Chapter Eleven.

Di Gets Another Letter

In her own room she bathed her eyes in cold water, and then went down by the front stairs to the kitchen. And her heart sank at the sight of Miles there, slouched in a chair, smoking a cigarette.

“How ill he looks!” she thought, shocked by his pallor, his haggardness.

He glanced up as she entered, without a smile, without a word.

“We’ll eat in here,” said Aunt Emma. “Get up, Miles, and bring your chair to the table.”

He obeyed, still in silence, still smoking. Aunt Emma set on the table a savory little ham omelette, fried potatoes and a pot of tea; she seemed very pleased with her skill in cooking--and with reason--but she had, apparently, no ideas at all about attractive serving. They ate upon the bare table, from the coarse kitchen china.

Miles did not eat at all; Aunt Emma paid no attention to this; she sat at the end of the table with a pleased and cheerful expression upon her healthy face, but Di was troubled.

“Miles, do eat!” she said.

He pushed back his chair and rose.

“I can’t,” he said. “My head aches…”

“You can drive down to the drug-store,” said Aunt Emma, “and get a little prescription filled for me. The fresh air will do you good. Take Diana with you.”

The prospect of a drive with Miles was by no means pleasant, especially in his present condition.

“Let’s walk instead,” said Di.

“I can’t,” said Miles, briefly.

He began walking up and down the kitchen; then abruptly he stopped beside her chair.

“Di,” he said. “_Won’t_ you come?”

She looked up at him; their eyes met, and she was dismayed by the anguish she saw.

“All right!” she said, with a sigh. “First let’s help Aunt Emma--”

“The woman from the village will be here in half an hour,” said Aunt Emma. “Run along! I don’t need you.”

Di went upstairs to get her hat and coat, went almost mechanically. Her mind felt blank, her heart numbed, as if she had exhausted her capacity for thinking and feeling. Only that sorrow stirred her as she passed the forbidden door, sorrow, formless as a dream.

“I’m tired,” she thought. “I don’t care very much now--about anything… I ought to do something about Uncle Rufus, though.”

It was such an effort to think. Again she put on her hat, remembering with a sort of wonder how happy she had been this morning, thinking that at last she was free.

“I can’t go,” she thought, “until I’m sure that Uncle Rufus is getting proper care. He wants me here… Something horrible is going on, and I’ve got to stop it. And I’ve got a chance now… I can telephone from the drug-store. To whom?”

She could not think. Somebody must come now to help her. She must tell someone now--but who was there? Uncle Rufus had not a friend on earth and neither had she. There was no possible use in telling Mrs. Frick about this. Then who?

“Doctor Coat? No. He thinks Aunt Emma’s a wonderful person. Mr. Purvis? He’s a lawyer. If I tell him about the note--about the other things… It’s got to be Mr. Purvis. When we go to the drug-store, I’ll ring him up. I don’t care if Miles hears me.”

She came downstairs again, and found Miles waiting outside in the car.

“You’ll drive carefully, won’t you, Miles?” she asked.

“No,” said Miles.

That was not a promising beginning. He started the car with a jerk and went down the hill at a reckless speed, swung round the corner and into the main road.

“Miles!” she cried. “You’ll be arrested!”

“I don’t care!” he answered.

“Miles! There’s a policeman on a motor-cycle--”

That was a lie, but it checked him; he slowed down considerably.

“God!” he said. “I wish I had enough courage to crash into a wall and finish.”

“Isn’t that just a little inconsiderate?” she said.

“No,” said Miles. “You’d be better off dead.”

“I suppose I have something to say about that, though.”

Now that he was driving more moderately, his wild talk did not very greatly disturb her. She had heard that sort of thing before. Her father, in his bad hours, had used to tell her gloomily it would have been better if she had never been born; he had used to say that life was no more than a curse. Even as a child, her native courage, her wholesome sanity, had rebelled against that, and she rebelled now. It might be that she herself had very little, but life was good. It was beautiful out here, in the Spring sun; there was a place for her in the world, work for her to do, happiness for her, somewhere, and for everyone.

