It had seemed as if dawn were postponed for ever, yet it came at last.
Philip noticed a vague trouble in the air and then a faint greying of
things. He alone appeared to be awake now. He was sitting in a chair,
and his arms were around Margaret, who was leaning against him, curled
across another and lower chair. For some time he had been sitting
there, quiet, unstirring, numbed, but with his thoughts going on and
on, like a river flowing through a frozen land. He seemed to have been
there a long time now. Already the events of the night had receded;
the struggle with Morgan in the hall here, along the corridor, in the
kitchen, and the final victory that sent him, cowed, beaten, into
the cellar; the fantastic interview with Miss Femm, who would not
surrender the key of the door into the hall at first and had to be
stormed at; the discovery of the lifeless bodies of Penderel and Saul
Femm, one with his neck broken and the other mysteriously killed,
perhaps from shock and a weak heart; the huddling away of the bodies,
the scenes that followed with Margaret and Gladys and the two Femms;
already these events were receding, a haze was creeping over them,
though the tale was hardly three hours old.
He himself had not slept, though there was something hot and aching
about his eyes and a weight upon their lids. He had been busy making
Margaret comfortable, holding her securely, and now she slept. Not
far away, Sir William, who had long been exhausted and had not easily
recovered from the blow that Morgan had given him, was stretched out in
the other armchair, dozing heavily. The rich baronet, Philip reflected,
had come out of it all extraordinarily well. Brigand he might be, but
he was certainly a man. He had shown courage and nerve during the
fight with Morgan and later, and, what was even more surprising, he
had been magnificent with Gladys afterwards, the ‘lass,’ as he had
called her with a gruff tenderness that seemed to be part of the real
North-country self he usually kept hidden away.
Philip watched the grey light steal into the room and then begin
to creep towards every corner. There was Gladys, the most tragic figure
among them. She was half-sitting, half-lying on the floor, with her
head against Sir William’s knee and one arm flung across it. She, too,
was sleeping peacefully at last, completely worn out after her long
storm of sobbing. When she had first learned of Penderel’s death, she
had been strangely quiet; and it was only afterwards, when in spite of
all they could say to dissuade her she had gone to look at his body
and had suddenly flung herself down upon it, that she had lost all her
self-control. And now she was asleep, and when she wakened to the world
again the night’s tragedy would have lost something of its stabbing
power, would already be a memory, be softened, gauzed about with dream,
and she would be ready to go quietly away, to complete—and how strange
that seemed—her journey.
His thoughts wandered on as he watched the room tremble between
darkness and light. Penderel and poor crazed Saul Femm had only
seemed to be sleeping, as if suddenly weary of their long wrestling
bout, when they had found them, twisted on the floor beneath the
broken banisters. And there had seemed, he remembered, to be a queer
brotherhood between them. You felt they were going to awaken somewhere
else and immediately shake hands and talk it all out together.
Margaret stirred and his arm tightened about her, but she didn’t
waken. Nothing much had happened between them; they hadn’t had it
out in the old cool and clever way; but they had exchanged a glance
or two, a few broken sentences; and it looked as if everything might
be different yet. ‘I’m so lonely,’ she had whispered once; and then:
‘It’s unbearable without love.’ But that was in the last long terror
of the dark, and perhaps he ought to forget it now. Still, the sun
would set again, and the darkness would come again. And he had said
once, when she was burying her face in his coat: ‘Let’s make another
start’; and he had felt an answering grip upon his arm. But the real
moment which might change everything for them, had been one of silence,
just a clasp of hands. That was when they were standing together on
the landing upstairs. Mr. Femm had come and gone like a shaking ghost;
Miss Femm had departed to pray by the body of; her dead brother;
Gladys, growing calmer at last, had been handed over to Sir William;
and it was then they had remembered old Sir Roderick upstairs, lying
there wondering and helpless in the dark. Nobody could have visited him
because Philip himself still had the key. Together they had returned
there, haunted by a curiously poignant memory of that room, that last
little outpost of sanity, and together they had crept in, carrying the
remaining inch of lighted candle, to whisper the end of the story to
him who had begun it for them in a whisper or two. It was a strange
errand, with a conclusion stranger still. Not a sound nor a movement
had come from that shadowy bed, and when they crept forward to look at
the old man, it had seemed as if he too had died. Then they had noticed
his faint breathing, the very lightest sigh of life, and had seen that
he was calmly sleeping. Probably he had slept through everything. They
left him undisturbed, but when they had closed the door behind them,
they stood very close together, in silence, and hand had reached out
for hand. Something had united them at that moment, little more than a
breath perhaps, and yet it brought them so close, so close. Surely
they could begin again now?
