Chapter Four.

Di Makes a Promise

No cousin Miles appeared that night. She and Aunt Emma and Uncle Peter sat down to dinner by themselves; a very poor and insufficient dinner, and Wren waited upon them. There was little conversation; Aunt Emma seemed distrait, and directly they had finished she said “good-night” and went upstairs.

“What about a little game of cards?” asked Uncle Peter. “I’ll show you how to play Russian Bank, Diana.”

She had nothing to read and no desire to spend the evening shut up in her room, so she accepted willingly. But first she went upstairs, filled in the blank in Mrs. Frick’s letter with the address, put the tiny watch into the envelope, sealed it and slipped it under a corner of the bureau-scarf. Then she returned to Uncle Peter. They sat in the lounge and played; they were both cheerful and good-humored. But all the time Di was thinking to herself:

“To-morrow evening, I shan’t be here. This is the end.”

It was not long before Uncle Peter began to yawn, and to become absent-minded, and when Di said she thought she would go to bed, he sprang up with alacrity.

“I like to get up early,” he explained. “Like to get out while the dew is on the grass, this time o’ year. Used to ride before breakfast, when I had a horse.”

He sighed and she glanced at him, baffled. Was he really a simple and kindly man--or wily and evil?

He made no offer to go upstairs with her, but stood at the foot of the stairs until she had reached the top.

“Night!” he called. “Sleep well!”

She locked her door and sat down, with the torch handy. What if he had run down in the cellar and turned out the lights? That might have been nothing but rather a childish retaliation because she had run away.

Very well; that might be that. But what about those two men she had caught a glimpse of carrying another between them?

“I don’t know!” she cried to herself. “And I don’t care! I’m tired of all this! I’m going away.”

Then she remembered the letter, and raised the bureau-scarf. It was gone.

“It doesn’t matter,” she thought. “I don’t care what’s happened to it.”

She undressed then and got into bed, and fell asleep at once; slept profoundly all night. When she awoke the sun was up, shining into the room, it was a clear, gay morning. But she did not feel gay. On the contrary. Whatever dreams she had had were utterly forgotten, yet some faint, sorrowful impression remained.

She got up reluctantly, went to the nearest bathroom for a cold dip, and dressed.

“I don’t know what excuse I can possibly make,” she thought. “Or how I can get to New York, or what I’ll do there. But I’m going. After I’ve had some breakfast, I’ll be able to think of a way.”

Pale, unusually serious, she went down the stairs. And there in the lounge she saw a stranger, a tall, fair-haired young man, sitting stretched out in an armchair, and smoking a cigarette. When he caught sight of her, he rose.

“Good God!” he said, staring at her. “You’re not this Diana, are you?”

“That’s me!” she answered. “Are you Miles?”

He held out his hand, and when she gave him hers, he kept it in a firm clasp.

“I thought you were going to be repulsive,” he said. “I mean, they told me to come out here and meet a cousin who was helping Aunt Emma with her damned work. So I thought horn-rimmed spectacles--_you_ know--one of these _nice_ girls.”

She liked him at once; she felt perfectly at home with him. His young face was a little haggard, his blue eyes looked tired, but there was about him a debonair good humor that immediately attracted her.

“When did you get here?” she asked, trying to pull away her hand.

“This morning,” he answered and held her hand still tighter.

A silent struggle ensued, in the course of which she freed herself.

“You must have got up pretty early,” she observed.

“Doesn’t necessarily follow,” he said. “Perhaps I just _stayed_ up.”

She could believe that; there were unmistakable marks of dissipation in his handsome face, and she was sorry.

“You’re not a scientist, are you?” he asked.

“Mercy, no!”

“Then what are you, when you’re not here?”

“I was a sort of secretary,” she answered, “to Mrs. Herbert--”

“Not Angelina?”

“Yes!” she said, eagerly. “Do you know her?”

“I know the fellow she’s just married. Porter Blessington.”

He knew these people she knew, and they entered upon one of those absurdly inane yet somehow fascinating conversations: “Do you know so-and-so? Oh, and do you know Mrs. This, or Mrs. That?”

