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," 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 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