Somebody moved and grunted. That was Sir William. ‘Hello!’ Philip
called softly. ‘You awake?’
‘Yes, worse luck,’ Sir William replied, in a very hoarse, uncertain
voice. ‘Can’t either sleep or keep awake. I’m sore all over. Keep
thinking, too.’
‘So do I,’ said Philip, companionably, and then waited.
‘Tell you what keeps coming into my mind,’ the other went on, after a
pause. ‘Remember when we took hold of that poor devil, the lunatic?
Well, I noticed something lying on the floor on my side, just by his
coat. It was a couple of cards. I can tell you what they were. Seven of
clubs and five of diamonds. I shan’t ever forget ’em either. Seven of
clubs and five of diamonds. And then some more came tumbling out of his
pocket when we lifted the body. He’d a pack in his pocket. Must have
played patience up there sometimes, poor devil. That got me somehow.
Don’t know how it is, but can’t forget those cards.’
Philip made a little answering noise that showed he was listening,
but said nothing. He hoped Sir William would go on talking, but he
didn’t much want to talk himself. There was silence for a few minutes.
‘I liked that lad Penderel, you know,’ Sir William remarked at last, as
if musing aloud. ‘He wasn’t my sort and I don’t suppose he liked me,
but I liked him. I’d have done something for him too. He was going to
get a job, you know. About the last thing he talked about.’
‘What was he going to do?’ Philip found he could talk about Penderel
quite calmly now.
‘God knows! He probably wouldn’t have done it long, whatever it was.
He’d got guts all right—we know that—and I fancy he’d brains, but I
don’t see him fitting in anywhere, I mean I didn’t see him. You never
know, of course, you never know. But this is no way to talk about the
poor lad, is it? I liked him, liked him from the first, when he was
talking about himself. I thought it seemed damned unfair, somehow. I
dunno. What can you do? And it seems a damned sight worse now. Won’t
bear thinking about, will it? Gladys here’s sleeping like a
three-year-old now. Well, I’ll see she’s all right. Made up my mind
about that.’
Then Sir William struggled with a series of yawns. ‘Nearly dead for
want of sleep,’ he confessed. ‘How about you? But then you’re still
young. I’m getting on, and if I didn’t know it before, I know it now.’
He yawned again. ‘There’ll be something to do about this business. Just
thought of that. Inquests and God knows what else, keeping us dodging
about for days. Damned nuisance, eh? Lot to do to-morrow—to-day I
mean—if we’re not still cut off. Well, we’ll have to get busy. But must
have some sleep first.’ His voice sank to a mere grunt and in another
minute he had dozed off again.
Daylight itself was at the windows, suddenly chilling the place. Philip
shivered a little, feeling cold now and very hungry. The arm that held
Margaret was cramped and aching and very gently he tried to move it.
She stirred, turned her head, and he saw that her eyes were wide open
though still vague with sleep. Something caught at his heart as he
stared down at her face, for she looked different, at once dreamy and
curiously fragile, yet he remembered her looking like that once
before. Was it when Betty was born?
For some little time she remained like that, and neither stirred again
nor spoke. He leaned forward and watched her eyes clear themselves of
sleep and then slowly move this way and that, up to his face, towards
the windows. ‘It’s nearly daylight,’ she said at last, very softly.
‘Yes, it’s dawn,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been watching it arrive.’ He saw
her eyes close again and waited a moment. Then he added: ‘It’s been a
long time coming.’
Her only reply was a little murmuring sound from her closed lips. It
seemed as if she were falling asleep again. The next moment, however,
her eyes were wide open once more and looked up at him. ‘You’ve not
been asleep, Phil, have you?’ she said.
‘Not yet. I suppose I’ve been thinking in a numbed sort of fashion. I
must say I’m tired.’
‘You look tired,’ she whispered. ‘Try to go to sleep. Don’t bother
about anything any more.’ Her eyes closed again, but she raised her
head a little and he bent forward and kissed her, very gently.
Now holding her lightly at arms length, he half raised himself
from the chair and gingerly tried his legs. ‘I’m horribly cramped,’ he
said softly. ‘You must be too. Try this big chair while I work this
stiffness off.’ She nodded, and he moved to one side and helped her
into the arm-chair.
