Some Must Watch - Ethel Lina White (best book club books .TXT) 📗
- Author: Ethel Lina White
- Performer: -
Book online «Some Must Watch - Ethel Lina White (best book club books .TXT) 📗». Author Ethel Lina White
The family—consisting of old Lady Warren, the Professor, and Miss
Warren, slept on the first floor, while the spare-rooms were on the
second. The top attics housed the domestic staff—when any—and, at
present, was only occupied by the Oates couple.
Newton now counted as a visitor, for he and his wife had the big red
room, on the second floor, while his old room, which connected with the
bedrooms of Lady Warren and the Professor, was turned into the nurse’s
sitting-room.
As Helen opened the door of Miss Warren’s room, a small-incident
occurred which was fraught with future significance. The handle slipped
round in her grip, so that she had to exert pressure in order to turn
the knob.
“A screw’s loose,” she thought. “Directly I’ve time I’ll get the
screwdriver and put it right.”
Anyone acquainted with Helen’s characteristics would know that she
always manufactured leisure for an unfamiliar job, even if she had to
neglect some legitimate duty. It was the infusion of novelty into her
dull routine which helped to keep undimmed her passionate zest for life.
Miss Warren’s room was sombre and bare, with brown wallpaper, curtains,
and cretonne. An old gold cushion supplied the sole touch of color. It
was essentially the sanctum of a student, for books overflowed from the
numerous shelves and cases, while the desk was littered with papers.
Helen was rather surprised to find that the shutters were fastened
already, while the small green-shaded lamp over the bureau gleamed like
a cat’s eye.’
As she returned to the landing, Miss Warren came out of the blue room.
Like her brother, she was tall and of a commanding figure, but there the
resemblance ended. She appeared to Helen as an overbred and superior
personality, with dim flickering features, and eyes the hue of
rainwater.
In common with the Professor however, she seemed to resent the gaze of a
stranger as an outrage on her privacy; yet, while her remote glance sent
Helen, away on a very long journey, the Professor decimated her out of
existence.
“You’re late, Miss Capel,” she remarked in her toneless voice.
“I’m sorry.” Helen looked anxious, as she wondered if her precious job
were in peril. “I understood, from Mrs. Oates, that I was free till
five. It’s my first afternoon off since I came.”
“That is not what I meant. Of course, I am not reproaching you for any
breach of duty. But it is too late for you to be returning from a walk.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Warren. I did go farther than I intended. But it
did not grow dark till the last mile.”
Miss Warren looked at Helen, who felt herself slipping away a thousand
miles or so.
“A mile is a long way from home,” she said. “It is not wise to go far,
even by daylight. Surely you get sufficient exercise working about the
house? Why don’t you go into the garden to get fresh air?”
“Oh, but Miss Warren,” protested. Helen, “that is not the same as a good
stretching walk, is it?”
“I understand.” Miss Warren smiled faintly. “But I want you, in turn, to
understand this. You are a young girl, and I am responsible for your
safety.”
Even while the warning seemed grotesque on Miss Warren’s lips, Helen
thrilled to the intangible hint of danger. It seemed to be
everywhere—floating in the air—inside the house, as well as outside in
the dark tree-dripping valley.
“Blanche.”
A deep bass voice—like that of a man, or an old woman—boomed faintly
from the blue room. Instantly, the stately Miss Warren shrank, from a
paralyzing personality, to a schoolgirl hurrying to obey the summons of
her mistress.
“Yes, Mother,” she called. “I’m coming.”
She crossed the landing, in ungainly strides, and shut the door of the
blue room behind her, to Helen’s disap pointment.
“I’m getting a strange contrast in my types,” she thought, as she slowly
walked up the stairs, to the next landing. “Mrs. Newton is torrid, and
Miss Warren frigid. Hot and cold water, by turns. I wonder what will
happen in case of fusion?”
She liked to coin phrases, just as she enjoyed the reflection that she
was brought into daily contact with two bachelors and a widower, thus
reviving a lost art. Those derided Victorians, who looked upon every
man, as a potential husband, certainly extracted every ounce of interest
from a dull genus;
Yet, while she respected the Professor’s intellect, and genuinely looked
forward to the visits of the young Welsh doctor, she resolved to go on
buying Savings Certificates, for her old age. For she believed in
God—but not in Jane Eyre.
She was on the point of entering her room, when she noticed that a light
was shining through the glass transom of the bachelor’s room. It drew
her, as a magnet, to his door.
“Are you inside, Mr. Rice?” she called.
“Come and see for yourself,” invited the pupil.
“I only wanted to know if the light was being wasted.”
“Well, it’s not. Come in.”
Helen obeyed the invitation. She was used to two kinds of behavior from
men; they either overlooked her altogether, or paid her stressed
attentions, in private.
Of the alternatives, she preferred to be insulted; she could always give
back as good as she got, while she was braced by any kind of personal
experience.
She liked Stephen Rice, because he treated her exactly as he treated
other girls—with a casual frankness. He was smoking, as he pitched
clothing into an open suitcase, and he made no apology for his state of
undress, as his underwear satisfied his own standard of decency.
