While the Countess consumed her breakfast, she dictated notes in regard to activities of the day.
At ten o'clock Countess Ottilie used her lift to descend to the ground floor, and took herself usually into the library, where she read mail, glanced at a journal or two and then consulted with Fosco in regard to the dogs, whom Fosco had now fed and groomed. Fosco was required to provide an opinion as to the health, vigor and psychological state of each beast, and often the discussions proceeded at length.
Fosco never became impatient, nor was there any reason. For him to do so, since this was the only task required of him, other than occasionally serving as chauffeur for the Countess when she went off upon one of her infrequent short journeys.
During this interval Wayness was free until summoned by the Countess. She usually passed the time in the servant's lounge, gossiping and taking refreshment with the other maids and Madame Lenk, and sometimes Lenk himself.
A summons from the Countess usually came a few minutes before eleven. If the weather were raw or gusty or wet, the Countess remained in the library by the fire. If the day were fine, she went out through the library doors, across the terrace and down upon the lawn.
Depending upon her mood — and Wayness had learned that the Countess was a moody person indeed — she might walk out to the table, fifty yards from the terrace, and settle herself: an island of pink flounces and lace and lavender shawls isolated on the face of a smooth green grassy ocean. At other times she might climb aboard an electric cart and fare forth on a voyage of exploration to a far corner of the lawn, with her dogs streaming behind in a line. The most agile first, the oldest and fattest puffing and thumping along at the rear. Wayness was then required to load table, chair and parasol upon another cart, follow, set up the furniture, and serve tea.
On these occasions the Countess more often than not desired solitude, and Wayness would be sent back to the library, to await a tone from her wristband which would alert her to the Countess' needs.
One day, after Wayness had been so dismissed, she made a detour around to the side of the North Tower, where she had never previously ventured. Behind a hedge of black-green yew she came upon a little cemetery with twenty, or perhaps as many as thirty, small graves. On some of the tombstones inscriptions had been carved deep into the marble; on others bronze plaques served the same purpose, while still other stones supported marble statues in the likeness of small dogs. To the side grew lilies and clumps of heliotrope. Wayness' curiosity was instantly sated; she backed away and went at a fast walk to the library, to await Countess Ottilie summons. As always, whenever she had the opportunity, she tested the doors which led into the study; as always they were locked and, as always, Wayness felt a pang of urgency. Time was passing; events were in motion which she could not control.
By this time Wayness knew where to find the keys to the study. One hung from Lenk s key ring, a second from a similar key ring in the possession of the Countess. Wayness had taken pains to learn the daily disposition of the keys. By day the Countess often carried them with her, sometimes rather carelessly, so that on occasion they were left somewhere she had been sitting. Thereupon the keys were deemed lost, creating a great scurrying search, punctuated by the Countess' hoarse outcries, until the keys were found.
At night the Countess kept her keys in the drawer of a cabinet beside her bed.
Late one night, with the Countess snoring among her down pillows, Wayness crept quietly into the room and made for the cabinet, which was visible in the dim illumination of the night-light. She had started to pull open the drawer when the dog Toop awoke in annoyance and startlement, and began to yelp: a tumult in which the other dogs instantly joined. Wayness scuttled from the room, before the Countess could raise up to see what had caused the disturbance. Standing breathless in the adjoining chamber, Wayness heard the Countess rasp: "Quiet, you little vermin! Just because one of you farts, must you all celebrate? Not another sound!”
Wayness, discouraged, went off to bed.
Two days later the footman Fosco resigned his position. Lenk tried to assign the task of dog-grooming to Wayness, who declared that she could spare no time from her regular duties, then to the maid Fyllis, who objected even more definitely: “They can grow hair in a mat two inches thick for all of me! You must do the job yourself, Mr. Lenk!”
Lenk was thus miserably employed for two days until he hired another footman: a handsome young man named Baro, who took to the job with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm.
For a time Lenk's conduct toward Wayness was irreproachably correct, if somewhat fulsome and urbane. But each day he became a trifle more friendly, until at last he thought to test the waters and patted Wayness on the bottom, playfully, as if in a spirit of camaraderie. Wayness recognized that Lenk's program must be nipped in the bud, and jerked aside. “Really, Mr. Lenk! You are being quite naughty!”
“Of course,” said Lenk cheerfully. “But you have a most enticing little bottom, just round enough, and my hand became charged, as it were, with wanderlust."
“Then your hand must be kept under stern control and not allowed to stray."
Lenk sighed. "It was not only my hand that became charged," he murmured, preening his mustache. "In the final analysis, what is a bit of naughtiness between friends, after all? Is that not what friends are for?"
“All this is far too deep for my understanding,“ said Wayness. “Perhaps we should ask Madame Lenk's advice." That is an insipid suggestion," sighed Lenk, turning away.
On occasion, usually in the late afternoon, the Countess would fall into one of her special moods. Her face would lengthen and become immobile; she would refuse to speak to anyone. On the first such occasion Madame Lenk told Wayness: “The Countess is dissatisfied with the way the universe is run, and she is now considering how best to change things.”
Often during such occasions, with little attention to the weather, the Countess would go out to her table on the lawn, seat herself, produce a packet of special cards and proceed to play what seemed an elaborate game of solitaire. Over and over the Countess played the game, clenching her fists, performing wild gestures, peering down in sudden suspicion, hissing and muttering, showing her teeth in what could be either rage or exultation, never desisting until either the cards submitted to her will, or the sun went down and the light failed.
On the second such occasion, a cool wind was blowing and Wayness went out with a robe, but the Countess rejected it with a wave of the hand.
At last, in the dying twilight, Countess Ottilie stared at the cards, whether in triumph or defeat Wayness could not be sure. The Countess heaved herself to her feet the keys fell jingling to the grass. The Countess was moving away and noticed nothing. Wayness picked the keys and tucked them into the pocket in her skirt. Then she gathered cards, robe and followed the Countess across the lawn.
Countess Ottilie did not go directly to the castle, but off a slant toward the foot of North Tower, Wayness followed ten paces to the rear. The Countess paid her no heed.
Twilight had fallen over the landscape, and a cool breeze was blowing through the ancient pines which grew on the hills. Countess Ottilie’s destination became clear: the little cemetery beside the North Tower. She entered through a gap in the yew hedge and wandered among the graves, stopping now and again to utter chirrups and little calls of encouragement. Wayness, waiting outside the hedge, heard her voice: “It has been long, ah how long! But do not despair, my good Snoyard; your loyalty and trust shall be rewarded! And you, Peppin, no less! How you used to romp! And dear little Corly, whose muzzle was so soft! I grieve for you every day! But we shall all meet again, on some happy day! Myrdal, do not whimper all graves are dark…”