Once inside the room, Margaret peeped round Philip’s shoulder. It was
a large room and Margaret had a vague impression that it was full of
lovely old things; but their candle, the only light there, merely
illuminated a tiny space and then simply conjured the rest of the
room, the circling darkness, into rich dusk, in which there wavered
and shone, from unseen polished surfaces, little reflections of its
flame. Thus she saw a background of shadows and some twinkling points
of light, like a night sky. Then she stepped out from behind Philip
and cleared her eyes. They were in a very large bedroom, heavy with
old furniture. The bed itself was a huge shadowy affair, a great
four-poster, canopied with dark curtains at the head.
A voice came from the gloom there, and they moved forward. The light
now fell on a hand resting on the counterpane, the hand of a very old
man, a featherweight of brittle bone. ‘Who are you?’ the voice was
asking. Leaving Philip behind, still holding the candle, Margaret drew
nearer to the bed. Now she could dimly see the man who was lying there,
could see his white hair and long white beard; his face was vague yet
curiously luminous; it moved a little; he must be looking at her.
‘Who are you?’ The question was repeated. Even here, his voice seemed
nothing more than a whisper.
Philip had heard it too, but remained where he was for the moment,
feeling sure that Margaret wanted to reply herself, to explain why they
were there. He was more than content that she should. Who were they? It
was a question that came very aptly, pointedly, ironically from that
bed.
‘I am Mrs. Waverton and this is my husband,’ Margaret was saying. ‘Are
you Sir Roderick Femm?’
‘Yes ... Sir Roderick.... The voice came as faintly as before; the
words might have been spoken by the very air of that dim place.
Margaret nodded and tried to smile at that blur of face with its
ghostly sheen. ‘We have had to take shelter here for the night. There
has been a very bad storm. We came in because we thought we heard
you calling. Can we get you anything?’
The hand that had been lying on the counterpane seemed to raise itself,
and, like something clumsily floating, it moved uncertainly towards the
right of the bed, where there was a little table. It’s horrible, Philip
thought as he stared; it’s like watching a ghost, no, worse than that,
a spirit coming back to try and make the old, rusty, creaky machinery
of the body work again. The real Sir Roderick had already retired
from life. Yet he hadn’t; he was wanting something; yes, he was still
wanting something; and that made it all the worse. What was he saying?
‘Water,’ came the whisper. ‘Glass empty.... Water over there....’
Margaret had heard and understood. ‘Yes, I’ll get you some,’ she
said, and taking up the glass from the little table, she went in the
direction the hand had pointed and filled the glass from a carafe that
she found on the top of a chest of drawers there. She still trembled
slightly and felt a little heart-sick, but the action gave her a
certain feeling of warmth and confidence. Returning with the glass, she
put it into the awaiting hand, a frail curve of bone. ‘Can you
take it yourself,’ she enquired gently, ‘or shall I give it to you?’
‘I can—do it—myself,—thank you.’ The hand closed round the glass
and slowly raised it. For one second the water caught and held the
candle-light and became liquid gold. The old man’s head came forward
shakily, and they had a glimpse of a great curved nose, shaggy white
brows, and wasted cheeks. Somehow it didn’t seem difficult to believe
that he had once been easily the tallest and strongest and handsomest
of the family, a magnificent figure. He had been a great man once, they
had said. No doubt it was true; and now he could hardly raise the glass
to his lips, and when he did at last succeed in drinking some of the
water, spilling it into his mouth, it seemed a triumphant achievement.
The water appeared to revive him, however, for he was able to replace
the glass on the table, and though his head sank back again upon the
piled pillows, into the deep shadow of the curtains, there seemed to be
a faint trace of animation in his movements. But his voice remained the
same, a ghostly whisper, a mere breath in the air. Yet it was he who
spoke first, before Margaret could ask him if there was anything
else he wanted.
‘What was—the noise there?’ he asked.
Margaret explained, very briefly and as lightly as she could, what had
happened outside. She had stepped back now and was standing by the side
of Philip.
‘Morgan—is a savage,’ they heard. ‘It was—the drink though. We have had
to keep him here’—and the voice trailed away into a long pause—‘because
of my brother. I must—apologise for him.’
