Penderel thought he would give them another and louder rap. _‘Is there
anybody there?’ said the Traveller._ That’s why poetry is so good, he
told himself, his hand on the knocker; at such times odd bits of it
come shooting up in the mind like rockets. _Rattatta-tat-tat_. Should
he give them another and conclusive _tat-tat_, rounding off the phrase?
No, that always sounded so complete that there was no urgency in it.
That was loud enough anyhow, loud enough—as people said in their
hellishly grim fashion—to waken the dead. Suppose the people inside
_were_ dead, all stretched out with the lights quietly burning above
them. Suppose one of them was just dying or dead and the others were
all crying or praying at the bedside, and he and the Wavertons marched
in, ‘Can you put us up for the night, please?’ But most likely the
owner of the house would be a fat little Welsh squire, and the place
would be full of dogs and drinks. He could do with the drinks.
Everything about him was soaking except his throat, which was Sahara
itself. If people are to be sodden, let them be sodden inside, where
all the real mischief’s done.
There was somebody at the other side of the door at last. He had a
feeling that somebody was there, although he couldn’t really hear
anything. This door, he was positive, would take some opening; you
couldn’t imagine it flying open; it looked as if somehow it would have
to be unscrewed. Yes, something was happening to it. It was creaking.
It was moving. Now for it!—a neat little speech.
The door opened an inch or two, and Penderel saw an eye. There was
no talking to an eye and so he waited. The eye withdrew and then the
door was slowly pulled back. A huge lump of a man stood there, blankly
staring at him; a shapeless man with a full black beard and matted hair
over a low forehead. For a minute Penderel himself was all eyes and no
tongue, staring blankly back. Then he recovered himself and rapidly
plunged into speech.
‘We’ve come to ask for shelter,’ he began. ‘We got lost and now we’re
absolutely cut off. We can’t go forward or back. The road seems to
have gone on each side.’
He broke off for a moment to see if there was any response to his
appeal. The man made neither sound nor movement; not a gleam of
comprehension lit his face; he just stood there, so much humped flesh
and staring eyes. It was as if the door had been opened into Siberia.
The thought of the menacing night and the Wavertons waiting there
behind him, the contrast between their situation and this senseless
immobility suddenly angered him. He raised his voice: ‘The road here’s
under water now. There are floods, landslides. All the mountain side’s
coming down. We shall have to stay here. Don’t you understand?’
If the man did, he gave no sign, but stood there as if he were staring
out of another world. Penderel had a sudden desire to pound the great
senseless carcase. But then he remembered that they were now in a
remote part of Wales, were really travellers in a foreign country,
and that it was quite possible that this fellow, who was obviously
some kind of servant, could hardly understand English. He might be the
solitary surviving specimen of the original aborigines of this
island. Penderel knew no Welsh and could only begin all over again,
this time raising his voice and introducing some fine descriptive
gestures. At the end, the man came to life, though only slowly.
First, he lumbered forward a pace, looked towards the car, examined
the night, then very laboriously and solemnly shook his head. After
that, he tapped Penderel, who looked in silence and amazement as if
he were watching the movements of some prehistoric monster, lightly
on the chest, pointed indoors, tapped himself on the chest, and ended
by producing from somewhere at the back of his throat, a very queer
gurgling sound.
This noise made Penderel jump, it was so unexpected. ‘What’s that?’ he
cried sharply. Even Welsh ought not to sound like that; it was as if a
lump of earth had tried to make a remark.
By way of reply, the man pushed his face near to Penderel’s, opened
his mouth very wide, and pointed to it with a long dark forefinger.
Then he padded away, leaving Penderel to gape through the open door. He
must have retired to fetch his master, for it could hardly be his own
house, though he looked more like a performing bear than a butler.
Penderel wondered whether to walk forward into the large hall visible
through the door or to return for a moment to the Wavertons, who must
be wondering what was happening. He turned, however, only to find them
at his elbow.
‘This is absurd,’ Mrs. Waverton was declaring indignantly. ‘Keeping us
here like this! What’s the matter?’
He determined to put an easy face upon it. ‘The matter has just
disappeared, to find somebody, I think. Did you see him? I don’t think
he’s real.’
‘What did he say?’ Waverton asked.
