Penderel left his chair, and the three of them, making a little group
in front of the fire, talked in whispers. Margaret had released
Philip’s arm and was now feeling rather foolish. She had just caught
sight of a loaf of bread and a large piece of cheese, and the solid
ordinariness of them had suggested to her that she was in danger of
behaving like a tired hysterical woman.
‘It’s absurd,’ said Penderel, ‘that we should have to be so secretive
about food. Why should we have to pretend it isn’t there until our
hosts point it out to us? I’d like to live in a country where all
guests gathered round the table and were expected to make comments as
each dish appeared. They’d say: “What’s this you’re putting on the
table? Oh, yes, splendid! We all like that”; or “Don’t bring that
cabbage in for us. We never touch it.” What do you think?’
‘It would suit me,’ said Philip. ‘But I don’t know how hostesses would
like it.’
‘They wouldn’t,’ Margaret replied for them. ‘It would be beastly.’
She liked the glance that Philip had given her; it wasn’t so blank;
there was friendliness, a hint of long intimacy, in it. She smiled at
him.
Philip returned the smile. ‘You don’t understand hostesses, Penderel. I
suspect you’ve never really been behind the scenes.’ But his thoughts
were with Margaret. She was different somehow. She was thawing. He
wished there was time and opportunity to talk, really to talk, with all
cards quietly set out on the table. Perhaps there would be, later. This
would be just the place for it, so remote, so strange, where, so to
speak, you couldn’t hide any cards as you could at home.
Penderel thought he would keep on, though really he had nothing to
say. He was like a hostess himself. But they seemed to like it, and
it eased the situation. ‘Now that’s not true,’ he cried. ‘I have
imagination, and we imaginative fellows are always behind the scenes,
and so we suffer with all our hosts and hostesses but must only smile
and smile, like true guests. Women don’t suffer like that, do they,
Mrs. Waverton, because though they know what’s going on when they
are guests, they don’t identify themselves with it, but stand on their
dignity as guests and are as aloof as High Court judges.’
‘No, they don’t, Mr. Penderel.’ She was sharp but very friendly. She
liked him much better here than she had done in the outside world, in
civilisation. ‘They only appear to do. It’s no use: you can’t deceive
us. You don’t understand women at all. You don’t know anything about
them.’
‘That’s true,’ Penderel confessed. ‘I don’t understand ’em. I don’t
even pretend to. Another thing, I don’t like the fellows who do.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Philip. ‘It’s a funny thing, but the men who
write little books about women, or lecture about them, or pretend to
specialise in them in their novels are always complete bounders. You
must have noticed that, Penderel?’ He had said this before—he could
almost read the number of times in Margaret’s glance, demure, amused,
tolerant—but he spoke with conviction. The thought of those greasy
experts suddenly annoyed him.
‘I have noticed it.’ Penderel was very emphatic. ‘They’re nasty,
crawly lads, who’d be better employed selling lipsticks. Why women
themselves can’t see it, I don’t know. They seem to love ’em.’
‘There you go again!’ Margaret was amused by the pair of them, so
intolerant and self-righteous, so young mannish. ‘I believe the secret
of your hostility is simple jealousy. You’re both jealous because these
men seem to be so attractive.’ They instantly denied the charge, but
let her continue. ‘And anyhow, sensible women don’t like them very
much, probably don’t like them at all in their heart of hearts. But one
can’t help being interested and curious, of course.’
‘One can,’ said Philip, gloomily, ‘or one ought to try. Too many people
are interested and curious nowadays. We’re all becoming tasters. We sit
at the back of our minds watching our sensations like people at a music
hall, and we find ourselves yawning between the turns. It’s impossible
to be happy, or even cheerful, that way. I’m no better than anybody
else; we seem to be all alike. But I do draw the line somewhere. If
some silly bounder of a woman became a Man expert, and wrote little
books or went round lecturing on Man, I wouldn’t waste a minute reading
her or go a yard to hear her talk. Very few men would.’
‘No, and simply because you are all so conceited,’ Margaret told him.
