She flushed a little at the mere suggestion of praise and sat silent.
“I presume you have quite understood, Miss May,” he presently resumed, in a more formal tone, “that I require the services of an assistant for one year at least — possibly two years. If I engage you, you must sign an agreement with me to that effect. Another very special point is that of confidence. Nothing that you do, see, or hear while working under my instructions is ever to pass your lips. You must maintain the most inviolable secrecy, and when once you are in this house you must neither write letters nor receive them. If you are, as I suggested in my advertisement, ‘alone in the world, without any claims on your time or your affections,’ you will not find this a hardship. My experiments in chemistry may or may not give such results as I hope for, but while I am engaged upon them I want no imitative bunglers attempting to get on the same line. Therefore I will run no risks of even the smallest hint escaping as to the nature of my work.”
Diana bent her head in assent.
“I understand,” she said—” And I am quite willing to agree to your rules. I should only wish to write one letter, and that I can do from the hotel, — just to return the money my friend lent me for my expenses. And I should ask you to advance me that sum out of whatever salary you offer. Then I need give no further account of myself. Sophy, — that is my friend — would write to acknowledge receipt of the money — and then our correspondence would end.”
“This would not vex or worry you?” inquired Dimitrius.
She smiled. “I am past being vexed or worried at anything!” she said. “Life is just a mere ‘going on’ for me now, with thankfulness to find even a moment of interest in it as I go!”
Dimitrius rose from his chair and walked up and down, his hands clasped behind his back. She watched him in fascinated attention, with something of suspense and fear lest after all he should decide against her. She noted the supple poise of his athletic figure, clad in a well-cut, easy summer suit of white flannels, — his dark, compact head, carried with a certain expression of haughtiness, and last, but not least, his hands, which in their present careless attitude nevertheless expressed both power and refinement.
Suddenly he wheeled sharply round and stood, facing her.
“I think you will do,” he said, — and her heart gave a quick throb of relief which, unconsciously to herself, suffused her pale face with a flush of happiness—” I think I shall find in you obedience, care, and loyalty. But there is yet an important point to consider, — do you, in your turn, think you can put up with me? I am very masterful, not to say obstinate; I will have no ‘scamp’ work, — I am often very impatient, and I can be extremely disagreeable. You must take all this well into your consideration, for I am perfectly honest with you when I say I am not easy to serve. And remember!” — here he drew a few steps closer to her and looked her full in the eyes—” the experiments on which I am engaged are highly dangerous, — and, as I stated in my advertisement, you must not be ‘afraid to take risks,’ — for if you agree to assist me in the testing of certain problems in chemistry, it may cost you your very life!”
She smiled.
“It’s very kind of you to prepare me for all the difficulties and dangers of my way,” she said. “And I thank you! But I have no fear. There is really nothing to be afraid of, — one can but die once. If you will take me, I’ll do my faithful best to obey your instructions in every particular, and so far as is humanly possible, you shall have nothing to complain of.”
He still bent his eyes searchingly upon her.
“You have a good nerve?”
“I think so.”
“You must be sure of that! My laboratory is not a place for hesitation, qualms, or terrors,” he said. “The most amazing manifestations occur there sometimes—”
“I have said I am not afraid,” interrupted Diana, with a touch of pride. “If you doubt my word, let me go, — but if you are disposed to engage me, please accept me at my own valuation.”
He laughed, and his face lightened with kindliness and humour.
“I like that!” he said. “I see you have some spirit! Good! Now, to business. I have made up my mind that you will suit me, — and you have also apparently made up your mind that I shall suit you. Very well. Your salary with me will be a thousand a war—”
Diana uttered a little cry.
“A thou — a thousand a year!” she ejaculated. “Oh you mean a thousand francs?”
“No, I don’t. I mean a thousand good British pounds sterling, — the risks you will run in working with me are quite worth that. You will have your own suite of rooms and your own special hours of leisure for private reading and study, and all your meals will be supplied, though we should like you to share them with us at our table, if you have no objection. And when you are not at work, or otherwise engaged, I should be personally very much obliged if you would be kind and companionable to my mother.” Diana could scarcely speak; she was overwhelmed by what she considered the munificence and generosity of his offer.
“You are too good,” she faltered. “You wish to give me more than my abilities merit—”
“I must be the best judge of that,” he said, and moving to a table desk in the centre of the room he opened a drawer and took out a paper. “Will you come here and read this? And then sign it?”
