Chapter One. A Rescue

Once more Di went through the house. Everything was in immaculate order, yet it had somehow the look of a place that had been savagely looted and was now abandoned and forlorn. All the bureau tops were swept bare, all the tables; in every room there were great gaps, where Angelina’s flamboyant things had been.

Angelina’s own room was simply horrible. Standing in the doorway, Di felt the tears rise in her eyes at the sight of that desolate neatness where only yesterday there had been such wild and joyous disorder.

“I’m—tired,” she said to herself, to excuse her weakness.

And she had reason to be tired. Angelina’s wedding had been like a cyclone, and Di had been whirled along like a leaf in the gale. She had done everything for Angelina; she had seen the caterers and arranged for the wedding breakfast, she had sent out the invitations, had listed the presents and engaged detectives to keep an eye on them. She had stood for hours while Angelina’s dresses were fitted upon her, she had packed Angelina’s trunks and bags. And she had interviewed the reporters.

There had been plenty of reporters, for Angelina’s wedding had been sensational, like everything else she did. The newspapers recalled to their readers the past exploits of the beautiful Angelina Herbert, her marriage at eighteen to Hiram Herbert, a millionaire of sixty, her suit for divorce three years later, charging her husband with artful “mental cruelty,” her trip through Borneo all alone—except for a cousin, a secretary, a camera-man and one or two others—her attempt to fly in her own plane to Mexico that had ended in a crash near Asheville.

This second marriage of hers was very satisfactory for newspapers. She had married young Porter Blessington, another millionaire, who had spent six months in prison for assaulting an officer in the discharge of his duties, during a little fracas in a night club. She had gone in her car to meet him as he came out of jail and they were married the next week.

Set down in black and white, these things did not appeal to Di; if she had merely read about her in the newspapers, she would have thought Angelina a pretty objectionable type. But in actual life she had loved her.

“She just—forgot,” she said to herself.

Just a little oversight on the part of the beautiful Angelina, to go off and leave Di without a penny. She had meant to do something regal, to make a lavish gift, but she had forgotten even to write the promised letter of recommendation that would help in getting another job.

With a sigh, she was closing the door of that desolately neat room, when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror of the dressing-table. That image depressed her. She was pretty enough in a way, but it was not a way that anyone noticed; a slender, fair-haired girl with blue eyes and a detached, absent-minded air. She had exactly suited Angelina, because she was intelligent and well-bred, and marvelously patient, but there was only one Angelina. Other people would require different qualities in a secretary, more skill in shorthand and typing, a more business-like presence; other people would dislike her queer, cool little air of reserve. She knew, because before she had come to Angelina a year ago, she had gone about looking for a job.

“I’ve had more experience now,” she thought. “I’m not quite such a fool now.”

Only, in her heart, she wasn’t so sure of that. Would anyone but a hopeless fool be in a situation like this? Another secretary would have reminded Angelina of the salary due her, of the letter of recommendation.

“Perhaps she’ll remember and send me a check,” thought Di.

In her own room she put on her hat and coat and went downstairs. Her trunk stood there, and her bag, and on the hall-table was a great mass of flowers which had yesterday decorated the drawing-room.

“Connor’s late,” she thought.

Naturally Connor, Angelina’s superb chauffeur, would not put himself out for Di. He was stopping for her as a favor; his term of service was over, and the car was to be put into storage that afternoon. But she had to wait for him, because in her purse there was only one solitary quarter, not enough to get her trunk expressed.

“I’ll find something to do to-morrow,” she told herself.

But though she was resolute enough, she was not too hopeful. So many things had happened to her; she had known so many anxieties and sorrows. Even as a child, care had weighed upon her. Her father had been a clever and remarkably unsuccessful man, and she had had to share his vicissitudes.

“I make a friend of you, Di,” he often said. “I don’t put myself on a pedestal, like the average father. We’re friends—pals.”

Only, she had been such a very young friend, such a bewildered pal. It had been rather hard to hear about troubles which she could not help or even quite understand. Worst of all, he had sometimes talked to Di about her mother, in a tone of noble generosity.

“She was a fine woman, Di,” he would say, “but she never understood me. Well—it was probably my own fault. I never could plead my own cause… I tell you, Di, a good woman can be pretty hard. Damned hard, sometimes.”

