Chapter Five.

Mrs. Frick’s Gentleman

It was raining the next morning, and as Di awoke, she lay in bed, looking out at the gray sky, depressed and disheartened as she had never been before in her life.

“Only seven days more!” she told herself. “Perhaps only six--if he counts yesterday. I can certainly stand it for that long.”

And then what? To go back to New York and look for a job, probably an ill-paid and uncertain one. She couldn’t expect to find another Angelina--and who else would particularly appreciate her amateurish services? She saw herself going from one job to another, always worried about money, growing older and lonelier and shabbier…

“What’s the matter with me?” she thought, half-frightened by this mood. “I’m only twenty-three. I needn’t begin to despair. Angelina will help me to find something, when she comes back from her honeymoon.”

She found it curiously difficult to believe in Angelina just now; above all to believe in Angelina’s often-expressed friendship for herself.

“She doesn’t really care about me,” she thought. “If she did, she couldn’t have gone off like that. She’s utterly forgotten me by this time. There’s no one but Mrs. Frick. And even she probably won’t answer my letter.”

She sprang out of bed.

“This won’t do,” she said to herself. “That’s like Miles. I _won’t_ be sorry for myself. I never was before. It’s this household. They’re not--very cheery.”

She put on a dressing-gown and went down to the nearest bathroom for a cold plunge. But even that did not restore her usual debonair courage. The house was so still, there were none of those pleasant early-morning sounds that one hears in other houses; nothing but the rain driving against the windows. She imagined the meek and miserable Wren, preparing a meager breakfast downstairs…

“I haven’t had one decent meal since I got here,” she thought.

She tried to dismiss that idea, but without success; she could not banish the memory of the exquisite coffee made by Angelina’s French cook, the hot rolls and fresh butter, grilled shad-roe and bacon, or a bit of sole with lemon… On a gray morning like this, there would have been a fire in the dining-room; Angelina, of course, would have been still asleep, and Di alone at the table, with a beautiful breakfast before her. And the whole house filled as usual with that atmosphere of expectation and haste and gayety; the telephone ringing, the maid--

“Perhaps I’ll get a letter from Mrs. Frick this morning,” thought Di.

Not only did she want the money, but she wanted a letter, a friendly word from Mrs. Frick, from anyone.

She dressed and went downstairs. The lounge was empty; she went into the dining-room, and saw the one little table covered with a coarse white cloth. She crossed to the swing-door by which she had seen Wren pass in and out, pushed it open, found herself in a pantry, went through that and found the kitchen.

Wren was standing at the sink; above him was a window with a broken pane through which the rain was blowing in; at his feet was a litter of tin cans and papers and potato peelings; the room was altogether the dirtiest, most dismal and repellant she had ever seen.

“Good-morning!” she said.

He jumped violently.

“Good-morning, Miss,” he said.

“Did you manage to get a chance to post my letter?” she asked.

“Yes, Miss. The night you gave it to me.”

“Then perhaps--” she said. “Has the mail come this morning?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Nothing for me?”

“No, Miss.”

“Is there another delivery?”

“Yes, Miss, about four o’clock.” He looked at her with an anxious smile. “If you’ll wait in the lounge--I’ll have your breakfast ready in a moment, Miss.”

“Oh, thanks!” she said, and returning to the lounge, walked up and down restlessly. It was not appetizing, to contemplate anything from that kitchen. And no letter.

“It’ll come in the four o’clock delivery,” she told herself.

Then she noticed that the telephone which had stood on the desk was gone.

“Suppose a letter _had_ come and I--didn’t get it?” she thought.

It was a mistake to think of things like that; she opened the front door and stepped out on the covered porch, with the instinct to seek in the open air a solace for her vague fears and doubts. From the sodden ground, from the woods, came the fresh, cool fragrance of Spring; the sky was gray, but it was not sad out here. She drew in a deep breath, and began to reason with herself.

“I’ve promised to stay a week,” she thought. “And I’ve got to stop being so morbid and silly. There’s nothing--”

“Breakfast, Miss,” said Wren, from the doorway.

She went into the dining-room, and tears came to her eyes at the sight of what he had done. There was a clean cloth on the table, and in the center a vase holding two feeble violets; her napkin was folded fan-shape and standing in a glass; there was a half-orange, carefully cut, in a chipped saucer.

“How nice!” she cried. “How--pretty everything looks! How--nice!”

His dismal face brightened.