She went to his side, and taking the paper from his hand, read it carefully through. It was an agreement, simply and briefly worded, which bound her as confidential assistant and private secretary to Féodor Dimitrius for the time of one year positively, with the understanding that this period should be extended to two years, if agreeable to both parties. Without a moment’s hesitation, she took up a pen, dipped it in ink, and signed it in a clear and very firmly characteristic way.
“A good signature!” commented Dimitrius.” If handwriting expresses anything, you should be possessed of a strong will and a good brain. Have you ever had occasion to exercise either?”
Diana thought a moment — then laughed.
“Yes! — in a policy of repression!”
A humorous sparkle in his eyes responded to her remark.
“I understand! Well, now “ — and he put away the signed agreement in a drawer of his desk and locked it— “you must begin to obey me at once! You will first come and have some breakfast, and I’ll introduce you to my mother! Next, you will return to your hotel in Geneva, pay your bill, and remove your luggage. I can show you a short cut back to the town, through these grounds and by the border of the lake. By the way, how much do you owe your friend in England?”
“About a hundred pounds.”
“Here is an English bank-note for that sum,” said Dimitrius, taking it from a roll of paper money in his desk. “Send it to her in a registered letter. And here is an extra fifty pound note for any immediate expenses, — you will understand you have drawn this money in advance of your salary. Now when you get to your hotel, have your luggage taken to the railway station and -left in the Salle des Bagages, — they will give you a number for it. Then when all this is done, walk quietly back here by the same private path through the grounds which you will presently become acquainted with, and I will send a man I sometimes employ from Mornex, to fetch your belongings here. In this way the good gossiping folk of Geneva will be unable to state what has become of you, or where you have chosen to go. You follow me?”
“Quite!” answered Diana—” And I shall obey you in every particular.”
“Good! Now come and see my mother.”
He showed her into an apartment situated on the other side of the entrance hall — a beautiful room, lightly and elegantly furnished, where, at a tempting-looking breakfast table, spread with snowy linen, delicate china and glittering silver, sat one of the most picturesque old ladies possible to imagine. She rose as her son and Diana entered and advanced to meet them with a charming grace — her tall slight figure, snow-white hair, and gentle, delicate face, lit up with the tenderest of blue eyes, making a
n atmosphere of attractive influence around her as she moved.
“Mother,” said Dimitrius, “I have at last found the lady who is willing to assist me in my work — here she is. She has come from England — let me introduce her. Miss Diana May, — Madame Dimitrius.”
“You are very welcome,” — and Madame Dimitrius held out both hands to Diana, with an expressive kindness which went straight to the solitary woman’s heart. “It is indeed a relief to me to know that my son is satisfied! He has such great ideas! — such wonderful schemes! — alas, I cannot follow or comprehend them! — I am not clever! You have walked from Geneva? — and no breakfast? My dear, sit down, — the coffee is just made.”
And in two or three minutes Diana found herself chatting away at perfect ease, with two of the most intelligent and companionable persons she had ever met, — so that the restraint under which she had suffered for years gradually relaxed, and her own natural wit and vivacity began to sparkle with a brightness it had never known since her choleric father and adipose mother had “sat upon her” once and for all, as a matrimonial failure. Madame Dimitrius encouraged her to talk, and every now and then she caught the dark, almost sombre eyes of Dimitrius himself fixed upon her musingly, so that occasionally the old familiar sense of “wonder” arose in her, — wonder as to how all her new circumstances would arrange themselves, — what her work would be — and what might result from the whole strange adventure. But when, after breakfast, she was shown the beautiful “suite” of apartments destined for her occupation, with windows commanding a glorious view of the lake and the Mont Blanc chain of mountains, and furnished with every imaginable comfort and luxury, she was amazed and bewildered at the extraordinary good luck which had befallen her, and said so openly without the slightest hesitation. Madame Dimitrius seemed amused at the frankness of her admiration and delight.
“This is nothing for us to do,” she said, kindly. “You will have difficult and intricate work and much fatigue of brain; you will need repose and relaxation in your own apartments, and we have made them as comfortable as we can. There are plenty of books, as you see, — and the piano is a ‘bijou grand,’ very sweet in tone. Do you play?”
“A little,” Diana admitted. —
“Play me something now!”
