Frances Waldeaux Part 18

In G.o.d's name then----

She crossed the hall softly. Into the h.e.l.l of her thoughts flashed a little womanish shame, that she, Frances Waldeaux, should be walking on tiptoe, like a thief.

She took down the package, and leaning over the table at the side of the bed, shook the white powder into the gla.s.s. Then she went back to her room and shut the door.

The cas.e.m.e.nt was open and the moonlight was white outside. She was conscious that the glare hurt her eyes, and that there was a strange stricture about her jaws and the base of her brain, like an iron hand.

It seemed to her but a minute that she stood there, but the dawn was breaking when there was a sudden confusion in the opposite room. She heard Colette's voice, and then George's, calling Lisa.

There was no answer.

Frances stood up, to listen. "Will she not speak?" she cried. "Make her speak!"

But in reality she said nothing. Even her breath had stopped to listen.

There was no answer.

Frances was awake now, for the rest of her life. She knew what she had done.

"Why, George," she said, "she cannot speak. She is dead. I did it."

She stood in the room a minute, looking from side to side, and then went with measured steps out of it, down the corridor and into the street.

"I did it," she said to herself again and again, as she walked slowly on.

The old cathedral is opposite to the inn. Her eyes, as she pa.s.sed, rested on the gargoyles, and she thought how fine they were. One was a ridiculous head with lolling tongue.

A priest's voice inside was chanting ma.s.s. A dozen Breton women in their huge white winged caps and wooden shoes hurried up to the door, through the gray fog. They met Mrs. Waldeaux and saw her face. They huddled to one side, crossing themselves, and when she pa.s.sed, stood still, forgetting the ma.s.s and looking, frightened, up the steep street behind her to find what horror had pursued her.

"They know what I have done," she said aloud.

Once when she was a child she had accidentally seen a bloated wretch, a murderer, on his way to the gallows.

"I am he," she thought. "I--_I_, Frances."

Then the gargoyle came into her mind again. What a capital headpiece it would make for "Quigg's" next column! It was time this week's jokes were sent.

But at last these ghosts of yesterday's life faded out, and she saw the fact.

She had hated her son's wife and had killed her!

CHAPTER XV

When the sun was well up the women who had been at ma.s.s gathered down by the little river which runs through the old city, to wash their clothes. They knelt on the broad stones by the edge of the water, chattering and singing, tossing the soap from one to another.

There was a sudden silence. "Here she is again," they whispered, as a slight, delicate woman crossed the bridge with steady steps.

"She is blind and deaf," said old Barbe. "I met her an hour ago and asked her whom she sought. She did not see nor hear me, but walked straight on."

Oliver Bauzy was lounging near, as usual, watching his wife work.

"She is English. What does she know of your Breton talk? I speak English and French--I!" he bragged, and walking up to Mrs. Waldeaux, he flourished his ragged hat, smiling. "Is madame ill? She has walked far," he said kindly.

The English words seemed to waken her. "It is always the town,"

looking around bewildered. "The people--houses. I think I am not well. If I could find the woods----"

Bauzy had but a hazy idea of her meaning, but he nodded gravely. "She is a tourist. She wants to go out of Vannes--to see the chateaux, the dolmens. I'm her man. I'll drive her to Larmor Baden," he said to his wife. "I have to go there to-day, and I may as well make a franc or two. Keep her until I bring the voiture."

But Frances stood motionless until the old wagon rattled up to the water's edge.

"She has a dear old face," Bauzy's wife whispered.

"She is blind and deaf, I tell you," old Barbe grumbled, peering up at her. "Make her pay, Oliver, before you go."

Bauzy nodded, and when Frances was seated held out his hand.

"Twenty francs," he said.

She opened her bag and gave them to him.

"She must be folle!" he said uneasily. "I feel like a thief. Away with you, Babette!" as a pretty baby ran up to him. "You want to ride?

That is impossible. Unless, indeed, madame desires it?" lifting the child to place her on the seat. Babette laughed and held out her hands.

But Mrs. Waldeaux shrank back, shuddering. "Take her away," she whispered. "She must not touch me!"

The mother seized the child, and the women all talked vehemently at once. Oliver climbed into the voiture and drove off in silence. When he looked around presently he saw that the woman's face was bloodless, and a cold sweat stood on it. He considered a while. "You want food,"

he said, and brought out some hard bread and a jug of Normandy cider.

Frances shook her head. She only spoke once during the morning, and then told him something about a woman "whom no child could touch. No man or woman could touch her as long as she lived. Not even her son."

As Bauzy could make nothing of this, he could only nod and laugh civilly. But presently he, too, grew silent, glancing at her uncomfortably from time to time.

They drove through great red fields of sara.s.son, hedged by long banks of earth, which were ma.s.ses of golden gorse and bronzed and crimson ferns. The sun shone, the clover-scented air was full of the joyous buzzing of bees and chirp of birds.

"It is a gay, blessed day!" Bauzy said, "thanks to the good G.o.d!" He waited anxiously for her reply, but she stared into the sunshine and said nothing.

Larmor Baden is a lonely little cl.u.s.ter of gray stone huts on the sh.o.r.e of the Morbihan sea. Some of Bauzy's friends lounged smiling up to welcome him, waving their wide black hats with velvet streamers, and bowing low to the lady. Oliver alighted with decision. One thing he knew: He would not drive back with her. Something was amiss. He would wash his hands of her.

"Here, madame, is Vincent Selo, paysageur," he said rapidly in French.

"He has a good boat. He will take you where you desire. Sail with her to Gavr' Inis," he said to Selo, "and bring her back at her pleasure.

Somebody can drive her back to Vannes, and don't overcharge her, you robbers!"

"Gavr' Inis?" Frances repeated.

"It is an island in the sea yonder, madame. A quiet place of trees.

When there was not a man in the world, evil spirits built there an altar for the worship of the devil. No men could have built it. There are huge stones carried there from the mountains far inland, that no engine could lift. It is a great mystery."