Part 36 (1/2)

She had known none of the absolute horrors of life which were possible in that underworld which was not likely to touch her own existence in any form.

”Why,” had argued Mademoiselle Valle, ”should one fill a white young mind with ugly images which would deface with dark marks and smears, and could only produce unhappiness and, perhaps, morbid broodings? One does not feel it is wise to give a girl an education in crime. One would not permit her to read the Newgate Calendar for choice. She will be protected by those who love her and what she must discover she will discover. That is Life.”

Which was why her first discovery that neither door could be opened, did not at once fill her with horror. Her first arguments were merely those of a girl who, though her brain was not inactive pulp, had still a protected girl's outlook. She had been overwhelmed by a sense of the awkwardness of her position and by the dread that she would be obliged to disturb and, almost inevitably, embarra.s.s and annoy Lady Etynge. Of course, there had been some bungling on the part of the impudent footman--perhaps actually at the moment when he had given his sidelong leer at herself instead of properly attending to what he was trying to do. That the bedroom was locked might be the result of a dozen ordinary reasons.

The first hint of an abnormality of conditions came after she had rung the bells and had waited in vain for response to her summons.

There were servants whose business it was to answer bells at once.

If ALL the bells were out of order, why were they out of order when Helene was to return in a few days and her apartment was supposed to be complete? Even to the kittens--even to the kittens!

”It seems as if I had been locked in,” she had whispered to the silence of the room. ”Why did they lock the doors?”

Then she said, and her heart began to thump and race in her side:

”It has been done on purpose. They don't intend to let me out--for some HORRIBLE reason!”

Perhaps even her own growing panic was not so appalling as a sudden rus.h.i.+ng memory of Lady Etynge, which, at this moment, overthrew her. Lady Etynge! Lady Etynge! She saw her gentle face and almost affectionately watching eyes. She heard her voice as she spoke of Helene; she felt the light pat which was a caress.

”No! No!” she gasped it, because her breath had almost left her.

”No! No! She couldn't! No one could! There is NOTHING as wicked--as that!”

Bat, even as she cried out, the overthrow was utter, and she threw herself forward on the arm of the couch and sobbed--sobbed with the pa.s.sion she had only known on the day long ago when she had crawled into the shrubs and groveled in the earth. It was the same kind of pa.s.sion--the shaken and heart-riven woe of a creature who has trusted and hoped joyously and has been forever betrayed. The face and eyes had been so kind. The voice so friendly! Oh, how could even the wickedest girl in the world have doubted their sincerity. Unfortunately--or fortunately--she knew nothing whatever of the mental processes of the wicked girls of the world, which was why she lay broken to pieces, sobbing--sobbing, not at the moment because she was a trapped thing, but because Lady Etynge had a face in whose gentleness her heart had trusted and rejoiced.

When she sat upright again, her own face, as she lifted it, would have struck a perceptive onlooker as being, as it were, the face of another girl. It was tear-stained and wild, but this was not the cause of its change. The soft, bird eyes were different--suddenly, amazingly older than they had been when she had believed in Helene.

She had no experience which could reveal to her in a moment the monstrousness of her danger, but all she had ever read, or vaguely gathered, of law breakers and marauders of society, collected itself into an advancing tidal wave of horror.

She rose and went to the window and tried to open it, but it was not intended to open. The decorative panes were of small size and of thick gla.s.s. Her first startled impression that the white framework seemed to be a painted metal was apparently founded on fact. A strong person might have bent it with a hammer, but he could not have broken it. She examined the windows in the other rooms and they were of the same structure.

”They are made like that,” she said to herself stonily, ”to prevent people from getting OUT.”

She stood at the front one and looked down into the broad, stately ”Place.” It was a long way to look down, and, even if the window could be opened, one's voice would not be heard. The street lamps were lighted and a few people were to be seen walking past unhurriedly.

”In the big house almost opposite they are going to give a party.

There is a red carpet rolled out. Carriages are beginning to drive up. And here on the top floor, there is a girl locked up--And they don't know!”

She said it aloud, and her voice sounded as though it were not her own. It was a dreadful voice, and, as she heard it, panic seized her.

n.o.body knew--n.o.body! Her mother never either knew or cared where she was, but Dowie and Mademoiselle always knew. They would be terrified. Fraulein Hirsch had, perhaps, been told that her pupil had taken a cab and gone home and she would return to her lodgings thinking she was safe.

Then--only at this moment, and with a suddenness which produced a sense of shock--she recalled that it was Fraulein Hirsch who had presented her to Lady Etynge. Fraulein Hirsch herself! It was she who had said she had been in her employ and had taught Helene--Helene!

It was she who had related anecdotes about the Convent at Tours and the nuns who were so wise and kind! Robin's hand went up to her forehead with a panic-stricken gesture. Fraulein Hirsch had made an excuse for leaving her with Lady Etynge--to be brought up to the top of the house quite alone--and locked in. Fraulein Hirsch had KNOWN! And there came back to her the memory of the furtive eyes whose sly, adoring sidelooks at Count Von Hillern had always--though she had tried not to feel it--been, somehow, glances she had disliked--yes, DISLIKED!

It was here--by the thread of Fraulein Hirsch--that Count Von Hillern was drawn into her mind. Once there, it was as if he stood near her--quite close--looking down under his heavy, drooping lids with stealthy, plunging eyes. It had always been when Fraulein Hirsch had walked with her that they had met him--almost as if by arrangement.

There were only two people in the world who might--because she herself had so hated them--dislike and choose in some way to punish her. One was Count Von Hillern. The other was Lord Coombe. Lord Coombe, she knew, was bad, vicious, did the things people only hinted at without speaking of them plainly. A sense of instinctive revolt in the strength of her antipathy to Von Hillern made her feel that he must be of the same order.

”If either of them came into this room now and locked the door behind him, I could not get out.”