This was the master of the house, though he seemed to whisper to them
across an open grave, and here were accents they had not caught before
under this roof. It was queer how this little speech appeared to lift a
weight, the pressure of something unnamed, from their minds.
‘Did you say—you were husband and wife?’ The whisper came again, after
a brief silence, filled with departing images.
‘Yes, we are,’ Margaret replied, very simply, like a child; and Philip
felt her hand on his arm. She couldn’t help it; answering that had
somehow been like another marriage ceremony, graver than that other
in the little church at Otterwell. She thought of that, and then
innumerable little pictures flashed across her mind: the two of them
dining together that night at the Gare de Lyon; then going through the
dust and faerie of Provence; the tiny flat in Doughty Street, with
Philip painting the fireplace; the Hampstead house and Betty in the
garden; and with all that had not been shared since flitting darkly
through her mind like a bad dream.
He spoke again out of the shadow. ‘You are fortunate—very fortunate. I
never married. There was—so much to do—but I came—to be very lonely—at
last.’ In spite of the frequent pauses, there was no gasping nor
obvious effort in his speech, and its faint drip-drip of words gave
it a strangely remote, oracular quality. He wasn’t conversing, Philip
felt; he was too old for that; there was only time to call faintly from
the darkening hillside. Philip didn’t want to move nor even to speak;
he only wanted to stand there, staring across the flame of the candle,
listening and wondering.
There was a slight stirring in the bed and the hand groped its way
towards the little table. Margaret started forward out of her dream
and gave him the glass again. This time he leaned further forward
than before, and after he had sipped and the glass had been replaced
he remained where he was, looking at them, with the light falling on
his face. Years and disease had played havoc there, and his eyes were
hidden by his thick brows; but, over and above all that, there was a
marked difference between him and the other two Femms. They had only
a moment, however, in which to return his scrutiny, that curiously
impersonal stare of old age, for no sooner had he spoken again than
he sank back into the shadow. ‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ he
whispered, and then vanished from the light.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Margaret, hastily apologetic. ‘But we couldn’t
help it, you know. We were absolutely cut off and had no other place to
shelter in.’ She flashed a glance at Philip.
‘It wasn’t a mere matter of comfort,’ he put in, ‘but of escaping from
real danger. There was a landslide and a flood.’ He felt as if he were
earnestly addressing nothing, as if Sir Roderick had departed and would
not return until he was ready to make another remark.
He made another now. But first they saw the hand on the counterpane
lifted, presumably to cut short their explanations and apologies.
‘I’m afraid—you misunderstand me,’ he said very slowly. ‘You make
me—seem inhospitable. I was never that—never.’ Here they caught the dry
husk of a laugh, a ghostly and incredible sound. ‘This house—was always
filled with guests—at one time—years ago—many years.’ They could almost
hear those years rustling by in the long pauses. And Margaret suddenly
thought of Rachel Femm and the young men who came riding in and the
women smothered in silks and scents who had laughed at Miss Femm. This
room, the whole house, was dimmed and thick with presences, haunted.
‘I wish—I could have—received you,’ the whisper, so curiously remote,
began again. ‘But you see, I am—old—ailing—tired now. I have done—with
life. No—not quite done. There is always something—we want. Now—it is—a
drink of water.’
‘Do you want one now?’ Margaret asked, reaching out for the glass. She
did not choose to see beyond the simple need.
‘Thank you,’ he said, without emphasis; and the hand went fumbling
out. In that gesture, even more than in the two whispered words,
Philip seemed to discover a deliberate and frugal irony, an irony that
would have been simply terrifying at any other time. Now, after so many
of his thoughts had gone down this dusty way, it came strangely to
reassure him. He was able to cling to the fact that something looked
out above the wreckage, unconquered, serene.
Once more refreshed by a sip or two of water their host returned to the
shadows and spoke again. ‘No doubt—when you came—they told you. I don’t
know what—they told you.’
‘We were told,’ said, Margaret, very quietly, ‘that you were an invalid
and in bed.’
‘That is—only the beginning. Was that all?’
Remembering so many things, Margaret felt confused, and looked at
Philip. But Philip, not knowing how to begin to answer the question,
shook his head. He felt as if the old man were listening carefully to
their silence and would soon reply to it.
