Chapter Fifteen.

A White Figure

She was free to move about now; to call for help if she wished; she was left quite undisturbed to make what plans she could for her escape.

And she could make none. It occurred to her to knock on the wall of Uncle Rufus’s room, but she decided against it. It would either frighten the old man still more, or wake in him hopes that she saw no way to realize. Or perhaps he could no longer hear anything…

She would have done anything possible to help him, but she could think of nothing. There had been, in that talk with her aunt, something that robbed her of the last hope. Her death had been arranged in so cool and matter-of-fact a way; she herself was so utterly negligible; there was nothing in her aunt to which she could appeal.

If this were to be her last hour, she meant it to be a good one, undaunted by fear and weakness. She faced her danger with courage and dignity. She thought of all the happy moments she had had, of all the people who had been kind to her, with a regret that was almost impersonal. It seemed to her that the past was already immeasurably remote. She thought, above all, of Fennel.

Then her mind turned to her childhood, and she tried to remember her mother. Here, in this room, her mother had battled with despair and anguish, and had lost. The room seemed filled with that tragic presence. In the darkness, the daughter tried to recapture some childish memory of that face, that voice; she wanted to feel near to her mother. She wanted to understand how her mother could, of her own free will, have left her child.

Was it because, after all, life was not worth living?

“If she could come back, just for a moment,” she thought. “If she could tell me why she wanted to die--and what she found--on the other side… How could she bear to leave me?”

Aunt Emma had said that some strange and disturbing thing lingered here… If only she could pierce the veil, could come closer to that presence…

“Mother…” she said, half-aloud.

She had no one else to love. It seemed to her that if her mother would draw near to her, and she could go--with her… It would be good to go…

Why not? Why wait for a horrible and futile struggle? Did not the very walls of this room whisper to her--“Life is cruel, and death is peace”--Why not go to her mother…?

She rose, and crossed the room to the open window. Here, on this very spot, her mother had last stood… Out there--

An awful fear choked her; her heart seemed to stop. For there, at the foot of the dark pines, lay a white figure.

“Mother!” she said, inaudibly.

Her mother had come back, to show her the way. One instant, and she could lie there too--

“Miss Leonard!” said a voice behind her.

She turned, to see a figure standing there in the dark. Another ghost… She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came.

“Steady!” said the voice. “Steady, dear girl!”

His arm was about her shoulders, and she clutched his coat frantically.

“How can you come!” she whispered. “You were dead, too.”

“Never was less so,” he answered. “But come now. Let’s get away.”

“How--could you come?”

“I found the kitchen door open, and I saw the back stairs, and came up them. I didn’t know where you’d be, or whether I’d be--welcome. But I saw this door locked, with the key outside. Didn’t want to knock, you see, so I walked in.”

“He said--he killed you.”

“His mistake, whoever he was. I was knocked out for a while. Then I found myself lying in a quarry, and I got up and came out. I went to a doctor--but I only told him I’d been in an accident. I haven’t told the police or anyone. I wanted to see you first. I’d have come before, but--I was a little--bothered by that whack I got. Now let’s clear out.”

“No! We can’t leave Uncle Rufus without--”

“Uncle Rufus!” he repeated. “But look here! You needn’t worry about _him_.”

“I do! You don’t know--”

“I know one thing,” he said. “The poor old fellow was dead when we carried him in--”

“No! He’s--there--in the next room…”

“He’s dead,” said Fennel. “I’m sorry if I’m--blunt, but--”

“Come and see!” she cried. “If it’s not too late.”

“Wait a minute! I--you see, I don’t exactly understand what’s going on here. And I’m sure you don’t. That’s why I didn’t call in any outside help. I wanted to know first how much you’re--involved in this.”

“I don’t know exactly what you mean.”

“I mean,” he said, “have you promised to conceal anything--given any sort of help--done anything that could get you in trouble with the law?”

“I--don’t know,” she said, doubtfully. “I don’t think I have.”

“Good!” he said, “Then we don’t care how much of a row we raise, do we?”

“But if I had--?” she asked.

“Then I’d have had to get you away quietly.”

“But did you think I might have done something--wrong?”

“No,” he said, “Nothing wrong, and nothing silly. But you might have made a mistake. And there’s something going on here. When we carried the poor old fellow in, I saw that he was dead. But your aunt behaved as if he were alive. That’s why I wanted to see you that evening. I wanted to tell you, and get you out of the way before the big break. Now it’s too late. Now you’ll have to be mixed up in it.”

“I did do one thing. I made a will. You see, Uncle Rufus had left his money to me, and I made a will leaving half of it to Aunt Emma.”

“How did she work that?”

Di hesitated a moment.

“I wanted to find out what had happened to you. We made a bargain--”

“I see!” he said, and was silent for a moment. Then he took his arm from about her shoulders and moved away a little.

Everything he did was right, every action, every word of his was perfectly clear to her; she knew how he felt about things; she knew that he understood her. His quiet acceptance of the situation had steadied her, made her feel resolute and safe.

“The trouble is,” he said, “that there are three men here, and my wrist’s broken--”

“Oh!” she cried.