She was beginning to enjoy this, and for the moment had even forgotten
where they were. ‘We’re so anxious to have men’s opinion because we’re
not conceited, though, thank goodness, we’re beginning to lose our
silly humility. You are convinced that no woman could tell you anything
worth hearing about yourselves; but even if you thought she could,
you’d still take care to keep out of the way so that your complacency
shouldn’t be disturbed.’
‘There’s something in that,’ Philip admitted, and immediately thought
how complacent he sounded. Was he really? Margaret was waking up
delightfully, suddenly flowering in this darkness.
Penderel was staring about him. ‘I suppose this counts as dining-out.
In a day or two we shall be able to say: “The other night when I dined
with the Femms.” That brings it down to commonplace, lets the daylight
in, with a crash. I don’t know why it should, but it does.’
‘I’m glad it does,’ said Philip. ‘I like the commonplace. It’s the
little trim lighted bit of life, with God-knows-what waiting for you if
you just go over the edge. Some people I know say they hate waking in
the morning and leaving their dreams, but it seems to me that either
they must lead a ghastly waking life or they must be crazy. I’m always
glad to wake in the morning and find myself out of my dreams, which
always turn me into a poor shaking barbarian wandering in the dark,
compelled to do some idiotic thing with terror all round me. Ordinary
life’s bad enough, but it’s a prince to the stuff we spin out of our
rotten unconsciousnesses every night. Don’t you think so?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Penderel stopped to consider the question. ‘I think
I must be one of the other people. I often have a splendid time in
dreams, and hate waking up. Perhaps when I wake up, I land into one of
your dreams. It sounds like it from your description of them, which
seems to me a fair account of life on some days. Perhaps we’re all
mixed up, your dreams are my waking life, and so on.’
‘Just like Alice, in “Through the Looking Glass,” you know,’ said
Margaret. ‘She was told she was only part of the King’s dreams—was
it the Red King or the White one?—and didn’t she begin to cry? I
remember how I used to be awfully sorry for her.’
‘Yes. Supposing that Mr. Femm there was dreaming us!’ And then Penderel
was sorry he had spoken. He thought Mrs. Waverton looked startled,
as if she had suddenly remembered something that had been forgotten
during their prattle. But what could she have remembered? Simply that
they were here. Or had she learned something while she was out of
the room with the queer Miss Femm? Perhaps she knew what he did not
know, namely, why Mr. Femm was so frightened. How strange if she were
harbouring, behind that bright face, some fearful piece of knowledge,
the image of some terrifying shape!
‘More likely that we’re dreaming them.’ Philip lowered his voice. ‘Not
Femm himself perhaps, though he’s queer enough. But the other two.
They’re just the kind of people I might dream about, particularly that
great dumb fellow—what’s his name?—Morgan. He’s the worst.’
Margaret could not resist it. ‘The other one, Phil, Miss Femm——’
she whispered.
He lowered his head. ‘What about her?’
‘She’s a horror.’
Philip looked at her quickly, then pretended indignation. ‘Well, that’s
a fine thing to say about your hostess.’
‘No, I mean it, Phil. She’s a horror. She makes me feel sick. I don’t
want to go near her.’
Philip was serious now. ‘Why, what’s she been doing?’
‘Oh nothing, really. It’s not that, it’s just what she _is_. I’ll tell
you later.’ Margaret turned round to find Mr. Femm almost at her elbow.
Supper was ready, he told them.
The coldest of cold suppers awaited them on the table. There was the
red ruin of a great joint of beef, a dish of cold potatoes, and plenty
of bread, butter and cheese. Miss Femm, with her eyes narrowed and her
mouth folded away, was already seated on the left-hand side. Philip and
Margaret sat down on the near side; Mr. Femm seated himself opposite
his sister; and Penderel marched round to the other side and sat down
with his back to the front door. Morgan, looking more sullen than
ever, hung about behind Miss Femm.
Philip looked round the table and fell to wondering. When he had first
taken leave of the car and the rain and the darkness, his senses had
been blunted and he had merely enjoyed, in a numb fashion, the shelter
and the warmth and the feeling of security. Now his senses were sharp
again and he began to tease himself with questions. Penderel caught his
eye and grinned. This was Penderel’s idea of a night, he told himself.
