Chapter Twelve.

“You Are Like Her”

She had come to this decision rapidly, but quite deliberately.

“No one there would do me any real harm,” she thought. “They can’t afford to, because they’re hoping to get Uncle Rufus’s money through me. Aunt Emma was going to make Uncle Peter apologize. She’ll see that he doesn’t do anything like that again. And if Miles comes back, she’ll keep him in order. I’ve got to go back, and find out what’s happened to Mr. Fennel.”

She was perfectly sure that something had happened to Fennel, and that Miles was responsible for it; she was profoundly alarmed and troubled, yet in her heart there was still that unshakable confidence in Fennel. She could not imagine him defeated by Miles. He might have been deceived, sent away with some false message from herself; he might even have been taken by surprise, have been hurt, temporarily put out of the way. But if he had been deceived, he would soon find it out; if he had been hurt, he would recover. He would come back; she knew it.

Her chief motive was loyalty. Fennel had come entirely on her account; any misadventure that had befallen him was due to his wish to help her. And now she would help him.

“I can’t very well go to the police,” she thought. “I haven’t any evidence that anything’s happened. And Aunt Emma would know how to make things look all right. She called in that detective herself… I wish I’d kept that other letter--the one with the money in it. It was a forgery, of course. Who did it? Miles? Is that what he’s so wretched about?”

It was so difficult to evaluate Mile’s emotions. He was capable of being overcome with remorse for something pardonable, and equally capable of feeling not the least regret for some horrible act. His rudderless spirit knew no measure, no proportion; he did not know what he wanted or where he was going.

“If anyone had ever cared for him,” she thought, “had ever taken any trouble over him, he might have been--a decent man.”

And that, in a way, was her requiem for Miles. She had pitied him and had done what she could for him, and now she had finished with him.

The sun was beginning to set; another day was ending, and still she was not free. Going back there again…

“If you’ll drive to the East Hazelwood Station,” she told the chauffeur, “someone there can tell you how to reach a house called ‘The Châlet.’”

It seemed to her a surprisingly long drive.

“But of course Miles came so terribly fast,” she thought. “And perhaps he came a shorter way, too. Now I must make up my mind what to do.”

She leaned back in the cab and shut her eyes, but, instead of the clearly defined plan she wanted, trivial and aimless little thoughts drifted through her mind.

“Paying for this taxi is going to make an awful hole in my ten dollars,” she thought. “But Mrs. Frick’s turned so amiable… He remembered that day he saw me on the steps of Angelina’s house… He must be a friend of hers… He must have plenty of friends. He couldn’t just disappear… But some people do… I’ve read in the newspapers…”

She opened her eyes and sat up straight.

“I know that he came that night. I must find out why I didn’t see him. What happened to him? Miles knows. And almost certainly Aunt Emma knows. But if she won’t tell me, if I can’t find out anything, I shall have to go to the police.”

She tried to marshal in her mind the facts she had to lay before the police. That letter that had fallen from Miles’s pocket? That, combined with the fact that Fennel had disappeared, ought to be enough. But suppose he hadn’t really disappeared, but had only gone somewhere about his own affairs? It was possible that Fennel had left that letter for her, had given it to Wren, and Miles had got hold of it. That might be his only offense, the purloining of a letter. His remorse, his wild talk, might so easily be without foundation. Suppose after all that nothing had happened to Fennel?

But there was that other letter she had had, signed with his name, enclosing the marked fifty-dollar bill. She was sure that letter was a forgery, done for the purpose of discrediting Fennel. Perhaps the whole story of the robbery was sheer fabrication, with Wren and Fennel the victims.

“I don’t know!” she cried to herself. “I can’t think it out. There are so many little things--that don’t seem to fit together… Only there’s something horribly wrong… And Mr. Fennel came that night, and I didn’t see him.”

She realized with dismay that she was not thinking clearly. She was worn out, almost exhausted by her terrible struggle with Miles, coming close upon the heels of so many other shocking and inexplicable things.