Although he did not appeal to Helen, who liked a man’s face to betray
some trace of intellect, or spirit; he was generally accepted as
unusually handsome, on the evidence of heavy regular features, and thick
waving hair, which grew rather too low on his brow.
“Like dogs?” he asked, shaking out a confusion of ties.
“Let me,” remarked Helen, taking them from him, with kind firmness. “Of
course I like dogs. I’ve looked after them.”
“Then that’s a bad mark to you. I loathe women who boss dogs. You set
them showing off in Parks. Like the blasted centurion, who said come and
he cometh. I always want to bite them, since the dogs are too
gentlemanly to do their own job.”
“Yes, I know,” nodded Helen, who agreed, on principle, when it was
possible. “But my dogs used to boss me. They had a secret understanding
to all pull at once, in different directions. The wonder is I didn’t
develop into a starfish.”
Stephen shouted with laughter.
“Good for them… Like to see something special in the way of dogs?
I bought him, today, from a farmer.”
Helen looked around the untidy room.
“Where is he?” she asked. “Under the bed?”
“Is that where you sleep? Inside the bed, you cuckoo.”
“Oo. Suppose he has fleas?”
“Suppose he hasn’t?… Come, Otto.”
Stephen raised a corner of the eiderdown, and an Alsatian peeped out.
“Bit shy,” explained Stephen. “I say, what price old Miss Warren when
she sees him? She won’t allow a dog inside the house.”
“Why?” asked Helen.
“Afraid of them.”
Oh, no, she can’t be. It’s the other way round. People are afraid of
her, because she’s so formidable.”.
“That’s only her make-up. She’s a hollow funk. Put her in a jam, and
she’d smash.” She’s got the wind up now, over this gorilla gent. By the
way, are you afraid of him?”
“Of course not.” Helen laughed. “Perhaps, I might be a bit if I was
alone. But no one could feel nervous in a house full of people.”
“I don’t agree. It all depends on the people. You’ll always find a weak
link. Miss Warren is one. She’d let you down.”
“But there’s safety in numbers,” persisted Helen. “He wouldn’t dare to
come here… D’you want any sewing done?” “No, thank you, my dear.
The godly Mrs. Oates has kept me sewn up. In more sense than one, by
the way… Now, there’s a character, if you like. You can bank on
her—if there’s not a bottle about.”
“Why—does she drink?”
Stephen only laughed in reply.
“Look here, you’d better clear out,” he advised, “before Miss Warren
raises hell. This is the bachelor’s room.”
“But I’m not a lady. I’m Staff,” explained Helen indignantly. “And
they’re waiting tea for you.”
“You mean, Simone is waiting. Old Newton is wolfing down the tea-cake.”
Stephen pulled on his coat. “I’ll take the pup down with me. Introduce
him to the family, and make us two to one, in the muffin handicap.”
“Surely you don’t call that large thing a pup,” cried Helen, as the
Alsatian followed his master into the bathroom.
“He’s quite young, really.” Stephen’s voice was positively tender. “I
love dogs—and hate women. Reason. Remind me to tell you the story of my
life.”
Helen felt slightly forlorn when his whistle died away in the distance.
She knew she would miss the pupil. But a second glance around the untidy
room reminded her that his absence would mean less work, so she resolved
to leave all regret to Simone.
Her tea was calling her downstairs to the kitchen. Not stopping to clear
away any litter, she hurried to her own room, and took off her coat, and
shoes. As the order for closed shutters only included the basement,
ground-floor and first-floor, her own casement banged open to the wind.
In spite of her haste, she could not resist the luxury of lingering
there, looking out over the valley, just to enjoy the sense of contrast.
She could see only a spongy blackness. It seemed to stir and creep
before the breath of the breeze. Not a gleam shone from any window of
the sparsely sprinkled cottages.
“I wonder where I stood, looking across at the Summit,” she wondered.
“It seemed such a long way off, then. And now, I’m inside, safe.”.
She was visited by no prescience to warn her that—since her
return—there had been certain trivial incidents which were the first
cracks in the walls of her fortress. Once they were started, nothing
could stop the process’ of disintegration; and each future development
would act as a wedge, to force the fissures into ever-widening breaches,
letting in the night.
A FIRESIDE STORY
Helen went down to the kitchen, by the back way—a spiral of steep steps,
broken up into flights at each floor, by a small landing, where a door
connected it with the main staircase. It was covered with the original
linoleum–brown-and-biscuit, and small—patterned—like an old-fashioned
tile, but still in excellent condition.
To Helen, this dingy back way down represented the essence of romance.
It was a delicate filament connecting her with the glamor of the past,
and revived memories of spacious and leisured days.
She had been brought up in a tiny mansion-flat, with no room to keep a
maid, a hat-box, or a cat. The perambulator was housed in the bathroom,
and the larder was thoughtfully built in the only spare recess, which
happened to be next to the stove.
When Helen reached the basement-hall, she could hear the welcome rattle
of china and see the glow of the kitchen fire through the frosted glass
panels of the door. Mrs. Oates was drinking tea from her saucer as she
made herself another piece of toast.
She was a tall, strapping woman, broad-shouldered
Comments (0)