Chapter Three.

Di Makes Up Her Mind to Leave

Di was forced to admit that the situation was--uncomfortable. She could not go out anywhere to telephone because she hadn’t a penny.

“Well, I can write!” she thought. “There’s no such tearing hurry.”

And she also made up her mind that she must begin being Aunt Emma’s secretary at once, so that she could earn something.

“May I help you this afternoon, Aunt Emma?” she asked.

“We’ll see…” said Aunt Emma, with an enigmatic smile. “If you’re ready--?”

Di had now eaten everything in sight, and she rose as her aunt pushed back her chair. They went up the stairs together, along the corridor, to the room at the end. Aunt Emma took a key from the pocket of her overall and unlocked the door.

It was a profound relief to the girl that those children were not there. The room looked pleasantly business-like, with a large flat-topped desk, very neat, and a typewriter on a table, and the afternoon sun shining in at the window. Aunt Emma placed a chair before the desk for Di, and seated herself behind the desk, facing her.

“Well!” she said, looking steadily at the girl, “what do you know about cretinism?”

It was remarkably like being at school again, and Di felt the old sensation of defensive resentment.

“Not--very much,” she answered.

“How much? What would be your definition of cretinism?”

Di thought very hard.

“Well…” she said. “I think--it has something to do with the--excavations they’re making in the island of Crete.”

“Good--God!” said Aunt Emma.

She opened the drawer of her desk, took out a cigarette, lit it, and leaning back in her chair, stared at Di.

“A revelation of character,” she said. “You’re one of those persons who can’t say ‘I don’t know’… Cretinism is a form of idiocy. There are--” She paused, and smoked for a time. “There are,” she went on, “a great many varieties of idiocy in this world.”

Di grew red.

“The world is largely peopled by idiots,” said Aunt Emma. “Of different grades. Most of them attain a development sufficient for the demands of daily life. They can read and write and they can act upon the suggestions of superior minds.”

All this time she was steadily regarding Di with a faint smile, and Di began to grow angry.

“I dare say I’m an idiot myself,” she said, “but I hope I can be a little useful to you. I can type--”

“Can you read?”

“Read?” Di repeated.

“I mean, are you able to read a book which is not fiction?”

“Yes,” said Di.

“Then take this,” said Aunt Emma. “It’s written by your Uncle Rufus. Kindly read the first chapter and then give me a terse résumé.”

Hot and angry, Di took the big volume that was pushed across the desk to her.

_Some Observations Upon the Natural Limitations of National Cultures_, by Rufus Leonard.

She turned the pages, with a somewhat strained air of intellectual interest.

“I suggest that you begin at the beginning,” said Aunt Emma. “The first chapter will do for the present.”

“I _won’t_ lose my temper!” said Di to herself. “She has a perfect right to test me before she takes me as a secretary.”

She turned to the first page and began to read. But it was like a nightmare; she had to read sentences over and over, to understand them, and even then, the ideas were hazy to her. And all the time she was aware of Aunt Emma smoking and steadily regarding her. She turned a page.

“One may, for diversion, take a metaphysical view of the problem; one may play with the assumption that the ethos--”

It was no use. She felt that if she had time, and if Aunt Emma were not staring at her, she might manage something, but not in the present circumstances. She closed the book and glanced up, meaning to say that, frankly.

“I see!” said Aunt Emma. “I thought so. No… You are emotional, instead of intellectual. I do not assert that I can read a physiognomy. I consider that a preposterous claim. But give me fifteen minutes’ observation of anyone, of the involuntary gestures, the manner of walking, speaking, and so on, and I will know that person better than his own mother would.”

Di essayed an uncertain smile.

“I’m awfully sorry I can’t help you,” she said. “I hoped--”

“You can help me,” said Aunt Emma. “You say you can type. I’ll give you some work at once.”

“Thank you,” said Di.

“I shall be glad to have you here,” Aunt Emma proceeded. “Your father and I were never in harmony, but your mother was very agreeable. You’re very like her.”

Di turned her head away quickly. It was almost intolerable to her to hear that name mentioned. All through her lonely and troubled life she had held as her heart’s secret the tenderest image of that mother she could not remember. She had virtually needed something to cling to, some ideal, and she had found it there.