“If I could wait and rest--before I went back…” she thought. “Maybe it’s simply idiotic to go back. But it seems to me now the only decent thing to do. Mr. Fennel came on my account. I ought at least to try to find out what happened. And now, of course, it’s very different. I was--almost a prisoner before, but I’ve got out, and I’ll take care not to be trapped again.”

They were going up the hill now, along the woodland road. The sun was gone, the sky was drained of color; here among the trees there was a somber twilight. The Châlet was a house easy to get into, but not so easy to leave.

“I’ll see to that!” she thought, and leaning forward, spoke to the driver.

“Please wait for me,” she said. “And if I don’t come out in half an hour, please go to the door and ask for me.”

He turned round to look at her, and in the gathering dusk his swarthy face had, she thought, a strange, secret look.

“No!” she said to herself. “That’s ridiculous…” And aloud: “Please--don’t go away without me,” she said. “No matter what anyone says… Even if someone comes out and pays you and says I’m not coming. I--I _am_ coming…” She stopped, ashamed and half-frightened by the tremor in her voice, the unmistakable note of appeal. “You see,” she said, “I’ve--left my bag there… I--they--they’d like me to stay longer--but I can’t… So if you’ll please wait…”

“Why don’t yez leave me go and ask for yer bag?” he asked.

The kindness in his voice nearly unnerved her.

“Thanks ever so much, but I’ve--got to--go in.”

“I’ll wait,” he said. “And if they won’t leave yez come out, will I tell some friends of yours?”

“Yes!” she cried. “I’ll give you an address--if you have a pencil.”

He stopped the cab, halfway up the hill and not yet in sight of the house, and on a bit of paper she wrote Mrs. Frick’s address.

“If you’ll please let her know…”

Putting the paper in his pocket, he turned away again.

“Well…” he said. “Maybe they got a right to keep your bag, but they got no right to keep _you_. That’s agin the law.”

“Oh--” she began, and stopped. Evidently he thought this was an affair of unpaid board; better let him go on thinking that.

“I’ll wait, aw’ right,” he added. “Don’t you worry!”

But she did worry! As they turned the corner, and she saw the house again, so desolate, and bleak, such a fear swept over her that for a moment she was paralyzed.

“I can’t!” she said, half aloud.

“What?” asked the driver.

“Nothing,” she said, and tried to reason with herself.

There was nothing really to be afraid of; the cab would be waiting for her and the driver had Mrs. Frick’s address. And even without that no one would want to hurt her, for only through her could they get Uncle Rufus’s money.

“I’ll tell Aunt Emma the whole thing,” she thought. “How Miles acted and about Mr. Fennel’s letter. I’ll tell her that if she doesn’t let me know at once what happened to Mr. Fennel, she needn’t expect me to help her out with any money ever. I’ve got the upper hand. I _must_ remember that.”

Light was shining from the windows of the lounge. But all the other dark rooms…

“I have the upper hand!” she said to herself. “Perhaps I’m the only person who can find out what happened to Mr. Fennel. Perhaps they’ve done something--horrible…”

It was very easy to believe that, when she stood again in the shadow of that house.

“And Uncle Rufus!” she thought, with a shock. “I promised not to leave him!”

She stopped outside the door, appalled. How was it possible that she had forgotten that? For a moment, despair seized her. Then she began to think sanely and lucidly.

“I’ll stand by him. I won’t desert him. But I will not--I _cannot_ live in that house. I must see him and explain it. There must be some sort of hotel in the village. I’ll stay there, and come to see him every day until he’s well enough to leave. I’ll beg him to insist upon having a nurse for the nights. I’ll do it all quite openly. I have the upper hand. I will not be cowardly. I will not be underhand and secret. I have the upper hand.”

She glanced back at the cab that stood square and solid in the driveway, its lights shining out clearly. Then she opened the door and entered the lounge.

“Ah!” said a bland voice, and Mr. Purvis rose from his chair. “Miss Diana… We’ve been waiting for you!”

In her condition of nervous fatigue she was ready to believe even the respectable Mr. Purvis a sinister figure.

“Waiting for me?” she repeated.

