Some Must Watch by Ethel Lina White (books for 5 year olds to read themselves .TXT) 📕

work again.

 

She must not let Lady Warren scream. If the Professor was startled in

his drugged sleep, there might be danger of shock to his brain. It would

be cruel, too, to alarm Miss Warren, while she was imprisoned.

 

Besides—the whisper stirred, like a snake, in her brain—it might attract

someone else.

 

As she lingered, Lady Warren’s mind apparently wandered.

 

“There’s a storm blowing up,” she said. “It’s growing dark.”

 

With a sharp pang of alarm, Helen realized that the room seemed to have

become actually dimmer. She rubbed her eyes, but the illusion did not

vanish. The electric-light was gleaming murkily, as through a slight

fog.

 

Her lips grew stiff, as she wondered if this were a prelude to complete

darkness.

 

One more feature of the thrill-drama had arrived, with the same

suggestion of cumulative effect.

 

“It’s getting nearer,” she thought fearfully.

 

In spite of her resolution, she shared her doubt with her companion.

 

“Someone’s tampered with the fuses,” she whispered.

 

Lady Warren snorted.

 

“The batteries are running out, idiot,” she snapped.

 

Helen gratefully grasped at the commonplace explanation. Oates was

responsible for the power-plant, and he was notoriously idle. In her

nervous dread of being alone in the darkness, she had recklessly

switched on nearly every light, without a thought of possible shortage.

 

“I’d better snap off most of the lights,” she said. “Yes,” nodded Lady

Warren. “Fetch candles, too. We can’t be left in the dark.”

 

Helen looked around her for candles, only to realize that these were

used exclusively for domestic purposes, in the basement. She remembered

seeing bundles in the storeroom, which was next to the larder.

 

“Do you mind being left?” she asked. “I must go now, before—”

 

Unable to contemplate a complete extinction, she rushed out of the room

and down the stairs. The hall seemed to flicker, as she passed through,

as though the house were sighing. It was warning her not to delay; in a

panic, lest she should have to grope her way through darkness, she

leaped down the kitchen stairs, like a scared antelope.

 

Mrs. Oates still slept in her chair, apparently peaceful as a good

child. As she passed, Helen touched her cheek, and found that it was

warm.

 

“Thank Heaven, there’s a special Providence to look after children and

drunks,” she thought.

 

In the passage, a spiral of red wire gleamed through the pear-shaped

hanging bulb, and the light was so dim that Helen held her breath. As

she dashed into the store room, she expected, every minute, to be

plunged in darkness, and the horror of Murder Lane.

 

Snatching the candles, she rushed back, laying a black trail, as she

snapped off each light. When she reached the hall, she repeated the

operation, in each reception-room. But, while she knew that she was

doing the only sensible thing, she vaguely felt that she was in the grip

of a horrible fatalism, which ordained that she should deliberately

blind the house.

 

Even as the thought crossed her mind, the oasis of light in which she

lingered Was suddenly swallowed up by the surrounding shadows.

 

The eclipse was but momentary. With the next second, the hall flickered

back again; but the work of demoralization was done.

 

The house had given a signal to the night. So intense was her fear of

it, that Helen felt a mad temptation to rush out into the night, and

take her chance in the open.

 

Captain Bean would give her, shelter; his cottage was, only a short

distance away, if she cut through the plantation. The trees no longer

held any terror, while she welcomed the thought of the wind and the rain

dashing in her face. The savage landscape had become sanctuary, because

the real menace was inside—hidden somewhere in the house.

 

She was on the point of unbolting the front door, when she remembered

the helpless inmates of the Summit. Lady Warren, the Professor, and Mrs.

Oates were unable to protect themselves. When the maniac found his prey

had escaped, he might wreak his disappointed fury upon them.

 

With the feeling that she was going to her doom, she returned to the

landing. After a pause, to recover her nerve, she pushed open the door

of the blue room.

 

Nothing appeared to have happened in her absence. Lady Warren sat humped

up, in bed, almost swamped in ultramarine shadows.

 

“You’ve been gone a long time, girl,” she grumbled. “Light the candles.”

 

There were no candle-sticks, so Helen dropped melted wax upon a marble

mantel-shelf, and fixed two candles in position, before the mirror.

 

“They look like corpse-candles,” remarked Lady Warren.

 

“I want more. All of them.”

 

“No, we must keep some in reserve,” Helen told her.

 

“They’ll last our time.”

 

Although the finality of the old woman’s voice sounded ominous, Helen

was aware of a change in her. Her eyes were opened wider, and they

gleamed with satisfaction, as she held up one bony hand.

 

“Look,” she cried. “It doesn’t shake. Feel how strong my fingers are.”

 

As Helen crossed to the bed, she forgot her invitation.

 

“I’m going to sleep,” she said. “Don’t leave me, girl.”

 

She closed her lids, and very soon her chest rose and fell with the

regularity of a machine, while her breathing was quiet and regular. It

was an extraordinary example of concentration and will-power, for Helen

was sure that she had actually lost consciousness.

 

“I wonder if I shall see her awake again,” she thought.

 

She felt as though the last link of connection with the finite world had

snapped. In the course of the night, she bad witnessed the temporary

flight of so many spirits, each slipping away, where she could not

follow them.

 

Although her own lids seemed weighted with lead, she, alone, was awake

in a sleep-bound world. She had to watch.

 

Suddenly she sprang to her feet, her heart leaping with terror. Someone

was moving in the dressingroom. She distinctly heard the sound of

footsteps, and stealthy movements.

 

Stealing across the carpet, she opened the door an inch, revealing a

crack of light, blocked by the dark figure of a man.

 

Even as criminals give themselves up to justice, she knew she could bear

no longer the torture of suspense. Screwed up to a pitch of desperate

courage, she flung open the door.

 

To her joy and surprise, she saw the Professor standing at the small

bureau. At the sight of the familiar formal figure, everything grew safe

and normal again. The house ceased to sway and gape, as the walls closed

together, in the security of a fortress.

 

She fought to keep back her tears, for the relief of having rational

company again was almost overpowering. But the Professor’s glacial eye

checked her hysteria.

 

“Oh, Professor,” she cried. “I’m so glad you’re all right again.”

 

“I am unaware that anything was wrong.” The Professor spoke coldly. “I

merely procured some necessary sleep.”

 

Something had annoyed him, for he frowned as he opened another empty

drawer.

 

“Where is the nurse?” he asked.

 

“Gone,” replied Helen, feeling incapable of lucid explanation.

 

“Where has she gone?”

 

“I don’t know. Perhaps, she’s hiding in the house.”

 

“She—or someone else—has taken something of mine, which I am anxious

to find. But it doesn’t matter, for the present.”

 

As though struck by some recollection, he turned round and faced Helen.

 

“How did you get back to the house?” he inquired.

 

She did not understand the question.

 

“When?” she asked.

 

“When you were coming through the plantation. I heard your footsteps. I

waited… But you never came.”

 

At the words, suddenly—Helen knew.

 

“You,” she said.