Obediently she sat down, and her fingers wandered as of themselves into a lovely “prélude” of Chopin’s, — a tangled maze of delicate tones which crossed and recrossed each other like the silken flowers of fine tapestry, the instrument she played on was delicious in touch and quality, and she became so absorbed in the pleasure of playing that she almost forgot her listeners. When she stopped she looked up, and saw Dimitrius watching her.
“Excellent! You have a rare gift!” he said. “You play like an artist and thinker.”
She coloured with a kind of confusion, — she had seldom or never been praised for any accomplishment she possessed. Madame Dimitrius smiled at her, with tears in her eyes.
“Such music takes me back to my youth,” she said. “All the old days of hope and promise!... Ah!... you will play to me often?”
“Whenever you like,” answered Diana, with a thrill of tenderness in her always sweet voice, — she was beginning to feel an affection for this charming and dignified old lady, who had not outlived sentiment so far as to be unmoved by the delicate sorrows of Chopin. “You have only to ask me.”
“And now,” put in Dimitrius, “as you know where you will live, you must go back to Geneva and get your luggage, in the way I told you. We’ll go together through the grounds, — it’s half an hour’s walk instead of nearly two hours by the road.”
“It did not seem like two hours this morning,” said Diana.
“No, I daresay not. You were eager to get here, and walking in Switzerland is always more delight than fatigue... But it is actually a two hours’ walk. Our private way is easier and prettier.”
“Au revoir!” smiled Madame Dimitrius. “You, Feodor, will be in to luncheon, — and you, Miss May? —— — —”
“I give her leave of absence till the afternoon,” said Dimitrius. “She must return in time for that English consoler of trouble — tea!” He laughed, and with a light parting salute to his mother, preceded Diana by a few steps to show the way. She paused a moment with a look half shy, half wistful at the kindly Madame Dimitrius.
“Will you try to like me?” she said, softly. “Somehow, I have missed being liked! But I don’t think I’m really a disagreeable person!”
Madame took her gently by both hands and kissed her.
“Have courage, my dear!” she said. “I like you already! You will be a help to my son, — and I feel that you will be patient with him! That will be enough to win more than my liking — my love!”
With a grateful look and smile Diana nodded a brief adieu, and followed Dimitrius, who was already in the garden waiting for her.
“Women must always have the last word!” he said, with a good-humoured touch of irony. “And even when they are enemies, they kiss!”
She raised her eyes frankly to his.
“That’s true!” she answered. “I’ve seen a lot of it! But your mother and I could never be enemies, and I — well, I am grateful for even a ‘show’ of liking.”
He looked surprised.
“Have you had so little?” he queried. “And you care for it?”
“Does not everyone care for it?”
“No. For example, I do not. I have lived too long to care. I know what love or liking generally mean — love especially. It means a certain amount of pussy-cat comfort for one’s self. Now, though all my efforts are centred on comfort in the way of perfect health and continuous enjoyment of life for this ‘Self’ of ours, I do not care for the mere pussy-cat pleasure of being fondled to see if I will purr. I have no desire to be a purring animal.”
Diana laughed — a gay, sweet laugh that rang out as clearly and youthfully as a girl’s. He gave her a quick, astonished glance.
“I amuse you?” he inquired, with a slight touch of irritation.
“Yes, indeed! But don’t be vexed because I laugh! You — you mustn’t imagine that anybody wants to make you ‘purr!’ I don’t! I’d rather you growled, like a bear!” She laughed again. “We shall get on splendidly together, — I know we shall!”
He walked a few paces in silence.
“I think you are younger than you profess to be,” he said, at last.
“I wish I were!” she answered, fervently. “Alas. alas! it’s no use wishing. I cannot ‘go like a crab, backwards.’ Though just now I feel like a mere kiddie, ready to run all over these exquisite gardens and look at everything, and find out all the prettiest nooks and corners. What a beautiful place this is! — and how fortunate I am to have found favour in your eyes! It will be perfect happiness for me just to live here!”
Dimitrius looked pleased.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said — and taking a key from his pocket, he handed it to her. “Here we are coming to the border of the lake, and you can go on alone, Follow the private path till you come to a gate which this key will open-then turn to the left, up a little winding flight of steps, under trees — this will bring you out to the high road. I suppose you know the way to your hotel when you are once in the town?”
“Yes, — and I shall know my way back again to the Château this afternoon,” she assured him. “It’s kind of you to have come thus far with me. You are breaking your morning’s work.”
He smiled. “My morning’s work can wait,” he said.