“Sit down!” he said. “Yes… Yes… It is your uncle’s wish that you should be informed… Yes… Your uncle sent for me again this afternoon, my dear young lady, and he has at last made his will… He wishes you to know--‘So that she will stay here with me’--those were his words. He is leaving you practically his entire estate of seven hundred thousand dollars.”

His pleased smile died on his lips.

“Are you ill?” he cried.

“No,” she said, faintly. “Only, naturally… I… I want to see Uncle Rufus, please.”

“Quite natural and proper!” said Mr. Purvis. “Perhaps I was somewhat too abrupt… And mind you, I don’t by any means intend to suggest that your uncle’s condition is worse. By no means! In fact--” He smiled almost archly, “it’s a curious thing, but well attested--that very often a patient takes a turn for the better after making a will. There’s no cause for immediate alarm, my dear young lady. Doctor Coat assures me…”

“May I see him, please?” asked Di. “Uncle Rufus, I mean.”

Because, before anything else, she must see that old man who had, in spite of his malice and unkindness, trusted her and so greatly rewarded her; she must assure him that she would return to-morrow morning; that she would look after him and protect him.

“I don’t know…” said Purvis. “Your aunt and Doctor Coat are with him now. They may not think it advisable--”

“I’ll just go up and see,” said Di. And all the way up the stairs she said to herself: “I have the upper hand. I’ll _insist_ upon seeing him. And I’ll say what I want to say. I’ll see him alone. Aunt Emma wouldn’t dare refuse, with Doctor Coat there.”

As she reached the top of the stairs, she was startled to hear her aunt laugh, a low, cheerful chuckle, answered by another laugh, a man’s. It seemed to her that this sound came from the corridor that branched off from the main one, and she went very quietly in that direction.

There they were, Aunt Emma and Doctor Coat; Doctor Coat leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, Aunt Emma standing facing him, smoking, looking up at him with a glance that was coquettish and gay.

“And what did you do then, Emma?” Doctor Coat was asking, with evident admiration.

“I told him that for every remark like that, the price of the article would increase one hundred dollars,” said she.

Di turned away, astounded by this new aspect of Aunt Emma.

“But now’s my chance!” she thought, hastening to Uncle Rufus’s room.

The door was open, and Uncle Peter was sitting in there, half asleep. But at the sight of her he came wide awake in an instant.

“Hello!” he said, jauntily.

She looked past him, to the bed where the old man lay.

“Uncle Rufus!” she said.

“Come here!” he answered, in a voice so hoarse and faint she could scarcely hear it. She went toward the bed, but Uncle Peter sprang up and barred the way.

“Look here!” said Di. “I won’t have this! Uncle Rufus wants to speak to me--and if you won’t let him, I’m going to tell Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis.”

The room was lighted only by a small lamp with a green shade; outside that bright circle it was in darkness. Uncle Peter’s face was little more than a pale blur, the old man on the bed was lost in the shadows.

“Stand out of the way, please!” she said.

“No!” said Uncle Peter.

“And what’s this?” asked Aunt Emma’s voice from the doorway, where she had appeared, with Doctor Coat.

At the sound of her voice, the old man on the bed half-raised himself.

“Don’t go…” he said, in that hoarse, extinguished voice. “They’ll kill me. Stay…”

He sank back, turned his head, still wearing the grotesque fez, to the wall, with the covers drawn up to his chin. Diana faced Doctor Coat.

“Did you hear?” she asked.

“Most unfortunate…!” he murmured.

She was indignant at so weak a word. She stepped out into the hall, where she could speak without Uncle Rufus hearing.

“Don’t you see--?” she demanded, in a sort of despair.

“He doesn’t ‘see,’” Aunt Emma interrupted, and, addressing Doctor Coat: “I must warn you, Matthew, that Diana takes this all very seriously. I believe she’s convinced that we’re all engaged in a conspiracy--to murder Uncle Rufus Leonard.”

“Come, come, Emma!” said Doctor Coat, shocked. “I’m sure she thinks nothing of the sort.” He glanced at Di, and smiled; no doubt he meant it for a benign, and reassuring smile, but it was not; it was nervous, apprehensive. “The important point,” he went on, “is that Rufus doesn’t believe in this--this conspiracy himself. He’s been expressing these--unpleasant suspicions for years, yet he never stopped coming here. And only this afternoon, when I suggested moving him to a hospital, he refused. That is pretty conclusive proof that this is not a genuine delusion.

