THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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the wonderful Mr. Poke and used to ask questions about his prowess, to which there was no limit.
The staircase was lit by a pendant globe, which swung from a beam which spanned the central well. The first floor was between this light and the illumination from the hall, so that the landing was rather dark. Facing the flight of stairs, was an enormous ten-foot mirror, framed in tarnished gilt carving, and supported by a marble console table.
As Helen approached it, her reflection came to meet her, so that a small white face rose up from the dim depths of the glass, like a corpse emerging from deep lake-water, on the seventh day.
The thrill which ran through her veins, in response, seemed to her, an omen. Miss Warren came to the door, in answer to her knock. Her pale face looked dragged and devitalised after hours of imprisonment with her step-mother.
"Has the new nurse come?" she asked.
"No." Helen was aggressively cheerful. "And we don't expect her for hours and hours. Mrs. Oates says the rain has made the hills difficult for the car."
"Quite," agreed Miss Warren wearily. "Please let 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 colour 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 bed-ridden 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 invalid realised 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 realised 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 between 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 impertinence.
"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,"