The Spiral Staircase (2 page)

It was no longer a distant silhouette, but was so close that she could distinguish the color of the window-curtains in the blue room. The vegetable garden sloped down to the wall which bounded the plantation, and a coil of rising smoke, together with a cheerful whistle told her that the gardener was on the other side, making a bonfire.

At the sight of her goal, Helen slackened her pace. Now that it was over, her escapade seemed an adventure, so that she felt reluctant to return to dull routine. Very soon, she would be going round, locking up in readiness for Curfew. It sounded dull, for she had forgotten that, in the darkness of the hollow, she realized the significance of a barred bedroom window.

The rising wind spattered her face with rain, and increased her sense of rebellion against four walls and a roof. She told herself that it was blowing up for a dirty night, as she walked towards the front gate.

At its end, the plantation thinned down to a single avenue of trees, through which she could see the stone posts of the entrance to the Summit, and the laurels of the drive. As she watched, fresh lights glowed through the drawingroom windows.

It was the promise of tea-calling her home. She was on the point of breaking into a run, when her heart gave a sudden leap.

She was positive that the furthest tree had moved.

She stopped and looked at it more closely, only to conclude that her fancy had tricked her. It was lifeless and motionless, like the rest. Yet there was something about its shape—some slight distortion of the trunk—which filled her with vague distrust.

It was not a question of logic—she only knew that she did not want to pass that special tree.

As she lingered, in hesitation, her early training asserted itself. She began to earn her living, at the age of fourteen, by exercising the dogs of the wealthy. As these rich dogs were better-fed, and stronger than herself, they often tried to control a situation, so—she was used to making quick decisions.

In this instance, her instinct dictated a short way home, which involved a diagonal cut across boggy ground, through a patch of briars, and over the garden wall.

She carried through her programme, in the minimum of time, and with little material damage, but complete loss of dignity. After a safe, but earthy, landing in the cabbage-bed, she walked around to the front door. With her latch key in the lock, she turned, for a last look at the plantation, visible through the gates.

She was just in time to see the last tree split into two, as a man slipped from behind its trunk, and disappeared into the shadow.

THE FIRST CRACKS

The surge of Helen’s curiosity was stronger than any other emotion. It compelled her to rush down the drive, in an effort to investigate the mystery. But when she reached the gate she could see only lines of trunks, criss-crossing in confusing perspectives.

Forgetful of her duties, she stood gazing into the gloom of the plantation while a first star trembled through a rent in the tattered. clouds.

“It was a man,” she thought triumphantly, “so I was right. He was hiding.”

She knew that the incident admitted the simple explanation of a young man waiting for his sweetheart. Yet she rejected it, partly because she wanted a thrill, and partly because she did not believe it met the case. In her opinion, a .lover would naturally pass the time by pacing his beat, or smoking a cigarette.

But the rigid pose, and the lengthy vigil, while the man stood in. mimicry of. a tree, suggested a tenacious purpose.

It reminded her of the concentrated patience of a crocodile, lurking in the shadow of a river bank, to pounce on its prey.

“Well, whatever he was doing, I’m glad I didn’t pass him,” she decided as she turned to go back to the house.

It was a tall grey stone building, of late Victorian architecture, and it looked strangely out of keeping with the savage landscape. Built with a flight of eleven stone steps leading up to the front door, and large windows, protected with. green jalousies, it was typical of the residential quarter of a prosperous town. It should have been surrounded by an acre of well-kept garden, and situated in a private road, with lamp-posts and a pillar-box.

For all that, it offered a solidly resistant front to the solitude. Its state of excellent repair was evidence that no-money was spared to keep it weather-proof. There was no blistered paint, no defective guttering. The whole was somehow suggestive of a house which, at a pinch, could be rendered secure as an armored car.

It glowed with electric-light, for Oates’ principal duty was to work the generating plant. A single wire overhead was also a comfortable reassurance of its link with civilization.

Helen no longer felt any wish to linger outside. The evening mists were rising so that the evergreen shrubs, which clumped the lawn, appeared to quiver into life. Viewed through a veil of vapor, they looked black and grim, like mourners assisting at a funeral.

