Dark power

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.