Di had not enjoyed this. Her mother had died when she was four, but she had not forgotten her. And it was then, in those troubled childhood days, that she had developed her aloof reserve. She had learned to listen and to say nothing.

Her father had, apparently, intended never to die. For he had loved his child, in his way, and he would surely not have wanted to leave her without a penny, with no friends, with no preparation for life but a queer, patchy education from various small private schools. But he had died, and here she was.

“Plenty of girls are alone in the world,” said Di to herself. “They almost always are, in books… I’ll get a job to-morrow, all right.”

The bell rang and she opened the door. It was Connor with a cigarette between his lips, sign of his perfect independence.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Di. “Can you manage my trunk?”

“Sure!” he said, with lofty good-humor.

It was certainly not very large or very heavy; he got it down the steps and strapped it on behind the car.

“Come on, Miss!” he called.

Di was still in the hall.

“I thought we could just leave these flowers at St. Vincent’s Hospital,” she said.

“Haven’t got time,” said Connor.

She was in no position to argue the point just then, so she left the flowers, taking only a small bouquet for herself, and started down the steps. And met a young man running up.

He stopped at the sight of her, and took off his hat.

“Hello!” he said. “Am I too late? Show all over?”

“I don’t quite—” she began, puzzled.

“The wedding,” he explained. “Angelina’s wedding.”

“It was yesterday,” said Di, looking at him with considerable curiosity. For he had not the appearance of one of those casual, careless people who forget dates or come late. He was a good-looking young fellow, dark, very erect, very neat, and there was about him a remarkable air of cool, composed energy.

“Sorry!” he said. “May I have one of these? Little souvenir…” And stooping, he took a gardenia from the bouquet she carried. For a moment their eyes met; then, with a smile he turned and ran down the steps again and set off along the street at a rapid, easy pace.

“I wonder who he was?” thought Di, and forgot him as soon as she got into the car.

She had telephoned that morning to the landlady of the rooming-house where she had spent a horrible month before she had got her job with Angelina, and the landlady had said there was a vacant room she could have, at seven dollars a week. She had highly unpleasant memories of that house, but she did not know where else to go.

“And Mrs. Frick knows me,” she thought. “If I went to a strange place, I’d be expected to pay in advance.”

The house was downtown in Greenwich Village, but there was nothing Bohemian about it, a dingy old house and very respectable. Mrs. Frick was looking out of the window, and saw Di arrive, in a Rolls-Royce driven by a chauffeur in uniform, and carrying the most expensive sort of flowers.

“Hm—…” said Mrs. Frick to herself.

She opened the front door, with a faint, faint smile, and Connor brought in the trunk.

“Top floor!” said Mrs. Frick.

Connor immediately hated her.

“Is zat so?” he said. “Then you better call a couple o’ butlers. Good-bye, Miss Leonard!”

The door banged after him.

“Well,” said Mrs. Frick. “I haven’t got anyone here to take that trunk up all those stairs.”

“I’ll—find someone,” said Di. “Top floor, did you say?”

Mrs. Frick led the way upstairs, three long flights, and opened a door. It was the meanest little room, the chilliest, most depressing little room in the gray light of a February morning.

“I hope I shan’t have to stay here long,” thought Di.

Mrs. Frick was standing in the doorway.

“There’s a clean towel,” she said.

“Yes, I see, thank you,” said Di, longing to shut the door.

“I told you on the telephone, didn’t I?” said Mrs. Frick. “This room is seven dollars a week.”

“Yes, you did,” said Di.

Mrs. Frick stood there. And, in desperation, Di said what so many other people had said to Mrs. Frick.

“I’m—expecting a check. If you don’t mind waiting a few days—”

Mrs. Frick remembered the Rolls-Royce and the chauffeur and was not moved to pity.

“If you’ll make a deposit—” she said.

And it was impossible for Di to appeal to her. Her old habit of reserve kept her silent, her sorry experience of life made her expect no kindness and ask for none.

A bell rang downstairs.

“Excuse me a moment!” said Mrs. Frick. “I’ll be right back.”

As her footsteps died away, Di closed the door quietly, laid the flowers on the bureau and clenched her hands.

“Think, you idiot!” she said to herself. “Hurry up! It’s your last chance! … I’ll tell her she can keep the trunk until I get some money. I couldn’t get it away from her, anyhow, without paying someone to move it.”