This he did. ‘You have seen—my brother, Horace—and my sister? And
Morgan—you have seen him. You have been thinking—this is a strange
house—a strange family. You may have wondered—whether you did
well—in coming—even for shelter—out of the storm—into this
house—this old dark house. I should like—to tell you everything—to
explain. But there’s no time—no time to explain. I like to see
you—standing there—very young, younger than you think—and I haven’t
seen—anybody like you—so young—for many a year. I had almost
forgotten....’ His voice floated into a silence. They waited,
unstirring, for him to come groping out of his reverie. Then he went
on, more brokenly now: ‘I could have told you—a long story—but no time.
And talking—tires me.’
‘I’m sure it does,’ said Margaret. ‘Please don’t trouble. We’re only
disturbing you.’
He raised his hand a few inches, as if gently commanding her to be
silent. ‘Terrible misfortune,’ he whispered, ‘came—to this house. First
death—very early—for two—a young boy—then a girl, Rachel. Then—after
years—something broke down—the life ran out—there came—a strain of
madness.’ He broke off and there was silence again.
Standing here in this shadowy room, listening to this curiously remote
voice, Philip thought, might seem more fantastic than creeping on that
landing above or fighting with Morgan outside, than hearing Miss
Femm’s screaming or watching Mr. Femm’s hollow eyes; yet he could not
help feeling as if a light were about to shine through the house, as if
he were coming out at the end of a long tunnel.
‘It didn’t touch me—this madness,’ he began again. ‘At least—I don’t
think—it did—though there was a time—years and years ago—before you
were born—when I was wild—did mad things—I don’t know. It touched—all
the others—various ways—different degrees—but shut them all off
somehow—stopped them all really living—passed them through a little
death—half-way—then set them going again—with something dead inside.
You have seen my brother Horace—still sharp—a kind of cunning—but
all empty and brittle—a shell—with something gone—for ever. And
then—Rebecca—poor creature—she may have troubled you—nearly deaf—shut
off—everything missed—and now with a God—a God behind her—a God who is
deaf—vengeful—half-crazed—like she is. Don’t let her trouble you—yet
have pity on her—you are young—don’t anger her—only for one night. But
you have seen—the last of her perhaps—is she asleep? Is it—very
late? I feel—we all ought to be asleep.’
‘Yes, it’s very late,’ Margaret told him. ‘Wouldn’t you like to go
to sleep now?’ But this was only a little part of herself, a little
mechanical part, that was talking, though pity for him remained. The
rest of her was darkly bewildered and on edge. The soft slow pat-patter
of his voice and this shuttered room and thick, haunted air were
beating down her spirit.
‘Not yet,’ came the voice again, answering her question. ‘There’ll
be—plenty of time to sleep—soon. There’s still something left—to tell
you—for there may be—danger.’
‘Danger!’ she cried, shooting a glance at Philip. Was he thinking of
Morgan? Was he thinking at all? Perhaps it was he who was mad, far
crazier than the others, and was dragging them and the whole house into
some long nightmare spun out of loneliness and pain.
Philip found his voice now. Here, he felt, he could ask questions and
be answered. ‘Danger? Do you mean from Morgan?’
‘No—not directly. We keep him here—because of my brother, Saul.’
‘Saul?’ But something was swiftly taking shape in Philip’s mind
even as he cried out the name. That door.
‘Ah!—they have said nothing—about Saul?’ It came with maddening
deliberation.
‘No, no; what about him?’ Margaret tore the question out of a tormented
mind. Why didn’t he hurry, hurry?
‘It was on him—there fell—the heaviest blow. A raging madness. At
times—he is a dangerous maniac. Always he wanted—to destroy—to wipe
out everything—so that life—could be made—over again. There was—you
see—a kind of nobility—in Saul—but now his mind—lives—in darkness. Not
always—but the madness returns—to destroy him—the destroyer.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Margaret, shakily. The question was directed at
the bed but actually she was looking at Philip, who was now nodding his
head and frowning as he always did when he thought he knew something
important.