“In fact, most of my work must wait — till you come!” With these words he raised his hat in courteous salutation and left her, turning back through his grounds — while she went on her way swiftly and alone.
CHAPTER VIII
ARRIVED at her hotel, Diana gave notice that she was leaving that afternoon. Then she packed up her one portmanteau and sent it by a porter to the station, with instructions to deposit it in the “Salle des Bagages,” to await her there.
He carried out this order, and brought the printed number entitling her to claim her belongings’ at her, convenience.
“Madame is perhaps going to Vevey or to Montreux?” he suggested, cheerfully. “The journey is pleasanter by the boat than by the train.”
“No doubt! — yes — of course! — I am quite sure it is!” murmured the astute Diana with an abstracted smile, giving him a much larger “tip” than he expected, which caused him to snatch off his cap and stand with uncovered head, as in the presence of a queen’. “But I have not made up my mind where I shall go first. Perhaps to Martigny — perhaps only to Lausanne. I am travelling for my own amusement.”
“Ah, oui! Je comprends! Bonne chance, Madame!” and the porter backed reverently away from the wonderful English lady who had given him five francs, when he had only hoped for one, — and left her to her own devices. Thereupon she went to her room, locked the door, and wrote the following letter to Sophy Lansing:
“DEAREST SOPHY, “Please find enclosed, as business people say, an English bank-note for a hundred pounds, which I think clears me of my debt to you in the way of money, though not of gratitude. By my ‘paying up’ so soon, you will judge that I have ‘fallen on my feet’ — and that I have accepted ‘service’ under Dr. Dimitrius. What is more, and what will please you most, is that I am entirely satisfied with my situation, and am likely to be better off and happier than I have been for many years. The Doctor does not appear to be at all an ‘eccentric,’ — he is evidently a bona-fide scientist, engaged, as he tells me, in working out difficult problems of chemistry, in which I hope and believe I may be of some use to him by attending to smaller matters of detail only; he has a most beautiful place on the outskirts of Geneva, in which I have been allotted a charming suite of rooms with the loveliest view of the Alps from the windows, — and last, by no means least, he has a perfectly delightful mother, a sweet old lady with snow-white hair and the ‘grand manner,’ who has captivated both my heart and imagination at once. So you may realize how fortunate I am! Everything is signed and settled; and there is only one stipulation Dr. Dimitrius makes, and this is, that while I am working with him, I may neither write nor receive letters. Now I have no one I really care to write to except you; moreover, it is impossible for me to write to anyone, as I am supposed to be dead! So it all fits in very well as it should. You, of course, know nothing about me, save that I was unfortunately drowned! — and when you see ‘Pa’ and ‘Ma’ clothed in their parental mourning, you will, I hope, manage to shed a few friendly tears with them over my sudden departure from this world. (N.B. A scrap of freshly cut onion secreted in your handkerchief would do the trick!) I confess I should have liked to know your impression of my bereaved parents when you see them for the first time since my ‘death!’ — but I must wait. Meanwhile, you can be quite easy in your mind about me, for I consider myself most fortunate. I have a splendid salary — a thousand a year! — just think of it! — a thousand Pounds, not Francs! — and a perfectly enchanting home, with every comfort and luxury. I am indeed ‘dead’ as the poor solitary woman who devoted her soul to the service of ‘Pa’ and ‘Ma;’ a new Diana May has sprung from the ashes of the old spinster! — it is exactly as if I had really died and been born again! All the world seems new; I breathe the air of a delicious and intelligent freedom such as I have never known. I shall think of you very often, you bright, kind, clever little Sophy! — and if I get the chance, I will now and then send you a few flowers, — or a book — merely as a hint to you that all is well. But, in any case, whether you receive such a hint or not, have no misgivings or fears in regard to me; — for years I haven’t been so happy or so well off as I am now. I’m more than thankful that my lonely hours of study have not been entirely wasted, and that what I have learned may prove of some use at last. Now, dear Sophy, au revoir! Your good wishes for me are being fulfilled; my ‘poor brain so long atrophied by domestic considerations of Pa and Ma,’ as you put it, is actually expanding! — and who knows? — your prophecy may come true — Cinderella may yet go to the Prince’s Ball! If I have cause to resign my present post, I will, write to you at once; but not till then. This you will understand. I have registered this letter so that really there is no need for you to acknowledge its receipt, — the post-office may be relied upon to deliver it to you safely. And I think it is perhaps best you should not write.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 842