Then Mrs. Frick might want to look in the trunk and would find there some of Angelina’s discarded dresses, some photographs, a few books—not a collection likely to appeal to her.

“I’ll help with the housework,” thought Di. “Make the beds—sweep—anything she wants, until I get a check from Angelina, or a job.”

She heard Mrs. Frick coming up the stairs now, and she went out to meet her.

“Mrs. Frick,” she began, “I’ve been—”

“There’s a gentleman to see you,” said Mrs. Frick. “Your uncle.”

“My uncle?”

“That’s what he says. Your uncle,” Mrs. Frick repeated, frigidly.

“But it’s a mistake!” said Di.

Mrs. Frick smiled faintly.

“He can’t mean me—”

“He asked for Miss Leonard, and I told him,” said Mrs. Frick, “that you were just leaving.”

“Look here!” said Di.

“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Frick, “but I just remembered I’d promised this room to somebody else. You might try at 280. They sometimes—”

“All right,” said Di, briefly, and went past Mrs. Frick, down the stairs. There in the lower hall stood her trunk.

“What can I do with it?” she thought. “If I leave it here, nobody will let me come without paying in advance. And I can’t get it moved for a quarter…”

And at that moment she learned a new fact. She saw that shelter was more important than food. If she only had a room, she could have faced hunger with fortitude; it seemed to her that she could even starve without complaining if only she had decent privacy for it.

“There must be places…” she thought, “but I’ve never heard of them. Perhaps I could ask—a policeman—”

She heard Mrs. Frick coming down behind her, and she moved toward the front door; her hand was on the knob before she remembered that uncle. He was so obviously mistaken that it did not seem worth the trouble to go into the parlor and explain to him that she was the wrong Miss Leonard. She went, only because it meant a little delay in leaving the house.

Opening the door, she found a man in there, a little oddity in a checked suit too large for him, and yellow shoes and a bright tie, a sporting outfit that accorded well with his lean, nutcracker face. He jumped up nimbly and stared at her.

“Well!” he said. “This Diana… ? Poor old Harvey’s girl…”

She was too much surprised to speak.

“I’m your uncle Peter,” he continued. “You’ll have heard your father speak of me.”

Di colored a little. She had heard her father speak of his family as a unit—“the most contemptible, heartless crew that ever breathed”—remarks like that. She had even heard him mention a brother, but not by the name of “Peter”! He had used other names…

The sporting little man sighed.

“Yes…” he said. “Poor Harvey… Well! When we heard that he’d passed away, we wanted to get in touch with you, but we couldn’t find you. Only yesterday we saw in the papers all about the wedding of this Mrs. What’s-Her-Name—mentioned a secretary—Miss Diana Leonard. That’s poor Harvey’s girl, says I, so I telephoned the house half an hour ago and I was told you’d just left, to come here. So… !”

He smiled and she smiled back at him.

“I see you’ve got your hat on,” he said. “In a hurry? No? Well, your Aunt Emma—her idea was—perhaps you’d come to us—act as her secretary, with the usual financial arrangement, y’know. Scientific work, y’know.”

“Yes, thank you. I should like it very much,” said Di.

He seemed a little startled by this very prompt acceptance.

“Well!” he said. “That’s excellent! Excellent! … Now, when could you come? Next week?”

“I can come—before that,” said Di, a little unsteadily.

“Any day that suits you—”

“I can come—to-day,” said Di. “I was just leaving here, anyhow, and I hadn’t exactly decided where to go. I—”

“Excellent!” he said, with a quick glance at her. “You wouldn’t care to come at once, would you? If you would, I could drive you down. Got my li’l’ car outside.”

“Yes, I could,” said Di.

“Excellent,” said he. “I’ll wait while you pack.”

“Everything’s packed. I have a bag… My trunk can wait.”

She did not care what happened to the trunk. Let Mrs. Frick throw it down the steps into the street; nothing mattered as long as she could get away from here, could have a roof over her head until she had time to breathe.

“If it’s not too big I can take it,” he said.

“Here it is—in the hall.”

“I can manage that!” said he.

Di took up her bag; then she remembered the flowers.

“Just a moment, please!” she said, and ran up the stairs.

On the first landing she almost collided with Mrs. Frick. With a hasty apology she was about to go on up, when Mrs. Frick stopped her.

“Miss Leonard! You’re never going off with that man!”

“Yes, I am,” said Di. “He’s my uncle.”

