Deborah paused and thrust a small tongue over her dry underlip.
“I first began to be really frightened then,” she added. “You see, I have nothing to go upon but sensations and intuitions.”
Dreeme sat motionless in his chair, his entire intelligence concentrated upon her story. She said:
“It came over me like waves, and I began to feel like somebody in deep churning waters. There was no reason for it, just something inside of me telling me to be afraid. He stood in the doorway and looked at me, and I stood there unable to move or say a word. I could see the ridges on his head. ‘Who told you to come in here?’ he asked. ‘Go back to the kitchen,’ he added. ‘When I want you to dust the books I’ll tell you so.’ His voice was low and snarling. I don’t know how I got to the door, but I did, and he must have passed me, for just as I was stepping out of the room he shouted, ‘You damned little fool!’ He was standing by the shelves with one of the dolls in his hand.”
Dreeme frowned. Something about wax dolls with pins thrust into them. He had read it somewhere. He could not recall it now. He put the subject away for the time being, and resumed his calm role of auditor.
“Nothing more happened till suppertime,” Deborah was saying. “I stayed in the kitchen and helped with the cooking. Then we all sat down at table. There was Mrs. Westcott, and the boy, and Wagner, the hired man, and myself. Mrs. Westcott wanted to say something to Wagner. I could see it on her mouth and in her eyes. And Wagner wanted to hear what she had to say, for he sat like an attentive bulldog waiting for a caress. But before she could say anything he came out of the library, lurching along in an awkward fashion, for he is lame in one leg, and sat down. None of us spoke then. The dishes were passed in silence. Mrs. Westcott sat with her eyes lowered to her plate, although every now and then she would glance under her long lashes at Wagner, who sat on the edge of his chair with a puzzled expression on his face. He was just like a bulldog that is trying unsuccessfully to comprehend what its master desires it to do. Mr. Westcott saw them every time, and he would smile in the most malevolent manner. That supper was terrible. I thought that it would never end or that I should suddenly scream and run out of the room. Do you know that taut feeling when your nerves seem strained to the breaking point? I was like that. The boy … did you say his name was Miles? … ate like a greedy little animal. Wagner was puzzled and surly. Mrs. Westcott was terribly excited, although on the surface she was as still as snow. I could sense the fever in her. Mr. Westcott was the only calm person, and his calmness was like the breathlessness that is in the air before an electric storm breaks. You know what I mean. When you can hardly breathe. And I was thinking how terrible it was to be there, and how miserable and frightened I was. How could I stand it? How could I stay there? The silence, it … it seemed to crawl around the room, to move like a great lazy snake, to slide under the table and up the backs of the chairs, and across the face of the clock. The air was heavy. Like before a storm, you know. Like. …”
She stopped abruptly, plainly at a loss for words to convey the strange nuances of that meal. Dreeme sat uneasily in his chair, dimly conscious that he was involved in this imbroglio of ominous silences. He began to feel like a man sitting at the edge of the crater of a slumbering volcano. Sooner or later it would erupt, and he would be destroyed by unimaginable fiery lavas. He could picture to himself the silence of that supper without the aid of Deborah. Around a table sat a group of wax figures with living eyes. The eyes spoke, but the mouths were speechless. These eyes whispered, laughed, threatened, fought invisible duels. They were glittering assassins moving stealthily toward their defenseless victims. Deborah was a victim. He was a victim. Anyone who blundered into that deathlike circle of wax figures was a victim. Deborah’s voice cut across his brooding. She had given up the attempt to picture the Westcott supper with any degree of vividness. She said:
“After supper, we rose from the table without a word. Wagner hurried away. He went like a ghost. I heard the door close softly behind him. Mr. Westcott heard it, too, for it seemed to be a signal for him to go into his room of books. He said to Mrs. Westcott, ‘Leave me alone now. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She said, ‘Don’t make a fool of yourself.’ He smiled at that and said, ‘That’s your prerogative.’ Then he went into the library and closed
