter Leonard…
By Peter Leonard… Even then I didn’t understand. I looked about the
room for Emma and there was no one present but this chauffeur in
uniform. He heard Wren’s last statement…
“No one will ever believe us--Purvis and me. In court--we shall
appear--either fools--or knaves… But it isn’t hard to deceive people
who are utterly unsuspicious. No doubt I am very much to blame. I
never examined the patient. I saw him only in a darkened room, heavily
muffled. But he had always had that peculiar habit of muffling
himself. If there was anything strange about his voice or manner, I
attributed it to his illness… I--I _couldn’t_ have suspected that
Rufus was dead, buried in the cellar, with no more ceremony than a
dog, and that the man I had seen in his place was Wren. It’s the sort
of thing that--doesn’t occur to anyone… He had had similar attacks and
Emma understood the treatment of them…
“When Emma told me he wanted to make a will in your favor, I was
pleased. I was always fond of your mother--”
“Did you know how she died?” the girl interrupted.
“Why, yes, my dear. Typhoid.”
“What makes you think that?”
He looked at her in surprise.
“I saw her the week before--the end. She was in the hospital then, and
on the road to recovery, we all believed. Then she had a
relapse--Don’t cry! Don’t cry, my dear!”
He drew a chair up beside the sofa, and sitting down, patted her
shoulder.
“Don’t cry!” he said. “It was a very happy end. She always had the
greatest confidence in your father. She was sure he was going to make
a fortune for you. A happy life, my dear, and a happy death.”
She could not stop weeping; tears were streaming down her face; she
groped for a handkerchief, and he gave her one of his own.
“You’re _sure_?” she asked.
“Absolutely! Come, come!”
“Just--don’t pay any attention--to this,” she said. “Go on telling
me…”
“I’ve sent for Purvis,” he went on. “It will be a terrible blow for
him… Rufus, or the man we thought was Rufus, was apparently too weak
to talk. Purvis drew up the will in the form Emma said he wanted. He
had not enough strength to sign his name, but he made his mark which
we both witnessed… How could we suspect anything wrong? Emma did not
benefit in any way; she was not even mentioned in the will. And later
on, when you insisted upon making a will in her favor, we saw nothing
amiss. We thought you were grateful to her, and perhaps a
little--overwrought… Why did you make that will?”
“I’ll tell you later. Please go on!”
“Wren was able to tell us only the main facts of this--this imposture.
Emma had forced him into it by threatening to send his child to an
institution. He said he agreed… He had rebelled against helping to
bury poor Rufus, and in the end had had a physical encounter with
Peter in which Peter had badly wounded his foot with a spade. I saw
that wound… Emma told him that if he would impersonate Rufus for a few
days, until the will was made, he would then pretend to recover and
could start to return to Rufus’s place in New York, and could
disappear on the way. He believed her--then, and he had been promised
a large reward. He had planned to take his child to some doctor he had
heard of in Switzerland. But he was well aware that his life was in
danger. He felt that as long as you were in the house, they would not
dare to make away with him. He had the highest opinion of your courage
and intelligence--the greatest faith in your kindness. The fact that
he was making a will in your favor was a great comfort to him. They
had told him that he would be allowed to leave to-day. A number of
persons, yourself and Purvis and I among them, would have seen him
take the train to New York, with his cap and muffler and so on. Then
in the waiting-room at the Grand Central, he would have removed the
disguise. And in order that nothing should happen to you, when you got
this money, he had written you a letter, explaining everything. He was
very anxious that you should enjoy this fortune. But unluckily, Emma
found that letter…
“I don’t know whether in any case he would have been allowed to leave
the house. I--am afraid not. I am afraid that I should have signed a
death certificate without any proper examination… And looking back
upon it now, I think… But that’s too horrible!”
“You mean I was to die, too?”
“She told Purvis and myself that you were brooding over your
responsibility for your uncle’s attack of illness, and that she found
you had suicidal tendencies… I _cannot_ credit this…! I have known
Emma since she was a child…”
“She’s gone?”
“She and Peter.”
“But Miles?”
“We found Miles--dead--in the dining-room. He had shot himself.”
“Oh,” she cried. “If he’d only known!”
“Known what?”
“He thought that he had done some--committed a dreadful crime--but he
hadn’t. If I could have told him!”
“His troubles are over, my dear,” said Coat, and was silent for a
moment. Then he went on:
“Perhaps the most shocking part of this whole terrible affair--to
me--was the part played by those unfortunate children… I have never
particularly interested myself in mental cases, and I took it for
granted that Emma was giving them the best possible treatment. She was
not. She had made no effort whatever to ameliorate their condition.
She used them, in the most callous and unethical way, for her
experiments. I don’t mean that they were physically ill-used. Simply,
she took advantage of their misfortune for her own ends. She withheld
any treatment that might have helped them. Wren told me this. I don’t
know how he came to suspect it--”
“One of the children was his?”
“Yes. Emma had come across the child, and had offered to adopt it and
give it proper care and treatment. And the wretched man had acted as
an unpaid servant for years, in the belief that he was benefitting his
child. Your friend did a very beautiful thing.”
“What friend--did what?”
“Mrs. Blessington. He wished to see the body of his child. And found
it was not his child, but the other one. And Mrs. Blessington made him
a solemn promise that she would look after his daughter, would take
her to the best specialists, would do everything humanly possible. It
was the greatest possible comfort to him in his last moments.”
“That’s like her,” said Di. “And the other poor little thing was
dead?”
