Chapter III: Part 3

Fennel… Was he cast for a minor part; had he just “walked on” in this one scene and now was gone, not to appear again? A curious feeling of regret seized her, almost of desolation, because he was gone. She was left alone here with Uncle Rufus; she was his ally, pledged to stand by him, but was he _her_ ally? She could believe that there in the wood, in his last conscious moment, he had positively hated her.

She rose, and went over to the bed to look at him. But she turned away hastily; he was so grotesque, so horrible, lying there in his overcoat and cap, his eyes closed, an expression of bitter malice on his sallow old face. She pitied him, that man who had grown old without a friend, she was willing and determined to help him, but she could not feel any affection.

“Is he--very ill?” she wondered. “Dangerously ill? It seems to me that Aunt Emma’s doing precious little for him… But of course I don’t know. Perhaps there’s nothing that _can_ be done. She ought to know. And Mr. Fennel seemed satisfied. If he’d thought there was anything--queer, I don’t believe he’d have gone away without a word… But he wanted to see me this evening… He certainly wasn’t thinking of a lover’s tryst. Perhaps he had something to tell me--something I ought to know. It was a mistake to say I wouldn’t go. I’m sorry I said I wouldn’t.”

That reminded her of the letter he had brought from Mrs. Frick, and taking it out of her pocket she tore it open. Folded inside the letter she caught a glimpse of green, and drew out a ten-dollar bill.

Ten dollars! Freedom and independence! She could get away from here, buy a railway ticket, pay a week’s rent for a room, and look for a job. And it seemed to her that any job on earth would be joyous and delightful after this. Any job, where she was free to come and go, where there were people to talk to, an ordinary existence. She was about to read the letter when the sound of a car outside sent her to the window again, and she saw Uncle Peter, driving the roadster, and wedged in beside him, two portly, middle-aged men. Such respectable, such blessedly _ordinary_ looking men! The thought of them coming into this house filled her with immense relief. They were coming, and she had ten dollars. At the end of this promised week she would go…

Aunt Emma entered the room.

“They’re here!” she said. “Run down and tell Wren to come up at once. We’ll have to make the patient a little more presentable for Doctor Coat.”

“Oh! Is one of them a doctor?” asked Di, better pleased than ever. Then there couldn’t be anything really--queer.

“Don’t stop in the lounge to speak to them,” said Aunt Emma. “And you’d better not come back, just yet. Wait in the kitchen until I come.”

But Di felt that no human power should keep her from speaking to those blessedly ordinary men.

“Why don’t you want me to speak to them?” she asked briefly.

Aunt Emma looked at her.

“I suppose,” she said, “that you meant to trip in, like a little ingénue in a play, all curls and dimples and they would be enchanted. But in the first place, they’re here on business, and they’ve never heard of you. And in the second place, you’re not looking quite your best. You might take a glance in the mirror.”

“No, thanks,” said Di, turning scarlet.

“Then please send Wren at once.”

She went downstairs, and hurried through the lounge without turning her head, traversed the dining-room and entered the kitchen. There sat Wren, with his head down on the table, a forlorn little figure.

At the sound of her step, he jumped up.

“Miss Leonard wants you right away,” said Di.

“Yes, Miss!” he answered.

Then, glancing nervously over his shoulder, he came nearer to her.

“Miss!” he whispered. “If you’ll kindly not mention this…” And he thrust a piece of paper into her hand and hurried out of the room.

With considerable curiosity, she opened the scrap of paper, to see what Wren wanted to say to her.

“Nine o’clock. J.F.”

That was not a message from Wren. Putting the paper into her pocket, she crossed the kitchen and opened the door, stood there to enjoy the clear air and to think. The sun was going down. The sky was tranquil; in the trees the birds were chirping their evensong.

“I _will_ go!” she thought. “He wouldn’t ask me if it wasn’t important. He’s--trustworthy.”

It was so great a comfort to feel that, after all, he hadn’t walked off, was not gone; she looked forward with eagerness, with impatience, to seeing him, hearing his cool, unemotional voice. Nothing would confuse him, ever, nothing could deceive him, his quiet dark eyes would see, would judge, would understand--

“How idiotic!” she said to herself. “I don’t know the man. I never spoke to him before to-day. I don’t even know why he brought Mrs. Frick’s letter.”

It occurred to her that the letter might contain some explanation of Fennel. She felt in her pocket for it. The ten-dollar bill was there, and the note Wren had just given her, but Mrs. Frick’s letter was gone.

“I must have dropped it up in Uncle Rufus’s room,” she thought, very much distressed. “Well, I certainly can’t go to look for it now. I’ll have to wait.”

This was a singularly unpleasing idea, for she was morally certain that Aunt Emma would read the letter if she saw it.

“She’d do anything she wanted to do,” thought Di.

Just then she caught sight of a figure breasting the hill, outlined clearly against the pale, clear sky. It was Miles, handsome and debonair and cheerful, carrying under his arm a package wrapped in blue paper. He caught sight of her and waved, and she waved back again.

“Hello, dear!” he said, as he came nearer.

That was an unpromising beginning, but she answered amiably.

“Hello, Miles!”

He came into the kitchen and handed her the package he carried.

“Present for you!” he said.

“Thank you, Miles!” she said. “But first I’d better tell you… There’s bad news. Poor Uncle Rufus--”

“There couldn’t be any news bad enough about _him_,” said Miles.

“No, seriously, Miles, he’s very ill.”

“Stuff! He’s always getting ‘very ill!’”

