Chapter II: Part 2

She had nothing to read and no desire to spend the evening shut up in her room, so she accepted willingly. But first she went upstairs, filled in the blank in Mrs. Frick’s letter with the address, put the tiny watch into the envelope, sealed it and slipped it under a corner of the bureau-scarf. Then she returned to Uncle Peter. They sat in the lounge and played; they were both cheerful and good-humored. But all the time Di was thinking to herself:

“To-morrow evening, I shan’t be here. This is the end.”

It was not long before Uncle Peter began to yawn, and to become absent-minded, and when Di said she thought she would go to bed, he sprang up with alacrity.

“I like to get up early,” he explained. “Like to get out while the dew is on the grass, this time o’ year. Used to ride before breakfast, when I had a horse.”

He sighed and she glanced at him, baffled. Was he really a simple and kindly man--or wily and evil?

He made no offer to go upstairs with her, but stood at the foot of the stairs until she had reached the top.

“Night!” he called. “Sleep well!”

She locked her door and sat down, with the torch handy. What if he had run down in the cellar and turned out the lights? That might have been nothing but rather a childish retaliation because she had run away.

Very well; that might be that. But what about those two men she had caught a glimpse of carrying another between them?

“I don’t know!” she cried to herself. “And I don’t care! I’m tired of all this! I’m going away.”

Then she remembered the letter, and raised the bureau-scarf. It was gone.

“It doesn’t matter,” she thought. “I don’t care what’s happened to it.”

She undressed then and got into bed, and fell asleep at once; slept profoundly all night. When she awoke the sun was up, shining into the room, it was a clear, gay morning. But she did not feel gay. On the contrary. Whatever dreams she had had were utterly forgotten, yet some faint, sorrowful impression remained.

She got up reluctantly, went to the nearest bathroom for a cold dip, and dressed.

“I don’t know what excuse I can possibly make,” she thought. “Or how I can get to New York, or what I’ll do there. But I’m going. After I’ve had some breakfast, I’ll be able to think of a way.”

Pale, unusually serious, she went down the stairs. And there in the lounge she saw a stranger, a tall, fair-haired young man, sitting stretched out in an armchair, and smoking a cigarette. When he caught sight of her, he rose.

“Good God!” he said, staring at her. “You’re not this Diana, are you?”

“That’s me!” she answered. “Are you Miles?”

He held out his hand, and when she gave him hers, he kept it in a firm clasp.

“I thought you were going to be repulsive,” he said. “I mean, they told me to come out here and meet a cousin who was helping Aunt Emma with her damned work. So I thought horn-rimmed spectacles--_you_ know--one of these _nice_ girls.”

She liked him at once; she felt perfectly at home with him. His young face was a little haggard, his blue eyes looked tired, but there was about him a debonair good humor that immediately attracted her.

“When did you get here?” she asked, trying to pull away her hand.

“This morning,” he answered and held her hand still tighter.

A silent struggle ensued, in the course of which she freed herself.

“You must have got up pretty early,” she observed.

“Doesn’t necessarily follow,” he said. “Perhaps I just _stayed_ up.”

She could believe that; there were unmistakable marks of dissipation in his handsome face, and she was sorry.

“You’re not a scientist, are you?” he asked.

“Mercy, no!”

“Then what are you, when you’re not here?”

“I was a sort of secretary,” she answered, “to Mrs. Herbert--”

“Not Angelina?”

“Yes!” she said, eagerly. “Do you know her?”

“I know the fellow she’s just married. Porter Blessington.”

He knew these people she knew, and they entered upon one of those absurdly inane yet somehow fascinating conversations: “Do you know so-and-so? Oh, and do you know Mrs. This, or Mrs. That?”

His acquaintance was very large, and Di was able to place him pretty well. She had met other young men like him in Angelina’s house, well-dressed, good dancers, remarkably good bridge-players, agreeable and amusing fellows, who get plenty of invitations for dinners, dances and week-ends. But who had no austere scruples. She did not conceive any great respect for her cousin Miles, but she liked him, and it was a pleasure even to hear the names of Angelina’s friends, to be reminded of those glittering, hurried days.

“Did you ever meet--?” she was beginning when Aunt Emma appeared. She was wearing a spotless white overall, and white shoes and stockings; everything about her was fresh and neat and of a simple dignity. Her plump face, framed by her short gray hair, was rosy and wholesome, and very kindly in its expression this morning.

“Good-morning, Diana!” she said. “Did you sleep well? We’ll have breakfast now, Miles--”

“No, thanks!” he said. “I don’t feel much like breakfast.”