‘Nothing. I don’t believe he could say anything. I don’t think he knows
English or anything else. Wait until you have a good look at him. He’s
a huge troll who’s got all rusty inside.’
Mrs. Waverton, as usual, seemed to brush away this kind of talk. ‘Let’s
go in, Philip. They couldn’t refuse to let us stay, an awful night like
this. And it’s ridiculous standing here.’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Penderel, heartily. ‘As if we were carol-singers and
this were some kind of devilish Christmas, perhaps Lucifer’s birthday.’
‘We’ll go in then,’ said Waverton. ‘But what about the car?’
‘They’ll tell us where to put it later. I must sit down somewhere where
there isn’t any rain. My head screams with it.’ And Mrs. Waverton
marched in, followed by the two men.
The first thing that Penderel noticed was that the house had electric
light. Somehow he hadn’t expected that: it was impossible to imagine
the giant troll fingering the switches or going round the accumulators.
But the lights weren’t behaving properly though; they were jumping and
flickering, and they made the whole place jumpy, queerly uncertain. It
was the kind of hall you rarely see except on the stage, being both
entrance hall and lounge (and, if necessary, dining and drawing rooms),
lofty and panelled, with a large open fireplace in the left-hand far
corner, a broad staircase running up on the right and a gallery above,
with a door immediately on the left and two more on the right. The
fire was a smouldering old ruin; the table in the centre was very old;
and all the chairs seemed to be faded and crazy. There was something
ruinous about the whole place, and though it was gloriously snug after
the howling misery of the night outside, it hardly suggested
comfort and a warm hospitality. Penderel decided that it had a smell of
mice and old newspapers.
They all stood bunched together and dripping near the door, and waited
in silence for something to happen. After the first glance round,
Penderel fixed his eyes on the staircase, down which—if life were what
it ought to be—a lady with a long white train should come sweeping,
with a great candlestick in each hand. He watched the stairs jump with
the lights, and had a sudden daft desire to rush to the bottom of them,
strike an attitude, and say something very romantic at the top of his
voice. _Enter the three wettest people in Christendom: one of them,
obviously a tragic clown, approaches the jumping stairs._ What a pity
people didn’t really think of life as a play, taking care to come on
properly, to say and do no more than was necessary, and then to make a
good clean exit. If there were any drinks going later, he must point
that out to Waverton: it was one of those things you can only say over
a drink.
The first door on the right suddenly opened and a thin elderly man in
black walked into the hall, halting when he was a few paces from them.
He was followed by a waddling old woman who came up and looked them
over curiously with eyes like tiny black buttons. At the back was the
huge creature, who stood lumpishly near the door.
‘My name is Femm,’ said the thin man, ‘Horace Femm. I cannot understand
what is the matter. Our servant, Morgan there, is dumb.’ His voice was
as thin as he was, very dry and harsh, and he spoke with a curious and
disconcerting precision.
Penderel cleared his throat, but Mrs. Waverton cut in before him,
hastily giving their names and declaring their errand.
‘Shelter?’ Mr. Femm looked dubious and put his long hand to his chin.
You seemed to hear bone rubbing bone.
‘What is it?’ the old woman suddenly screamed, making them all jump.
Mr. Femm pushed out his neck, bringing his mouth nearer to the hand
she held to her ear. Instead of raising his voice he contrived to make
it extraordinarily penetrating by hissing his words. The effect was
strangely sinister, and indeed he seemed to turn a malignant eye upon
the woman. ‘Shelter,’ he hissed. ‘They want to stay here all night.’
It sounded rather like the villain of old-fashioned melodrama.
The other shook her head. ‘They can’t. We can’t have them here.’
Although she had examined them so thoroughly, she talked as if they
weren’t really there.
‘You see how it is,’ said Mr. Femm, in his ordinary tones. ‘My sister,
Rebecca here, is somewhat deaf. Morgan, as I have already pointed out,
is dumb. My brother, Sir Roderick Femm, the master of this house, is
confined to his bed upstairs, very old, very weak, and may not live
long. Though not, I beg to assure you, without hospitable instincts,
I myself am as rusty as an old file. This house is partly a barn and
partly a ruin and could not accommodate you even for a night. I advise
you, for your own sakes, to look elsewhere. There is, I believe, an inn
about twelve miles from here.’
