“Life,” said Mr. Dempsi, stretching the toes of his small feet to the
fire with a luxurious intake of breath, “is a beautiful thing. From the
utter depths of loveless despair to the sublime accomplishment of
heart’s desire--what a transition, my own!”
“Mr. Dempsi--” began Diana.
“Wopsy,” he murmured reproachfully.
“Well--Wopsy. I have allowed you to stay because I wanted a quiet talk
with you. A quiet talk,” she stressed the qualification as he reached
out for a hand that was not there.
“Silence is so wonderful.” He turned his languishing eyes upon her.
“Silence and thought and The Woman.”
But Diana had her piece to say, carefully prepared and rehearsed in the
solitude of her room.
“Five years ago you were good enough to ask me to marry you. I refused.
People say that young girls are brainless--the fact that I declined the
honour you offered is proof to the contrary. What I felt then, I feel
now. My heart is in the grave!”
“_My_ grave.” His smile was melancholy but complacent.
“Don’t be silly. You are alive, I’m sorry--I mean I should be sorry if
you weren’t. I had a lover--my heart went out to him, Wopsy,”--her voice
trembled, she thought there were tears in his sympathetic eyes, “but he
passed.”
“Ran away from you?” Mr. Dempsi sat up.
“When I say ‘passed’”--there was more than a trace of acid in Diana’s
voice--“I mean ... to the Great Beyond.”
“Pegged out?” Dempsi shrugged. “These things happen. Once I loved a
girl--oh, Diana, such a girl amongst girls! Tall, divinely fair,
gracious in every look and movement. She also passed--to the Great
Beyond.”
“She died?” whispered Diana.
“She went on to the stage--in America,” said Dempsi. “She was dead to
me. I cut her out of my heart. I could have killed myself, but I said:
‘Wopsy, have you forgotten your little Diana--your first, your only
love?’ With a courage that I have often admired, I forgot her. She is
now the greatest screen vamp in Hollywood. I see her frequently without
a tremor. Such things happen.”
Diana was unmoved, though a little discouraged.
“My love will never be forgotten,” she gulped. “Wopsy, you see how
impossible it is--did you get the money?”
“The money--you sent it to me? But, Diana, how foolish!”
“I sent it by cheque,” she said.
He sank back again in his chair.
“You are a foolish little one. Money!” He laughed cruelly. “How you
Anglo-Saxons worship money! To men of my temperament ...!” He snapped
his fingers. “As to your unfaithfulness to the great ideal I provided,
your heartless disregard for my memory, I forgive you. You were only a
child--you could not be expected to cherish the memory of the man who
died for you. That is past. We belong to the Day--to-morrow, Monday,
Tuesday we shall be married.”
“What are we doing on Wednesday?” she asked. “Forgive me for looking so
far ahead.”
For a second he was disconcerted, uneasy: that he betrayed in his
laughter.
“My dear little Diana, how droll you are----”
“Listen, Dempsi or Wopsy, as the case may be--you are returning to your
hotel to-morrow. We are not getting married on Monday, Tuesday or
Wednesday. Shall I tell you why? I see that you are interested. Because
I don’t want to marry you.”
His face darkened.
“This is Uncle Isaac!” he said between his teeth. “The influence of that
man is diabolical! All my life I have been thwarted by aunts and uncles.
He shall answer to me--Guiseppi Dempsi!”
He flung out of his chair, took two strides toward the door, when she
caught his arms desperately.
“Let me go,” he stormed.
“If you leave this room I will telephone for the police!”
The tension relaxed.
“For me--the police for me!” He covered his face in his hands and his
shoulders heaved convulsively. Diana felt no regrets.
“And she of whom I dreamt threatens me. Let me die!”
Diana let him. At the end of three minutes he was still alive.
“Mr. Dempsi, dry your eyes.”
Like a faithful but heart-broken hound, he obeyed.
“You may stay here to-night,” she said; “your bedroom is at the top of
the stairs. I hope you sleep well. If you want anything, ring the bell.
Good-night.”
He turned wearily toward the door.
“This is not Diana.”
His dejection would have touched a heart of stone. Diana was unmoved.
She heard his door close, went silently up the stairs and slipped a key
into the lock. He heard, too late, the grating of steel against steel.
Before he could reach the door the lock snapped.
“Who is that--who has locked the door? Open it at once.”
“It is I,” said Diana in a low voice.
“But, Diana, this is extraordinary!”
“I do it for your own protection,” she whispered through the keyhole.
“Uncle Isaac does not like you--and _he is armed_.”
A silence.
“But this is dangerous! If there is a fire----”
“Use the extinguisher!” she hissed. “It is hanging in the wardrobe.”