“He’s sick,” she thought. “In body and mind. And I’m afraid I can’t help him. I’m so tired--it’s hard to think of anything at all to say.”

But it was impossible for her not to try.

“Miles,” she said. “Why don’t you get a job?”

“What for?”

“You’d be much happier--”

He laughed, a theatrical and bitter laugh.

“You would!” she persisted. “I’m going back to New York presently to look for a job myself. And if you find something to do--we can have nice times together. We can have little dinners together, and go places…”

Even while she was speaking, she didn’t believe in it; that cheerful, normal world outside had lost reality for her. But she went on, valiantly.

“We’ll have such nice times… On Saturday afternoons we’ll--”

“Di!” he cried. “You don’t know…!”

“Yes, I do, Miles. You’re--upset now. You’re not feeling well. You don’t see things as they really are. Why, Miles, think how young you are! Everything still before you--”

“If you knew--what was behind me!”

“It doesn’t matter, Miles. If there’s anything you’re sorry for, or ashamed of--”

“Sorry for!” he cried. “Oh, God!”

“Then look ahead, Miles. Make up your mind that things will be different in the future.”

“There’s no possible future for me.”

In her fatigue and depression, it seemed almost unendurable to be obliged to keep this up. But no one else would bother with Miles, no one else would try to help, and she could see how sorely he was in need of help.

“There is, Miles.”

As he turned to look at her, the car swerved a little.

“Diana,” he said. “Do you really care what happens to me?”

“Yes,” she answered, promptly. “I do.”

“Even if I’ve done something… something…”

“Yes, Miles,” she said, steadily.

He turned the car to the side of the road and stopped it.

“Do you care enough--to save my life?”

“Of course,” she said, uneasily.

“Then will you marry me?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miles.”

“Look here, Diana! I’ve got a little money--enough for us to get away somewhere… We’ll go to South America, Di. I’ll start all over again. I’ll be anything you want, Di, I’ll do anything you want, Di, Di, my darling! If you’re with me, Di, I’ll be all right! Di, I _can’t_ live without you!”

“You don’t need to, Miles,” she said. He had seized both her hands, and she made no attempt to withdraw them. She had to be careful now, very careful, if she was to help him. “Only, we’ve got to learn to know each other.”

“I won’t live without you!” he cried. “I won’t try!”

“You’re not going to be without me. We’re going to see lots of each other--and have such good times together--”

“That won’t do,” he interrupted. “It’s all or nothing. Either you’ll marry me and come away with me--or--”

“Nothing of the sort, Miles,” she said, almost sternly. “We’re going to be the best of friends--”

“Will you marry me?” he demanded.

“Miles, I can’t--”

He started the car again, driving not recklessly now, but steadily as if with a purpose.

“This isn’t the way to the drug-store,” she said.

“No,” he said. “It’s not. We’re going somewhere else.”

“Please tell me, Miles!”

He would not answer her; he drove on and on, through a little town, through pleasant roads lined with old trees and comfortable houses, past woods, past fields. His face was set and grim; there was certainly some purpose now in his tormented heart. Time and again she tried to divert him, but he would not answer her. And she grew afraid. Was this to be the end, a sickening crash, perhaps hours of suffering, and then death…?

“Miles!” she entreated. “Please stop! Please tell me where you are going?”

“To hell!” he shouted.

They shot up a hill, and he stopped the car. Beside them was a little bridge over a railway cut.

“There’s a train coming now,” he said. “When it’s in sight, I’m going to jump.”

“No, you’re not!” she said, but he only laughed.

In despair she looked about her; there was not a living creature in sight, only the empty road, with a wood on one side and the bridge on the other. The distant train whistled.

“I shall try to hold you,” she said. “If you--struggle--you may kill me, Miles.”

“Then we’ll die together,” he said.

The sun was shining and the wind blew on this deserted hill-top. Again the train whistled. He got up, and she caught his coat-sleeve, but he was much stronger than she. He got out of the car, and she followed, pulling desperately, to prevent his setting foot on that bridge.