“No, but this time… He came down to that little clearing in the wood after us, and he had some sort of attack. We thought he was dead--”

“Who’s ‘we’?” asked Miles.

She saw that she had made a mistake, but she was not going to be intimidated by Miles.

“A Mr. Fennel and I--”

“Who’s Mr. Fennel?”

“A friend of mine.”

“Look here!” said Miles.

And then it began, that scene she dreaded.

“You might have told me there was another fellow, and not let me make a fool of myself, thinking of you all day in the city… bringing you a present.”

“Don’t be silly!” she said firmly. “You can’t imagine that I’ve lived for twenty-three years and never made any friends. Let’s see the present! I love presents!”

But he snatched the box away.

“You needn’t be so dam’ patronizing!” he said. “I’m not a child.”

“You’re acting like one,” she said. “Oh, Miles! Don’t let’s quarrel! I’m so--so tired…”

“What about _me_?” he interrupted. “Why, the night I came here, I was so sick I had to be carried into the house.”

“Oh, was that you?” she cried, relieved; but added hastily, “I’m awfully sorry you were sick, what was it?”

“You know dam’ well!” he said. “They’ve told you. It was bootleg whisky. It’s killing me.”

As if in a nightmare, she knew what would come next. He would now go on to say, with considerable profanity, that no one else cared what happened to him, so why should _he_ care? Just as her father had used to do, with that same perverse insistence upon his unique unhappiness. That, just as she had never known how to manage her father, she could not now manage Miles. She was not a managing sort of girl: she had no desire to rule, or to influence; she was only ready to help as best she could.

“Miles…?” she said, with that dubious little smile. “Sit down and light a cigarette. It’s good for the nerves.”

For answer he slammed the box on the floor and set his heel on it, trampled on it until the wrapping and the box inside were burst, and she could see a beautiful assortment of chocolates being mashed. And she, who had in her time endured so much, and with such fortitude, began to cry.

Miles looked at her, astounded.

“I didn’t mean--”

“No!” she cried. “When you hurt people--you never expect them to _be_ hurt…”

“Diana!” he said, really alarmed by her tears. “Diana… I’m sorry… I’ll get you another box…”

“It’s not _that_!” she said. “It’s just everything…”

He came to her side, and took her hand, almost timidly.

“I didn’t mean to act like this!” he said, miserably. “I’d been thinking of you all day--and looking forward so to seeing you when I got back. You poor little kid! I meant to be--different. Diana, please give me another chance! _One_ more chance! I’ll take hold of myself, dear! I have tried to be different since I met you. I haven’t touched a drop since that night. Say you’ll--”

“Diana!” said Aunt Emma’s voice. “Will you be kind enough to cook the dinner?”

Di glanced up, so startled that she forgot the tears still wet on her cheeks.

“Wren will have to sit with your Uncle Rufus,” said Aunt Emma. “He won’t have anyone else with him; he won’t even see Doctor Coat. So I’ll have to ask you to help me out. There’ll be the Doctor and Mr. Purvis and your Uncle Peter and Miles and you and I--six of us. Just a simple dinner, naturally.”

“But--I’m awfully sorry--” said Di, “but--I’m afraid I don’t know--”

“Very well!” said Aunt Emma. “Then, Miles, you and your father will have to cook the best sort of dinner you can. Perhaps Diana will be able to turn on the light in the dining-room and put the chairs at the table.”

“She and I will get your dinner,” said Miles. “There’s nothing Diana can’t do, when she puts her mind on it.”

Aunt Emma turned, and walked off, erect and composed, and Miles went to Diana and put his arm about her shoulders. She sighed to herself, wondering what new mood this signified, but glancing up, she saw in his face a look that profoundly touched her, a sort of despairing appeal.

“Di,” he said, “if I could always be with you… I--I don’t _mean_ to be--like I am… If you loved me--we could go away from this dam’ place… I haven’t any money, or any brains, or any character, but if I had you, I’d get them all. If you cared--”

“Miles,” she said. “I _do_ care. I’ve liked you ever since I first saw you.”

“But not my way,” he said.

She did not answer. He bent and kissed the top of her head, and moved away.

“Let’s cook?” he suggested.

“You see,” Diana explained, “Father and I never exactly did any housekeeping. He liked to eat in restaurants.”

“I’ve never had a home in my life,” said Miles. “So between us we might be able to manage something pretty original.”

He glanced about him, then, taking the lid of a saucepan, he shoveled up the mess of chocolates and threw it into a pail. He made no more apologies, no more complaints; he only tried to help.

The larder was disconcertingly bare. They found one tin of soup which they diluted lavishly with water; they found a slab of bacon and six eggs, and a large vegetable which baffled them.

“I think it’s a turnip,” said Di. “Anyhow I’m sure it’s a tuber; I’m going to treat it like a potato and peel it and boil it.”

“Those bananas--” said Miles. “They seem pretty crude… Can’t we make some tasty little what-not out of them! Mash them?”

His good-humor, his willingness, made the preparation of that dinner the pleasantest hour Di had spent in a long time. She was so immensely glad to laugh again. She forgot, for that hour, all her anxieties, she even forgot poor Uncle Rufus.

“Now!” she said, at last. “I think we’ve done all the harm we can. If you’ll please start setting the table while I dart upstairs and brush my hair. I’ll help you when I come down. I shan’t be a minute!”

