“Sh! Sh!” she said. “I need your help. It is a desperate matter. You must be calm.”
“And what shall I do?” I asked.
“This—as I tell you,” she answered, her eyes fixed on mine. “Send every one else out of the house—only before they go, I want everything taken out of this room of mine—all the furniture, all the rugs, all the pictures. I want the blinds drawn everywhere, the doors bolted. For three weeks I want no person to come across the threshold. I want you to stay that long indoors—in this house. Mr. Estabrook will not come back during that time, and to all others I want you to say that he is away and that I am away, too,—or ill,—or anything that will seem best to you. I never want you to come near my locked door unless I call for you.”
“But, Mrs. Estabrook!” I cried, my lips all of a tremble.
“Wait,” she said. There was a look in her eyes that seemed to go into me like a knife. “Come to my door every morning. Bring a glass of milk. Knock. If I do not answer, have the door broken down! That is all; do you hear?”
“Mercy on us!” I cried. “Tell me what this means. Are you mad?”
She put her soft hand on my cheek for a second.
“No,” said she, with a voice growing as hard as the rattling of wire nails. “Do as I say. Do it for the sake of the lives of all of us!”
I believed then that she was sane. There was something in her eyes, as I have said, that would have tamed a tiger. I got up. I did everything she had asked. The furnishings were all moved out of her room until it looked as bare as a place to rent in December. There was nothing on the floor but a mattress and a chair, which were left by her directions. I sent the servants away with instructions to come back after three weeks’ time. At last, when all was done and I was alone, walking through the house like a sour-faced ghost, I climbed the stairs to her door. It was locked! I have not caught sight of her face since!
I cannot tell any one what I have been through in these days of waiting. I only know it has been like a terrible dream—like those dreams that make the perspiration come out on the forehead with the struggle to wake or cry out or toss the smothering thing from off a body’s lungs and heart. And till now, in spite of all, I have been faithful enough to my trust.