These people might have been living in another world; they didn’t seem
to know what was happening all round them; it was time now to make
them understand the situation. All three began explaining at once.
Mrs. Waverton went up to Miss Femm and shouted in her ear. Penderel
and Waverton hustled the uncomprehending Mr. Femm to the open door
and confronted him with the black and torrential night itself, through
which there still came a menacing roar.
‘The road’s gone on each side of this house,’ cried Waverton, waving
a hand to left and right. ‘We can’t go half a mile, let alone twelve
miles. We’re cut off from everywhere. Even the road below’s under
water.’
‘For that matter,’ Penderel added, determined to show Mr. Femm what
sort of world he was living in, ‘this place may be under water soon
or even buried. The hill’s crumbling on each side, and it looks as
if something above here, a lake or a reservoir, has burst its banks.
Listen to that.’ He held up his hand impressively. The roaring really
did seem louder than ever. Penderel thought he could hear the distant
crashing of rocks.
Mr. Femm retreated a step, his eyes two pin-points in a crumpled sheet
of paper. Penderel hadn’t seen a man look so frightened for years.
What an oddity!—dense at first, and then flying into a panic. A man
so thin, with so little flesh and so much shining bone ought to be
braver than that; he was almost a skeleton, and skeletons, jangling and
defiant, are brave enough. It’s our flesh, Penderel told himself,
the jellied-stuff that rots so easily, which quivers and creeps, goes
goosey with fright; but our bones stand up and don’t give a damn. This
fellow was a fraud.
Mr. Femm had now turned and gone hissing towards his sister. ‘Did
you hear that?’ he asked her. ‘They say there’s been a landslide on
each side of us, and floods too. The lake has burst its banks. We are
trapped. We shall have to go. Do you hear?’ His voice had almost risen
to a scream.
She was now as quiet as he was noisy. She looked him up and down
contemptuously, clasped her little fat hands in front of her, and
said: ‘Yes, I heard. I’ve expected it after all this rain and rain and
rain. It will all come tumbling down again. God is not mocked.’ She
gloated over this, and looked at her brother triumphantly, her suety
face alight with malice. ‘You’re afraid, Horace. You don’t believe in
God. Oh, no! But you’re afraid to die. You don’t believe in His mercy,
but now you can believe in His wrath.’ She looked at him steadily, and
then when he opened his mouth to reply she went on again, more
vehemently. ‘You’ve seen His anger in the sky. You’ve heard Him in the
night. And you’re afraid. Where’s your mocking now?’ She stopped, and
nobody spoke or stirred for a moment. ‘Well, your time hasn’t come yet.
This house is safe enough. This has happened before, before you came
back, Horace, and we were never touched.’ She turned her head. ‘Morgan,
come here,’ she shrieked, and when he came towering above her, she
screamed up at him: ‘You remember the great storm, when we were cut off
once before, and there were floods and landslides and the road down
there was all washed away? This house was safe then, wasn’t it?’
Morgan nodded and made a noise in his beard. Then he made a sweeping
gesture to include the whole house, and pointed impressively to the
floor.
‘Morgan remembers,’ cried Miss Femm. ‘He means that the house was safe
because it stands on a great rock.’
He nodded his head affirmatively again, pointed to the back of the
house, raised his finger, and then clenched his fist, grinning
trollishly throughout the dumb show.
‘He means that this rock comes out at the back of the house and
shields it,’ Miss Femm explained, ‘Morgan remembers the last time we
had storms like these, when this was the only place left untouched. And
so you see, Horace, we can stay where we are.’
Mr. Femm had now recovered himself. ‘It is obvious,’ he said, looking
at Mrs. Waverton, ‘that you will have to remain here for the night.
The misfortune is yours, not ours. I am afraid we can promise you very
little.’
‘No beds,’ screamed his sister, with that terrifying unexpectedness
of hers. Penderel had begun to cherish an intense dislike of her, and
longed to bellow in return, particularly when she gave another screech:
‘They can’t have beds.’
‘As my sister hints,’ said Mr. Femm, smoothly, ‘there are no beds, I
am afraid, at your disposal. Indeed, this is the last house in Britain
I should choose to be either a guest or a host in. But please remember
that it is not mine.’