“You shan’t!” she cried. “Miles! Miles! If you really do care for me one bit--”

The train was in sight. He tried to wrench himself free, but she flung her arms about him; he tried to push her away, but she twisted her foot round his ankle; he stumbled and fell on his knees. And she pressed down on his shoulders with all her might. The train went by, shaking the little bridge.

She thought then that she was going to faint; she stepped back a pace--and she saw, at her feet a letter that had fallen from his pocket. A letter addressed to herself. She stooped and snatched it up.

“Give that to me!” he cried.

She began to run.

She ran downhill, and she heard his footsteps on the hard road behind her. She ran faster, faster than she would have believed possible, with the strength of desperation. He was close behind her. Nothing about but the empty road.

“Stop!” he shouted.

She ran and ran. Nothing ahead but that straight road, and her strength was beginning to fail her now; her breath was coming in gasps; her laboring heart sent all the blood pounding in her ears. Then at the foot of the hill she saw the level crossing of the railway, and a little hut where the guard sat. He was looking at her now… Such a long way…

Her second wind came to her now; she quickened her pace; she stumbled and recovered herself, flew down the rest of the hill, to the doorway of the little shelter. She could not speak, only stand there, panting, facing the astonished old man. Then she turned her head; she saw Miles, a few paces distant, standing in the middle of the road. They looked at each other, a strange look, then he turned round and started up the hill again.

“Miles!” she called after him. But she was still breathless, her voice was faint, either he did not hear, or he did not care. She wanted to tell the old man to hurry, to save Miles, but she could not say a word.

“Sit down, Miss!” said the old man, pushing forward his chair.

She pointed after Miles, and half fell into the chair.

“All right!” said the man. “He won’t bother you now, Miss. Just take it easy…”

“I’m afraid--” she gasped. “He’ll kill…”

Just then she saw his car coming down the hill; he shot past the little shelter, across the tracks and out of sight.

“You young ladies had ought to be more careful who you go out with, these days,” said the man. He was a solid, burly old fellow, with kindly eyes, beyond measure reassuring to her.

“But don’t you worry any more,” he continued. “He’s gone and he won’t come back, neither. He knows you’ve got a witness what could prove in a court of law how he was chasing you down the hill--”

“I was only afraid--he’d kill himself,” she answered. “He’s such a reckless--driver.”

The old man obviously did not believe a word of that. He brought her a glass of water, and stood watching her while she drank it.

“Live near here, Miss?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. “I… Perhaps I can get a taxi…”

“Ought to be some along in a few minutes,” he said. “Going down to the station, to meet the up train. Next one I see, I’ll stop it for you, if it’s got a driver I know.”

“You’re awfully kind,” she said.

“Pshaw!” said he.

She sat there in the doorway of the little shelter, with tranquil peace all about her; the railway tracks glinting like silver in the sunshine; she heard a robin singing nearby. And she held that letter tight in her hand. Someone in the world had been interested enough to write to her… There were, kind, ordinary human creatures; there were birds and sunshine…

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just read this letter,” she said to the old man.

This politeness somewhat surprised him.

“Go right ahead!” he said, and stepped outside.

The envelope had no stamp, and it had been torn open; she took the letter out of it.

“Dear Miss Leonard:

“_I am bringing this along, in case anything prevents me from seeing you this evening._

“_I think the letter I brought you from Mrs. Frick will have explained me pretty well. I hope you won’t think I am a meddlesome ass. But if you get this letter, it will mean that I have not been able to see you this evening, and that will be rather a bad job, because I am going to try every way I know to see you. There are a lot of things that need explaining. I don’t want to put them into a letter. I shall try to give this to Wren, to give to you. When you get it, please try to trust me. Clear out of that house the first moment you can. Put on your hat and walk out. Don’t say anything to anyone. If anyone comes along with you, go back to the house and try again. But get away. Take the first train back to New York, to Mrs. Frick’s. Things are going to happen, and you must be out of the way._ This is important.

“_I hope you will believe that ever since I saw you with those flowers I have been, and I always will be,_

“_Faithfully and respectfully your friend,_ “James Fennel.”

It was as if she heard him speaking, in his blunt and somewhat masterful way, as if she could see his face, unexpressive, except when that vivid smile crossed it. He, a professional thief?