As she hurried out of the brightly-lit kitchen, she looked back over her shoulder, and saw Miles watching her. She smiled at him and went on, her heart warm with a feeling of comradeship and good-will. She went through the dark dining-room, and looked into the lounge. They were all in there, Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis and Aunt Emma and Uncle Peter, but fortunately they were gathered in a group under a lamp, and the rest of the lounge was fairly dark. She traversed it hastily, keeping close to the desk, and ran up the stairs.

And then, as soon as she reached that upper corridor, her happiness deserted her; she was in another world now, where there was no youth, no laughter, only sordid suspicion and chilly loneliness.

Her conscience reproached her for having forgotten Uncle Rufus. After all, she was staying here only on his account; she had money enough to leave now; nothing kept her but her promise to him.

“I’ll just look in and see him,” she thought. “And speak to Wren.”

She went down the dim corridor to Uncle Rufus’s room, and knocked softly at the door. There was no answer and she hesitated to knock louder, for fear of disturbing the old man. She tried the knob and the door opened.

To her surprise, the room was black, and from the open window a current of air blew cold on her face.

“Wren!” she whispered.

There was no answer; no sound at all.

Fear seized her; she stepped back into the hall and closed the door again.

But she knew she must go back. She could not leave the old man there alone in that dark wind-swept room. Once more she opened the door and felt for the switch; she turned it, but no light came.

“Wren!” she whispered again. “Please answer!”

The window-shade flapped in the draft made by the open door. But there was no other sound. She groped her way toward the bed, filled with a thought that turned her blood to ice.

But the bed was empty. She felt over it, from head to foot, and it was empty.

Chapter Seven. The Monstrous Night

Back in her own room, with the light turned on and the door locked, she tried to think coolly.

“Of course, they may just have moved Uncle Rufus into another room,” she said to herself.

Then suddenly she rebelled.

“No!” she thought. “It’s cowardly and contemptible to go on this way, making up explanations for everything, pretending there can’t be anything wrong. Suppose there is, and I’m just letting it go on? I ought to make sure. I’ve got to see Uncle Rufus with my own eyes.”

There was a knock at her door.

“See here!” said Aunt Emma. “Will you be good enough to come down to your dinner at once? Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis are hungry.”

“Then I’m sorry for them,” said Di, and opened the door. “Aunt Emma,” she said, “where’s Uncle Rufus? I went to his room, and he wasn’t there?”

“Nevertheless, he is in his room,” said Aunt Emma. “Perhaps with your customary ineptitude you went to the wrong room. It’s not likely that he’s gone out for a walk.”

“I’d like to see him.”

“Unfortunately, he wouldn’t like to see you. He never wants to see anyone but Wren in the course of these attacks. To-morrow, when he’s better, you can see him. And in the meantime, why not come downstairs and tell Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis your suspicions? A doctor and a lawyer--you couldn’t ask for anything better.”

There was something in the older woman’s cold insolence, something in her voice, her look, that was beginning to tell heavily upon Di. She resented it, yet in her resentment there was a sort of despair, as if her spirit warned her that she was no match for this woman. In every encounter she was worsted; each time Aunt Emma was able to convince her that she was a fool.

And she felt herself a fool now, as she went downstairs. Her aunt introduced the two strangers to her, Doctor Coat, a courtly old fellow with a white mustache and a handsome face, and a pleasant, rather stupid smile; Mr. Purvis, stout, grave, and a little pompous. Was it likely, if there was anything wrong here, that Aunt Emma would ask them to come? It was utterly impossible to suspect them of anything even mildly irregular.

They all sat down to that atrocious dinner, and though the stout Mr. Purvis looked rueful, neither of them seemed surprised. They were apparently at home here, and accustomed to Aunt Emma’s style of living; and they talked, without constraint, of Uncle Rufus.

“Do you think there is any chance of his seeing me to-night, Emma?” asked Mr. Purvis. “If there is, of course I’ll wait as late as I can.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Anyhow, he asked for you, and he knows you’re here.”

“Poor Rufus!” he said, with a sigh.

“Well,” said Doctor Coat, in his comfortable and kindly way, “he’s been through a great many of these attacks. And with Emma’s splendid care, we’ll hope that he’ll come through this one. There’s really no need for me here. Although, of course, I quite understand how you feel about it, Emma. If anything should happen there’d be criticism… Yes… quite so… If he can be persuaded to make a will, he’ll feel very much better. Set his house in order… quite so!”

Then he turned to Diana.

“I hear he’s taken a great liking to you,” he said. “Very nice, I’m sure.”

“I don’t know,” said Di. “I’m afraid--”

“She’s almost morbidly self-distrustful,” said Aunt Emma, interrupting. “Like her poor mother.”

Mr. Purvis and Doctor Coat both looked at Di with a sort of sympathy.

“Come, come!” said the doctor. “Nothing so remarkable in his taking a liking to a charming young lady like you. He was really attached to your mother.”

A silence fell.

“I’m going to meet Mr. Fennel at nine o’clock,” Di was thinking. “I’m going to tell him every single thing, and get his opinion. I want to know if I’m just a morbid idiot, imagining things, or if there’s any reason for being--uneasy. He’s an outsider, he’ll be unprejudiced.”

Mr. Purvis began to talk now, about the League of Nations; he addressed himself entirely to Aunt Emma, and so did Doctor Coat. Occasionally they spoke to Di, amiably enough. Their manner toward Miles was one of distinct disapproval; he was evidently in disgrace. Peter Leonard they quite ignored.

Half-past eight, and they still sat at the table over the demi-tasses of astonishingly strong coffee Di had made. She was growing restless and impatient, looking down at her wrist watch under the table.

“But he said he’d wait an hour,” she thought. “There’s plenty of time.”