“Thank you, Miss!” he said. “It’s a pleasure to do anything at all for you, Miss.”

Just as she had finished, Aunt Emma appeared.

“Do you care to work a little this morning?” she asked, dryly.

“Glad to!” said Diana, and they went upstairs together.

“Can you take dictation?” asked Aunt Emma.

“Not in shorthand. But I can manage pretty well in longhand, if you don’t go too fast.”

“I shan’t go too fast,” said Aunt Emma, with a chilly smile.

She was not over-friendly this morning; indeed, the girl perceived in her something that would have been irritability in one less self-controlled. She lit a cigarette and began to dictate, slowly, with long pauses. Her subject was “suggestibility” and her theory was unpleasant. She spoke of the “average” human being, and Di felt completely average herself. This average human being, said Aunt Emma, does not act from instinct, as is popularly believed.

“His actions,” said Aunt Emma, “are almost always the result of suggestion from a superior mind. He will, under the influence of suggestion, act in a manner directly opposed to his natural instinct. This was very noticeable during the late War, when the normal instinct of self-preservation was entirely overcome by the insistent suggestion of the leaders in various countries.”

“But,” said Di, “perhaps war’s just another instinct. Animals fight--”

“An animal--” said Aunt Emma, “fights to defend itself or to remove a rival. I have not yet seen an animal fighting for the convenience of another animal. To continue: The profound instinct of woman for maternity is diverted, and in many cases, perverted, by the suggestion--”

She went on, tranquilly analyzing the utter idiocy and helplessness of that average human being.

“By a proper use of suggestion,” she said, “a superior mind can, with very little effort, exercise complete dominance over an unlimited number of average minds.”

“Do you mean--” said Di, apologetically, “that you can make other people do things--?”

“I can,” said Aunt Emma, “I do.”

“Not me!” thought Di.

“Yes!” said Aunt Emma, as if the girl had spoken aloud. “You too.”

“Please just try! I do want to see how you do it!”

“My dear child,” said Aunt Emma, “naturally it is essential that you should not know what I want you to do. You must always be persuaded to imagine that you are acting in your own best interests.”

“Have you been making me do things since I’ve been here?”

“But what should I particularly want you to do?” said Aunt Emma, blandly. “I hadn’t considered my words as having any personal applications. They are merely notes, to be worked later into a little article.”

Diana said no more, and they worked together until lunch time. No one else appeared at the table but Di and Aunt Emma, but when they had finished, and went into the lounge, Uncle Rufus was coming slowly down the stairs. He was still wearing the checked cap, the overcoat and muffler.

“Good-morning!” said Di. “Are you going out?”

“No!” he said, so sharply as to startle her. “I want to speak to you, when your aunt is out of the way.”

Aunt Emma paid no attention to this; she lit a cigarette, and went over to the door and opened it. A current of cool, sweet air blew in, stirring her gray hair.

“The rain is over,” she remarked, and stood there, smoking in calm satisfaction, until her cigarette was finished.

“Do you want me to go on, Aunt Emma?” asked Di.

“_I_ want you here!” said Uncle Rufus.

“_Je vous en fais cadeau_,” said Aunt Emma, almost gayly, and went up the stairs.

Uncle Rufus settled himself back in his chair.

“Now, see here, my girl!” he began. “Come nearer! There! Now I want you to know that it’ll be well worth your while to look after me.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that!” she protested. “I’ll be glad to keep you company, but I don’t _want_ anything for it.”

He leaned forward and stared at her. She had not yet had a good look at his face, and even now she saw only his piercing eyes under bushy eyebrows.

“I can’t believe that!” he said.

“Please don’t mind my saying it--but don’t you think it’s a mistake to be so--suspicious?”

He gave a thin, little laugh.

“Suspicious?” he said. “Look here! Put your hand on this cap.”

She touched it, and found it stuffed with some sort of wadding. Then he began to unwind his muffler, the length of which surprised her; it went round his neck three times.

“See?” he said.

“But I don’t--”

“Hard for anyone to choke me with this on,” he said, re-winding the muffler about his neck. “And this cap would considerably deaden the force of a blow on the head.”

“Oh! You’re mistaken!” she cried. “Nobody--”

“You don’t know ’em,” said he. “And I do. I always carry a good bit of money with me, in case I should suddenly fall ill. Might not be able to speak--but my money’d speak for me. I shouldn’t be carted off to die in a public ward with _that_ in my pocket. So far, my loving family here have been considerate because they’re hoping I’ll change my will and leave ’em something. But if ever they felt _sure_ I wouldn’t do that, then they’d get rid of me, for the sake of what’s in my pocket.”