There was a considerable silence; when Aunt Emma spoke again, her voice was grave and kindly.

“You remember her at all?”

“No,” said Di, very low.

“Your father, no doubt, often talked to you of her.”

“No. Never. He--didn’t like to talk about--her.”

Aunt Emma pushed back her chair, rose, and coming out from behind the desk, laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“Work is the panacea,” she said. “Now, my dear! Here is a little article of mine which I’d like you to type. ‘Basic fallacies of the Montessori Method.’ The main fallacy is this. The Signora Montessori imputes to children a capacity for independent action which is so rare, even in adults, as to be remarkable.”

She lit another cigarette.

“The immense majority of human beings have no independence,” she said. “The suggestibility of the human race has never yet been fully realized. It is my intention to publish some observations in that field before long… And now, there is the typewriter, and here is paper.” With her hand on the door knob, she looked back at Di. “Knock on the door if you want to leave the room,” she said. “I shall be conducting experiments in the corridor, and a sudden interruption would be very disagreeable.” And she went out, closing the door behind her.

Di stood looking at the closed door.

“I--really don’t think I can stay here…” she said to herself.

But how was she to get away, without money? The idea of borrowing from her aunt or her uncle was most distasteful, nor could she think of any decent excuse to make for a sudden departure.

“I was so willing to come,” she thought. “I can’t rush off and hurt their feelings, when they were kind enough to look me up and ask me here. I’ve just got to make the best of it.”

She uncovered the typewriter, and took up her aunt’s neat manuscript; it was easy to read, and she finished a page quickly. Then, as she was putting in a new sheet, she heard footsteps outside the door, shuffling up and down the corridor. There was no sound of voices; nothing but those dragging footsteps.

“It’s those children!” she thought, and the room grew stifling to her; it was like a prison. She got up in haste, and opened the window, leaned out, breathing with relief the cool Spring air. Then, beneath her, she heard a voice:

“Hello!”

She leaned further out. Directly beneath her was another window, open, and the voice, which was Uncle Peter’s, came from the room inside.

“Hello!” he cried again. “What’s the matter, Central? Well, try them again.”

“But he’s telephoning!” she thought. “Then the telephone _can’t_ be out of order--”

“Hello!” he said again. “Oh! So you’re there!… Now, see here, Miles! Your aunt wants you to come out at once… What?… I don’t care… No, I can’t!… No, I haven’t a damned cent… Oh, pawn your watch--do anything you want, but come out here at once, d’you understand?”

Di drew back into the room.

“That’s an idea!” she said to herself. “I’d forgotten that watch.”

She remembered now a wrist-watch Angelina had given her, an absurd little thing, no larger than a five-dollar gold piece and not much thicker. It had needed expensive repairs to set it working again, and Di had put it away and not given it another thought, until Uncle Peter’s words reminded her that it might at least provide a railway fare back to New York.

“And if I just had the money to go,” she thought, “If I felt that I _could_ go, then I shouldn’t mind staying. It’s simply this feeling that I can’t get away…”

Very well; but how to convert the watch into money? She thought that over for a time, and then, with a sudden inspiration, began to write a letter.

“Dear Mrs. Frick:

“_Here I am, safe and sound. The address is_ --” _Here she left a blank, to fill in later._ “_You were so friendly this morning that I feel encouraged to ask you to do me a favor. Enclosed is a little watch. If you could possibly--_” _She hesitated a moment. Mrs. Frick was probably too respectable for pawnshops_--“_manage to sell it for me, and send on the money, I should be very much obliged._

“_I have already started to work as my aunt’s secretary, and I am sure that in a little while everything will be all right. But just at the moment, I am pretty hard up. If you can get me three dollars for the watch, it would be a great help._” _In spite of her Bohemian upbringing, Di realized that this was an extraordinary letter._

“_I hope this won’t bother you_,” _she added._

“_Sincerely yours,_ “Diana Leonard.”

Then she addressed an envelope, put the letter into it, tucked it inside her blouse, and set to work upon her aunt’s manuscript with energy.