She had ceased to listen to the conversation that went on; she was lost in her own confused and displeasing thoughts. And suddenly she had a sort of vision of this scene, as if she were detached and viewing it from a distance. This abandoned hotel in the woods; that black empty room upstairs; those most unfortunate children shut up somewhere; down here this dismantled room with chairs and tables piled against the walls and at this one table, this group. Uncle Peter, incredibly trivial, the “grasshopper” his son had called him; Miles, half-base, half-fine, and wholly reckless; Doctor Coat with his courtly air and his stupid smile; Mr. Purvis with his pompous gravity--and herself… All fools…? All puppets of that composed, gray-haired woman?

“She wanted me to come here and I came,” thought Di. “She wanted me to stay and I’m staying. Is everything I do really what she has planned…?”

It was a singularly disturbing thought. More and more did she long to see Fennel, the outsider who could give her an unprejudiced opinion. She thought of him; how kindly he had spoken to poor Wren, remembered his air of quiet confidence, his steady glance…

“I didn’t realize how nice it was of him to come all this way with Mrs. Frick’s letter,” she thought. “I didn’t even thank him…”

Aunt Emma had risen and everyone else rose too, and proceeded toward the lounge. Twenty minutes to nine now.

“Come, Diana!” said Aunt Emma.

“I’ll just wash the dishes first--”

“There’s no need for that. Wren will come down early to-morrow morning.”

“Then I’ll just clear the table--”

“No,” said Aunt Emma. “Leave everything as it is.”

For a moment Diana stood looking at her.

“I ought to take things in my own hands,” she thought. “I ought to say I’m going out for a few minutes. She couldn’t stop me, before all these people. This is the time. This is the time to speak.”

It was curiously difficult to speak, but she did speak.

“I think I’ll go out--and get a breath of fresh air,” she said.

“Miles will go with you.”

This was a battle.

“No, thanks,” said Di. “I’d rather go alone.”

She was aware that everyone was listening; she was aware that her wish to go out alone surprised them all. But she was desperate. It seemed to her a matter of vital importance that she should conquer, should go out openly and freely.

“I’m sorry,” said Aunt Emma, composedly. “But I can’t permit it, my dear. This is a very lonely spot. If you object to Miles’ conversation, he can walk behind you.”

She was beaten. She _could_ not say before all these people, that she was going out to meet a man--“like a servant wench” Uncle Rufus had said. And what is more, she did not need to tell Aunt Emma that. Aunt Emma knew already.

They all passed into the lounge and sat down; all except Diana.

“I _will_ go!” she thought. “And I’ll go openly, too.”

As she stood by the window, Miles came over to her and offered her a cigarette. She was glad to accept one now, and as she took it, she looked at him, anxiously, half hoping that he might understand, and help her. But his face was white with anger; his glance was filled with anger and bitterness. He knew too, why she wanted to go.

“I’ll pop up and see how the invalid’s getting on!” said Uncle Peter, brightly, and rising went running up the stairs, two steps at a time.

No one else spoke, a stiff silence had fallen upon the little company. Miles had gone to his seat near the lamp.

Di opened the front door and stepped out, closed the door behind her and began to run toward the hill; she did not stop until she had reached the dark shelter of the trees. As she paused here a moment, she heard someone coming after her, running. She stopped behind a tree and waited.

It was too dark to see, but she was certain that the figure which ran past her was Miles. He went on plunging down the hill-side.

“Suppose he meets Mr. Fennel?” she thought, in alarm. “And tells him I can’t come?”

Into her heart came the quiet conviction that Fennel wouldn’t believe him, wouldn’t believe anyone. He had come to speak to her; he had said he would wait for an hour and then come to the house, and he would do that. She trusted Fennel as she had never yet in her life trusted anyone. Miles would not be able to send him away. Fennel would not go until he had seen her.

The night wind was sharp; hatless and coatless, in her thin dress, she shivered. The pines rustled in the dark and, close to her, a little owl gave its trembling cry.

She waited and listened.

“It must be nine o’clock,” she thought. “He’s there and Miles will see him. Perhaps he’ll pretend to go away, and then come back. Or perhaps he’ll insist upon seeing me…”

“Perhaps he didn’t go to look for Mr. Fennel at all,” she thought. “He may simply have gone to the village--or rushed back to New York in a rage.”

She began cautiously to descend the hill, straining her ears to catch any sound. But there was nothing but the rustle of the pines in the wind, and the cry of the little owl. She thought of Uncle Rufus coming down here this afternoon, and she shivered.

At last she was in sight of the clearing and the faint starlight showed it empty. But anyone could be standing in the shadows… She did not like the thought of Miles, standing there waiting. She remembered his white, angry face…

She waited and waited. If Fennel had pretended to go away, he would come back. Was Miles here, waiting for that?

Her teeth began to chatter with cold.

“Suppose I caught cold?” she thought. “Got ill--in that horrible house?”

She felt chilled to the bone already.

“I won’t stand this!” she said to herself. “There’s no reason why I shouldn’t see Mr. Fennel or anyone else, if I want to. I won’t hide. I won’t be--secret. If Miles is there, very well! I’ll tell him what I think of him for spying on me.”

And she stepped down into the clearing. Was that something stirring among the trees?

“Mr. Fennel!” she cried.

No one came, no one answered.

“Mr. Fennel!” she called, again, her voice rising to a high note of fear.

This would not do, panic lay this way. With an effort, she stopped calling, and stood there, waiting. In the faint light of the stars, she could not see the dial of her watch. She did not know how long she had waited or must wait. Only she would endure it for as long as she could, for surely he would come.