“But if you think such horrible things, why do you come here?”

“I’m old,” he said. “I haven’t anyone. When I was young, I didn’t care. I didn’t want anyone. But now I’m old. I need someone!” He caught her sleeve. “I want to trust someone!” he cried. “And I can’t! If I could trust _you_--if I thought you’d stand by me--I’d leave it all to you! All that money!”

“But I don’t want it, Uncle Rufus,” she began, when he collapsed, sank down in his chair as if she had dealt him a cruel blow.

“Don’t--want it!” he whispered. “All that money…?”

“I didn’t mean to be rude or ungrateful,” she said, hastily. “It’s very kind of you. I do appreciate it. Only, I mean--you don’t have to offer me that. I’ll be glad to do what I can for you without--that.”

“No,” he said. “Nobody gives something for nothing.”

“Lots of people do. Haven’t you ever met any--ordinary people, who were just kind and decent?”

“Nobody’s kind and decent,” said Uncle Rufus.

She fell silent after that, sitting near him, lost in her own thoughts.

“It’s a sort of insanity,” she thought, “to feel as he does. How horrible! How pitiful!”

She glanced at him, saw him with his chin sunk on his chest, a grotesque bundle of clothes.

“I wonder why he cares,” she reflected. “If I thought the world was like that, I’d be obliged to anyone for putting me out of it.”

The loud twittering of a sparrow made her turn to the window; the sun had come out now, warm and bright.

“Wouldn’t you like to come out and get some fresh air?” she asked, but he did not answer.

She was longing herself to get out into that gay world, where the rain drops glittered and the sparrows chirped.

“I haven’t had any exercise since I came here,” she observed, apologetically.

Still he did not answer, and drawing nearer, she stooped and looked at him. Under the shadow of the cap-brim, she saw that his eyes were closed. She opened the front door again and went out on the porch, sat down on the built-in bench there, with a sigh.

“I wonder where Miles is!” she thought. “This would be such a perfect afternoon for a walk. And Uncle Peter--”

“Miss!” whispered a voice behind her, and turning, she saw Wren standing on the grass below the porch.

“Miss!” he said, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “There’s a gentleman to see you!”

“A gentleman?”

“Excuse me, Miss, but--” He glanced significantly at the open door.

“Where is he?”

“He’s just down the hill, Miss. There’s a clearing there, and I thought--perhaps you’d prefer to speak to him there.”

“But who is he?” she asked, very much interested.

“He didn’t mention his name, Miss. I saw him coming up the hill, and I stepped out, to tell him he was on private property, and he said he was coming to see you, Miss. So I--said I’d fetch you.”

“But nobody knows I’m here.”

“Excuse me, Miss, but didn’t you write a letter?”

Could Mrs. Frick have sent someone, in answer to that letter?

“Excuse me, Miss!” said Wren, in a trembling voice. “Why don’t you _go_, Miss? At once?”

She looked at him in surprise, and the thought occurred to her that he was curiously anxious for her to go meet this stranger.

“Lord!” she said to herself, impatiently. “I’m getting as bad as Uncle Rufus. What does it matter who he is or what he wants? It’s broad daylight, and I’m capable of looking after myself.”

So she rose.

“I’ll go and see what he wants,” she said. “Thank you, Wren.”

She set off in the direction Wren had indicated, round the side of the house to where a faint path began, among the trees. The ground was still sodden, but the sun was warm; she went leisurely, partly because she was happy to be out alone on this sweet Spring day, and partly because she felt half-ashamed of her eagerness to see Mrs. Frick’s gentleman. Any message, any contact with the world outside The Châlet was so welcome to her.

Halfway down the hill she perceived the pleasant aroma of a pipe; she went almost noiselessly over the ground carpeted with leaf-mould and pine-needles, and she had a chance to observe the stranger before he saw her.

Only, he wasn’t a stranger; she had seen that neat, dark young man somewhere before. She stared at him with a frown. He was sitting on a fallen log, in a little clearing, smoking a pipe, and he was quieter than anyone else she had ever noticed. His lean, sunburnt hands rested on his knees, his swarthy, handsome face was impassive, yet, in his immobility, he was conveying an odd impression of alertness.

“Where have I seen him--?” she thought.

