And there on the dark staircase the girl waited—it seemed to her for a long time, while murmurs of conversation came from behind the now shut door of Miss Cheale’s sitting room. She felt extraordinarily strung up and excited at the thought that there, within a few feet of her, was the woman who claimed to have the key to the mystery of Mrs. Garlett’s death.
At last Mrs. Lightfoot came out of the brightly lit room, and beckoned to her help; and Jean, hurrying on to the landing, saw a narrow ladder-like staircase.
“No need for me to go up. You can’t make no mistake, Bet, for only one o’ the two garrets up there ’as any furniture in it. I don’t say you’ll find it very comfortable, but ’tain’t as if ’twas terrible cold just now. You can move about too, for all you’re just over Miss Cheale’s bedroom. They don’t build ’ouses like this nowadays. She’s in a rare nervy state to-night. She’s frightened of a feller that’s been ’anging about ’ere a lot—name of Kentworthy. ’E’s getting up this case for ’Enry Garlett. But ’e don’t get much change out of me—though before I knew what ’e was up to, we became quite friendly-like. Oh, ’e’s an artful one! But ’e won’t get over Jemima Lightfoot—and I told ’im so flat! Only once did ’e force ’is way into this ’ouse and that was when I wasn’t in it.”
CHAPTER XXIII
With a loud cry of “What is it? What’s the matter?” Jean, in the pitch darkness, sat up in her narrow pallet bed, and listened.
For a moment or two she didn’t know where she was, and fear clutched at her heart. And then, though memory soon came back, it was accompanied by icy waves of terror, and it was with a trembling hand that she lit a candle.
It was now quite still and quiet up there under the roof of the huge old house. Then, all at once, the sounds that had awakened her began again. The sound of a loud, discordant voice—or was it two voices?—that seemed terrifyingly near.
Clasping her hands together nervously, Jean listened intently. It was a high-pitched voice—only one voice after all—uttering quick, eager, argumentative words, of which she could not catch the sense.
The candle was burning more brightly now, and she looked timorously round her. Mrs. Lightfoot, with all her kind, hearty good-nature, had never bethought herself of making the bedroom of her help even a little comfortable. It was a large garret, and the ceiling was so low that it gave its occupant a feeling of being pressed down upon. The flooring boards, which were not over-clean, were bare, though by the pallet bed lay a dingy-looking string mat. A tub and minute iron washing-stand were in a corner, and a rickety yellow-painted chest of drawers stood far away, under the dormer window, and on it was the cheapest form of toilet-glass made. Jean had laughed when she had looked at herself in it, for so distorted a view of her face had never been presented to her gaze before. But now, sitting up in bed, the thought of that distorting looking-glass gave her a feeling of horror and affright.
The one chair in the room was dirty and very shaky. On it there now stood her light, cheap, almost empty, suitcase. There were three hooks screwed into the door, but she had put her clothes on the bed, for in spite of Mrs. Lightfoot’s remark, she had felt very cold....