‘I know where he is,’ Philip announced. ‘I’ve heard him and seen his
room, at least the door of it. He’s upstairs, isn’t he, behind those
bolts?’
‘Yes—he is there,’ Sir Roderick replied. ‘He’s been locked
in now—for several days—has been very violent—I understand. Only
Morgan—can look after him—such times. He doesn’t attempt—to hurt
Morgan—even during—the worst attacks. And Morgan—half savage—very
superstitious—is devoted to him. Otherwise—Saul couldn’t have—stayed
here.’ Obviously he could only speak with an effort now, and the pauses
seemed to be longer between each whispered phrase. It seemed to be
sheer weakness, however, and not actual pain that was mastering him.
‘But if he did get out, we could lock ourselves in somewhere, couldn’t
we?’ Margaret herself was whispering now. She was cold and felt all
hollow inside.
‘You could,’ came the answer, so softly. ‘But if he—found his
way—downstairs—to a fire—or lights—or even matches—I think—he might
set fire—to the house. He has tried—before—a sacrifice—cleansing by
fire—he called it. Up there—in his room—there is nothing—no fire nor
matches—that is why—we had electric lighting.’
Margaret bit her lips. She wanted to grab hold of Philip and run away,
anywhere, back into the darkness and rain, through the flood if
necessary.
Philip concentrated his mind, the prey of huge trampling images, with
desperate swiftness. Something had to come yet. This voice, calling so
weakly from some remote high place, seemed to be letting down a fine
silken cord; it floated before him, a silver thread in the mirk; and
he felt he had to grasp it, hold on to it, or the world was lost. ‘But
those bolts will hold, surely,’ he cried. ‘That door seemed strong
enough.’
‘It is—but this is—what I wanted—to tell you. If Morgan—is so bad—if
he’s not asleep—or come—to his senses—I think he might—open the door.
You will have—to watch him.’
‘Philip!’ Margaret gave a little scream, and he felt her hands fumbling
on his coat. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He must see if
Morgan was still there—though there hadn’t been much time for him to
recover—and then find the others and decide what to do. ‘Stay here,’ he
said to Margaret. ‘I’ll go and have a look at him.’ He dashed out into
the landing, and she followed as far as the door.
A few steps in the flickering candle-light and he saw that Morgan
was not there. ‘Morgan!’ he cried, without thinking. Before he could
reach the place where Morgan had been lying, where the broken lamp and
its splintered glass told their tale, a door on the left opened and
there peered out a face like paper. It was Mr. Femm.
‘He’s just gone,’ Mr. Femm gabbled reedily. ‘Gone upstairs. I heard him
go. He’s gone to let Saul out, I know he has. And Saul’s mad, mad. Get
out of the way. Wait for him downstairs. There are three of you. Wait
for him there. Kill him!’ And the face was gone, the door banged to and
locked.
Philip hastened back down the landing and found Margaret swaying in the
doorway. ‘You heard that?’ he cried, pushing her forward into the room.
‘He may be letting him out.’
‘What are we to do?’ she gasped. ‘Can’t we stay here? Lock the door?’
‘No, we can’t do that. Mustn’t let him loose downstairs. And the others
don’t know.’ He saw there was a key inside the door. ‘We shall have to
get downstairs at once. I can’t go and tackle the two of them up there.’
The whisper came from the bed again. ‘Yes, go. Lock me in—and take the
key— with you.’
Philip drew back the door, took out the key, gave the candle to
Margaret and motioned her forward. She turned swiftly in the doorway,
however, and called back: ‘Oh, are you sure you’ll be all right?’
‘Yes—all right—take care—good luck.’ The voice seemed to come from
miles away, through a great darkness, the last friendly whisper of
humanity. The next moment they were outside, with the door locked
behind them.
There was a moment’s silence, during which their ears seemed to catch
the last faint vibrations of that voice from the darkened bed. They
were hurrying towards the stairs, but they had not gone more than
a few paces when the silence was broken. A yell of laughter went
pealing through the house. It came from somewhere above, perhaps
through an open door. It was the sudden laughter of madness. At the
sound of it, the mind, hearing its own knell ringing in an empty sky,
ran affrighted, and the heart, awaking out of its dream of peace and
kindness, stood still.