“It’ll mend. But we’ll have to manage carefully. Somehow we ought to get a look at the man in the next room. I want you to be able to swear that he’s not your uncle… I’ll just take a cautious survey.”

He went over to the door, but he did not open it. She came to his side.

“I _was_ a fool!” he said. “When I unlocked the door, I left the key there. And now we’re locked in.”

For a moment they were silent.

“What about the window?” he said. “You were looking out when I came in--”

“Oh, it was horrible!” she cried. “I thought I saw something… I was nervous…”

They went together to the window--and it was still there, that white figure.

“Do you--see it?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said.

“I thought--it was my mother. She--died like that. She--fell from this very window…”

He reached for her hand and held it.

“No way to get out of here,” he said. “Can you shoot?”

“Shoot?”

“I have an automatic, but I can’t do much with my left hand.”

“I never even saw one, except in the movies,” she said. “And I’m afraid--I _couldn’t_ shoot anyone--even if I knew how.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” he said. “I was only thinking of shooting the lock, so that we could get out.”

“I’ll try it.”

“I’m afraid it would--”

Something fell past them, something like a great white bird and struck the ground with a terrible thud, and did not move.

And from the next room came a scream.

“My child! You’ve killed my child…! Let me _go_…! My child…”

“It’s Wren!” cried Di.

“Stand here!” said Fennel. “You can see the white doorknob. Stand close--there. Aim just below the knob. Pull the trigger.”

The noise dazed her. And in the next room that wild voice was still shouting; some article of furniture was overturned with a crash.

“Try again!” said Fennel’s quiet voice beside her. “Not so high.”

Again a stab of flame and the crash of the shot, and the splintering of wood.

“Too low!” said Fennel. “Now! This time you’ll do it.”

She aimed with desperate care, tried to steady her shaking hand. Her finger was on the trigger, when there came a yell from the next room.

“Help! Help! Murder!”

The shot went wild.

“Last bullet,” said Fennel. “Never mind, dear. You’ve splintered the wood. I’ll see if I can kick through that panel.”

“Help!” yelled that voice.

“We’re coming, Wren!” she called, with all her strength.

Fennel gave the door a well-directed kick; a second.

Then another shot sounded, there was a cracking, tearing sound, and Fennel collapsed on the floor.

“What happened?” she cried. “Oh, what’s the _matter_?”

“Stand away from that door!” he shouted.

But she was on her knees beside him. She spoke to him, but he did not answer. All noise had ceased in the next room, all noise everywhere had ceased; there was a silence that seemed to ring in her ears.

“James!” she said.

“Yes?” he answered, in his ordinary, composed voice.

“What’s happened to you?”

“I got a bullet in the leg,” he said. “Through the door.”

She was passionately determined to be as quiet, as cool as he; she _must not_ disappoint him.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

For answer he laid his head back against her shoulder, and she began to stroke his forehead.

Outside the pines stirred in the breeze, and far away a dog barked and a motor horn sounded.

“I must get him to a doctor,” she thought.

They were locked in this room. And God knows who or what was in the corridor outside. Even if she could get out, how was she to leave him alone in this horrible house while she went for help? He might be bleeding to death, dying here, now, with his head against her shoulder. No one knew they were here. No one would come.

“James,” she said, “can you move?”

“I--can,” he answered, “but--I don’t care much about moving--just now…”

“I’ll bring the chair for you to lean against,” she said. “I want to look around.”

She pushed the chair so that he was propped up against it, and then she stood behind, in the dark, and tried to think. Other people had escaped from situations like this… She could not make a rope of sheets, to lower herself from the window, for there was only a mattress on the bed.

“If I threw out the mattress,” she thought, “and then jumped… If I missed it, if I hurt myself, he’d be worse off than ever. Perhaps I can kick the door panel in…”

She had an unconquerable aversion to making any more noise. But it must be tried. She had started forward, when a sound outside made her jump. Was it possible…? She went to the window; her glance fell indifferently upon the two white figures that lay there; she strained her ears to catch that sound again.

No doubt about it; a car was coming up the hill.

“This way, please!” she called. “_Please_ come here! Please come here! This way! I need help! Please--!”

Her light young voice seemed to float off on the breeze; there was no answer. Now she could see the glare of the headlights as the car turned the corner.

“Please come here!” she cried, desperately. “This way!”

“My darling child!” called back a strong, beautiful voice. “What _are_ you doing?”

“Angelina!” she cried. “Don’t go away!”

The car had stopped and Angelina sprang out, and ran along the path. She stopped suddenly, and bent over the white figure lying there.

“What’s this?” she cried.

“Angelina! Get in somehow--”

A man had got out of the car, and stood beside Angelina, looking up at the window.

“Come in!” cried Di, in a fury of impatience. “There’s someone hurt here. I’m locked in. Hurry up!”

They both disappeared round the corner of the house, and for a long time she heard nothing.

“James!” she said. “Could anything happen to them…?”

“Nothing can happen to Angelina,” he said.

Then she heard voices outside, Angelina’s voice. The key turned in the lock, the door was flung open, the light of an electric torch shone in her face.

“James is hurt,” she said, in a quiet, dignified voice.

And that was the end of her strength.