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

me know directly she

arrives. She must relieve me as soon as she has had something to eat.”

 

It was Helen’s chance—and she took it.

 

“Might I sit with Lady Warren?” she asked.

 

Miss Warren hesitated before her reply. She knew that it would be

against her brother’s wish to entrust Lady Warren to an untrained

stranger; but the girl seemed reliant and conscientious.

 

“Thank you, Miss Capel,” she replied. “It would be kind. Lady Warren is

asleep, so you will only have to sit very still, and watch her.”

 

She crossed the landing to her own room, and then turned to give further

advice.

 

“If she wakes and wants something you can’t find—or if you are in any

difficulty, come, at once, to me.”

 

Helen promised, even while she was conscious that she would appeal to

Miss Warren only as a last resource. She meant to cope with any

situation on her own initiative, and she hoped that the need would

arise.

 

The tide of her curiosity was running strongly when, at long last, she

entered the blue room. It was a huge, handsome apartment, furnished with

a massive mahogany suite, made sombre by reason of the prevailing dark

blue color of the walls, carpet and curtains. A dull red fire glowed in

the steel grate. Although its closeness was mitigated with

lavender-water, the atmosphere smelt faintly of rotten apples. Lady

Warren lay in the big bed. She wore a dark-purple silk quilted

dressing-jacket, and her head was propped high with pillows. Her eyes

were closed and she was breathing heavily. The first glance told Helen

that Stephen was right in his description. There was no sign of grand

character in this bedridden old woman. The lines which scored her face,

like an ancient map, were all plainly traced by bad temper and egotism.

Her grey hair was cut short in a thick untidy shock and her nose was

suspiciously red.

 

Stealing across the floor, Helen sat down in the low chair by the fire.

She noticed that each coal was wrapped in white tissue paper, so that

the scuttle appeared to be filled with snowballs. As she knew this

transformation was a means to ensure quiet, she took the hint, and

remained motionless, as though she were furniture.

 

Lady Warren’s breathing continued with the volume and regularity of a

steam-engine. Presently Helen began to suspect that it was a special

performance for her benefit.’

 

“She’s not really asleep,” she thought. “She’s foxing.”

 

The breathing went on—but nothing happened. Yet Helen was aware of the

quiver of her pulse which always heralded Mr. Poke’s approach.’

 

Someone was watching her.

 

She had to turn her head round, in order to look at the bed. When she

did so, Lady Warren’s lids were tightly closed. With a joyous sense of

playing a new game, Helen waited for a chance to catch her unawares.

 

Presently, after many feints and failures, she proved too quick for Lady

Warren. Looking up unexpectedly, she caught her in the act of spying.

Her lids were slit across by twin black crescents of extraordinary

brightness, which peered out at her.

 

They shut immediately, only to open again, as the in valid realized that

further subterfuge was vain.

 

“Come here,” she said, in a faint fluttering voice.

 

With a memory of Mrs. Oates’ warning, Helen advanced warily. She looked

a small and insignificant person—a pale girl in a blue pinafore dress,

which made her fade into her background.

 

“Come nearer,” commanded Lady Warren.

 

Helen obeyed, although her eyes wandered to the objects on the

bed-table. She wondered which missile the invalid might choose to hurl

at her head, and stretched out her hand for the biggest medicine bottle.

 

“Put that down,” snarled her ladyship faintly. “That’s mine.”

 

“Oh, I am sorry.” Helen spoke eagerly. “I’m like that. I hate people to

touch my things.”

 

Feeling that there was a link between them, she stood boldly by the bed,

and smiled down at the invalid.

 

“You’re very small,” remarked Lady Warren, at last breaking her silence.

“No style. Very unimpressive. I thought my grandson would have shown

better taste when he chose a wife.”

 

As she listened, Helen realized that Simone had refused to enter the

blue room, although Newton had urged her to do so.

 

“He showed excellent taste,” she said. “His wife is marvellous. I’m not

her.”

 

“Then—who are you?” asked Lady Warren.

 

“The help. Miss Capel.”

 

A ripple of some strong emotion passed over the old woman’s face,

leaving the black crescent eyes fixed and the lips hanging apart.

 

“She looks afraid,” thought Helen. “But what’s she afraid of? It—it

must be me.”

 

Lady Warren’s next words, however, gave the lie to this exciting

possibility. Her voice strengthened.

 

“Go away,” she shouted, in the bass voice of a man.

 

Startled by the change, Helen turned and ran from the invalid, expecting

every second, to feel the crash of a bottle on her head. But, before she

reached the door, she was recalled by a shout.

 

“You little fool, come back.”

 

Quivering with expectation at this new turn, Helen crossed to the bed.

The old lady began to talk in such a faint, whine, that her words were

almost inaudible.

 

“Get out of the house. Too many trees.”

 

“Trees?” repeated Helen, as her mind slipped back to the last tree in

the plantation.

 

“Trees,” repeated Lady Warren. “They stretch out their branches and

knock at the window. They try to get in… When it’s dark, they

move. Creeping up to the house… Go away.”

 

As she listened, Helen felt a sense of kinship with the old woman. It

was strange that she, too, had stood at the window, at twilight, and

watched the invasion of the misted shrubs. Of course, it was all

imagination; but that fact alone indicated a common touch of “Mr. Poke.”