It wasn’t his. And then he suddenly admitted to himself that he didn’t
like this house and the people in it. These people had lived too long
away from everybody and were now half crazy, and the house was musty
with their mutual suspicion and resentment. Even Femm himself, who was
at least civilised, was unsavoury in some queer way. Fine thoughts,
these, for an uninvited guest about to diminish these people’s small
store of food.
‘Tell me, Philip,’ Margaret said, ‘why these lights are so jumpy.
They’re getting on my nerves. They make everything look so unreal.’
‘Evidently they make their own light here,’ he told her, pleasantly
matter-of-fact. ‘And there’s something wrong with the batteries or the
wiring. You can’t be surprised, a night like this, whatever they do. So
don’t be alarmed if they go out altogether.’
Margaret nodded in silence. The thought of being left in total darkness
filled her mind. Her skin tightened and shrank again from a clammy
touch. If those lights did go out, she wouldn’t move a yard from the
fire and Philip until morning.
Mr. Femm, who had exchanged a remark with Penderel, now remembered his
duties as a host and stretched a hand towards the dish of potatoes.
‘Stop!’ screamed his sister, making them all jump. ‘What are you doing?
We’re not all heathens.’
He brought back his hand, folded his arms, and looked across at her
with a sneer on his face. Then he glanced at the others and spoke to
them in a voice that was out of reach of her ears. ‘I had forgotten
that my sister, who is nothing if not a good Christian, would want
to ask a blessing. We shall enjoy our food so much more once she has
called the attention of her tribal deity to us.’
‘Horace Femm,’ she cried across the table, ‘you’re blaspheming. If
I can’t hear, I can see. There’s blasphemy written across your face.’
He leaned forward and used that curious hissing voice which they had
noticed before. ‘My dear Rebecca, I was merely telling your guests,
who were wondering why they were not being served, that you were about
to ask a blessing, to thank God for His bounty and His mercy, for this
ample and delectable supper——’
‘That will do,’ she screamed at him. ‘I know your mocking, lying
tongue.’
‘——For the health and prosperity and happiness granted to this family,
for these years of peace and plenty, for all our pleasant days and
quiet nights. Thank Him not only for yourself but for me, and for
Roderick, and for Saul——’
‘Stop, you fool!’ She threw out her hand as she yelled and glared
at him across the table, and immediately the spirit, which had made
his voice drop wormwood, died out of him. He looked confused and
frightened, and sank back into his chair. There followed a moment’s
silence. They were all little frozen figures. Then Miss Femm bent
her head and gabbled a grace.
‘You think you’re safe now, Horace, and you’ve had something to drink.’
She was busy filling the plates at her side with slices of beef, and
she spoke more quietly. ‘And now you think you can afford to let that
bad tongue of yours wag again. You’ll be sorry you didn’t keep it
still.’
He roused himself. ‘I am sorry I have had a hand in this ridiculous
scene,’ he told her. Then he turned to Margaret and showed her the
ghost of a smile. ‘I must apologise for these exhibitions of—what shall
I say?—rural eccentricities. We have lived so long alone here that we
have forgotten how to behave in front of visitors. Even I, who only
returned here during the War and have known the world, have forgotten
my manners. We are old and rusty mountain hermits. You must excuse us.’
This was as embarrassing as the rest of it, and Margaret was glad to
busy herself with the potatoes that he somewhat fantastically proffered
with his apology. Philip and Penderel, having exchanged glances across
the width of the table, said nothing but tried to be bustling with
plates and slices of bread and the cruet. Good old eating, thought
Penderel, it’ll carry anything off. Not that he minded these little
family quarrels of the Femms, he told himself; he rather enjoyed them.
They were like a passage from a new kind of morality play; a short
scene for the sneering bone and the screaming flesh.
Nobody spoke. It was one of those silences not easily broken; their
strength is tested by a tap or two of words tried over in the mind, and
then they are left alone. Margaret bent over her plate. Philip was idly
watching Miss Femm, who was heaping red meat on the plate that Morgan
held out to her. The man looked so huge and savage that it seemed
strange to see him with a plate at all. He ought to have taken the
joint itself in his hairy hands and retired mumbling into a corner to
gnaw it. Philip turned to his supper, and wondered who would speak next.
