“Wait!” Hélène Vauquier whispered in Celia’s ear.
To the cord about Celia’s waist Adèle was fastening a longer line.
“I shall keep my foot on the other end of this,” she said, “when the lights are out, and I shall know then if our little one frees herself.”
The three women went out of the recess. And the next moment the heavy silk curtains swung across the opening, leaving Celia in darkness. Quickly and noiselessly the poor girl began to twist and work her hands. But she only bruised her wrists. This was to be the last of the séances. But it must succeed! So much of Mme. Dauvray’s happiness, so much of her own, hung upon its success. Let her fail tonight, she would be surely turned from the door. The story of her trickery and her exposure would run through Aix. And she had not told Harry! It would reach his ears from others. He would never forgive her. To face the old, difficult life of poverty and perhaps starvation again, and again alone, would be hard enough; but to face it with Harry Wethermill’s contempt added to its burdens—as the poor girl believed she surely would have to do—no, that would be impossible! Not this time would she turn away from the Seine, because it was so terrible and cold. If she had had the courage to tell him yesterday, he would have forgiven, surely he would! The tears gathered in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. What would become of her now? She was in pain besides. The cords about her arms and ankles tortured her. And she feared—yes, desperately she feared the effect of the exposure upon Mme. Dauvray. She had been treated as a daughter; now she was in return to rob Mme. Dauvray of the belief which had become the passion of her life.
“Let us take our seats at the table,” she heard Mme. Dauvray say. “Hélène, you are by the switch of the electric light. Will you turn it off?” And upon that Hélène whispered, yet so that the whisper reached to Celia and awakened hope:
“Wait! I will see what she is doing.”
The curtains opened, and Hélène Vauquier slipped to the girl’s side.
Celia checked her tears. She smiled imploringly, gratefully.
“What shall I do?” asked Hélène, in a voice so low that the movement of her mouth rather than the words made the question clear.
Celia raised her head to answer. And then a thing incomprehensible to her happened. As she opened her lips Hélène Vauquier swiftly forced a handkerchief in between the girl’s teeth, and lifting the scarf from her shoulders wound it tightly twice across her mouth, binding her lips, and made it fast under the brim of her hat behind her head. Celia tried to scream; she could not utter a sound. She stared at Hélène with incredulous, horror-stricken eyes. Hélène nodded at her with a cruel grin of satisfaction, and Celia realised, though she did not understand, something of the rancour and the hatred which seethed against her in the heart of the woman whom she had supplanted. Hélène Vauquier meant to expose her tonight; Celia had not a doubt of it. That was her explanation of Hélène Vauquier’s treachery; and believing that error, she believed yet another—that she had reached the terrible climax of her troubles. She was only at the beginning of them.
“Hélène!” cried Mme. Dauvray sharply. “What are you doing?”
The maid instantly slid back into the room.
“Mademoiselle has not moved,” she said.
Celia heard the women settle in their chairs about the table.
“Is madame ready?” asked Hélène; and then there was the sound of the snap of a switch. In the salon darkness had come.
If only she had not been wearing her gloves, Celia thought, she might possibly have just been able to free her fingers and her supple hands from their bonds. But as it was she was helpless. She could only sit and wait until the audience in the salon grew tired of waiting and came to her. She closed her eyes, pondering if by any chance she could excuse her failure. But her heart sank within her as she thought of Mme. Rossignol’s raillery. No, it was all over for her. …
She opened her eyes, and she wondered. It seemed to her that there was more light in the recess than there had been when she closed them. Very likely her eyes were growing used to the darkness. Yet—yet—she ought not to be able to distinguish quite so clearly the white pillar opposite to her. She looked towards the glass doors and understood. The wooden shutters outside the doors were not quite closed. They had been carelessly left unbolted. A chink from lintel to floor let in a grey thread of light. Celia heard the women whispering in the salon, and turned her head to catch the words.
“Do you hear any sound?”
“No.”
“Was that a hand which touched me?”
“No.”
“We must wait.”
And so silence came again, and suddenly there was quite a rush of light into the recess. Celia was startled. She turned her head back again towards the window. The wooden door had swung a little more open. There was a wider chink to let the twilight of that starlit darkness through. And as she looked, the chink slowly broadened and broadened, the door swung slowly back on hinges which were strangely silent. Celia stared at the widening panel of grey light with a vague terror. It was strange that she could hear no whisper of wind in the garden. Why, oh, why was that latticed door opening so noiselessly? Almost she believed that the spirits after all … And suddenly the recess darkened again, and Celia sat with her heart leaping and shivering in her breast. There was something black against the glass doors—a man. He had appeared as silently, as suddenly, as any apparition. He stood blocking out the light, pressing his face against the glass, peering into the room. For