 

In any case, she wanted to use the trees as a liaison bebtween Lady

Warren and herself. It was one of her small failings that, although she

liked to succeed in her own line, she liked still better to make a

success of someone else’s job. She proceeded to try and make a conquest

of Lady Warren.

 

“How strange,” she said. “I’ve thought exactly the same as you.”

 

Unfortunately, Lady Warren resented her words as im pertinence.

 

“I don’t want to hear your thoughts,” Lady Warren whined. “Don’t dare to

presume, because I’m helpless… What’s your name?”

 

“Helen Capel,” was the dejected reply.

 

“How old are you?”

 

“Twenty-three.”

 

“Liar. Nineteen.”

 

Helen was startled by her acumen, as her employers had always accepted

her official age.’ “It’s not exactly a lie,” she explained. “I feel I’m

entitled to put on my age, because I’m old in experience. I began to

earn my own living when I was fourteen.”

 

Lady Warren showed no signs of being touched.

 

“Why?” she asked. “Are you a love-child?”

 

“Certainly not,” replied Helen indignantly. “My parents were married in

church. But they couldn’t provide for me. They were unlucky.”

 

“Dead?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then they’re lucky.”

 

In spite of her subordinate position, Helen always found the necessary

courage to protest when any vital principle of her Creed was assaulted.

 

“No,” Helen protested. “Life is wonderful. I always wake up, just glad

to be alive.”

 

Lady Warren grunted before she continued her catechism.

 

“Drink?” she asked.

 

“No.”

 

“Any men?”

 

“No chance—worse luck.”

 

Lady Warren did not join in her laugh. Stared at Helen so rigidly that

the black slits of her eyes appeared to congeal. Some scheme was being

spun amid the cobwebs of her mind.

 

The clock ticked away the silence and the fire fell in, with a sudden

spurt of flame.’

 

“Shall I put on more coal?” asked Helen, anxious to break the spell.

 

“No. Give me back my teeth.”

 

The request was so startling that Helen, positively jumped. But the next

second, she realized that Lady Warren was only referring to her denture,

which was in an enamel cup, on the bed-table.

 

She looked away tactfully, while the august invalid fished them out of

the disinfectant, with her fingers, and adjustedthem in her gums.

“Helen,” she cooed, in a new dove-like voice, “I want you to sleep with

me, tonight.”

 

Helen looked at her, aghast, for the change in her was both grotesque

and horrible. The denture forced her lips apart in a stiff artificial

grin, which gave her an unhuman resemblance to an old waxwork.

 

“You were afraid of me, without my teeth,” Lady Warten told her. “But

you won’t be afraid now. I want to take care of you, tonight.”

 

Helen licked her lips nervously.

 

“But, my lady,” said Helen, “the new nurse will sleep with you tonight.”

 

“I’d forgotten the new nurse. Another slut. Well, I’ll be ready for her.

But you’re to sleep with me. You see, my dear, you’re not safe.”

 

As she smiled, Helen was suddenly reminded of the grin of a crocodile.

 

“I couldn’t pass a night alone with her,” she thought, even while she

was conscious that her fear was only of her own creation. It was

obviously absurd to be afraid of a bedridden old woman.

 

“I’m afraid I can do nothing without Miss Warren’s instructions,” she

said.

 

“My stepdaughter’s a fool. She doesn’t know what’s going on in this

house. Trees always trying to get in… Come here, Helen.” As Helen

stooped over the bed, she felt her hand caught in a strong grip.

 

“I want you to get me something,” whispered Lady Warren. “It’s in the

cupboard at the top of the wardrobe. Get on a chair.”

 

Helen, who was enjoying the rare flavor of an adventure, decided to

humor her.

 

She climbed on to one of the heavy chairs and stood on her toes, in

order to open the door of the cupboard.

 

She felt a little doubtful of the commission, as she groped with her

hand, in the dark recess. It was evident that Lady Warren was using her

as a tool, to procure forbidden fruit. With a memory of her inflamed

nose, she suspected a hidden bottle of brandy.

 

“What is it?” she called.

 

“A little hard thing, wrapped in a silk scarf,” was the disarming reply.

 

As she spoke, Helen’s fingers closed upon something which answered to

the description.

 

“Is this it?” she asked, springing to the ground.

 

“Yes.” Lady Warren’s voice was eager. “Bring it to me.”

 

In the short journey to the bed, Helen was gripped with a sudden fear of

the thing she held. Even under its mufflings, its shape was

unmistakable. It was a revolver. She remembered Lady Warren’s dead

rabbits—and also a husband shot dead by accident.’

 

“I wonder if it’s loaded,” she thought fearfully. “I can’t even tell

which is the dangerous end… I mustn’t let her have it. Mrs. Oates

warned me.”

 

“Bring it to me,” commanded Lady Warren.

 

She made no attempt to disguise her excitement. Her fingers shook with

eagerness, as she stretched out her hands.

 

Helen pretended not to hear. With affected carelessness, she laid down

the revolver on a small table—at a safe distance from the

invalid—before she advanced to the bed.

 

“Now, you mustn’t get worked up,” she said soothingly.

 

“It is so bad for your heart.”

 

Fortunately Lady Warren’s attention was distracted by her words.

 

“What does the doctor say about me?” she asked.

 

“He says your vitality is wonderful,” replied Helen.

 

“Then he’s a