Devil's Wind by Patricia Wentworth Page A

falling?
    Have you heard the Piper calling,
    The Piper on the hill?
    For if you have heard the Piper play
    You must follow by night, you must follow by day,
    Though it’s over the hills and far away,
    You must follow the Piper still.
    Helen Wilmot lay in bed and watched the light creep lower and lower upon the whitewashed wall. The verandah shaded the doors which opened upon it, but a dusty shaft of sunshine slanted through a small oblong window set high up under the rafters. As the light shifted slowly downwards it was reflected in faint rose and violet tints upon the white expanse above the long glass doors. The doors themselves stood wide, and a delicious freshness came through the screens of split bamboo which filled the open spaces.
    A chattering of birds, a murmur of voices from the servants’ houses—little mud huts clustering at the edge of the compound,—and the far-away droning of a Persian wheel made up a most soothing, drowsy noise, and Helen, though she had been awake for an hour, felt lazy, and by no means inclined to get up. She closed her eyes, and listened to the sparrows fighting under the eaves. Perhaps she even dozed.
    Suddenly she was roused by a little fidgeting sound, and in a moment she turned and was aware of a small person, who was standing just inside the nearer of the two long windows. It was a quaint small person in a white frock and starched white pantalets. In one hand she held a broad-brimmed grey felt hat that obviously belonged to some one several sizes larger than herself. The other hand rested on the chick behind her, as if to secure her line of retreat. When she saw Helen’s eyes open, she stared into them with a pair of very round brown ones, and then said in a particularly clear and emphatic manner:
    â€œI have come to pay a call.”
    â€œDear me,” said Miss Wilmot. “How rude of me not to be up!”
    â€œI like you in bed. I like paying calls. I did forget to bring a card, but my name is Miss Margaret Elizabeth Monson.”
    â€œOh,” said Helen, much impressed. “Must I call you all that?”
    â€œIt would be polite.”
    Miss Monson advanced into the room with a slow and stately step. With her left hand she retained her hold of the hat, and held up an already sufficiently abbreviated skirt. Her right hand she offered to Helen, who had an instant recollection of Mrs. Elliot’s languid manner of shaking hands.
    â€œHow do you do, Miss Wilmot?” she said in the accents of polite society. “I hope you are well. I hope you are quite well.”
    â€œYes, thank you.”
    The conversation languished a little. Miss Monson suddenly dropped the grey felt hat, and put her hand on Helen’s arm.
    â€œI am bored of being polite. Are you bored of being polite? I am very bored of it. I am bored of calling you Miss Wilmot. I would much rather call you Helen lady. You are the Helen one, aren’t you? And I am bored of being Miss Margaret Elizabeth Monson. If you like you can call me Megsie Lizzie, like my papa does.”
    Helen received the permission with gravity.
    â€œAnd what does your mamma call you?” she inquired.
    Megsie Lizzie was climbing on to the foot of the bed.
    â€œâ€˜My lamb,’” she answered in matter-of-fact tones. “She calls me ‘my lamb’ and ‘my precious,’ and ‘my own lovey darling,’ but you couldn’t call me all those things.”
    â€œNo, of course not.”
    â€œI’m five. It’s rather old for India, isn’t it?” Again there was a reminiscence of some older person. “But if I went away from my mamma, her heart would break—right across in two pieces.”
    â€œOh, dear!”
    â€œYes, indeed,” said Megsie Lizzie, screwing up her button of a mouth, and nodding with an uncanny air of wisdom.
    A distant, unhappy cry of “Missee Baba!” became audible. After a moment it was repeated. Megsie Lizzie