‘We really don’t need beds or anything, thank you. We quite
understand,’ Mrs. Waverton told him.
‘Just a roof,’ added Waverton.
‘And a fire,’ Penderel put in. And for the love of Mike, he whispered
to himself, a drink too. A brief tussle with floods and landslides
was sufficiently heartening in itself, but an acquaintance with this
house, these people, was not to be undertaken feeling all cold and dark
inside, without a drink.
A faint suggestion of geniality, like a leaden and watery gleam of
November sunshine, crept into Mr. Femm’s manner. ‘Of course, of course!
We can offer you a roof and a fire and some food and drink. You can
spend the night sitting round the fire here, perhaps the best place
a night like this. I am not sure that I want to go to bed myself
to-night. Morgan, attend to the fire. You must make yourselves as
comfortable as you can.’ He bent forward again and hissed: ‘Perhaps we
could have supper soon, Rebecca.’
‘I’ll see that they have some supper, Horace,’ cried his sister. ‘Don’t
give yourself airs. You’re not the master here.’
‘What about the car?’ Waverton asked. ‘Is there anywhere I could put it
where it would be safe all night?’
‘Your motor car? You have it outside there?’ Mr. Femm twisted
his long dry fingers and called Morgan from the fire. ‘There are
out-houses, round the corner there, on the left, where we only keep a
horse and a trap now. There might be room for a motor car there. Morgan
will know. Morgan, go with this gentleman and see if there is room for
his motor car in the stables or coach-house.’ Morgan nodded sullenly
and lurched towards the door.
‘What about the bags?’ Waverton looked at both his wife and Penderel.
‘We’ll get them in,’ Penderel replied.
Mrs. Waverton was emphatic. ‘I simply must have mine, Philip. I’m
soaked to the skin and must change my things. Bring the bags in now.’
Darkness and rain and a vague tumult still held the night. ‘Thank God
I’m now seeing the last of this car to-night,’ Waverton said, as they
tugged at the straps round the luggage grid. ‘We’re well out of this,
though I must say this is a queer house.’
‘A very queer house and very queer people,’ Penderel replied, pulling
at the swollen leather. ‘I now know the real meaning of the phrase,
“Cherchez les Femms.” I’ve taken this old bag of mine into some
damned odd places, but I have a feeling this is going to be about the
oddest.’
Waverton grunted. ‘It’s better than capering in the dark along roads
that aren’t there, anyhow. It’s safe and there’s a roof and a fire.’
‘Nothing’s safe,’ said Penderel, swinging out two bags. ‘Perhaps this
is the fire, and we’re merely taking the bags out of the frying-pan.’
He hurried round to the door and did not hesitate to jostle Morgan,
who had been standing in the doorway all the time. If the man didn’t
like it, he could lump it, and lumping it seemed to be all he could do.
A gorilla would have been a little more amiable and helpful: the man
overdid his dumbness and his part as giant troll.
They all began bustling about now, just as if the hall had been
suddenly turned into a railway station, Penderel thought. Mrs.
Waverton, looking less like a superior person than usual (she was
really rather pretty), shed her sodden hat and coat, pounced upon one
of the bags, and was now exchanging confidential little shrieks with
Miss Femm. Waverton had gone out again, accompanied by Morgan, and
was now steering his car round the corner into the coach-house or shed
or whatever it was. Mr. Femm had gone creaking away somewhere. Penderel
did his best to join in the bustle, but when he had taken off his heavy
dripping coat and had flung it over his bag near the door, there was
nothing left for him to do. He lit a cigarette, sat down near the fire,
and dreamily regarded his steaming outstretched legs and enjoyed the
creeping warmth. He was tired. Images of his companions came floating
by like spectral ships: Mrs. Waverton, one of those pale and clear
and terrifically educated women who knew everything and who knew
nothing, never actually breaking through into the real world; Philip
Waverton himself, crammed with shy sense and honest-to-God feeling,
but too anxious, too married, too well broken-in; the Femms here,
the string-and-bone dithering male and the fat and somehow obscene
female, with her revivalist God, and that tongueless hulk of a Morgan.
And there was another somewhere, upstairs in bed. What was his name?