“You said he couldn’t be. You said it was a mistake.”

“Well, it wasn’t, after all.”

“Now, see here!” said Mrs. Frick earnestly. “Don’t you do it, Miss Leonard! I’m sorry I was so hasty. You just forget what I said and stay on here.”

Di was startled and touched by this tone.

“That’s awfully nice of you!” she said. “But, you see, I might not get my check for some time, and I might not find a job, either, for weeks. I was—pretty worried. I only have twenty-five cents—”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” cried Mrs. Frick.

“No use bothering you about it,” said Di. “And anyhow, it’s all right now. I’m going to stay with my Aunt and Uncle—”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.”

“Don’t you go!” said Mrs. Frick. “I don’t believe he’s your uncle?”

“Oh, but he is!” said Di. “He knows all about me and my father… And why on earth should he pretend to be, if he isn’t? I’m not exactly an heiress.”

“Don’t you go!” repeated Mrs. Frick. “You’re young. You don’t know what people there are in this world.”

“But nobody could possibly have any reason—He’s taking my trunk now. I hear him.”

They both looked over the bannisters and saw the sporting little man handling the trunk with surprising ease.

“Oh, dear!” cried Mrs. Frick. “I don’t like this! Stay here—”

“I’m awfully sorry, but you see—”

“Then ring me up!” said Mrs. Frick. “Promise to ring me up as soon as you get there, and give me the address.”

“I promise!” said Di.

Chapter Two. Di Breaks a Promise

It was a good car, and this uncle was a good driver.

“And I’m afraid I’ve got soft,” thought Di. “Demoralized. For I really don’t care much where I’m going if only I don’t have to struggle for a while. Or perhaps I’m just tired.”

Whatever it was, she was well content to sit back in the little car, to feel the Spring wind in her face, to look at the streets in the bright morning sun.

“Poor Mrs. Frick!” she thought. “So suspicious… What would she have thought of Angelina?”

Her uncle did no talking in the city traffic, but after they were out of that, and headed toward Pelham, he began:

“Your Aunt Emma,” he said. “Y’know—very remarkable woman. Very!”

“Is she?” said Di, politely.

“Very!” he assured her. “She’s a professor. And a doctor.”

“Oh!”

“Psychology,” he said. “And so on. It’s all too deep for me… But…” He was silent for a time. “Did your father ever tell you anything about her?”

“I think I remember his mentioning her,” said Di, who remembered very well that her father had occasionally mentioned a sister who was, he had said, “hard as nails.”

“Too bad!” her uncle continued. “But poor old Harvey couldn’t seem to hit it off with the rest of us. Always was like that. I hope he never said anything to set you against us?”

“Oh, no!” said Di.

“Well…” he said. “I hope you’ll be happy now—with your own people.”

He spoke kindly enough, yet, she thought, with a curious lack of warmth. An odd little man altogether; looking at him now in the bright sunlight, she saw that his weather-beaten face was deeply lined with a net of little wrinkles at the corners of his blue eyes.

“Is he old?” she thought. “Or just—battered?” And aloud she asked: “Are you—Father’s younger brother?”

“Eh? Yes. Two or three years. Now, I almost hate to ask this—but did you ever hear your father speak of Uncle Rufus?”

“Yes,” said Di. “Several times.”

“Hm. I’m afraid Harvey didn’t care much for the old man.”

“I’m afraid he didn’t,” said Di.

She remembered a letter her father had got from Uncle Rufus, and what he had said about it.

“I simply asked him to make me a little loan,” he had cried to his child, “and the damned old skinflint treats me as if I were a beggar!”

He had also spoken of Uncle Rufus quite often as “that damned old hyena.”

“Of course,” Uncle Peter went on, apologetically, “the old man’s got his little weakness… But he’s a very remarkable man. Writes books, and so on. Very remarkable!”

“Is he at your house?”

“Not now. But he’ll be coming, for a visit. Y’know, I think you’ll like him. You’re clever, aren’t you? Fond of books and so on?”

“I’m fond of books,” said Di, “but I’m afraid I’m not clever at all.”

“I bet you are!” he said, and added, sadly. “I’m the fool of the family.”

She murmured some polite contradiction, and then, to change the subject:

“It was awfully nice of you to look me up,” she said. “I really do appreciate it.”

“Oh, rats!” said he, cheerfully, and they both laughed.