“That disaster is inexplicable to me. Near where the child fell, we
found a peculiar object, a sort of dummy in a white dress… Fennel
thinks that the child saw this from the upper window, and in some way
was influenced by the suggestion. But I don’t know… Perhaps at the
inquest…”
He rose hastily, and crossed the room, stood by the window with his
back to her.
“I can’t tell you--” he said, unsteadily, “how sorry I am that you
will have to be dragged into this--horrible thing. The innocent to
suffer for the guilty… But there is no escape for you--or for any of
us. The publicity will be merciless… I only hope to Heaven that Emma
will not be found and brought back. I--should find it--very
painful--to appear as a witness--against my old friend… As it is, we
shall come out badly, Purvis and I…”
She lay still, thinking of that. It was not over; she had not escaped.
Every detail of this monstrous crime, every smallest action of her
own, would be made public. She would be an important witness in an
incredibly sensational case, she would be examined, cross-examined,
re-examined, all her words would be printed in the newspapers, she
would have to endure the most hateful and shameful publicity. All her
life, people would remember--“Yes--the one who was mixed up in that
murder case.” It seemed to her that, when she had crossed the
threshold of that house, she had left normal, cheerful life behind her
forever. That shadow could never lift.
“And now--how are you feeling?” asked Doctor Coat. “The effects of
such a shock--”
To his surprise, she rose to her feet.
“I feel perfectly all right,” she answered. “What ought I to do? Tell
the police?”
“Fennel has looked after that.”
“I’ve dragged _him_ into it,” she thought. “He’s not only been
wounded--twice--but he’ll have to be a witness, too.”
She tried to consider what to do now. In the circumstances, it
wouldn’t be fair to go to Mrs. Frick’s. Reporters would come, and the
police… Hadn’t she read of “material witnesses being kept in prison”?
She didn’t care. If she were not in prison, what could she do? It
would be impossible to get a job now… She would be a notorious
character. She might even be suspected of complicity.
“Mrs. Blessington waited to take you back to New York,” Doctor Coat
continued, “but I said I feared you couldn’t stand the journey.
However, you seem so much better than I expected--shall I call her
in?”
“She’s here?”
“Waiting in the next room. I should be glad to see you go with her. A
very kind and generous woman…”
He opened the door into another room, and Angelina hastened in; she
was pale, but radiant as usual.
“My dearest Di!” she cried. “Put some powder on your precious nose and
let’s get going!”
“Will I be allowed to go? I mean--the police--?”
“My dear, James can do _anything_ with the police.”
“Did you know him well, Angelina?”
“But my dear! He’s my _brother_! You _must_ have heard me talking
about ‘Jammy.’ He’s a marvelous person. He’s written books, my dear,
about reptiles. And he’s just come back from a trip up the Amazon,
looking for boa-constrictors and things. The police will eat out of
his hand. And of course they’re frightfully impressed with Porter’s
money. I made a statement!” she added, with relish. “I’ll be in the
newspapers to-morrow morning--with one of my photographs. We told them
you were _much_ too ill to be questioned to-night, but they’ll be
around early to-morrow morning. So come along and get a good night’s
rest.”
“Come--where?”
“My dear, some fearful woman told Jammy that you left my house without
a penny, and then I remembered… And both Jammy and Porter went for me.
I admit that I was a vile beast. But why didn’t you remind me,
darling?”
She put her arm about the girl and kissed her.
“I’m going to make up for it, every way I know!” she said. “Porter and
I are going to give you the most _peerless_ wedding-present--”
“I’m not thinking of getting married,” said Di, with a faint smile.
“Oh, James told me!” said Angelina. “He wants the engagement announced
before the trial.”
“Angelina! No!”
“My dear, you must! Think how romantic--in the newspapers.”
“Angelina, you can’t see anything--romantic--in this terrible
affair--”
“Darling,” said Angelina, earnestly, “you haven’t done anything awful,
have you?”
“No. But think of the publicity--”
“Well, what of it?”
“Don’t you realize how--disgraceful and--”
“My dear--chump,” said Angelina, “you can’t be disgraced by things
that other people have done. You’re trying to act like these people in
French novels, when everybody has to commit suicide and break off
their engagements because some member of the family has ‘disgraced the
name.’ It _will_ be trying and painful for you, but you are no more
disgraced than if you’d been in a shipwreck. And you’ve got James and
Porter and me to stand by you.”
“Angelina, you don’t understand--”
Then for the first time, Di could realize that Angelina was Fennel’s
sister. Across her radiant dark face came a look very like him, cool,
steadfast and grave.
“Di,” she said. “You’ve come to the crisis. You’ve been through fear
and suffering and horror. And you’ve come through with courage and
honesty. James told me. He thinks there never was anyone like you. Now
look!”
She drew the girl to the window, and pulled aside the doctor’s prim
little curtains. The moon was going down behind a hill, the sky was
still bright with the soft radiance; the Spring night was alive with
exquisite promise.
“It’s an awfully big world,” said Angelina. “And it’s so beautiful.
You’re just coming out of a horrible black hole. And now you’ve got to
forget. It’s all over. Now you’ve got to go forward.”
“She’s right, my dear!” said Doctor Coat’s voice behind them.
“And now come on!” said Angelina, quickly dropping her serious air.
“James is in the darlingest little hospital here, and we’ll come out
to see him to-morrow. Porter’s waiting in the car. We’re going to
drive back to New York now--and eat. You look hideously thin. Come on,
Di! It’s over! We’re all sorry for the terrible things that have
happened--but they’re done. James will be all right in a week or so.
And you’re going to be _happy_. Come on, Di!”
[The End]