In another moment he was answered. The whole world spoke next. What
happened was the last thing that any of them expected to happen. They
all jumped and looked towards the door, now clamourous with repeated
and urgent rappings.
‘What’s that?’ cried Miss Femm. ‘The door?’
‘Yes,’ roared Penderel, enjoying the sound of his own voice. ‘There’s
someone outside.’
‘They can’t come in,’ she shrieked.
‘Who can it be?’ Mr. Femm looked from one to the other and his voice
quavered.
Penderel answered him. ‘More visitors. Benighted, like us.’ He looked
across at Waverton and grinned.
‘They can’t come in,’ Miss Femm shrieked again.
This angered Philip and he found his voice. ‘That’s what they are, I
expect,’ he told Mr. Femm. ‘You’ll have to let them in, of course. It’s
probably dangerous to be out now.’
The knocking had stopped now. There was a faint sound of voices. Mr.
Femm glanced rapidly from Philip to his sister. Then the knocking began
again.
Penderel stood up. ‘The poor beggars must be half drowned. We can’t
keep them waiting there.’
‘No, we shall have to let them in.’ Mr. Femm bent forward and looked at
his sister. ‘Of course they will have to come in, if they want shelter.
Morgan, go and open the door.’
Miss Femm pushed back her chair and looked up at Morgan. ‘Go on
then,’ she cried, pointing to the door. ‘And I’ll come with you and see
who they are.’ Morgan lumbered forward and very slowly drew back the
bolts. When he had opened the door an inch or two so that Miss Femm
might peer out, it was unexpectedly thrown wide open and someone came
in, pushing past the two at the door. It was a girl, all wet and muddy.
She came further into the room, stopped to draw a long breath, then
threw herself into the nearest chair and cried: ‘My God! What a night!’
She was followed by a bulky middle-aged man, equally wet and muddy. For
a moment he stood there looking about him and gasping for breath. Then
he removed his dripping hat and showed them a ruddy face with a heavy
shaven jowl. ‘Thought you were never going to open that door. Never
knew such a night. There’s a reservoir burst or something and a big
landslide. Smashed my car and only just got away with our lives. Doubt
if you’re safe here. Phew!’ He mopped his face and then looked from one
to another of them. ‘Sorry to barge in like this, but you see how
it is. Who’s the owner here?’
Philip suddenly recognised the man. ‘Why,’ he cried, stepping forward,
‘surely you’re Sir William Porterhouse? I thought so. I’m Waverton, of
Treffield and Waverton, architects. You once called to see us about
something.’
‘So I did.’ Sir William extended a hand. ‘I remember you now. This your
place?’
Philip explained the situation and everybody was introduced. The girl
was presented to them as Miss Gladys Du Cane. She had now taken off
her hat and coat and stood revealed as a very pretty girl in her early
twenties. She was slightly below medium height (an inch or two shorter
than Margaret) and squarely though finely built. Her hair was thick and
dark and crisp, and she had full hazel eyes, and a wide-lipped scarlet
mouth setting off a rather pale face. Margaret decided at once that
the girl belonged to a type that she detested. It was curious to see
her here, so far from Shaftesbury Avenue and the lights and the dance
bands and the theatres and the film agencies that were her obvious
background. It was just as if an electric sign had found its way
into the room. But these two people, insufferable though they might be
in other circumstances, were not unwelcome. They made everything seem
less fantastic and mysterious and unbearable.
‘No telephone here, I suppose?’ Sir William had turned to Mr. Femm.
‘No telephone or any other sign and mark of civilisation,’ Mr. Femm
told him. ‘You are now completely cut off from the world, sir,
but apparently this house will not suffer from the floods and the
landslides.’
‘The road must have gone completely at each side now, said Philip.
He remembered how he had resented the magnate’s super-man airs in
town, and found a certain malicious pleasure now in the sight of his
helplessness. It would do him good. ‘It was impassable when we came
here, three-quarters of an hour ago. I can’t imagine how you got here
at all.’
‘We must have been just behind you.’ Sir William found a chair and drew
up to the table. ‘Think I saw your lights once. I pressed on, no good
going back, and found myself in a devil of a situation. Car was nearly
under water, stopped, started again, stopped again, then ran into a
landslide or something of that sort. The bonnet was hit by a flying
rock, the wheels were stuck, and in a minute the car was half buried.
