‘And what am I thinking about?’ said Susan, picking up the suit-case. ‘The family’ll be out, as like as not, at a party or something of that. There’ll be a light in the kitchen all right, I’ll be bound.’
She plodded over the sodden gravel, between two squares of lawn, flanked by empty beds and backed by a huddle of shrubbery; then turned along a path to the right, following the front of the house with its blank unwelcoming windows. The side-walk was as dark as the front. She made out the outline of a french window, opening upon the path and, to her right, a wide herbaceous border, where tin labels, attached to canes, flapped forlornly. Beyond this there seemed to be a lawn, but the tall trees which surrounded it on all three sides drowned it in blackness and made its shape and extent a mystery. The path led on, through a half-open door that creaked as she pushed it back, and she found herself in a small, paved court-yard, across which the light streamed in a narrow beam from a small, lighted window.
She tried to look in at this window, but a net curtain veiled its lower half. She could only see the ceiling, low, with black rafters, from one of which there hung a paraffin lamp. Passing the window she found a door and knocked.
With the first fall of the old-fashioned iron knocker, a dog began to bark, loudly, incessantly, and furiously. She waited, her heart hammering, but nobody came. After a little, she summoned up resolution to knock afresh. This time she thought she could distinguish, through the clamour, a movement within. The barking ceased, she heard a key turn and bolts withdrawn, and the door opened.
The light within came from a doorway on the left, and outlined against it, she was only aware of an enormous bulk and a dim triangle of whiteness, blocking her entrance to the house.
‘Who is it?’
The voice was unlike any she had ever heard; curiously harsh and husky and sexless, like the voice of something strangled.
‘My name’s Tabbit – Susan Tabbit.’
Oh, you’re the new girl!’ There was a pause, as though the speaker were trying, in the uncertain dusk, to sum her up and reckon out her possibilities.
‘Come in.’
The looming bulk retreated and Susan again lifted her suitcase and carried it inside.
‘Mrs Wispell got my letter, saying I was coming?’
‘Yes; she got it. But one can’t be too careful. It’s a lonely place. You can leave your bag for Jarrock. This way.’
Susan stepped into the kitchen. It was a low room, not very large but appearing larger than it was because of the shadows thrown into the far corners by the wide shade of the hanging lamp. There was a good fire, which Susan was glad to see, and over the mantelpiece an array of polished copper pans winked reassuringly. Behind her she again heard the jarring of shot bolts and turned key. Then her jailer – why did that word leap uncalled into her mind? – came back and stepped for the first time into the light.
As before, her first overwhelming impression was of enormous height and size. The flat, white, wide face, the billowing breasts, the enormous girth of white-aproned haunch seemed to fill the room and swim above her. Then she forgot everything else in the shock of realising that the huge woman was cross-eyed.
It was no mere cast; not even an ordinary squint. The left eye was swivelled so horribly far inward that half the iris was invisible, giving to that side of the face a look of blind and cunning malignity. The other eye was bright and dark and small, and fixed itself acutely on Susan’s face.
‘I’m Mrs Jarrock,’ said the woman in her odd, hoarse voice.
It was incredible to Susan that any man who was not blind and deaf should have married a woman so hideously disfigured and with such a raven croak. She said: ‘How do you do?’ and extended a reluctant hand, which Mrs Jarrock’s vast palm engulfed in a grasp unexpectedly hard and masculine.
‘You’ll like a cup of tea before you change,’ said Mrs Jarrock. ‘You can wait at table, I suppose?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m used to that.’
‘Then you’d better begin tonight. Jarrock’s got his hands full with Mr Alistair. It’s one of his bad days. We was both upstairs, that’s why you had to wait.’ She again glanced sharply at the girl, and the swivel eye rolled unpleasantly and uncontrollably in its socket. She turned and bent to lift the kettle from the range, and Susan could not rid herself of the notion that the left eye was still squinting at her from its ambush behind the cook’s flat nose. ‘Is it a good place?’ asked Susan.