He glanced up then; he could not possibly see her through the trees, yet he was looking directly at her. He rose to his feet and waited, as she came on down the steep hillside.

“Good-afternoon,” he said, in a stiff, unsmiling way.

“Good-afternoon,” she answered, and waited for him to go on. But he turned away to knock out his pipe.

“Very kind of you to come,” he said. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but your man advised me not to go up to the house.”

She fancied from his stiff and correct manner, that he disapproved of this, and she answered, with dignity.

“Yes. They’re--all resting…”

“I see!” he said, and suddenly his dark face was lighted by a singularly vivid smile.

“I know!” she cried. “I knew I’d seen you! It was outside Angelina’s house--Mrs. Herbert’s house--the day I left!”

He brought out a card from his pocket and handed it to her.

“Mr. James Fennel.”

“You know Angelina, don’t you?” she went on, very pleased. “I remember you said--”

“Er--yes,” he said.

“Have you heard from her?”

“No,” he said, briefly. “I haven’t.”

“How did she know where I was?”

“I don’t suppose she does know,” he answered, with an unmistakable air of annoyance.

Di looked at him, startled and a little angry at his manner.

“Then how did you happen to come?” she asked.

“Mrs. Frick sent me--with a note,” he said, and from his waistcoat pocket took out an envelope.

“But I don’t see--!” she cried, more and more surprised.

The envelope was certainly addressed to herself; she turned it over, as if seeking for mystic information. And he volunteered no information whatever, only stood there, very erect, like a soldier at attention.

“It’s very nice of you--” she said, dubiously.

“Oh, not at all!” said he.

There was a considerable silence.

“Well, thank you!” she said. “I won’t keep you--”

“Wait a moment, please!” he interrupted. “Mrs. Frick had some idea that things were not altogether pleasant for you here. She--if they’re not… There’s a train at 5.08.”

She could only stare at him.

“If you’d care to take that train,” he said. “I’ll come up to the house with you, and wait while you pack.”

“But--thanks ever so much,” she said, “but I’ve promised my uncle I’d stay the week out.”

“Look here!” said Fennel. “You look--rotten. Tell them I’ve brought an urgent message--”

“I’d be ashamed to do that,” she said. “I promised to stay, and I’ll have to. But--”

“But you’re unhappy here,” he said. “And you’re worried.”

“I am--a little,” she admitted. “But I think it’s nothing but--nerves. Nothing could possibly happen to me--”

“Don’t say that,” he interrupted, curtly. “You don’t know!”

“But who on earth would want to interfere with me? I haven’t a penny and I don’t know any secrets. I’m absolutely unimportant.”

“You’re not!” said Fennel.

She looked at him; their eyes met, and she smiled, her nonchalant and doubtful little smile. Not yet in her life she had been of supreme importance to anyone. People had liked her and had often been kind to her; she had no grudge against the world. But she had never counted for much. Her father no doubt had loved her, and had made her childhood a sorry and anxious time and had died making no provision for her. Angelina had been fond of her and had gone off and forgotten her. She was not even very important to herself; she didn’t care much what happened.

She stood where the sun shone on her bare head, still with that little careless smile. But he did not smile at all; he looked at her with a sort of cold anger.

“I’ve come--” he said, when a sound from above made her turn.

“It’s Uncle Rufus!” she cried.

The old man was scrambling down the hill-side, a ridiculous figure in his voluminous overcoat and the cap pulled over his eyes; he slipped and stumbled as he came, and clutched at the trees for support.

Diana ran to help him.

“Uncle Rufus!” she said, “I didn’t--”

He struck out at her blindly.

“No!” he cried. “No! You’ve betrayed me! you’re false and lying like the rest--”

“Look here!” interposed Fennel.

“Hold your tongue!” cried the old man. “And get out!”

He stood with his arm about a tree, breathing fast, glaring at them both with savage malignancy.

“I went to sleep,” he said to Di, “because I trusted you.”

“But I only went out for a moment, Uncle Rufus,” she said, so pitying him for his futile and distorted anger, more futile than ever out here, under the Spring sky. “There’s no harm done. Let’s--”

“I was asleep--and helpless!” he said. “I trusted you--and you ran away. Ran out to meet your sweetheart--like a little servant-wench--”

“Look here!” said Fennel again.

The old man turned on him with a snarl. He tried to speak but no words came. He lifted his arm, as if to hurl a curse, and lurched forward, tottered a few steps, and fell forward on his face. He lay as still as if he were a bundle of rags.