She sat down on that fallen log, where she had seen him this afternoon, curled up her feet as best she could under her short skirt, folded her arms about her chest, and kept her vigil; in supreme physical misery, cold and cramped, in dread, in dismay. Sometimes she imagined she heard someone coming, and called his name, but there was never any answer. And at last she began to see that he was not coming.

She would have to go back to that house, to face Aunt Emma, to endure another scene with Miles. And after all she had no friend.

“If I had that ten dollars with me,” she thought, “I’d never go back. I’d take a train for New York _now_. There’s nothing illegal in not wearing a hat and coat.”

But she had left the money in the pocket of her jersey when she had changed her dress before dinner. And there was her promise to Uncle Rufus.

Again she had forgotten Uncle Rufus. She got up, sick at heart, numb with cold, and began to climb the hill. She had promised to stand by him, and she could not leave him there, ill and helpless.

Light was shining from the windows of the lounge; she had no desire to go in there. She went round to the back of the house and quietly opened the kitchen door. The kitchen was dark, but the gas stove was lighted, under a singing kettle; it was blessedly warm. She sat down in a chair near the stove, to wait until this wretched chilliness was gone, before she must pass through the lounge on her way to the stairs.

“He didn’t come,” she thought. “But I know he meant to come. I know he _will_ come soon. He knew there was something wrong. He’ll come.”

She was weary, almost exhausted; she nearly went to sleep there by the stove. But she heard that footstep. She sat up straight, her heart beating fast. Had he come to the house, as he had said he would? Surely that was someone coming up the back steps…

Then a door opened beside her, the door which led to the cellar, and clearly outlined in the bright light that shone behind him she saw Uncle Peter, pallid, grimy, without a collar, breathing hard, and on his face, a wild terrible look.

She gave a cry, and he leaped forward like a cat. His hand was pressed across her mouth, holding her head against the back of the chair. She struggled but she could not rise, could not make any sound. Then he drew back; she was about to cry out again when his fist shot out and caught her on the point of the jaw and she collapsed unconscious.

* * *

When she opened her eyes again she was lying on a bed. Her head ached cruelly; she felt deathly sick and giddy. It was utterly dark, she could see nothing, hear nothing; for a few minutes she could not remember.

Then it came back to her… Uncle Peter, the trivial, the cheerful, the one person in this house she had thought negligible…

She sat up. At first giddiness and the pain in her head forced her back on the pillow again, but the second time she felt better. She put her feet on the floor and still faint and dizzy, stood upright, holding by the head of the bed. She must find out where she was, what this dark prison was.

Her groping hand touched a little table, and a great hope sprang up in her. Moving nearer, she felt the lamp; it was there; she turned the switch and the light came. And with a sob of relief she found herself in her own room.

A little Paradise, it seemed to her, the safest, cosiest place in the world. She looked about her at her own belongings with the delight of one who has made a long and terrible journey and is at last home again.

Then she heard a noise in the corridor outside; a dragging, shuffling sound. She leaned forward in her chair. The wind had risen; that sound could be the branch of a tree brushing her window… Only it was coming nearer.

She knew now that this room was not safe and snug, but desperately exposed and that there was no corner where she could hide; she was sick and shaken, and defenseless.

Something scratched at her door. And not near the knob, but close to the floor, like an animal. She did not stir.

“Miss!” whispered Wren’s voice. “Oh, Miss! For God’s sake, let me in!”

She went to the door, but with her hand on the knob, she hesitated.

“What’s the matter?” she whispered back.

“Miss! Oh, let me in, quick! For God’s sake!”

But his voice came from below, as if he were at her feet…

“Miss!” he screamed, suddenly. “Quick!”

She turned the knob. The door was locked.

“Miss!” he screamed again. “For--”

His voice ceased abruptly. She heard nothing at all now.

“Wren!” she called, rattling the knob. “I can’t! I can’t!…”

Her knees gave way and she sank on the floor by the locked door. Her hand touched something wet, she raised it, stared at it with dilated eyes, saw it red with blood, and fell backward in a faint.

Chapter Eight. The Candid Explanation

Sometime later in the night she got up from the floor, took off her shoes and lay down on the bed, wrapped in a blanket. She was shaking with a violent chill, tormented by a racking headache.

All the events of the night had become only part of a vast nightmare. She did not care what happened now, nothing mattered except to get warm. Time had ceased to exist; there was nothing in the world but this physical misery.

After the chill came fever, and a raging thirst. She lay there, crying silently because she so craved for water and could not rise to get it. Her head ached so… The light hurt her eyes…

“What’s the matter, my dear?” asked Aunt Emma’s voice beside her.

“I want--a glass of water!” she sobbed.

Her head was raised and a glass held to her lips.

“Another!” she said.

“Swallow these two pills with it.”

She did not care what she swallowed, so long as she got the water.

A cold, wet cloth was laid on her throbbing head, the unbearable light was shaded, the tumbled covers straightened. She went to sleep.

* * *

She waked with a sigh, and stretched herself luxuriously in the cool, smooth bed. The window was open and the sweet air blew in. Turning her head she saw the sky filled with the soft, melting colors of sunset.

“Now!” said Aunt Emma. “A nice cup of broth and a piece of toast.”

She had never tasted anything better than that broth, strong and well-flavored, that hot buttered toast without crusts. She still felt weak, but marvelously comfortable now, except for a slight soreness in her jaw.

“I was afraid that last night you were in for a bad time,” said Aunt Emma. “You were delirious--quite a temperature.”