It was a nice job when she had finished; she was pleased with it. She sighed and stretched and, leaning back in the chair, with her hands behind her head, let her thoughts drift. The sun was going down, the sky was bright and calm… Angelina and her new husband would be at that inn in the Berkshires now. They would probably be having tea.

“I’d like tea myself,” she mused. “A _very_ large club-sandwich--and coffee éclairs--”

The door opened and Aunt Emma entered.

“Finished?” she said. “That’s very nice… Now, my dear, have you a pretty dress with you? Something light… I’m expecting your cousin for dinner.”

“What cousin?” asked Di, startled by the news and by the change in her aunt’s manner, so kindly and solicitous now.

“Your Uncle Peter’s son.”

“I didn’t know he was married.”

“You might have known,” said Aunt Emma, with a grim smile. “A man like Peter couldn’t help getting married. He’s a widower now, though… I think you’ll like Miles… Have you a pretty dress?”

“Yes,” said Di. “Angelina--Mrs. Herbert--Mrs. Blessington I mean--gave me lots.”

Aunt Emma smiled.

“Run along and put one on,” she said. “You’ll be glad of someone your own age to talk to.”

“She _is_ nice!” thought Di. “Asking this cousin on my account. Now if only there’s a good dinner!”

She dressed, in a green chiffon frock that suited her very well; she took pains to look her best, curiously excited at the prospect of meeting this cousin. Indeed, she was a little surprised by her own emotion.

“Silly!” she thought. “I suppose it’s because I haven’t any family.”

Coming out of her room a little before six, she found Uncle Peter in the hall, lounging against the wall, smoking a cigar. He still wore his jaunty checked suit and brown shoes, but he had a quieter necktie, a more subdued air.

“Hello!” he said. “How nice you look!”

“Oh, thanks!” she said. “Uncle Peter, can you lend me a stamp?”

“Haven’t such a thing!” he answered. “But if you have any letters to post, give ’em to me, and I’ll look after ’em.”

“Thanks! All right!” said Di.

But somehow she did not want to give him her letter to Mrs. Frick.

They went downstairs together, into the lounge. It looked very pleasant there now, with three shaded lamps glowing. Di seated herself in an armchair, by an artificial palm, and Uncle Peter stood beside her with his hands in his pockets, whistling under his breath. And an equable illusion took possession of her. Here she was, in a charming dress, sitting here in the house of her own people; this cousin was coming; nice, interesting things would happen.

“I’m an idiot,” she thought, “to imagine there’s anything--queer here. It’s heartless of me to feel this way about those poor little children. No doubt they’re getting the best sort of treatment--perhaps they’ll be even cured… No; there’s nothing here to be--silly about. It was kind and generous of them to ask me. I’m lucky to be here.”

Just then Uncle Peter sighed and stirred, and as she glanced up at him, a singularly disturbing thought came to her. He had been waiting outside her door… Was he guarding her?

The impulse seized her to find out, to make sure if she really were guarded, not permitted to go about alone in this house. And at the same time she was aware of a great reluctance to make this test. Better not. Better let well enough alone…

She sat very still for a few minutes, then she rose.

“I’ll just run up and get my handkerchief,” she said.

“I’ll send Wren,” said Uncle Peter.

“He wouldn’t know where to find it.”

“You can tell him,” said Uncle Peter, cheerfully.

“I’d rather go myself,” she said, a little unsteadily.

“I’ll hop along with you, then,” said Uncle Peter. “These lights have a way of going out, and you’d get lost in this barn of a place.”

She turned away her head, so that he might not see her face. A panic fear was rising in her; she wanted to get away; she must get away.

“Don’t--_bother!_” she cried, and ran toward the stairs. A bad thing, to run. One hears footsteps running behind, one shrinks from the dreaded touch of a hand on the shoulder… She fled up the stairs, darted into her room, slammed the door behind her and locked it, turned on the light and sank into a chair, her hand against her racing heart, and her eyes upon the locked door.

She began to grow a little quieter, her breathing less labored; she was ready to reason with herself, when the light went out.

She sprang up, all her fears redoubled. There was a soft knock at the door.