“Go and take a little walk,” said she, and led the way to the dining-room, where she rang for Wren.

“She’s evidently seen Miles before this morning,” thought Di. “Could it--? Oh, I hope not!”

Could it have been Miles who had been carried into the house last night?

“I’m an early riser,” said Aunt Emma. “I’ve had my breakfast, long ago. But I’ll sit with you, and have another cup of coffee… It occurred to me that it might be advisable to talk to you a little about your Uncle Rufus’s work. You seemed to find his book--difficult. So I propose to give you an elementary survey.”

She lit a cigarette, and leaning back in her chair, began to talk. And then for the first time, Diana began to understand Uncle Peter’s description of his sister as a “remarkable woman.” All the time the girl was eating, her aunt went on, in her pleasant, assured voice; she never once hesitated for a word, she made of a very dry subject a thing of interest, by her perfect clarity. She had the instinct of the born teacher; she _knew_, without asking, just what needed explaining, what needed emphasizing, just what words to use.

“Now!” she said. “Is it clearer?”

“Much!” said Di, respectfully.

“I suggest,” said Aunt Emma, “that you spend the morning looking over your Uncle Rufus’s book again. He will appreciate it, if you are able to talk to him intelligently about it.”

Di followed her aunt upstairs, with a feeling of remorse. For she did not intend ever to see Uncle Rufus, ever to talk about his boring work, or even to think of it again, once she got away. She took the hateful volume which Aunt Emma handed to her, and sat down alone, at Aunt Emma’s desk.

“I shouldn’t have let her take all that trouble, explaining,” she thought. “The least I can do now is to make an effort. It’ll probably do me good.”

But she could not keep her mind on the book.

“I need exercise,” she thought, “Well, I’ll get plenty when I start looking for a job! But I wonder… I wonder if, after all, I hadn’t better wait for a day or two, and just see if I get an answer from Mrs. Frick. Then I shouldn’t have to borrow any money.”

It was Miles who had made this change in her mood. His coming had altered everything; the atmosphere of the house was different now, not lonely and “queer,” but cheerful and interesting. She could smile now at her fears of last night. What had happened? Nothing at all!

It was a very, very long morning. Once she opened the door cautiously; the red-carpeted corridor was empty, the sun shining in at the window. She came out, unreasonably nervous, as if she were committing some treachery, and went to her own room. The bed had been made; everything was neat and tranquil. She darted back to Aunt Emma’s room, and took up the book once more, with a sigh.

At one o’clock, Uncle Peter knocked at the door.

“Ready for lunch?” he asked.

She was something more than ready; she was very hungry. There had not been one good, solid meal since she had come here. She joined her uncle promptly, and they went toward the stairs. Hearing her aunt’s voice below, Di looked down, saw her in the lounge, standing very straight, hands clasped behind her back, a calm, ironic smile on her lips. Before her stood Miles, and the sight of him startled the girl. What was that expression he wore, resentment, shame, bitterness?

“And if you play the fool--” Aunt Emma was saying.

Uncle Peter coughed, and she looked up and saw them. There was no change in her calm, ironic smile, but there was a great change in Miles. As she reached the foot of the stairs, he came toward Di with an eager air of pleasure. And she felt quite sure that the eagerness was forced and insincere.

The lunch was quite as poor as all the other meals she had had here. Aunt Emma was silent, in her somewhat majestic fashion, as if no one here were interesting to her; Uncle Peter was absent-minded, drumming on the table with his fingers. Wren moved about, forlorn and meek as usual. And Miles kept on with that strained cheerfulness. She played up to him as well as she could, because she was sorry for him.

“See here!” he said, abruptly. “Like to take a drive this afternoon, Diana?”

“Oh!” she began, and stopped, glancing toward her aunt. “I’m hoping I can help Aunt Emma--”

“There’s nothing of vital importance,” said Aunt Emma. “A few hours in the open air will be good for you.”

Miles pushed back his chair and rose.

“All right! Get your hat and coat, and I’ll bring the car around.”

She ran up the stairs, very pleased at the prospect of getting out, and was down again in five minutes. The car was standing before the house, the same car in which Uncle Peter had driven her down.

“You didn’t waste any time!” she said.

“I want to get away from this damned house!” he said, vehemently. “Hop in!”

“I’d like to stop somewhere and telephone--”

“All right!” he interrupted. “Get in!”

As soon as she was seated, he started the car with a jerk; before they were out of sight of the house she realized that he was a poor driver, nervous and careless.

“Don’t go so fast!” she protested.

He went down the hill and turned the corner in a way that made her gasp.

“I really don’t enjoy this!” she said.

