wasnât a house here at all.⦠Nonsense! She had seen it quite clearly from the other side of the road. Suppose she hadnât really seen itâSuppose she were to walk into the shadow and find there wasnât anything there.⦠Her spine crept all the way down. Nothing to eat since breakfast is apt to induce spine-creeping in the dark. The slice of toast and the cup of tea of which she had partaken twelve hours before seemed to belong to some remote previous existence.
âStop it!â said she to herself with as much scorn as she could contrive. It was just enough to take her reluctant feet up what felt like a flagged path and land them on a most undoubted door-mat. At the same time her hand, feeling before her, touched the smooth painted wood of the door.
Well, here she was. But where was Jane Rigg? The house hadnât a blink of light in it anywhere on this side. Perhaps there was a room at the back. Perhaps Jane was a thrifty soul and wouldnât have a light in the hall. Shirley felt along the painted door until she found the knocker, and when she had found it knocked with a vigour calculated to reach every corner of the house. But when she stopped to listen, there was no sound nor any that answered. That was out of the Bible, when the prophets called upon Baal and he didnât hear them.⦠What a perfectly horrid thing to think about on a black doorstep when you havenât had anything to eat all day. But in spite of herself Elijahâs mocking words came into her mind: âCry aloud ⦠either he is pursuing, or he is in a journey, or peradventure he sleepeth and must be awaked.â
She banged with the knocker again. If Jane was asleep, this ought to wake her, but if she was on a journeyâShe stopped to listen. The house positively oozed silence. Suppose Jane really was away.â¦
Shirley stamped on the mat in sheer rage, and heard something tinkle under her foot. The sound touched off a bright firework of joy inside her. A tinkle under the mat meant a hidden key, and you donât hide your key under the mat when you go on a journeyâyou hide it there when thereâs only one key and two people use it, and it means you are coming in quite soon. In fact Jane had gone out to supper, and she probably had a maid who had gone out too, and whichever of them came home first would take the key from under the mat and lift up the latch and walk in, just as Miss Shirley Dale was doing now. Wait on the doorstep for Jane to return from riotous supping with some other old hen? Not for nuppence! Anyhow not for Shirley Dale. They might riot till midnight playing bridge for all she knew of Emshot society.
She shut the front door, felt her way forward round a bend, and saw a very faint rosy glow behind a door that stood ajar. She pushed open the door and went in. The room was the kitchen. The rosy glow came from between the bars of an old-fashioned range. There was a faint mingled smell of blacklead, and bacon, and floor polish, with a sort of general over-tone of paraffin. Helped partly by her nose and partly by the glow, Shirley located a lamp. It stood on the dresser breathing out oilâwarm oil. Before she put her hand on it Shirley knew that that lamp hadnât been out very long. It needs heat to draw out the full flavour of paraffin oil. There were matches lying beside it. She struck one and lighted the lamp. The yellow flame ran along the double wick and steadied down as she replaced the chimney. A tin reflector threw the light out into the room.
The kitchen sprang into view. There were red tiles on the floor, and Mrs Ward had polished them till they shone. The dresser and the table had been scrubbed white, and the range was as glossy as a newly blacked boot. Curtains of red Turkey twill were drawn across a long casement window.
Shirley looked about her with a sense of deep relief and comfort. If she liked Jane as much as she liked her kitchen, everything was
âStop it!â said she to herself with as much scorn as she could contrive. It was just enough to take her reluctant feet up what felt like a flagged path and land them on a most undoubted door-mat. At the same time her hand, feeling before her, touched the smooth painted wood of the door.
Well, here she was. But where was Jane Rigg? The house hadnât a blink of light in it anywhere on this side. Perhaps there was a room at the back. Perhaps Jane was a thrifty soul and wouldnât have a light in the hall. Shirley felt along the painted door until she found the knocker, and when she had found it knocked with a vigour calculated to reach every corner of the house. But when she stopped to listen, there was no sound nor any that answered. That was out of the Bible, when the prophets called upon Baal and he didnât hear them.⦠What a perfectly horrid thing to think about on a black doorstep when you havenât had anything to eat all day. But in spite of herself Elijahâs mocking words came into her mind: âCry aloud ⦠either he is pursuing, or he is in a journey, or peradventure he sleepeth and must be awaked.â
She banged with the knocker again. If Jane was asleep, this ought to wake her, but if she was on a journeyâShe stopped to listen. The house positively oozed silence. Suppose Jane really was away.â¦
Shirley stamped on the mat in sheer rage, and heard something tinkle under her foot. The sound touched off a bright firework of joy inside her. A tinkle under the mat meant a hidden key, and you donât hide your key under the mat when you go on a journeyâyou hide it there when thereâs only one key and two people use it, and it means you are coming in quite soon. In fact Jane had gone out to supper, and she probably had a maid who had gone out too, and whichever of them came home first would take the key from under the mat and lift up the latch and walk in, just as Miss Shirley Dale was doing now. Wait on the doorstep for Jane to return from riotous supping with some other old hen? Not for nuppence! Anyhow not for Shirley Dale. They might riot till midnight playing bridge for all she knew of Emshot society.
She shut the front door, felt her way forward round a bend, and saw a very faint rosy glow behind a door that stood ajar. She pushed open the door and went in. The room was the kitchen. The rosy glow came from between the bars of an old-fashioned range. There was a faint mingled smell of blacklead, and bacon, and floor polish, with a sort of general over-tone of paraffin. Helped partly by her nose and partly by the glow, Shirley located a lamp. It stood on the dresser breathing out oilâwarm oil. Before she put her hand on it Shirley knew that that lamp hadnât been out very long. It needs heat to draw out the full flavour of paraffin oil. There were matches lying beside it. She struck one and lighted the lamp. The yellow flame ran along the double wick and steadied down as she replaced the chimney. A tin reflector threw the light out into the room.
The kitchen sprang into view. There were red tiles on the floor, and Mrs Ward had polished them till they shone. The dresser and the table had been scrubbed white, and the range was as glossy as a newly blacked boot. Curtains of red Turkey twill were drawn across a long casement window.
Shirley looked about her with a sense of deep relief and comfort. If she liked Jane as much as she liked her kitchen, everything was
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