THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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"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 realised 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 adjusted them 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 bed-ridden old woman.
"I'm afraid I can do nothing without Miss Warren's instructions," she said.
"My step-daughter'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 flavour of an adventure, decided to humour 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 fool. I'm a dead woman. But I'm not going to die till I'm ready."
Her lids closed, so that her eyes were visible only as a narrow black rim. Her shrivelled face seemed to become a worn-out garment, and she spoke in the reedy voice of burnt-out forces.
"I've a job. Keep putting it off. Weak of me. But it is a job no one likes. Is it?"
Helen guessed immediately that she referred to her will.
"No," she replied. "Everyone puts it off."
And then, because she could not resist her interest in the affairs of others, she added a bit of advice.
"But we all of us have to do it. It must be done."
But Lady Warren was not listening. The eclipse was rapidly passing, for her eyes grew alert as they slanted across to the small bundle on the table.
"Bring. it to me," she said.
"No," replied Helen. "Better not."
"Fool. What are you afraid of? It's only my spectacle case."
"Yes, I know it is. I'm ever so sorry, my lady, but I'm only a machine. I have to obey Miss Warren's orders. And she told me I was only to sit and watch."
It was plain that Lady Warren was not used to opposition. Her eyes blazed, and her fingers hooked to talons, as she clawed her throat.
"Go," she gasped. "Get—Miss—Warren."
Helen rushed from the room—almost glad of the attack, since the crisis of the revolver was postponed. As she reached the door, she looked back and saw that Lady Warren had collapsed upon her pillows.'
A second later, the invalid raised her head. There was a stir amid the bedclothes, and two feet, in bed-socks, emerged from under the eider-down, as Lady Warren slipped out of bed.
CHAPTER VI. ILLUSION
Her heart beating fast with mingled exhilaration and fear, Helen hurried to Miss Warren's room. For the first time in her life, she was up against unknown possibilities. Unlike the other houses in which she had worked, the Summit provided a background.
It was true that Mrs. Oates had heartlessly plucked the mystery from the last tree in the plantation, so that Helen was forced to accept him as the yokel lover of a rustic beauty; yet there remained material for macabre drama in the savage muffled landscape and the overhanging shadow of murder.
The