‘It’s all right,’ said Mrs Jarrock, ‘for them as isn’t nervous. She don’t trouble herself much, but that’s only to be expected, as things are, and he’s quiet enough if you don’t cross him. Mr Alistair won’t trouble you, that’s Jarrock’s job. There’s your tea. Help yourself to milk and sugar. I wonder if Jarrock –’
She broke off short; set down the teapot and stood with her large head cocked sideways, as though listening to something going on above. Then she moved hastily across the kitchen, with a lightness of step surprising in so unwieldy a woman, and disappeared into the darkness of the passage. Susan, listening anxiously, thought she could hear a sound like moaning and a movement of feet across the raftered ceiling. In a few minutes, Mrs Jarrock came back, took the kettle from the fire and handed it out to some unseen person in the passage. A prolonged whispering followed, after which Mrs Jarrock again returned and, without offering any comment, began to make buttered toast.
Susan ate without relish. She had been hungry when she left the bus, but the atmosphere of the house disconcerted her. She had just refused a second slice of toast when she became aware that a man had entered the kitchen.
He was a tall man and powerfully built, but he stood in the doorway as though suspicious or intimidated; she realised that he had probably been standing there for some time before she observed him. Mrs Jarrock, seeing Susan’s head turn and remain arrested, looked round also.
Oh, there you are, Jarrock. Come and take your tea.’
The man moved then, skirting the wall with a curious, crablike movement, and so coming by reluctant degrees to the opposite side of the fire, where he stood, his head averted, shooting a glance at Susan from the corner of his eye.
‘This here’s Susan,’ said Mrs Jarrock. ‘It’s to be hoped she’ll settle down and be comfortable with us. I’ll be glad to have her to help with the work, as you know, with one thing and another.’
‘We’ll do our betht to make things eathy for her,’ said the man. He lisped oddly and, though he held out his hand, he still kept his head half averted, like a cat that refuses to take notice. He retreated into an arm-chair, drawn rather far back from the hearth, and sat gazing into the fire. The dog which had barked when Susan knocked had followed him into the room, and now came over and sniffed at the girl’s legs, uttering a menacing growl.
‘Be quiet, Crippen,’ said the man. ‘Friends.’
The dog, a large brindled bull-terrier, was apparently not reassured. He continued to growl, till Jarrock, hauling him back by the collar, gave him a smart cuff on the head and ordered him under the table, where he went, sullenly. In bending to beat the dog, Jarrock for the first time turned his full face upon Susan, and she saw, with horror, that the left side of it, from the cheek-bone downwards, could scarcely be called a face, for it was seamed and puckered by a horrible scar, which had dragged the mouth upwards into the appearance of a ghastly grin, while the left-hand side of the jaw seemed shapeless and boneless, a mere bag of wrinkled flesh.
‘Is everybody in this house maimed and abnormal?’ she thought, desperately. As though in answer to her thoughts, Mrs Jarrock spoke to her husband.
‘Has he settled down now?’
‘Oh, he’s quiet enough,’ replied the man, lisping through his shattered teeth. ‘He’ll do all right.’ He retired again to his corner and began sucking in his buttered toast, making awkward sounds.
‘If you’ve finished your tea,’ said Mrs Jarrock, ‘I’d better show you your room. Have you taken Susan’s bag up, Jarrock?’
The man nodde
d without speaking, and Susan, in some trepidation, followed the huge woman, who had lit a candle in a brass candlestick.
‘You’ll find the stairs awkward at first,’ said the hoarse voice, ‘and you’ll have to mind your head in these passages. Built in the year one, this place was, and by a crazy builder at that, if you ask me.’
She glided noiselessly along a narrow corridor and out into a square flagged hall, where a small oil-lamp, heavily shaded, seemed to make darkness deeper; then mounted a flight of black oak stairs with twisted banisters of polished oak and shining oak treads, in which the candlelight was reflected on wavering yellow pools.
‘There’s only the one staircase,’ said Mrs Jarrock. ‘Unhandy, I calls it, but you’ll have to do your best. You’ll have to wait till he’s shut himself up of a morning before you bring down the slops; he don’t like to see pails about. This here’s their bedroom, and that’s the spare and this is Mr Alistair’s room. Jarrock sleeps in with him, of course, in case –’ She stopped at the door, listening; then led the way up a narrow attic staircase.
‘You’re in here. It’s small, but you’re by yourself. And I’m next door to you.’