Di did not answer; but she heard, and she understood; her brain felt extraordinarily lucid. She might have been delirious at some time in the night, but at present she was perfectly clear about everything. She remembered all the things that had actually happened with an odd sort of detachment, as if she were no longer personally concerned.

“I’ll just let her go on,” she thought. “She’ll try to explain away everything by saying I was delirious. All right! Let her!”

She looked up at Aunt Emma with a glance of calm interest.

“Was I?” she asked.

“And no wonder,” said Aunt Emma. “You had--a disturbing experience.”

She sat down in a chair by the window, where the light breeze stirred her gray hair. She looked so rosy, so dignified, so solid…

“If you feel able,” she said. “I think we’d better talk this over now.”

“I feel all right,” said Di.

And so she did; she felt perfectly able to listen to any tale Aunt Emma might choose to invent and to weigh and analyze it.

“It would take a good deal of generosity,” Aunt Emma went on, “to forgive your Uncle Peter. I don’t expect you to. But I can explain his behavior--if you care to listen.”

“Yes, thank you, I should,” said Di.

So Aunt Emma was not going to pretend that that blow was part of any delirium.

“Do you object to my smoking?” asked Aunt Emma, with gentlemanly politeness. “Perhaps with the window open, it won’t bother you… No? Thanks!”

She lit a cigarette, and crossed her knees.

“We had a remarkably unpleasant evening,” she proceeded, her blue eyes following the smoke. “It’s fortunate that Coat and Purvis are such fools. They swallow everything… When you went out, I sent Miles after you, but he couldn’t find you. So he did what anyone might expect of him. He went down to the village, and procured a supply of bootleg whisky. I saw, when he got back, that he’d been drinking, but I didn’t know he’d brought more of the stuff into the house. He put it in the cellar and every now and then he’d go down and get another drink. Before long, he became very troublesome. Purvis helped me to get him upstairs and into bed. I wanted to lock him into his room, but I couldn’t find the key. I was seriously worried, for fear he would molest you. I went to your room to see if you had come in while I was busy with Miles; I knocked and when there was no answer, I opened the door and by the light of my torch I saw that you were lying fully dressed on the bed, apparently asleep. I spoke to you but you didn’t answer, and I thought it better to lock your door.”

She paused.

“An extremely unpleasant evening…” she continued. “I didn’t know where you’d been or what you’d been doing… I went downstairs again. Coats and Purvis went home in a taxi, and I found your Uncle Peter in the kitchen--almost as bad as Miles. He’d been visiting the cellar… He was half-frightened and half-beastful. He said he had caught you trying to escape! I’ll be quite candid with you. He thinks that Uncle Rufus is going to leave his money to you, and that therefore you’re too valuable to lose. I agree with him about your Uncle Rufus. And I am perfectly willing to tell you that, if you do come into his money, I hope you’ll give me some of it.”

Her candor was astounding; she denied nothing that had happened, made no attempt to disguise her motives.

“I asked you here for that purpose,” she said. “Uncle Rufus had been fond of your mother, and I hoped he’d take a fancy to you. And that gratitude, or family feeling, or sentiment, would induce you to give me enough to carry on my work.”

Di looked at her aunt in wonder, a little dazed; everything was made so clear, so matter-of-fact.

“But--Wren?” she asked, almost involuntarily.

“Wren?” her aunt repeated. “What about him? Do you know anything about that little rat? For he’s disappeared!”

“I don’t know…” said Di, with unusual caution. “I thought I heard him call me--”

“When?” asked Aunt Emma. “I’d like very much to know. And it might help the police.”

“The--_police_?”

“He went off with your Uncle Rufus’s watch and money--some six thousand dollars he was carrying in his pockets.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” cried Di.

“He can stand the loss very well--”

“I wasn’t thinking of that,” said Di. “I’m sorry--for Wren.”

“You needn’t be,” said Aunt Emma, dryly.

There was a moment’s silence.

“How is Uncle Rufus?” asked Di.

“Better. He’s been asking for you. You can see him to-morrow.”

There was another silence.

“I’m not,” said Aunt Emma, “extravagant in my personal life.” She smiled faintly. “You’ve probably noticed that my housekeeping is not lavish. But I want--I need money for my work. Your Uncle Rufus is apparently recovering from this attack--but he can’t last much longer. I hope that when you see him to-morrow, you’ll be as amiable as your very youthful conscience will permit. It may mean more to you than you’re able to realize, at your age. But I’m not pretending to think wholly of your welfare. I am thinking of my work.”

She lit another cigarette.

“I’ve told you something about it. I have been making researches in regard to my theory of suggestibility. No one else has yet suspected the suggestibility of the average mind. People talk about the ‘herd instinct’! The human herd has long ceased to act instinctively. It will, in fact, act in a manner directly opposed to its instinct. They talk of ‘mob psychology.’ The only psychology of a mob is that of its leaders. No mob acts spontaneously, but only upon the suggestion of one or more superior minds. A little observation will show you how infinitely more powerful suggestion is than instinct. The instinct of a mother to protect her infant is certainly one of the strongest and most deep-rooted. Yet mothers were willing to throw their infants into the fire of Moloch when it was suggested to them. In times of war, it is suggested to a man that he loves his flag more than his own life, and he acts upon the suggestion.”

She was silent for a moment.

“I have been working for nearly six years with those two children you have seen,” she said. “In minds of that type one would suppose that mere animal instinct would enormously preponderate. I hope soon to demonstrate that it is not so. My great difficulty has been their propensity to imitate; and to differentiate between what is mere imitation and what is suggested action. They are only too ready to imitate…”

She rose, and tossed her cigarette out of the window.