She was tired, aching in every limb, immensely lonely. Oh, for the
comforting presence of Gordon! Or even Eleanor, at that moment sitting
in agitated conference with Mrs. Magglesark, discussing the strange
behaviour of mistresses in general and Australian mistresses in
particular.
Happily there was Mr. Superbus.
The faint sound of music came up from the servants’ hall as she
descended the stairs. Mr. Superbus was playing a mouth-organ softly,
almost musically. Aunt Lizzie sat before the kitchen fire, chin in hand.
Uncle Isaac leant against the kitchen dresser, glowering at the
musician. The harmonies were confirmed as she opened the door.
“Had a pleasant evening?” she asked.
“I’ve had nothing to eat but bread and cheese,” said Gordon. “This
little joke of yours is going too far, Diana.”
She looked at him aghast.
“We didn’t have any dinner!” she said in dismay, tempered with the
satisfaction that Dempsi was at that moment starving in his locked room.
“I haven’t even had bread and cheese--it is time for you to go to bed.”
“I’ll go when I please,” said Gordon loudly.
Mr. Superbus shook his head reprovingly.
“Naughty, naughty!” he chided. “That’s not like my Uncle Isaac. And he’s
been such a good boy, ma’am, singing as gay as a lark.”
Gordon blushed.
“I didn’t sing, you jackass!” he growled.
“Didn’t he sing, Aunt Lizzie?”
She shrugged indifferent shoulders.
“Well, if he didn’t sing he ’ummed,” insisted Mr. Superbus.
His repertoire on the mouth-organ included the Eton Boating Song--Gordon
was an old Etonian. Doubtless he had ’ummed: no Etonian could resist the
lilt of it.
“To bed,” said Diana curtly.
Swinging her keys, she had the appearance of a jailer.
“You will regret this,” said Gordon between his teeth. “I can bring a
thousand people to identify me.”
“And how many to identify Aunt Lizzie?” asked Diana with a curl of her
lips.
Gordon had no answer. She had the exasperating habit of shutting every
door in his face, dispelling every wild vision of liberty that hope
conjured to shape.
Heloise was not silenced.
“Why, that’s not going to be difficult,” she drawled. “I’m Mrs. van
Oynne of 71 Clarence Gate Gardens.”
“Very good,” nodded Diana. “You are at liberty to telephone to the
police and allow them to identify you. I’ll tell them that by an error I
have mistaken you for Double Dan’s--what is the word? partners? They
will put things right.”
Heloise got up.
“I was never strong for fighting,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”
Diana led the way, Gordon came after, Mr. Superbus followed, emitting
soft tuning noises from his mouth-organ. Were it in his repertoire,
Gordon would have selected “The Death of Asa” as an appropriate
accompaniment to that solemn march. He imagined himself a malefactor on
his way to execution. Diana had the air of hangman and private torturer.
“Good-night,” he said mechanically, and stopped at the door of his room.
“Not in there!” Her loud whisper was threatening. He followed to the
floor above. The room chosen was that in which Diana said she intended
sleeping the man and wife who were to be engaged for the autumn
cleaning. Heloise went in--she knew the room.
“Good-night,” she said.
“You have forgotten something,” said Diana.
“If you think I’m going to kiss you, there’s a surprise coming to you,
girl,” said Heloise, and tried to shut the door.
“Your husband,” said Diana primitively.
The door slammed, Diana heard a chair dragged across the room, and
guessed that the back of it was being propped under the handle. Gordon’s
throat went dry.
“You have quarrelled?” said Diana. “Or perhaps you don’t....”
“I don’t!”
The voice came from his stomach--he had never suspected such a range of
sound in himself.
“That’s very awkward.” She tapped her lips with a key. “You’ll have to
go into the spare room. Come down.”
The spare room was at the far end of the passage and the bed had not
been made up.
“There are the blankets,” said Diana and pointed. “To-morrow I will find
sheets for you. The bed is more comfortable than any you’ll find at the
police station.”
She locked the door on him.
The window was open, but there was no method of reaching safety. Here
the wall dropped sheerly to the bottom of the area, and if you missed
the area there was a row of sharp, spiked railings. Gordon decided to go
to bed. For an hour he tossed from side to side, his nerves on edge,
sleep farther from him than ever. There might be a spare key to the room
in one of the drawers. He searched diligently, but without success. Then
he tried the door. From somewhere outside came the sound of a
knife-cleaner working eccentrically. Or it may have been the noise of a
carpet-sweeper being pushed across the floor by one who had no
conception of rhythm. As he turned the handle, the noise ceased and a
voice said:
“Sleep well, Uncle Isaac.”
Mr. Superbus, that faithful watch dog, was sleeping on the mat.