“Sorry!” he said, and slowed down a little. “Only, I’m so dam’ worried… Lord! You’d think I was a criminal--simply because I’m not much good at business. I’ll admit I’m a dud at money-making, but that’s no _crime_, is it?”

“Oh, dear!” thought Di. “That’s so awfully like poor Father!”

“It’s Uncle Rufus’s fault,” he went on. “He’s been hell-bent on making a satisfactory heir out of me. He’s made me try all the things that appeal to _him_--wanted me to be a chemist, and then a lawyer--and now it’s this business. Never troubled to find out what _I’d_ like.”

“What would you like to be?” she asked.

“I’ll never be anything now--but a failure,” said Miles.

Her father had used to talk in that same way, determined to be a failure; taking a sort of bitter pride in it, as if he were revenging himself upon an unworthy universe. And because she had loved her father, in spite of his weaknesses, she made allowances now for Miles.

“I think people can be pretty much what they want,” she said.

“All right!” said Miles. “I want to be a millionaire. Now, while I’m young.”

“You’ll be young for quite a while longer.”

“I’m twenty-seven,” he said. “And a rotten failure. There’s not one living soul who cares a tinker’s dam’ about me.”

“Your father--” she suggested.

“My father’s a--grasshopper!” said Miles.

She tried not to laugh, but her lip trembled with suppressed mirth, and presently he laughed himself.

“Well, haven’t you noticed it?” he demanded. “The way he jumps around, so busy, doing nothing. He’s like the grasshopper in the fable, too; he hasn’t put anything away for the Winter.”

“I suppose Aunt Emma’s the industrious ant,” said Di.

“Not she!” said Miles. “Ants work for the good of the whole crowd, and she doesn’t give a hoot for anyone or anything but her own affairs.”

“I don’t know…” Di protested. “Look at those children--”

“I don’t want to look at them,” said Miles. “I saw them once, five years ago, and that was enough.”

“Five years ago! They must have been babies then--”

“No, they weren’t. I never know what size kids are supposed to be, but I should think they were six or seven then. Lord! I came in unexpectedly and there they were, at the table, with Aunt Emma. They were imitating her. Every time she’d lift her spoon, they’d do the same, and slobber the soup, or whatever it was, all down their dresses. It was a beastly sight.”

“But don’t you think it’s a fine thing for her to try and help them?”

“No,” said Miles. “Naturally I don’t. Not when she’s so damned heartless to me. If she can get Uncle Rufus’s money, I’ll never see a penny of it. Only, I don’t think she will get it. She may get on very well with idiots, but she doesn’t know how to manage a man. You’ll see for yourself to-night--”

“To-night?”

“Didn’t they tell you he’s coming to-night?”

“No,” she answered, startled. She remembered that only this morning she had confidently thought she would never see Uncle Rufus. Last evening she had believed to be her last evening in that house. Yet here she was.

Once more the very unpleasant notion assailed her that she was in a net, entangled there by a hundred invisible threads; as long as she was passive, she could feel herself free, but when she tried to move, the threads tightened.

“Miles!” she said, with a sort of haste. “I want to telephone. Stop somewhere, will you?”

“All right!” he said. “On the way back.”

He turned up a lane, and stopped the car by the roadside.

“Uncle Rufus comes out every few months,” he said, “to see if anyone’s improved enough for him to alter his will. At present, everything’s to go to some society he belongs to. He’s the world’s worst. He hasn’t a friend on earth. Of course, the idea is, that you’ll make a hit with him--”

“I?”

“He liked your mother,” said Miles.

Her heart contracted, at the mention of that name.

“Did you ever see my mother, Miles?” she asked.

“When I was a kid. I don’t remember very well, but I think she was like you.”

A warm sense of kinship filled her; here was one of her own people, her cousin, who had seen her mother. She turned toward him, eagerly. And was disconcerted to see him taking a flask out of his overcoat pocket.

“Have a spot?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” she said.

She did not consider herself responsible for the conduct of other people, she had never imagined herself as anyone’s guiding star or guardian angel, and it would have seemed to her only offensive and meddlesome to remonstrate with him. But she was sorry, very sorry.

“You ought to make a hit with the old boy,” he said. “Or with anyone. You’re the prettiest, sweetest girl I ever saw.”

“Ah! You don’t know me!” said Di. “Let’s get along now, Miles, so that I can telephone.”

He took a second drink and then caught her hand.

“Diana!” he said. “The first moment I saw you--”

“Please, Miles, don’t spoil everything!” she said, in distress.

Then he grew angry and bitter.