“I’m afraid I’m inclined to be tedious on this subject,” she said, and for the first time Di saw on her face a smile almost appealing. “I must get along now. I have all the cooking and so on to do, now that Wren’s decamped. He couldn’t have chosen a worse time… Now, your Uncle Peter will come up and apologize.”

“Oh, no, _thanks_!” said Di, hastily. “I’d really rather he didn’t.”

“He ought to,” said Aunt Emma. “He’s waiting to do so. I advise you to let him.”

“No, thanks, really. I’d hate it.”

“Do you hate _him_?” asked Aunt Emma.

“No…” said Di. “I don’t hate him…”

“Well!” said Aunt Emma. “I’ll be back later, with some dinner for you. You mustn’t think of getting up to-day. But by to-morrow you ought to be quite yourself. And after you’ve seen your Uncle Rufus, the best thing you can do is to go back to New York. You’ve had a fairly unpleasant visit, I’m afraid. Have you friends in New York, and enough money to carry on for a while?”

“Yes, thank you, Aunt Emma.”

“I’ve brought you some books and magazines, the sort of thing I imagine would interest you. I sent Miles for them.”

Then she mounted a chair briskly, and set about fastening an extension cord to the electric light and clamped a reading-lamp to the head of the bed. She put the books and papers on the table and then took up a queer old-fashioned little knitted sack of pink wool.

“Let me put this around your shoulders,” she said. “Now!”

There was something touching to Di in these attentions, something she had liked very well in her aunt’s blunt sincerity. A sense of profound relief filled her, as if the light of day had been admitted into some dark chamber, and what had seemed horrible was not horrible at all. The shadow of death had passed, Uncle Rufus was getting better and, greatest relief of all, Aunt Emma had herself suggested that she should leave.

Aunt Emma’s motives were certainly not disinterested; Uncle Peter had shown himself capable of an astounding brutality; Uncle Rufus was not a lovable uncle. Miles was a distressing problem; Wren had turned out to be a thief; it was not a pleasant household. But she could make allowances now for all of them; she could forgive them their offenses against herself, and pity their sordid failings, because to-morrow she was leaving them and because everything here was explicable now; ugly and depressing, but not sinister, not frightening any longer.

“And Mr. Fennel,” she thought. “Something prevented his coming. I _know_ I’ll hear from him again. Probably to-morrow.”

She lay for a time, looking out at the darkening sky, and thinking of Fennel. She felt so certain that she could see him again, so certain he was her friend.

“How nice of him to have come all this way with Mrs. Frick’s letter! I wish I hadn’t lost it. It might have explained a little about him… He’s different from any other man I’ve seen. He’s…”

It occurred to her that her reverie was becoming a little ridiculous, and reaching up, she turned on the lamp, and picked up a magazine. A footstep in the hall made her glance up, and she saw Miles in the doorway.

“Diana…?” he said.

She thought she had never seen anything more pitiable than his handsome, wasted face, pallid, drawn, hollow-eyed; anything more painful than his strained smile.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Oh, fine, thanks!” she answered, with artificial brightness.

“Anything I can do for you, Diana?”

“Not a thing in the world, thanks, Miles.”

He was silent for a moment, and they did not look at each other.

“I thought…” he said. “Wouldn’t you like some ice-cream, Diana? I can run down to the village and get it…”

She could not refuse this peace-offering.

“That would be awfully nice,” she said, and was distressed by the obviously false cheerfulness of her own voice.

“All right! I’ll get it,” he said, and was gone.

His haggard, desperate face haunted her; she began to read again, in haste to forget him, for she could do nothing more for Miles.

Presently Aunt Emma appeared with a tray, upon which was a supper immeasurably better than any meal Di had yet had in this house; a broiled lamb chop, a potato baked in its jacket, a salad of lettuce and tomato, a cup of coffee and a slice of sponge cake.

“How nice!” she said, pleased.

Aunt Emma smiled.

“I never cooked before to-day in my life,” she observed. “But with Wren gone, I saw it was inevitable. So I sat down and studied the cook-book for an hour, until I’d mastered the general principles of cooking. Then I applied the theory. It’s amusing. I was tempted to do superfluous things. That sponge cake, for instance…” She looked down at it. “I believe it’s good,” she said. “It’s--Put it down, child, until you’ve eaten the chop!”

“I had to try it!” said Di. “It’s perfect!”

Aunt Emma was manifestly pleased and so was Diana; there was a charming atmosphere of homely good-will. Aunt Emma making a cake!

Before her footsteps had died away, Miles returned, with the ice-cream in a dish.

“May I come in?” he asked, and when she said yes, he entered and set the dish down on the table.

“Diana…” he said. “I’m--not going to talk any more… I’ll just try to show you… I--can’t expect you--to have any faith in me… But… but you’ll see, Diana…”

His voice was painfully unsteady and he did not look at her.

“If you want anything,” he said, “I’ll be here--all the time.”

She wanted to speak to him, but to save her life she could not think of a word that would sound natural and friendly. Halfway to the door he turned and looked at her, sitting there in the queer little old-fashioned pink jacket, with her fair hair loose. And she could not bear the look on his face. With an anxious, uncertain smile, she held out her hand; he strode back to her, knelt beside her, holding her hand over his eyes.