Sir Roderick—that was it. Old Sir Roderick, the master of the house,
doomed to be for ever upstairs silent and unseen. Did he ever give
any orders? Perhaps Rebecca brought them down—what was it?—written on
tables of stone.
The next moment Penderel could have groaned aloud. Suddenly that old
feeling had returned. It came, as usual, without warning. A grey tide,
engulfing all colour and shape of things that had been or were to be,
rushed across his mind, sweeping the life out of everything and leaving
him all hollow inside. Once again he sat benumbed in a shadow show. Yet
as ever—and this was the cruel stroke—there was something left, left
to see that all the lights were being quenched, left to cry out with a
tiny crazed voice in the grey wastes. This was what mattered, this was
the worst, and black nights and storms and floods and crumbling hills
were not to be compared with this treachery from within. It wasn’t
panic nor despair, he told himself, that made so many fellows commit
suicide; it was this recurring mood, draining the colour out of life
and stuffing one’s mouth with ashes. One crashing bullet and there
wasn’t even anything left to remember what had come and gone, to cry in
the mind’s dark hollow; life could then cheat as it liked, for it
did not matter; you had won the last poor trick.
Having conjured the malady into a phrase or two, Penderel felt better,
came out of his reverie and looked about for entertainment. He found
it in the person of Mr. Femm, who was bearing down upon him, carrying
a small tray. There was a bottle on the tray, and Penderel felt like
breaking into applause. _Flourish of trumpets: enter Bottle._
‘Now do you think, Mr.—er——’ Mr. Femm put down the tray and hesitated.
‘Penderel,’ he told him promptly—told the bottle too.
‘Mr. Penderel, of course,’ said Mr. Femm. ‘Do you think you could join
me in a drink?’
‘Mr. Femm, I feel that I could, with pleasure, join you in a drink.’
They were like two old club cronies.
Mr. Femm stood over the bottle. ‘It is not whisky, which all you young
men drink now, I believe. This is gin, which I prefer to all the other
spirits, except, of course, the very old brandies. With some lemon,
a little sugar perhaps, some hot water if you care for it, gin is
excellent, and, remember, the purest of the spirits.’
‘I do remember,’ said Penderel, heartily. ‘Gin for me, with
pleasure. I used to drink it with the sea-dogs. The Navy, at least
the commissioned part of it, has a passion for gin. After it gave up
rum, it went straight to gin. The brave fellows sit round all night,
dropping remarks about turbines and torpedoes, the coast of Manchuria,
and beautiful blue-eyed girls, and drinking gin with admirable
steadiness and ease.’ He watched the other pour out the liquor,
accepted lemon and sugar, refused water, and then, glass in hand,
remarked: ‘We must have a toast.’
Mr. Femm looked thoughtful, even philosophic, with the faint ghost of
conviviality hovering about him. ‘Mr. Penderel, I give you a toast that
you will not appreciate, being young. I give you—Illusion!’ And he
lifted his glass.
‘I’m all for it. Illusion!’ He gasped a little for it was unusually
strong stuff. But that was better. A few more such toasts and illusion
would be something more than a wistful sentiment. ‘But don’t imagine
that I’m too young to appreciate the value of illusion. I’m just the
right age. I was born too late or too early to escape the rotten
truth, and I’ve been stubbing my toes against flinty facts ever since I
left school.’
Mr. Femm smiled grimly. He was about to say that that itself was one
of youth’s illusions. Penderel could see it coming: he had heard it
before. But then Mr. Femm surprised him by not speaking at all; he
merely stared on after the smile had vanished and took a sip from his
glass. The next moment his eyes seemed to be looking out into horrible
space, and his face was twitching. He appeared to be listening. ‘A
dreadful night,’ he muttered at last. ‘It seems to be getting worse.’
‘It’s a brute, certainly,’ Penderel replied, ‘but apparently there’s no
danger here. Miss Femm and your man seem to be positive that this house
is safe enough.’
‘But even if it is, we may be completely cut off, shut in here.’ The
man seemed to be talking to himself rather than to Penderel.