“You’re like everyone else,” he said. “Simply because I don’t make money--”

“All right!” said Di. “Let’s not argue now. Let’s get along--”

Her self-control, her coolness, increased his anger. He accused her of despising him, of having heard and believed false reports of him from Aunt Emma.

“You won’t even listen to me!” he said. “You won’t even give me a chance!”

“I can’t help listening to you,” said Di.

She had been through scenes like this before, with her father. He had used to tell her that she was “heartless,” “unnatural,” “selfish,” then, quite suddenly, he would become remorseful, and tell her she was a “little angel.”

“Diana!” he cried, “I’ve talked like a brute to you. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course!” she said. “Just forget about it.”

But that tone did not satisfy him. He wanted something more dramatic, and she was quietly determined to keep to a matter-of-fact good humor.

“Diana!” he said. “I’m just about at the end of my tether. Some day you’ll know…”

Her father had used to say: “Some day, when I’ve gone, you’ll realize--”

A sorrowful weariness overcame her. She was so tired of this, so sorry for Miles, his weakness, his fatal self-pity. And she felt that she must bear with him, as he had with her father.

“Diana, you don’t know what a rotten time I’ve had!” he said.

And he told her a great many of his latest troubles. He was in debt up to his ears, his creditors were pressing him, he couldn’t find a job worth taking; his health was impaired. She listened with kindly patience, but she could think of nothing helpful to say, only:

“I’m awfully sorry, Miles.”

At last he talked himself out, and grew sad and resigned. He started the car and turned home; all the way he was respectful, courteous, almost humble in his anxiety to please her, and she responded good-humoredly, but with an effort. She was glad to see a light in an upper window of The Châlet, glad even to get back there.

He stopped the car, and helped her out, as if she were a princess.

“_Sure_ you’re not angry, dear?” he asked.

In the dusk his face looked very pale, very young and haggard. She could think now that Miles was a tragic figure.

“Very sure!” she said, and gave his hand a friendly squeeze.

It was not until then that she remembered the telephone-call she had wanted to make.

“Well, to-morrow, then!” she thought, with a sigh. “I wonder if Wren has posted that letter? If he has, I might get an answer to-morrow.”

She pushed open the front door and entered the lounge; it was dark in there, not with the blackness of night, but filled with twilight shadows; the willow chairs creaked, as if unseen occupants were stirring uneasily. And she did not like this shadowy, rustling place. A crack of light shone through the sliding-doors into the dining-room and she thought she heard someone moving in there.

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t go and ask Wren if he’s posted the letter,” she thought. “There’s no reason for all this caution and secrecy.”

How did she know there wasn’t any reason for it? In this dim silence it was easy to believe that there might be many reasons…

“Oh, nonsense!” she said, aloud, and crossed to the doors. But they would not open. She pushed at them with all her might, filled with a great desire to get into that lighted room. Behind her in the lounge a chair creaked loudly; too loudly; she heard something like a stifled sigh.

“Wren!” she called.

From the dining-room came a distorted echo of her own voice.

“’En! ’En!”

Shambling steps were coming toward the door, in there. She sprang back, groped for a lamp, and pulled the chain. As the light came on, she gave a shaky sigh of relief. Of course there was no one here…

But as she turned her head, she saw, in a corner, a strange huddled little figure, staring at her.

She stared back, speechless. It was a man with a checked cap pulled far down on his forehead, and wearing an overcoat and muffler. He had drawn up two of the wing-chairs before him, so that his corner was a sort of cage, and there he sat staring at her.

“Who--are you?” she asked, unsteadily.

“You must be Diana,” he said. “You’re very nervous, it seems to me. I’m your father’s uncle. You’re very nervous. I don’t understand that, and I don’t like it. You’re young; you look healthy. Why should you be nervous--if you have a good conscience?”

“I’m not nervous,” she said, briefly.

“You are,” he said. “You were in a panic, trying to open that door.”

There was something in his voice and manner which roused in the good-tempered Diana an irritability hitherto unknown to her.

“I suppose I felt that there was someone in here,” she said. “It’s enough to make anyone nervous.”

“No, it’s not,” said he. “When I was your age, nothing could upset my nerves. That was because I was moderate in eating and drinking, and took plenty of exercise. _You_ smoke yourself silly with cigarettes and ruin your digestion with cocktails and dance all night--”

“I do not!” said Di, indignantly.

“What do you do, then?”

“It’s impossible to answer--a question like that.”

“Stand nearer the lamp,” he commanded. “Well, you don’t look like your father. You’re like your mother’s people. Good, sound stock. Hm… Like your mother…”

The mention of her mother startled her. Time and again, that name…

“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.