“Now, the most marked characteristic of the genuine delusion, such as can be observed in the paranoiac, for instance, is not the irrationality of the fixed idea, but the tenacity with which the patient clings to it. I emphatically deny that Rufus shows any symptoms of a genuine delusion. These--suspicions are simple willful assertions, made with the clear intention of annoying, as opposed to the perfectly involuntary belief of a paranoiac. I am willing at any time to testify to the fact that Rufus is of sound mind. A little crochety, perhaps, but as sane as you or me. He--”

“It’s no use, Matthew!” Aunt Emma interrupted. “I’d like a word with her, if you’ll excuse me. Come here, please!”

Di followed her into the next room; not until the door was closed behind them did she realize what room this was. It was almost in darkness; through the window she could see the pines black as ink against the pallid sky.

“I should like to prevent you from making any more of a fool of yourself than is necessary,” said Aunt Emma. “Are you able to realize that if you persist in taking this notion of your Uncle Rufus’s seriously you are tending to invalidate his will?”

“I don’t care!” said Di. “I can’t--I won’t--see him--like this. He’s--frightened.”

“My God!” said Aunt Emma, with a sigh. “Very well! I’ll admit that he’s frightened. And that he had a genuine delusion. It’s a well-defined case. He has the paranoiac delusion of persecution. Technically, he’s insane. Like your father.”

“My father!” cried Di.

“Like your father,” Aunt Emma repeated. “_He_ believed he was persecuted. He--”

“He wasn’t insane!” cried Di. “That’s not--”

“The stock is tainted,” Aunt Emma went on, tranquilly. “You must have observed it. Peter’s a high-grade moron. Rufus is a paranoiac. Miles, just at present, is a borderline case. But alcoholism will very shortly send him over the line. A somewhat difficult household to deal with.”

Di was silent for a moment.

“My father--” she began, in an unsteady, defiant voice.

“Naturally,” Aunt Emma interrupted, “you want to deny that he was unbalanced. It’s a quite instinctive reaction with you to deny anything that’s unpleasant to you. It’s time you faced facts with a little courage. This inclination of yours to build fantasies is dangerous. It was just that refusal to accept reality that destroyed your unfortunate mother.”

“Don’t--_talk_ about her!” said Di.

“I think,” said Aunt Emma, slowly, “that she’d be glad if I were to tell you now. It’s time… I’ve kept it from you, until now, because you are so remarkably ill-adapted to hear any unpleasant truths. But now… Here, in this room…”

In this room? Where her mother’s name was printed on the window-sill…

“I don’t--want to hear…” she said.

“But you’re going to hear,” said Aunt Emma. “It was in this room that I last saw her alive. She came here, to me, in a lamentable condition. She had found out for herself what your father was. She realized that he could never make a living for her, and her own health was too much impaired for her to contemplate any sort of work. I was fond of Inez, but I had seen from the beginning that she was pitiably maladjusted. Like you, she was incapable of facing reality. Like you, she believed that she ‘needed’ things that do not exist. She demanded a love and loyalty from other people which is never given. She wanted to be ‘happy.’ You are like her.”

Her voice stopped; the dark room was silent. Then in a moment she went on:

“She was in despair because she couldn’t ‘do anything’ for you. She was perfectly convinced that she had been born for the express purpose of ‘doing’ things for other people. And because her ill-health made that impossible…”

Her strong fingers closed upon the girl’s arm.

“Come here!” she said, and led her to the window. “She wrote her name, here, on the sill. It is too dark for you to see it, but her name is here. You see those three pines, standing together? That is where she died.”

Diana could only look, with dilated eyes, at those three black trees.

“Here, from this spot where you are standing,” said Aunt Emma, “she threw herself out of the window. Because she could not face life as it is.”

Her grasp on the girl’s arm relaxed.

“Now perhaps you understand,” she said, “why I warned you against this room.”

“No…” said Diana.

“You’re like her,” said Aunt Emma. “Too much--like her.”