Took us all our time to get out.’
‘How did you find this place?’ Philip asked him.
‘Left, the car there. It’s there now if it hasn’t been washed into the
valley—damn shame, too—it’s a little Hispano I had made specially, to
drive myself—only car I ever cared about. Always the same though, care
about a thing and it’s done in before you can say “knife.” Well, we
crawled out and didn’t know where we were. Pitch black and raining like
fury and water spouting all over the place. Had to leave everything,
bags and all. No use going back, I said, we hadn’t passed a light or
signs of a house for miles. We went on, sloshing in mud, up to the
knees in water, climbing over rocks. We’d an electric torch, but that
wasn’t much good. Then we saw a light and made for it as best we could.
And here we are, and here we’ll have to stay, at least till morning and
perhaps longer. It’s getting worse out there. You’d think it was the
end of the world after being out in it for ten minutes; I don’t mind
telling you I thought I was nearly through. Can I use this glass?’
He produced a flask from his pocket, emptied it into the glass, and
promptly swallowed the inch of whisky in one gulp.
‘Hello!’ his late companion called across. ‘You’ve not finished it,
have you?’
‘Afraid I have, Gladys.’ And he showed her the flask.
‘Well, I must say, Bill, you _are_ a pig.’ And the girl made a face
when he threw her a rather perfunctory ‘Sorry.’ She was now sitting
close to the fire and, having pulled off the high boots she had been
wearing, was holding out one steaming silk-stockinged foot after
another near the blaze.
‘I’ve got a pair of slippers with me that I had in the car,’ she
confided to Margaret, ‘and that’s all I have got. What a night! I’ll
bet you had it pretty rough, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, it was very bad,’ Margaret answered indifferently.
‘Well, we’re out of it now all right unless this place is swamped
during the night.’ Then she lowered her voice. ‘Any beds going?’
Margaret shook her head. ‘No, we shall have to stay in here all night.’
Her voice sounded stiff, unfriendly, and that was a pity perhaps,
but really she couldn’t help it. She had spent years disliking the type
at a distance and she couldn’t change in a few minutes just because
this obvious week-ending chorus girl had chanced to come under the same
roof, out of the same wild night. The man was different. She didn’t
mind him. Indeed, his very bluffness and vulgarity would be useful
here, breeding a coarse sanity in this queer situation.
They were returning to supper now. Morgan had lurched off with his
plate, and the others were settling down again at the table. The
baronet confessed that he was ready for some cold meat and bread
and cheese, and had found a place between Margaret and Mr. Femm.
‘Come along, Gladys,’ he called, ‘if you want something to eat. We
interrupted this little supper party and we’ve been asked to join it.’
‘Righto,’ she cried. ‘I’m coming.’ And Penderel brought up a chair for
her and she sat down by his side. He noticed that she met the long
stare of Miss Femm, now so much folded and silent fat, with a smile
that was deliciously near a grin. It wasn’t mere cheek either. This
girl was all right.
She looked at him frowningly. ‘What’s your name? Sorry, but I can
never remember.’
‘Penderel.’ And that’s the worst of being nobody in particular, he
thought, for you always feel a fool when you bring out your name.
She frowned at him again. ‘What else? ’Scuse me asking.’
‘Roger,’ he told her, and thought it sounded rusty. It was some time
since he heard it.
‘Roger Penderel.’ She was obviously turning it over in her mind. ‘Look
here, don’t you know a boy called Ranger, Dick Ranger?’
‘Lord, yes. I know young Ranger. His elder brother, Tom, used to be a
great pal of mine. He’s somewhere in the Sudan now, being done to a
turn. Dick’s not been down long from Oxford and has developed into a
tremendous West Ender. He knows all the places, stops out late, and is
as cynical as a taxi driver. He quite frightens me, makes me feel old
and simple.’
‘I know him too,’ she said. ‘He’s rather a nice boy really, bit young
and silly of course. I asked because I’m sure I saw you with him once.