His acquaintance was very large, and Di was able to place him pretty well. She had met other young men like him in Angelina’s house, well-dressed, good dancers, remarkably good bridge-players, agreeable and amusing fellows, who get plenty of invitations for dinners, dances and week-ends. But who had no austere scruples. She did not conceive any great respect for her cousin Miles, but she liked him, and it was a pleasure even to hear the names of Angelina’s friends, to be reminded of those glittering, hurried days.

“Did you ever meet--?” she was beginning when Aunt Emma appeared. She was wearing a spotless white overall, and white shoes and stockings; everything about her was fresh and neat and of a simple dignity. Her plump face, framed by her short gray hair, was rosy and wholesome, and very kindly in its expression this morning.

“Good-morning, Diana!” she said. “Did you sleep well? We’ll have breakfast now, Miles--”

“No, thanks!” he said. “I don’t feel much like breakfast.”

“Go and take a little walk,” said she, and led the way to the dining-room, where she rang for Wren.

“She’s evidently seen Miles before this morning,” thought Di. “Could it--? Oh, I hope not!”

Could it have been Miles who had been carried into the house last night?

“I’m an early riser,” said Aunt Emma. “I’ve had my breakfast, long ago. But I’ll sit with you, and have another cup of coffee… It occurred to me that it might be advisable to talk to you a little about your Uncle Rufus’s work. You seemed to find his book--difficult. So I propose to give you an elementary survey.”

She lit a cigarette, and leaning back in her chair, began to talk. And then for the first time, Diana began to understand Uncle Peter’s description of his sister as a “remarkable woman.” All the time the girl was eating, her aunt went on, in her pleasant, assured voice; she never once hesitated for a word, she made of a very dry subject a thing of interest, by her perfect clarity. She had the instinct of the born teacher; she _knew_, without asking, just what needed explaining, what needed emphasizing, just what words to use.

“Now!” she said. “Is it clearer?”

“Much!” said Di, respectfully.

“I suggest,” said Aunt Emma, “that you spend the morning looking over your Uncle Rufus’s book again. He will appreciate it, if you are able to talk to him intelligently about it.”

Di followed her aunt upstairs, with a feeling of remorse. For she did not intend ever to see Uncle Rufus, ever to talk about his boring work, or even to think of it again, once she got away. She took the hateful volume which Aunt Emma handed to her, and sat down alone, at Aunt Emma’s desk.

“I shouldn’t have let her take all that trouble, explaining,” she thought. “The least I can do now is to make an effort. It’ll probably do me good.”

But she could not keep her mind on the book.

“I need exercise,” she thought, “Well, I’ll get plenty when I start looking for a job! But I wonder… I wonder if, after all, I hadn’t better wait for a day or two, and just see if I get an answer from Mrs. Frick. Then I shouldn’t have to borrow any money.”

It was Miles who had made this change in her mood. His coming had altered everything; the atmosphere of the house was different now, not lonely and “queer,” but cheerful and interesting. She could smile now at her fears of last night. What had happened? Nothing at all!

It was a very, very long morning. Once she opened the door cautiously; the red-carpeted corridor was empty, the sun shining in at the window. She came out, unreasonably nervous, as if she were committing some treachery, and went to her own room. The bed had been made; everything was neat and tranquil. She darted back to Aunt Emma’s room, and took up the book once more, with a sigh.

At one o’clock, Uncle Peter knocked at the door.

“Ready for lunch?” he asked.

She was something more than ready; she was very hungry. There had not been one good, solid meal since she had come here. She joined her uncle promptly, and they went toward the stairs. Hearing her aunt’s voice below, Di looked down, saw her in the lounge, standing very straight, hands clasped behind her back, a calm, ironic smile on her lips. Before her stood Miles, and the sight of him startled the girl. What was that expression he wore, resentment, shame, bitterness?

“And if you play the fool--” Aunt Emma was saying.

Uncle Peter coughed, and she looked up and saw them. There was no change in her calm, ironic smile, but there was a great change in Miles. As she reached the foot of the stairs, he came toward Di with an eager air of pleasure. And she felt quite sure that the eagerness was forced and insincere.