“I won’t answer!” she thought. “I won’t--I can’t…”

She stood motionless in the dark, staring before her. There was another knock.

“Miss!” came a hissing whisper. “It’s Wren, Miss.”

“What do you want?” she asked, whispering herself.

“I’ve got an electric torch here for you, Miss. If you’ll open the door--”

She did not answer. She thought if _anything happened_, if she called out for help, who in this house would hear or care? Her panic rose to a climax. And then, in an instant, she mastered it; she drew a long breath, and crossing the room, unlocked the door.

The light of a torch shone full in her eyes, dazzling her.

“Excuse me, Miss!” whispered Wren, covering the torch and holding out another one. “I thought… If you’ll excuse me, Miss. I appreciated your kindness to-day. If there’s anything I can do for you, Miss…”

By the light of her torch, she could see his pale face, his anxious eyes; she looked and looked at him, but she could not understand him. Was he honest and well-disposed to her, or was he furtive and treacherous?

“If there’s anything I can do, Miss--” he repeated.

She decided to take a chance.

“I wish you’d post a letter for me,” she said, with a fair attempt at a casual manner. “I haven’t any stamps just now, but--”

“Give it to me please, Miss,” he said.

“It’s not quite ready. If you’ll wait--”

“I’d better not, Miss. If you’ll leave it were I can get it--”

“How would one address a letter here?” she asked, quickly, infected by his air of haste.

“The Châlet, Miss. East Hazelwood. Just tell me where I’ll find it, Miss.”

“Under the bureau-scarf,” she began, but he had turned away.

“I’ll look after it, Miss,” he whispered and was gone.

She stood in the doorway, listening. There was nothing to hear; not a sound of any sort; not a light anywhere except the little beam of the torch she held. But her moment of panic was over; she had herself well in hand; a sort of anger filled her. She went along the corridor, and leaning over the bannister, directed her torch toward the lounge below. And the light fell upon Uncle Peter, stretched out in a wicker chair, smoking his cigar.

“Hello!” he cried. “Who’s that?”

“Diana,” she answered, and began to descend the stairs.

“I suppose that blamed idiot will have the wit to go down in the cellar and change the fuse,” he observed. “I don’t understand these things, but Wren does. Poor wiring in the house. I warned you!”

“Well, there’s no harm done,” she said, affably.

She sat down near him in another chair, and waited.

“I’ve made a fool of myself,” she thought. “Rushing upstairs like that and slamming the door. Uncle Peter was only good-natured. The lights _do_ go out. And he didn’t come after me. He just sat here, smoking. I don’t know what’s the matter with me--imagining all sorts of things.”

“Hark!” said Uncle Peter.

She started nervously.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Car coming,” he said, and now she heard it too, coming up the drive. What was coming? Who was coming?

There was a step on the veranda, and then an appallingly loud bang on the front door.

“Lend me your torch,” said Uncle Peter, and taking it, crossed the room and opened the door. But he let no one in; he stepped outside, closing it behind him.

She was left now in utter darkness. She heard a murmur of voices outside, and she was groping her way across the lounge to the door, when the lights came on. She hurried then, and looked through the uncurtained glass of the door. A car stood out there and the headlights shone along the drive. And she had a glimpse of two men, carrying between them a limp body; then they passed beyond the stream of light, and she could see them no more.

“This is too much…” she thought. “I can’t--”

Her knees were shaking; she sat down again. And presently the front door opened and Uncle Peter re-entered, dapper and cheerful.

“Was there an accident?” she cried.

“Accident?” he repeated, staring at her. “No. What made you think that?”

“I thought I saw…”

“Why, it was just a fellow looking for a room,” he said. “You know, this place used to be a hotel, and people still come now and then.”

Very cheerful and reassuring, Uncle Peter was. But on his cheek and on his shirt-front were two black smudges. Very like coal-dust. Very like the smudge one might get in a cellar. Smudges such as one might get in going down to turn off the current.

“I’m going,” she thought. “I’m going to leave here to-morrow, if I have to walk to New York. Perhaps it’s all--imagination--but I--don’t like to imagine things like that.”