“I never really believed it!” she thought. “I knew…! I knew…!”

She could have wept, with delight, with relief. He was her friend. He would come back--

“But what happened to him that night?” she thought. And the greatest fear she had ever known in her life seized her. Why had he not been able to see her?--“That will be rather a bad job, because I am going to try every way I know to see you.”--She had gone out, to meet him; she had waited… What had happened to him?

Now she remembered what Miles had said, his words that hinted at some desperate remorse. She had not paid much heed to them at the time; she had thought he referred to his drinking, to Heaven knows what episodes in his unhappy wasted life. She had not tried at all to account for his intention to kill himself; it had seemed so in keeping with his unstable, reckless nature. But now she could believe that there was something in his heart he could not endure. He had had Fennel’s letter in his pocket…

“Here’s a cab, Miss,” said the old man. “And a driver I know, and can vouch for. Nice, steady young man.”

She rose and managed to smile.

“You’ve been so nice--” she said. “Some day I’m coming back--to thank you. Only to-day--I’m--tired.”

“That’s right!” he said, seriously. “All upset. Well, you remember if you want a witness to these goings-on, here’s Joe Archer, that seen it all.”

She came out of the little shelter and found the taxi waiting. She glanced at the driver, a squat, swarthy young Italian, then she got in.

“Where to, lady?” he asked.

She looked at him, dazed; she needed time to think. Should she go back to Mrs. Frick’s at once? Not back to The Châlet. Not there again…

“First I’d like to go somewhere to telephone, please,” she said to the driver, and as the cab started, she took out her vanity-case, to see how she looked after all this. Angelina had given her that case.

“Oh, if only I could reach her!” she thought.

She had a vision of Angelina arriving at The Châlet, dashing up in a racing car, or arriving by airplane, sweeping in like a whirlwind, facing Aunt Emma with her sublime assurance.--“What do you people think you’re doing? Lord! What an awful old house! We’ll have a doctor and a nurse for that poor old man. Where’s Fennel? I’m going to look for him. I want to talk to that detective.”

Angelina wouldn’t care whether or not it was her business to interfere, or whether anyone wanted her. She would simply take possession of everything and everyone.

“Child, you’re simply exhausted! Go and lie down this instant, you poor little angel, and I’ll come up and have tea with you in your room.”

She had said that so often; she had been, for all her sensational exploits, so strong, so confident, and, for all her carelessness, so generous and kind.

But it was not possible to reach her; the itinerary of her honeymoon was a secret.

“There never seems to be anyone but Mrs. Frick,” thought Di.

The driver stopped at a little stationer’s and she got out to telephone. It seemed a little impossible, that she could really communicate freely with the outside world; she half expected that there would be no answer to her call, or that someone would stop her.

But the usual routine went forward and she actually heard Mrs. Frick’s voice; not very amiable.

“Well?”

“It’s Diana Leonard--”

“Miss Leonard!” cried Mrs. Frick. “Merciful Powers! I’ve been so worried and anxious about you. Especially not hearing a single word from that Mr. Fennel. Where are you now? Are you coming back to-night?”

“What about Mr. Fennel?” asked Di.

“Why, he promised to come right straight back here after he’d seen you, and tell me all about things. And he never did. I rang up the Ritz, where he’s living, and they said he hadn’t come back. I didn’t know if I ought to take any steps, but I thought I’d better not. Of course he has lots of friends. If anything was wrong, _they’d_ know. But tell me, dearie, when are you coming back here?”

“I--don’t exactly know,” said Di. “But very soon, Mrs. Frick.”

“But are you all right, dearie?” asked Mrs. Frick. “It seems to me your voice sounds sort of queer.”

“Perfectly all right, thanks.”

“Did you get the letter I sent by Mr. Fennel?”

There was a moment’s pause.

“Yes, thanks. He gave it to me,” said Di.

“I wish you’d come back!” said Mrs. Frick. “And I wish you’d tell me whatever has happened to Mr. Fennel.”

“I’m--going to try to find out,” said Di.

For she had made up her mind that she must go back to The Châlet at once.