The lunch was quite as poor as all the other meals she had had here. Aunt Emma was silent, in her somewhat majestic fashion, as if no one here were interesting to her; Uncle Peter was absent-minded, drumming on the table with his fingers. Wren moved about, forlorn and meek as usual. And Miles kept on with that strained cheerfulness. She played up to him as well as she could, because she was sorry for him.

“See here!” he said, abruptly. “Like to take a drive this afternoon, Diana?”

“Oh!” she began, and stopped, glancing toward her aunt. “I’m hoping I can help Aunt Emma--”

“There’s nothing of vital importance,” said Aunt Emma. “A few hours in the open air will be good for you.”

Miles pushed back his chair and rose.

“All right! Get your hat and coat, and I’ll bring the car around.”

She ran up the stairs, very pleased at the prospect of getting out, and was down again in five minutes. The car was standing before the house, the same car in which Uncle Peter had driven her down.

“You didn’t waste any time!” she said.

“I want to get away from this damned house!” he said, vehemently. “Hop in!”

“I’d like to stop somewhere and telephone--”

“All right!” he interrupted. “Get in!”

As soon as she was seated, he started the car with a jerk; before they were out of sight of the house she realized that he was a poor driver, nervous and careless.

“Don’t go so fast!” she protested.

He went down the hill and turned the corner in a way that made her gasp.

“I really don’t enjoy this!” she said.

“Sorry!” he said, and slowed down a little. “Only, I’m so dam’ worried… Lord! You’d think I was a criminal--simply because I’m not much good at business. I’ll admit I’m a dud at money-making, but that’s no _crime_, is it?”

“Oh, dear!” thought Di. “That’s so awfully like poor Father!”

“It’s Uncle Rufus’s fault,” he went on. “He’s been hell-bent on making a satisfactory heir out of me. He’s made me try all the things that appeal to _him_--wanted me to be a chemist, and then a lawyer--and now it’s this business. Never troubled to find out what _I’d_ like.”

“What would you like to be?” she asked.

“I’ll never be anything now--but a failure,” said Miles.

Her father had used to talk in that same way, determined to be a failure; taking a sort of bitter pride in it, as if he were revenging himself upon an unworthy universe. And because she had loved her father, in spite of his weaknesses, she made allowances now for Miles.

“I think people can be pretty much what they want,” she said.

“All right!” said Miles. “I want to be a millionaire. Now, while I’m young.”

“You’ll be young for quite a while longer.”

“I’m twenty-seven,” he said. “And a rotten failure. There’s not one living soul who cares a tinker’s dam’ about me.”

“Your father--” she suggested.

“My father’s a--grasshopper!” said Miles.

She tried not to laugh, but her lip trembled with suppressed mirth, and presently he laughed himself.

“Well, haven’t you noticed it?” he demanded. “The way he jumps around, so busy, doing nothing. He’s like the grasshopper in the fable, too; he hasn’t put anything away for the Winter.”

“I suppose Aunt Emma’s the industrious ant,” said Di.

“Not she!” said Miles. “Ants work for the good of the whole crowd, and she doesn’t give a hoot for anyone or anything but her own affairs.”

“I don’t know…” Di protested. “Look at those children--”

“I don’t want to look at them,” said Miles. “I saw them once, five years ago, and that was enough.”

“Five years ago! They must have been babies then--”

“No, they weren’t. I never know what size kids are supposed to be, but I should think they were six or seven then. Lord! I came in unexpectedly and there they were, at the table, with Aunt Emma. They were imitating her. Every time she’d lift her spoon, they’d do the same, and slobber the soup, or whatever it was, all down their dresses. It was a beastly sight.”

“But don’t you think it’s a fine thing for her to try and help them?”

“No,” said Miles. “Naturally I don’t. Not when she’s so damned heartless to me. If she can get Uncle Rufus’s money, I’ll never see a penny of it. Only, I don’t think she will get it. She may get on very well with idiots, but she doesn’t know how to manage a man. You’ll see for yourself to-night--”

“To-night?”

“Didn’t they tell you he’s coming to-night?”

“No,” she answered, startled. She remembered that only this morning she had confidently thought she would never see Uncle Rufus. Last evening she had believed to be her last evening in that house. Yet here she was.