‘We might, of course, and that would be a nuisance for you.’ Penderel
tried to look polite and anxious and sorry, though he did not care
a fig if he had to stay there. He was as well off there as anywhere
else. He had nowhere to go, nowhere he even wanted to go, now. Good
God!—what a thing to admit to oneself at twenty-nine! ‘What I mean
is,’ he went on, ‘that it’s a nuisance your having us here like this,
besieged with you.’
Mr. Femm looked at him with real terror in his face. There was no
mistaking it now. He lashed himself into a kind of anger as frightened
men frequently do. ‘But to go running out there,’ and he pointed
shakily at the door, still open to the night, ‘in the dark, with the
floods there, the rocks tumbling down, everything cold and black and
pitiless. And nowhere else to go, no escape!’ And he clashed together
his bony hands.
Penderel stared at him. ‘A bad business, certainly, if one had to go.
But one hasn’t, you know. Even if we have to go, you won’t have to. You
can stay comfortably here.’ And as he said this, he looked Mr. Femm in
the eyes.
Mr. Femm met the look for a second and then quickly glanced round
the room. He was obviously taking hold of himself. Finally he leaned
forward. ‘As you can probably see,’ he whispered, ‘I am nervous at the
thought of our being shut in here. The fact is that Morgan, who is an
old servant of my brother’s, is an uncivilised brute. Occasionally
he drinks heavily—a night like this would set him going—and once he is
drunk he is very dangerous. He is as strong as in ox and could batter
a door in with ease. You can imagine that I dread being compelled to
remain here, with no means of escape, with such a savage.’
Penderel nodded reassuringly. ‘We must try to keep the drink away from
him. As a drunk and disorderly, he’d be no joke.’ But he had been
observing Mr. Femm very narrowly throughout his speech. All this about
Morgan might be true, it probably was true, for obviously the man was
almost a savage, but nevertheless Penderel was convinced that his
companion was lying. It wasn’t the thought of Morgan that had terrified
him. There was something else; some more fearful image had haunted him
when he had so suddenly and strangely cried out against remaining in
the house. Perhaps there was something here even worse than a drunk
and half-crazed Morgan battering doors in. Perhaps too it was only
some maggot of the brain. These Femms, perched remotely on their hill,
seemed to have gone queer, all maggot-brained. For a moment he stared
at the one before him as if he were staring at a creature from an
unknown continent.
The door behind them closed. Morgan was bolting it, and Waverton,
doffing his coat, was at their elbow. ‘I’ve put the car away,’ he told
Penderel. ‘Just round the corner in a kind of open shed. It seems safe
enough there.’ He glanced round. ‘Where’s my wife?’
Penderel jerked a thumb to the far door on the right. ‘Gone to change,
I think.’ Mr. Femm, still looking somewhat shaken, rose and indicated
the bottle and glasses. ‘Have some gin, Waverton?’ Penderel suggested.
‘It’s jolly good.’
Waverton smiled and shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I don’t like the
stuff. Are you drinking it, Penderel? Neat, too? It’ll make you feel
desperately melancholy.’
‘Gin is saddening,’ Penderel admitted, ‘but it’s not so saddening as
no gin.’ Mr. Femm began to fill the glasses again. His hand was still
trembling, and he seemed as jumpy as the daft lights, though indeed
these were so bad now that they made everything seem jumpy. Such
lights were crazier than darkness itself; they were like a man doing a
witch-doctor’s dance in a top hat and frock coat. Penderel noticed
that Waverton, now no longer a manipulator of brakes and gears but a
human being, was looking about him curiously and stealing an odd glance
or two at friend Femm. And well he might, Penderel told himself, and
suddenly felt unreasonably sorry for Waverton. Somehow he felt that
Waverton ought not to be there. Waverton wasn’t like him, a man without
a load, almost outlawed, naked, but a fellow who had given—what was
it?—yes, hostages to fortune. He had, for example, a wife there, now
changing her clothes. How odd women were, always either not quite human
or too human! She had gone off to change, accompanied by a little
fat deaf monster. There was something curiously pathetic about this
going off and changing. In a minute she would come tripping back, all
dressed up and smiling, just as if it were a party, perhaps somebody’s
birthday. Penderel had an odd impulse to shake Waverton by the hand,
but he restrained it and stretched out his hand for the glass instead.
He must, though, talk to Waverton about Mr. Femm.