“If I don’t hurry, they’ll get between me and the house, and head me off,” Helen told herself, still playing her favorite game of make-believe. She had some excuse for her childishness, since her sole relaxation had been a tramp through muddy blind lanes, instead of three hours at the Pictures.

She ran eagerly up the steps, and, after a guilty glance at her shoes, put in some vigorous foot-work on the huge iron scraper. Her latch-key was still in the lock, where she had left it, before her swoop down the drive. As she turned it, and heard the spring lock snap behind her, shutting her inside, she was aware of a definite sense of shelter.

The house seemed a solid hive of comfort, honeycombed with golden cells, each glowing with light and warmth. It buzzed with voices, it offered company, and protection.

In spite of her appreciation, the interior of the Summit would have appalled a modern decorator. The lobby was floored with black and ginger tiles, on which lay a black fur rug. Its furniture consisted of a chair with carved arms, a terra cotta drain-pipe, to hold umbrellas, and a small palm on a stand of peacock-blue porcelain.

Pushing open the swing-doors, Helen entered the hall, which was entirely carpeted with peacock-blue pile, and dark with massive mahogany. The strains of wireless struggled through the heavy curtain which muffled the drawingroom door, and the humid air was scented with potted primulas, blended with orange-pekoe tea.

Although Helen’s movements had been discreet, someone with keen hearing had heard the swing of the lobby doors. The velvet folds of the portiere were pushed aside, and avoice cried out in petulant eagerness.

“Stephen, you. Oh, it’s you.”

Helen was swift to notice the drop in young Mrs. Warren’s voice.

“So you were listening for him, my dear,” she deduced. “And dressed up, like a mannequin.”

Her glance of respect was reserved for the black-andwhite satin tea-frock, which gave the impression that Simone had been imported straight from the London Restaurant the-dansant, together with the music. She also followed the conventions of fashion in such details as artificial lips and eyebrows superimposed on the original structure. Her glossy black hair was sleeked back into curls, resting on the nape of her neck, and her nails were polished vermilion.

But in spite of long slanting lines, painted over shaven arches, and a tiny bow of crimson constricting her natural mouth, she had not advanced far from the cave. Her eyes glowed with primitive fire, and her expression hinted at a passionate nature. She was either a beautiful savage, or the last word in modern civilization, demanding self-expression.

The result was, the same—a girl who would do exactly as she chose.

As she looked down, from her own superior height, at Helen’s small, erect figure, the contrast between them was sharp. The girl was hatless, and wore a shabby tweed coat, which was furred with moisture. She brought back with her the outside elements, mud on her boots, the wind in her cheeks, and glittering drops on her mop of ginger hair.

“Do you know where Mr. Rice is?” demanded Simone.

“He went out of the gate, just before me,” replied Helen, who was a born opportunist, and always managed to be present at the important entrances and exits. “And I heard him saying something about ‘wishing good-bye’.”

Simone’s face clouded at the reminder that the pupil was going home on the morrow. She turned sharply, when her husband peered over her shoulder, like an inquisitive bird. He was tall, with a jagged crest of red hair, and horn-rimmed glasses.

“The tea’s growing stewed,” he said, in a high-pitched voice. “We’re not going to wait any longer for Rice.”

“I am,” Simone totd him.

“But the tea-cake’s getting cold.”

“I adore cold muffin.”

“Well-won’t you pour out for me?” “Sorry, darling. Qne of the things my mother never taught me.”

“I see.” Newton shrugged as he turned away. “I hope the noble Rice will appreciate your sacrifice.”

Simone pretended. not to hear, as she spoke to Helen, who had also feigned deafness.

“When you see Mr. Rice, tell him we’re waiting tea for him.” I

Helen realized that the entertainment was over, or rather, that the scene had been ruthlessly cut, just when she was looking forward to reprisals from Simone.

She walked rather’ reluctantly upstairs, until she reached the first landing, where she paused, to listen, outside the blue room. It always challenged her curiosity, because of the formidable old invalid who lay within, invisible, but paragraphed, like some legendary character.

As she could hear the murmur of Miss Warren’s voice—for the stepdaughter was acting as deputy nurse—she decided to slip into her room, to put it ready for the night.

The Summit was a three-storied house, with two staircases and a semi-basement. A bathroom on each floorand no water during a drought. 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.