Once more the very unpleasant notion assailed her that she was in a net, entangled there by a hundred invisible threads; as long as she was passive, she could feel herself free, but when she tried to move, the threads tightened.

“Miles!” she said, with a sort of haste. “I want to telephone. Stop somewhere, will you?”

“All right!” he said. “On the way back.”

He turned up a lane, and stopped the car by the roadside.

“Uncle Rufus comes out every few months,” he said, “to see if anyone’s improved enough for him to alter his will. At present, everything’s to go to some society he belongs to. He’s the world’s worst. He hasn’t a friend on earth. Of course, the idea is, that you’ll make a hit with him--”

“I?”

“He liked your mother,” said Miles.

Her heart contracted, at the mention of that name.

“Did you ever see my mother, Miles?” she asked.

“When I was a kid. I don’t remember very well, but I think she was like you.”

A warm sense of kinship filled her; here was one of her own people, her cousin, who had seen her mother. She turned toward him, eagerly. And was disconcerted to see him taking a flask out of his overcoat pocket.

“Have a spot?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” she said.

She did not consider herself responsible for the conduct of other people, she had never imagined herself as anyone’s guiding star or guardian angel, and it would have seemed to her only offensive and meddlesome to remonstrate with him. But she was sorry, very sorry.

“You ought to make a hit with the old boy,” he said. “Or with anyone. You’re the prettiest, sweetest girl I ever saw.”

“Ah! You don’t know me!” said Di. “Let’s get along now, Miles, so that I can telephone.”

He took a second drink and then caught her hand.

“Diana!” he said. “The first moment I saw you--”

“Please, Miles, don’t spoil everything!” she said, in distress.

Then he grew angry and bitter.

“You’re like everyone else,” he said. “Simply because I don’t make money--”

“All right!” said Di. “Let’s not argue now. Let’s get along--”

Her self-control, her coolness, increased his anger. He accused her of despising him, of having heard and believed false reports of him from Aunt Emma.

“You won’t even listen to me!” he said. “You won’t even give me a chance!”

“I can’t help listening to you,” said Di.

She had been through scenes like this before, with her father. He had used to tell her that she was “heartless,” “unnatural,” “selfish,” then, quite suddenly, he would become remorseful, and tell her she was a “little angel.”

“Diana!” he cried, “I’ve talked like a brute to you. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course!” she said. “Just forget about it.”

But that tone did not satisfy him. He wanted something more dramatic, and she was quietly determined to keep to a matter-of-fact good humor.

“Diana!” he said. “I’m just about at the end of my tether. Some day you’ll know…”

Her father had used to say: “Some day, when I’ve gone, you’ll realize--”

A sorrowful weariness overcame her. She was so tired of this, so sorry for Miles, his weakness, his fatal self-pity. And she felt that she must bear with him, as he had with her father.

“Diana, you don’t know what a rotten time I’ve had!” he said.

And he told her a great many of his latest troubles. He was in debt up to his ears, his creditors were pressing him, he couldn’t find a job worth taking; his health was impaired. She listened with kindly patience, but she could think of nothing helpful to say, only:

“I’m awfully sorry, Miles.”

At last he talked himself out, and grew sad and resigned. He started the car and turned home; all the way he was respectful, courteous, almost humble in his anxiety to please her, and she responded good-humoredly, but with an effort. She was glad to see a light in an upper window of The Châlet, glad even to get back there.

He stopped the car, and helped her out, as if she were a princess.

“_Sure_ you’re not angry, dear?” he asked.

In the dusk his face looked very pale, very young and haggard. She could think now that Miles was a tragic figure.

“Very sure!” she said, and gave his hand a friendly squeeze.

It was not until then that she remembered the telephone-call she had wanted to make.

“Well, to-morrow, then!” she thought, with a sigh. “I wonder if Wren has posted that letter? If he has, I might get an answer to-morrow.”

She pushed open the front door and entered the lounge; it was dark in there, not with the blackness of night, but filled with twilight shadows; the willow chairs creaked, as if unseen occupants were stirring uneasily. And she did not like this shadowy, rustling place. A crack of light shone through the sliding-doors into the dining-room and she thought she heard someone moving in there.

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t go and ask Wren if he’s posted the letter,” she thought. “There’s no reason for all this caution and secrecy.”

