XIX
Hélène Explains
And what she heard made her blood run cold.
Mme. Dauvray spoke in a hushed, awestruck voice.
“There is a presence in the room.”
It was horrible to Celia that the poor woman was speaking the jargon which she herself had taught to her.
“I will speak to it,” said Mme. Dauvray, and raising her voice a little, she asked: “Who are you that come to us from the spirit-world?”
No answer came, but all the while Celia knew that Wethermill was stealing noiselessly across the floor towards that voice which spoke this professional patter with so simple a solemnity.
“Answer!” she said. And the next moment she uttered a little shrill cry—a cry of enthusiasm. “Fingers touch my forehead—now they touch my cheek—now they touch my throat!”
And upon that the voice ceased. But a dry, choking sound was heard, and a horrible scuffling and tapping of feet upon the polished floor, a sound most dreadful. They were murdering her—murdering an old, kind woman silently and methodically in the darkness. The girl strained and twisted against the pillar furiously, like an animal in a trap. But the coils of rope held her; the scarf suffocated her. The scuffling became a spasmodic sound, with intervals between, and then ceased altogether. A voice spoke—a man’s voice—Wethermill’s. But Celia would never have recognised it—it had so shrill and fearful an intonation.
“That’s horrible,” he said, and his voice suddenly rose to a scream.
“Hush!” Hélène Vauquier whispered sharply. “What’s the matter?”
“She fell against me—her whole weight. Oh!”
“You are afraid of her!”
“Yes, yes!” And in the darkness Wethermill’s voice came querulously between long breaths. “Yes, now I am afraid of her!”
Hélène Vauquier replied again contemptuously. She spoke aloud and quite indifferently. Nothing of any importance whatever, one would have gathered, had occurred.
“I will turn on the light,” she said. And through the chinks in the curtain the bright light shone. Celia heard a loud rattle upon the table, and then fainter sounds of the same kind. And as a kind of horrible accompaniment there ran the laboured breathing of the man, which broke now and then with a sobbing sound. They were stripping Mme. Dauvray of her pearl necklace, her bracelets, and her rings. Celia had a sudden importunate vision of the old woman’s fat, podgy hands loaded with brilliants. A jingle of keys followed.
“That’s all,” Hélène Vauquier said. She might have just turned out the pocket of an old dress.
There was the sound of something heavy and inert falling with a dull crash upon the floor. A woman laughed, and again it was Hélène Vauquier.
“Which is the key of the safe?” asked Adèle.
And Hélène Vauquier replied:—
“That one.”
Celia heard someone drop heavily into a chair. It was Wethermill, and he buried his face in his hands. Hélène went over to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder and shook him.
“Do you go and get her jewels out of the safe,” she said, and she spoke with a rough friendliness.
“You promised you would blindfold the girl,” he cried hoarsely.
Hélène Vauquier laughed.
“Did I?” she said. “Well, what does it matter?”
“There would have been no need to—” And his voice broke off shudderingly.
“Wouldn’t there? And what of us—Adèle and me? She knows certainly that we are here. Come, go and get the jewels. The key of the door’s on the mantelshelf. While you are away we two will arrange the pretty baby in there.”
She pointed to the recess; her voice rang with contempt. Wethermill staggered across the room like a drunkard, and picked up the key in trembling fingers. Celia heard it turn in the lock, and the door bang. Wethermill had gone upstairs.
Celia leaned back, her heart fainting within her. Arrange! It was her turn now. She was to be “arranged.” She had no doubt what sinister meaning that innocent word concealed. The dry, choking sound, the horrid scuffling of feet upon the floor, were in her ears. And it had taken so long—so terribly long!
She heard the door open again and shut again. Then steps approached the recess. The curtains were flung back, and the two women stood in front of her—the tall Adèle Rossignol with her red hair and her coarse good looks and her sapphire dress, and the hard-featured, sallow maid. The maid was carrying Celia’s white coat. They did not mean to murder her, then. They meant to take her away, and even then a spark of hope lit up in the girl’s bosom. For even with her illusions crushed she still clung to life with all the passion of her young soul.
The two women stood and looked at her; and then Adèle Rossignol burst out laughing. Vauquier approached the girl, and Celia had a moment’s hope that she meant to free her altogether, but she only loosed the cords which fixed her to the pillar and the high stool.
“Mademoiselle will pardon me for laughing,” said Adèle Rossignol politely; “but it was mademoiselle who invited me to try my hand. And really, for so smart a young lady, mademoiselle looks too ridiculous.”
She lifted the girl up and carried her back writhing and struggling into the salon. The