I knew I’d seen you somewhere and I couldn’t think where, but now I
remember. Weren’t you with him one night—three or four months
ago—at the “Rats and Mice”?’
‘The “Rats and Mice”?’ Then he remembered the place, one of the smaller
night clubs. ‘Yes, I did go there one night with Dick Ranger. It’s a
little place, isn’t it, with everything and everybody jammed together.
There was a band all squashed in a balcony, just like sardines in a
half-opened tin. I remember the name of the place because I told Ranger
it was like being inside a cheese. I hated it. The drinks were about
the worst and the dearest I’ve ever known.’
‘Pretty rotten, yes, but not quite so bad if you’re in with the crowd
who are running it. I go there a lot, though it’s not my favourite
haunt.’
‘Haunt’s a good word, isn’t it?’ He grinned at her and she—perhaps
mechanically, he didn’t know—wrinkled her nose in reply. ‘We have to go
somewhere, haven’t we?’
‘That’s just it. That’s what I always say.’ She was quite eager about
this. ‘You can have a dance or two and a drink with some of the girls
and boys you know, and the band’s making a cheerful row and the lights
are nice and bright, and so you turn in there night after night and
hang on, not wanting to turn out and crawl home to your rotten digs.’
‘I know. Once down the steps and outside the door, it’s dark and
raining probably and to-morrow’s begun. So you put it off.’
‘You’ve hit it in one,’ she told him. And then, after a moment’s
reflection, she went on: ‘It’s like being in here after that.’ She
jerked her head towards the door. Then she lowered her voice. ‘This
seems a funny, dingy sort of hole—funny people here too—but it’s the
Ritz itself after being out there.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ He didn’t want to sound dubious, but he
couldn’t help wondering. He turned his glance on the impassive Miss
Femm for a moment, then looked across at her brother, who was talking
to Porterhouse.
‘You surprise me, sir,’ Mr. Femm was remarking, though there was no
surprise but something quite different flickering in his eyes. ‘But
then, I have been out of the world, you might say, for at least ten
years. I never even see a newspaper now.’
‘You wouldn’t know it, then. Take my word for that,’ said Porterhouse.
‘You couldn’t come back into it. It’s a different world altogether.
I’ve kept pace with it, so to speak; might even say I’ve been in
front; but it’s taken me all my time.’
‘The world will be very different,’ said Mr. Femm, slowly, ‘when
all the people have been cleared out of it, and not before. Men and
women do not change. Their silly antics are always the same. There
will always be a few clever ones, who can see a yard or two in front
of their noses, and a host of fools who can see nothing, who are all
befuddled, who pride themselves on being virtuous because they are
incompetent or short-sighted.’
‘Something in that, p’r’aps,’ the other admitted, after a stare.
Margaret Waverton was talking to her husband. Her rather clipped and
very clear voice found its way across the table. ‘But you’ll never get
Muriel Ainsley to see that, Philip. It’s really astonishing how people,
people with brains too, can know so little about themselves. The more I
see of life, the more I’m convinced that onlookers really do see most
of the game.’
‘So they do.’ Philip’s voice, dropping into a meditative bass, could
be heard distinctly. ‘Only life isn’t a game, you know, and you never
really feel it is except where you yourself are not concerned.
That’s where the smart saying breaks down; nearly all smart sayings do
break down badly. Anyhow, we ought to stop talking about life, because
what we say doesn’t mean anything. What’s the use of saying it’s like
this or means that, when obviously it includes both this and that and
their opposites.’
‘Don’t be sententious, Philip,’ she told him. ‘You’ve said that before,
too. Besides, I was talking about Muriel Ainsley.’
But they were all sententious, Penderel reflected, himself included.
They were settling down very cosily. They would all start boasting
soon, and if he wasn’t careful, he would be the first, though as usual
he would do it topsy-turvily. It was odd how what you might call the
Femmishness of the place had suddenly vanished—no, not vanished but
retreated. He thought of the girl at his side. Certainly it didn’t
stand much of a chance with her, this Femmishness. But perhaps it
hadn’t fairly begun yet. He had a feeling that there was more to come.
There was a whole night before them and it was early yet. Why, the
little band wouldn’t have arrived yet at the ‘Rats and Mice.’