How did she know there wasn’t any reason for it? In this dim silence it was easy to believe that there might be many reasons…

“Oh, nonsense!” she said, aloud, and crossed to the doors. But they would not open. She pushed at them with all her might, filled with a great desire to get into that lighted room. Behind her in the lounge a chair creaked loudly; too loudly; she heard something like a stifled sigh.

“Wren!” she called.

From the dining-room came a distorted echo of her own voice.

“’En! ’En!”

Shambling steps were coming toward the door, in there. She sprang back, groped for a lamp, and pulled the chain. As the light came on, she gave a shaky sigh of relief. Of course there was no one here…

But as she turned her head, she saw, in a corner, a strange huddled little figure, staring at her.

She stared back, speechless. It was a man with a checked cap pulled far down on his forehead, and wearing an overcoat and muffler. He had drawn up two of the wing-chairs before him, so that his corner was a sort of cage, and there he sat staring at her.

“Who--are you?” she asked, unsteadily.

“You must be Diana,” he said. “You’re very nervous, it seems to me. I’m your father’s uncle. You’re very nervous. I don’t understand that, and I don’t like it. You’re young; you look healthy. Why should you be nervous--if you have a good conscience?”

“I’m not nervous,” she said, briefly.

“You are,” he said. “You were in a panic, trying to open that door.”

There was something in his voice and manner which roused in the good-tempered Diana an irritability hitherto unknown to her.

“I suppose I felt that there was someone in here,” she said. “It’s enough to make anyone nervous.”

“No, it’s not,” said he. “When I was your age, nothing could upset my nerves. That was because I was moderate in eating and drinking, and took plenty of exercise. _You_ smoke yourself silly with cigarettes and ruin your digestion with cocktails and dance all night--”

“I do not!” said Di, indignantly.

“What do you do, then?”

“It’s impossible to answer--a question like that.”

“Stand nearer the lamp,” he commanded. “Well, you don’t look like your father. You’re like your mother’s people. Good, sound stock. Hm… Like your mother…”

The mention of her mother startled her. Time and again, that name…

“Yes…” he said. “She was a good girl. A kind, good girl. I was fond of her.”

She was silent, not able to speak just then.

“She was kind to me,” he went on. “Not like the rest of ’em… Come nearer!”

She approached, stood before him, looking down at him. But, in his corner, with his cap pulled over his brow, she could see little of his face.

“I’m alone,” he said. “All alone. I’m old, and I’m rich. Everyone wants me to die, so that they can get my money. There isn’t a soul in this house who doesn’t want to see me dead.”

“Oh, no!” she protested, dismayed.

“It’s true, my girl,” he said, grimly. “Every one of ’em. I come here, from time to time, always looking to see if I can find one trace of the old family virtues. But I never do. They’re like a pack of wolves. I keep on coming, because they’re the only living relations I have. But I take my precautions!”

She did not quite understand him.

“I don’t--” she began.

“I take my precautions!” he repeated. “I don’t trust one of ’em. There isn’t one of ’em I’d like to meet on the stairs in the dark, if I had any money in my pocket.”

“Oh, don’t!” she cried, appalled. “Don’t think things like that!”

He chuckled, then grew somber.

“See here, my girl!” he said. “I’m going to stay here a week. You be my ally for this week, and you won’t regret it.”

“I’m ever so sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid--”

“Yes, you will!” he whispered. “You’re your mother’s daughter. You won’t desert an old man. Not _now_. Not _now_. _Don’t you feel it?_”

“Feel--what?” she faltered.

“Death,” he said. “It’s very near.”

Her healthy young instinct revolted against this.

“I certainly don’t!” she said, sturdily. “I wish you--”

“But you’ll stay?” he persisted, still whispering. “You’re young. You can spare one week. You’ll be well rewarded. One week, that’s all.”

She hesitated, doubtful and unhappy. The thought of another week in this house was intolerable, yet still more intolerable was the idea of refusing this miserable, futile old creature.

“Miles said he hadn’t a friend in the world,” she thought. “That’s a horrible thing…”

“Your mother was a kind, good girl--” he said.

“All right, I’ll stay,” she said, quickly.