“Forgive me, Diana!” he whispered. “I’m sorry…”

“Of course!” she said, in a cheerful, matter-of-fact voice. But she nearly wept, looking down at his dark head. From the very first she had felt for Miles this pity, this tenderness, this unreasonable indulgence, that was almost maternal.

“I’m so sorry!” he said, again. “Just give me one more chance!”

“Yes, I will. Miles! Get up! My nice dinner’s getting cold--and the ice-cream is melting.”

For she felt that if he did not go at once, she would begin to cry over him, and he would certainly misunderstand that. He sprang up, full of contrition.

“See you to-morrow!” she said, brightly, as he left the room, and he smiled at her, comforted.

She sighed profoundly and began her dinner.

“Even when I leave here,” she thought, “I shan’t be rid of Miles; I’ll have to go on seeing him, forever and ever. No one else seems to care a bit for him. And he needs someone to care, so terribly. He’s so--doomed…”

But even the doomed Miles could not make her unhappy that evening. She had a quiet, cosy evening, reading, an amiable little chat with Aunt Emma; then she turned out the light and settled herself for sleep, filled with a quiet confident happiness.

“Perhaps he lives at Mrs. Frick’s,” she thought. “Anyhow, I’ll probably hear from him to-morrow…”

And everything was explained now; everything was clear and open. To-morrow she would leave here, and begin a new phase of her life…

* * *

She waked with a start, and sat up in bed, her heart racing. She did not know what had awakened her, what had startled her, but there lay upon her the oppression of a forgotten dream.

She turned on the light and looked about the little room. All neat and tranquil here. What was it that she had forgotten…?

Then she remembered. Last night, when she had lain down on the bed, there had been blood on her hand. And now her hand was clean. There had been blood on the carpet, by the door… She got up and went to the door, and, a little giddy, stooped to examine the carpet. There was surely a faint stain there, as of something that could not be quite scrubbed clean.

If Wren had come to her door, unknown to anyone else, the stain would not be faint, like this. If anyone had washed her hand, and cleaned the carpet, then whoever had done this must know of Wren’s coming.

“Perhaps Aunt Emma just didn’t want to worry me,” she said to herself, with her old instinct to deny what was strange and unpleasant. “I’ll ask her in the morning.”

She turned out the light, lay down again, and resolutely closed her eyes; immediately she had a vision of Wren crawling along the corridor on his hands and knees, scratching at her door… “Miss! For God’s sake, let me in!…”

She turned on the light again, in haste. When she had spoken of Wren, Aunt Emma had seemed startled, had asked if she had seen him. No… It _was_ queer, it was wrong, that if she had washed the blood from the girl’s hand, she should have made no mention of it.

Well, suppose someone else had washed her hand and cleaned the floor? Who else? And if Wren had robbed Uncle Rufus and successfully escaped, what was he doing outside her door, desperately urgent to be admitted?

Everything was not clear and open. With Wren unexplained, all the rest of the explanation was worthless.

“Aunt Emma must have known,” she thought. “Nothing goes on here that she doesn’t know… I don’t believe poor little Wren’s a thief, anyhow. She’s just made that up, to explain--something… To explain what?…”

All the old dread and confusion had returned. She took up a book and tried to read, but every sound made her start. It was nearly morning when she dropped asleep.

When she opened her eyes, the sun was shining; her watch had stopped, but she felt sure it was late. She got up at once, washed in cold water, and began to dress. She was immensely relieved to find the ten-dollar bill still in the pocket of her jersey; her way of escape was still open.

“And this time,” she thought. “I’m not going to be cautious and tactful. I’m not going to be put off. I’m going to ask Aunt Emma point-blank who cleaned up the carpet.”

Her knees were still a little weak and the bruise on her jaw was still sore, but she felt very well, and very resolute.

“I’m sick and tired of all this mystery!” she thought. “I want to know what really happened to Wren.”

The lounge was empty, the dining-room was empty, but in the kitchen she found Aunt Emma washing dishes.

“Well!” said Aunt Emma. “You’re early! Did you have a good night?”

She looked so fresh and neat and pleasant, in her white overall, so innocently and beneficently employed in this humdrum task, that it was difficult to challenge her.

“Not so very,” said Di. “I--got thinking--about Wren.”

“About Wren?” Aunt Emma repeated. “Well, I hope we’ll soon see that cleared up.”

“You see,” Di went on, “he came to my door last night… I couldn’t let him in, because the door was locked… And--blood came under the door… On the carpet--on my hand…”

Even here, in the kitchen where the morning sun was shining, it was horrible to think of that.

“Ah!” said Aunt Emma. “So that’s what it was? I noticed it, naturally. But I didn’t know whether you, in your feverish condition had noticed it or not. So I thought I’d say nothing unless you asked me. Wren, was it? He must have hurt himself in some way.”

Very composed, very plausible was Aunt Emma. But Di was not satisfied.

“I don’t see--” she began.

“Wait a moment!” said Aunt Emma, and opening the back door: “Rogers!” she called.

A stout, clean-shaven man ran up the steps.

“This is Detective Rogers, from the East Hazelwood Police Station. He’s come to investigate this robbery, and Wren’s disappearance. You must tell him everything you know--while I make you some fresh coffee.”

Certainly this cleared Aunt Emma from the last suspicion. She had called in the police herself.

Chapter Nine. “Do Not Leave This House”

“Well…” said Rogers, “it seems you were the last one to hear anything of this man. Now what time did he knock at your door?”

“I don’t know,” said Di.

“About what time?”

“I haven’t any idea what time it was.”

“Ten o’clock?”

“I really don’t know.”

“We’ll see if we can’t get at it,” said Rogers.