The candle threw their shadows, gigantically distorted, upon the sloping ceiling, and Susan thought, fantastically: ‘If I stay here, I shall grow the wrong shape, too.’
‘And the big attic’s the master’s place. You don’t have nothing to do with that. Much as your place or ours is worth to poke your nose round the door. He keeps it locked, anyway.’ The cook laughed, a hoarse, throaty chuckle. ‘Queer things he keeps in there, I must say. I’ve seen ’em – when he brings ’em downstairs, that is. He’s a funny one, is Mr Wispell. Well, you’d better get changed into your black, then I’ll take you to the mistress.’
Susan dressed hurriedly before the little, heart-shaped mirror with its old, greenish glass that seemed to absorb more of the candlelight than it reflected. She pulled aside the check window-curtain and looked out. It was almost night, but she contrived to make out that the attic looked over the garden at the side of the house. Beneath her lay the herbaceous border, and beyond that, the tall trees stood up like a wall. The room itself was comfortably furnished, though, as Mrs Jarrock had said, extremely small and twisted into a curious shape by the slanting flue of the great chimney, which ran up on the left-hand side and made a great elbow beside the bedhead. There was a minute fireplace cut into the chimney, but it had an unused look. Probably, thought Susan, it would smoke.
At the head of the stairs she hesitated, candle in hand. She was divided between a dread of solitude and a dread of what she was to meet below. She tiptoed down the attic stair and emerged upon the landing. As she did so, she saw the back of Jarrock flitting down the lower flight, and noticed that he had left the door of ‘Mr Alistair’s’ room open behind him. Urged by a curiosity powerful enough to overcome her uneasiness, she crept to the door and peeped in.
Facing her was an old-fashioned tester bed with dull green-hangings; a shaded reading-lamp burned beside it on a small table. The man on the bed lay flat on his back with closed eyes; his face was yellow and transparent as wax, with pinched, sharp nostrils; one hand, thin as a claw, lay passive upon the green counterpane; the other was hidden in the shadows of the curtains. Certainly, if Jarrock had been speaking of Mr Alistair, he was right; this man was quiet enough now.
‘Poor gentleman,’ whispered Susan, ‘he’s passed away.’ And while the words were still on her lips a great bellow of laughter burst forth from somewhere on the floor below. It was monstrous, gargantuan, fantastic; it was an outrage upon the silent house. Susan started back, and the snuffer, jerking from the candlestick, leaped into the air and went ringing and rolling down the oak staircase to land with a brazen clang on the flags below.
Somewhere a door burst open and a loud voice, with a hint of that preposterous mirth still lurking in its depths, bawled out:
‘What’s that? What the devil’s that? Jarrock! Did you make that filthy noise?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Susan, advancing in some alarm to the stairhead. ‘It was my fault, sir. I shook the candlestick and the snuffer fell down. I am very sorry, sir.’
‘You?’ said the man. ‘Who the devil are you? Come down and let’s have a look at you. Oh!’ as Susan’s black dress and muslin apron came into his view at the turn of the stair, ‘the new housemaid, hey! That’s a pretty way to announce yourself. A damned good beginning! Don’t you do it again, that’s all. I won’t have noise, d’you understand? All the noise in this house is made by me. That’s my prerogative, if you know what the word means. Hey? Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir. I won’t let it happen again, sir.’
‘That’s right. And look here. If you’ve made a dent in those boards, d’you know what I’ll do? Hey? I’ll have the insides out of you, d’you hear?’ He jerked back his big, bearded head, and his great guffaw seemed to shake the old house like a gust of wind. ‘Come on, girl, I won’t eat you this time. Let’s see your face. Your legs are all right, anyway. I won’t have a housemaid with thick legs. Come in here and be vetted. Sidonia, here’s the new girl, chucking the furniture all over the place the minute she’s in the house. Did you hear it? Did you ever hear anything like it? Hey? Ha, ha!’
He pushed Susan in front of him into a sitting-room furnished in deep orange and rich blues and greens like a peacock’s tail, and with white walls that caught and flung back the yellow lamplight. The windows were closely shuttered and barred.
