Then she told herself that her fear was absurd. She had only met Miss Cheale twice. The first time in the cricket pavilion where Mrs. Garlett’s housekeeper had been absorbed in looking after the numerous guests and their entertainment. Then, again, for a few moments on the morning when Miss Cheale, livid with anger, was giving notice to Lucy Warren; and on that day, she, Jean Bower, had been wearing a large hat which completely shadowed her face.
And then, with intense relief, she reminded herself that of course her way of entrance should be by the back door. Creeping out from under the dark portico, she felt along the iron railings. Yes, here was the area gate! And luckily it was unlatched. She pushed it open and found that it led to a steep stone staircase. Down she went, feeling her way from one worn step to the next till she reached the bottom.
She was now in a small pit-like yard, and to her right, from behind what was evidently the kitchen window of the cavernous old house, there shone a bright light. As she could see no door, she knocked, at last, timidly on the window. A moment later a narrow door was opened wide and she walked through into a stone passage lighted by a gas-jet, while a not unkindly voice exclaimed:
“You’re Elizabeth Chart, I take it? Didn’t think you’d come for another hour, my dear. Come into my kitchen, do! And I’ll have some tea ready for you in a jiffy.”
The speaker was a gray-haired, red-faced woman, immensely stout, and dressed in an old-fashioned alpaca dress. She wore a Paisley shawl neatly pinned across her vast breast with a cameo brooch.
“Elizabeth’s a mouthful—so if you don’t mind I’ll call you Bet.”
“I’ll like that,” faltered the girl.
“Now then, Bet, you go right into my kitchen and get warm. ’Twill be a great relief to me, I reckon, having a country girl after them London sluts. I was that pleased when I got the telegram saying you was coming this afternoon that I could ’a’ danced!”
It was a homely-looking kitchen with a big red fire in the old-fashioned, wasteful grate. The bright light the girl had seen from outside came from a chandelier hanging in the middle of the ceiling. Under the light the two faced one another—Mrs. Lightfoot, the housekeeper, and Bet Chart, the new servant. With thankfulness Bet noticed that her employer had a shrewd, good-humoured face, and, in spite of her huge girth, a brisk, cheerful way of moving about.
“’Tain’t no good taking you upstairs yet. You can just pop your things off in my room. This way, please!”