Some Must Watch - Ethel Lina White (best book club books .TXT) 📗

up the pudding to the bedroom when I

knew the nurse was busy with her ladyship, washing down the decks. I

just gave the cap of the cylinder a twist as I was setting down the

plate.”

 

“What made you think of it?” gasped Helen.

 

“You. You said it was her life. But if it hadn’t worked I’d have

thought up some other way to get rid of Oates.” The nightmare oppression

increased as Helen sat opposite Mrs. Oates and watched her drain her

glass. There seemed to be a conspiracy against her; yet when she traced

back effect to cause, she could find no evidence of human malice.

 

There was nothing extraordinary in the fact that Mrs. Oates should have

a failing, and it was natural that her husband should try to check her;

it therefore followedalso naturally—that she should sharpen her wits

to get him out of her way.

 

The same logic characterized the events which had been responsible for

the clearance of the young people. Stephen Rice was devoted to his dog

and resented its banishment, while Simone had behaved in the normal

manner of a spoiled neurotic girl, whose desires had been thwarted. The

Professor, too, could not have done otherwise, when he authorized Newton

to follow his wife.

 

Of course, there had been unlucky trifles which had been the levers

which set the machinery in motion; but the responsibility for them was

divided equally among the members of the household.

 

It was unfortunate that Stephen should have brought home a dog, in the

first place, and doubly unfortunate when it clashed with Miss Warren’s

prejudice against all animals. The Professor’s lapse was also

lamentable, although he could hardly credit Mrs. Oates with the audacity

of committing a theft under his nose.

 

Helen had to admit that she, too, had lent a hand in weaving this

extraordinary tissue of consequences. She had influenced Dr. Parry to

exaggerate the gravity of Lady Warren’s condition, while her unlucky

remark about the oxygen had been the origin of Mrs. Oates’ brain-wave.

 

Yet, even as she marshalled her arguments, she grew afraid. Something

was advancing towards her—some vast slow movement of affairs, which she

was powerless to deflect from its course.

 

Blind chance alone could not be responsible for this string of apparent

accidents. Natural things were happening—but with unnatural complicity.

The process was altogether too smooth and too regular; they timed too

perfectly, as though some brain were directing their operations.

 

The sight of Mrs. Oates slowly dissolving from a shrewd woman into a

sot, stung Helen to desperate action.

 

“Give me that,” she cried, seizing the bottle. “You ought to be ashamed

of yourself.”

 

She realized her mistake when Mrs. Oates turned on her in a fury.

 

“Layoff that,” she shouted.

 

Helen tried to turn her action into a joke as she dodged around the

kitchen, pursued by Mrs. Oates.

 

“Don’t be so silly,” she urged, still hugging the bottle. “Try and pull

yourself together.” Red-eyed and panting, Mrs. Oates pent her into a

corner, snatched the bottle from her, and then slapped her cheek.

 

As the girl reeled back under the force of the blow, Mrs Oates gripped

her shoulders and practically hurled her out of the kitchen.

 

“Good riddance to bad rubbish” she muttered as she slammed the door.

“You keep out of here.”

 

Helen was glad to escape, for she realized the need to enlist fresh

help. Too timid to appeal to the Professor, she went into the library.

Miss Warren, who was hunched together, poring over a book, did not

welcome the interruption.

 

“I hope, Miss Capel, you’ve not disturbed me for a trifle,” she said.

 

“No,” Helen told her, “it’s important. Mrs. Oates is drunk.”

 

Miss Warren clicked with disgust, and then glanced at the clock.

 

“There’s nothing to worry about,” she said calmly. “She will sleep it

off tonight. Tomorrow she will do her works as usual.”

 

“But she had not quite passed out,” persisted Helen. “If you were to

speak to her now you might stop her.”

 

“I am certainly not going to argue with a semi-intoxicated woman,” said

Miss Warren. “And my brother’s work is far too important to be

interrupted. If you are wise, you will not interfere… This has

happened before.”

 

Miss Warren took up her book again, to indicate that theinterview was

over.

 

Feeling utterly miserable, Helen wandered into the hall. At the sight of

the telephone, however, her courage revived. It reminded her that while

she had been feeling lonely as though marooned on a desert island, the

Summit was still linked with civilization.

 

“I’ll ring up the Bull,” she decided. “We ought to find out if Simone is

safe. And then I’ll ring up Dr. Parry.”

 

She was conscious of’ sharp Suspense as she took the receiver from the

hook. In this gale telephone poles must be crashing down all over the

country. So many disasters had piled themselves up, that she quite

expected to find that she was cut off.

 

To her joy, however, she heard the buzz of connection, and an operator’s

voice at the Exchange enquiring the number. After a short interval,

another voice, speaking with a strong Welsh accent, informed her that he

was Mr. Williams, landlord of the Bull.