On a couch drawn up near the fire a girl was lying. She had a little, white, heart-shaped face, framed and almost drowned in a mass of heavy red hair, and on her long fingers were several old and heavy rings. At her husband’s boisterous entry she rose rather awkwardly and uncertainly.
‘Walter, dear, don’t shout so. My head aches, and you’ll frighten the poor girl. So you’re Susan. How are you? I hope you had a good journey. Are Mr and Mrs Jarrock looking after you?’
‘Yes, thank you, madam.’
‘Oh! then that’s all right.’ She looked a little helplessly at her husband, and then back to Susan. ‘I hope you’ll be a good girl, Susan.’
‘I shall try to give satisfaction, madam.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure you will.’ She laughed, on a high, silver note like a bird’s call. ‘Mrs Jarrock will put you in the way of things. I hope you’ll be happy and stay with us.’ Her pretty, aimless laughter tinkled out again.
‘I hope Susan won’t disappear like the last one,’ said Mr Wispell. Susan caught a quick glance darted at him by his wife, but before she could decide whether it was one of fear or of warning, they were interrupted. A bell pealed sharply with a jangling of wires, and in the silence that followed the two Wispells stared uneasily at each other.
‘What the devil’s that?’ said Mr Wispell. ‘I only hope to heaven –’
Jarrock came in. He held a telegram in his hand. Wispell snatched it from him and tore it open. With an exclamation of distaste and alarm he handed it to his wife, who uttered a sharp cry.
‘Walter, we can’t! She mustn’t. Can’t we stop her?’
‘Don’t be a fool, Sidonia. How can we stop her?’
‘Yes, Walter. But don’t you understand? She’ll expect to find Helen here.’
‘Oh, lord!’ said Mr Wispell.
Susan went early to bed. Dinner had been a strained and melancholy meal. Mrs Wispell talked embarrassed nothings at intervals; Mr Wispell seemed sunk in a savage gloom, from which he only roused himself to bark at Susan for more potatoes or another slice of bread. Nor were things much better in the kitchen, for it seemed that a visitor was expected.
‘Motoring down from York,’ muttered Mrs Jarrock. ‘Goodness knows when they’ll get here. But that’s her all over. No consideration, and never had. I’m sorry for the mistress, that’s all.’
Jarrock’s distorted mouth twisted into a still more ghastly semblance of a grin.
‘Rich folks must have their way,’ he said
. ‘Four years ago it was the same thing. A minute’s notice and woe betide if everything’s not right. But we’ll be ready for her, oh! we’ll be ready for her, you’ll see.’ He chuckled gently to himself.
Mrs Jarrock gave a curious, sly smile. ‘You’ll have to help me with spare room, Susan,’ she said.
Later, coming down into the scullery to fill a hot-water bottle, Susan found the Jarrocks in close confabulation beside the sink.
‘And see you make no noise about it,’ the cook was saying. ‘These girls have long tongues, and I wouldn’t trust –’
She turned and saw Susan.
‘If you’ve finished,’ she said, taking the bottle from her, ‘you’d best be off to bed. You’ve had a long journey.’
The words were softly spoken, but they had an undertone of command. Susan took up her candlestick from the kitchen. As she passed the scullery on her way upstairs, she heard the Jarrocks whispering together and noticed, just inside the back door, two spades standing, with an empty sack beside them. They had not been there before, and she wondered idly what Jarrock could be wanting with them.
She fell asleep quickly, for she was tired; but an hour or two later she woke with a start and a feeling that people were talking in the room. The rain had ceased, for through the window she could see a star shining, and the attic was lit by the diffused greyness of moonlight. Nobody was there, but the voices were no dream. She could hear their low rumble, close beside her head. She sat up and lit her candle; then slipped out of bed and crept across to the door.
The landing was empty; from the room next her own she could hear the deep and regular snoring of the cook. She came back and stood for a moment, puzzled. In the middle of the room she could hear nothing, but as she returned to the bed, she heard the voices again, smothered, as though the speakers were at the bottom of a well. Stooping, she put her ear to the empty fireplace. At once the voices became more distinct, and she realised that the great chimney was acting as a speaking-tube from the room below. Mr Wispell was talking. ‘… better be getting on with it … here at any time …’