 

In answer to her enquiries he told her that Mr. and Mrs. Newton Warren

had arrived at the Inn, and were staying the night. He added that Mr.

Rice had left, with his dog, immediately after their arrival, presumably

to make room for the lady.

 

“Where did he go?” asked Helen.

 

“To the Parsonage. He said he knew Parson would put him up, seeing as

he’s partial to dogs.”

 

Feeling that she had family news to offer as her excuse, if she were

surprised at the telephone, Helen looked up Dr. Parry’s number in the

directory. Presently she heard his voice at the other end of the wire.

It sounded tired, and not exactly enthusiastic.

 

“Don’t tell me the old lady has thrown an attack. Have a heart. I’m only

just started on my meal.”

 

“I want some advice,” Helen told him. “There’s no one else to ask but

you.”

 

But at the end of her story she had not succeeded in convincing even

herself of the gravity of the position. Everything sounded petty and

stressed; and she was sure that Dr. Parry shared her view.

 

“Bit of a landslide,” he said, “but there’s nothing you can do. Don’t

tackle Mrs. Oates again.”

 

“Bit I do want to get her sober,” pleaded Helen. “It’s so lonely with no

one.”

 

“Are you afraid?”

 

“N-no,” replied Helen.

 

“Because, if you re, I’ll come over at once.”

 

As he expected, the offer braced Helen to a refusal. He was hungry,

wet, and dog-tired; although he was susceptible, at that moment a fire

and his pipe appealed to him more than the brightest’ eyes.

 

“I know that watch-tower of a house can’t be too cheerful in a gale,” he

said. “But say your prayers and it won’t come down. Of course, you’ve

had a nasty shock, this evening, and you naturally feel lonely with

those people walking out on you. Still, there’s quite a respectable

number left. Lock up, and you’ve nothing to fear.”

 

“Yes,” agreed Helen, starting at a violent crash outside one of the

shuttered windows.

 

“If you went to bed now, and locked your door, could you sleep in this

gale?” asked Dr. Parry.

 

“I ‘don’t think so. My room’s high up, and it’s rocking like a cradle.”

 

“Then keep up the fire in your sitting-room, and make up a shakedown

there. You’ll hardly hear the storm. Before you know it, it’ll be

tomorrow morning.”

 

“And things look so different in the morning,” said. Helen.

 

It was easy to be brave with Dr. Parry’s cheerful voice ringing in her

ears.

 

“Remember this,” he said. “If you feel afraid, ring me up and I’ll come

over.”

 

With the promise to cheer her, Helen rang off. But as she looked around

the hall her confidence died. The house seemed to sway with he gale, and

the night to be full of sounds. A great voice roared down the chimney,

until she felt she was on the verge of catching actual words. Feeling

that any reception was better than loneliness, Helen went down to the

kitchen again. To her relief, Mrs. Oates beamed a welcome. Her color had

grown a trifle more congested, while the brandy in the bottle had sunk.

 

“I mustn’t irritate her,” thought Helen, as she sat down and patted Mrs.

Oates familiarly on the knee.

 

“We’re friends, old thing,” she said. “Aren’t we?”

 

“Yes,” nodded Mrs. Oates. “Oates said ‘Look after little Miss.’ Them

were his last words, before he was called away. Look after little Miss.”

 

“Oh, don’t talk as if he was dead,” cried Helen.

 

Stroking Mrs. Oates’ hand the while, she began to talk persuasively.

 

“But how can you look after me if you’re drunk?”

 

“I’m not drunk,” objected Mrs. Oates. “I can toe the line. And I can

cosh anyone as dared to lay a finger on little Miss,”

 

Rising, with only the slightest stagger, shewalked across the room,

sparring at shadow adversaries with such vigor that Helen felt

comforted.

 

“If I can only keep her like this,” she thought, “she’s as, good as any

man,”

 

Mrs. Oates stopped, blowing like a porpoise, to receive Helen’s

applause.

 

“I’ve been setting here,” she said, “thinking. And thinking. I’m

worrying about that nurse. “Why does she speak with her mouth all choked

up with bread-crumbs? What’s the answer to that?”

 

“I don’t know,” replied Helen.

 

“I do,” Mrs. Oates told her. “She’s putting on a voice. Depend on it

she’s got another one of her own, same as the old lady upstairs. And

she’s putting on a walk. She’s reminding herself not to tramp as if she

was squashing beetles. Now, what do you make of that?”

 

“What do you?” asked Helen uncomfortably.

 

“Ah. May be she’s not a woman—same as you and me. Maybe, he–”

 

As Mrs. Oates broke off to stare, Helen turned and saw Nurse Barker

standing at the open door.