Is Gladys asleep?’ she whispered.
‘Yes; she’s never moved.’
‘I’m glad. We mustn’t waken her.’ She sank back and he bent over her
and seemed to see her eyes cloud over with sleep again.
‘I think I’ll go over to the window,’ he remarked,’ just to see what
it’s like outside.’
She looked at him and tried to smile. ‘It’s different now, isn’t it?’
she whispered, and saw him nod and then creep away. Vaguely she thought
how it had seemed once as if it would never be daylight again, as if
it would just go on getting darker and darker, more and more horrible,
as if she too would soon be lost in madness. Then, she couldn’t have
imagined the daylight coming into the house. But it hadn’t, not into
that house. This was a different house.
She was very tired and sleepy, and she had to sink down and close
her eyes again. But her mind went groping about and at last
stumbled back through the night. It seemed different now; something
had vanished from it; that huge background of nightmare, horror
mounting in the dark, all that had gone. They had come running out of
the rain, the black night, into this house, clamouring for shelter,
and had found here some people like themselves, only twisted, crazed,
with loneliness, age, some weakness of blood or brain. Their figures
came swaying before her, and now for a moment she could look into each
face steadily and pitifully. Last night she had been sick, terrified,
despairing; to-morrow, looking back, she might be angry; but just now
she could only be sorry. She thought of the five of them coming in
here, saw them a long way off, dim little figures, and then vaguely
tried to remember the talk they had had, what they had said. She heard
Penderel’s voice again. Something about a snag, the great snag. Had he
got round it now, leaped over it, gone on his way? But what was it?
About being taken in or being piggy, was that it? She could remember
thinking it all rather young and silly, and that’s all she could
remember, she was so sleepy, just sorry and very sleepy.
The window showed Philip no red flares and rising ball of fire, no
sudden triumph of day. It was a chill misty dawn, a landscape in smoke
and steel. It held out no large promises of sunlight and the blue; yet
there was a touch of kindness in its level sober light, which moved so
slowly in that room to which he turned now, and dealt so gently with
the eyes it found there. The morning’s truth would not be proclaimed
with insolent haste. It would be revealed very slowly and quietly.
As he passed, he heard a sudden little noise from Sir William, who was
apparently clearing his throat. Philip stopped and turned, and saw that
he was awake again. He tip-toed nearer, glancing down at Gladys, who
was still in the same position, sleeping soundly. The hand above her
grasped a handkerchief, tiny and crumpled. She looked like a child. Sir
William looked different too in this new light, looked curiously aged,
stony, desolate.
‘Saw you looking out,’ he told Philip in a hoarse whisper. ‘What’s it
like?’
‘The floods have gone down, I think,’ Philip replied very softly. ‘It’s
not too bad a morning.’
Sir William grunted. ‘It’s got plenty of time yet. Wish I could
sleep.’
‘I’m going to try now,’ said Philip, and crept away. The next moment he
was lying on the floor by the side of Margaret’s chair.
‘Your wife asleep?’ The question came faintly.
‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘fast asleep.’
_Printed in Great Britain at_ The Ballantyne Press _by_
Spottiswoode, Ballantyne & Co. Ltd.
_Colchester, London & Eton_
ADAM IN MOONSHINE
By J. B. PRIESTLEY
Third Impression. 7s. 6d. net.
“It is impossible to see how a thing of this kind could be better done,
for even Mr. Chesterton has never sustained an intelligent absurdity at
so high a pitch.”—_The Outlook_.
“The lightness of fantasy is admirably sustained; and the beauty of
description never fails.”—Gerald Gould, _The Observer_.
“It would be difficult to exaggerate the charm of this novel, or to
overpraise the delightful unexpectedness of the plot, the wit and
humour of the presentation, and the delicate beauty of the writing.
But perhaps beyond all these the real secret of the appeal lies in
that elusive and mysterious but authentic emanation of the writer’s
personality, which proclaims the quality of his mind like a mystic coat
of arms.
“In this book all the glory, the charming folly and pathos of youth—its
touching responsiveness, instinctive generosity, as well as its amusing
delight in feeling really important—are remembered, recognised and
described with a perceptiveness and sympathy that have no trace of envy
or patronage.”—_Daily Telegraph_.
“A delightfully mad story.”—_The Sunday Times_.
“The story is as credible as a fairy tale.”—_The Spectator_.
Transcriber’s Notes
1. Italicized text indicated by leading and trailing _underscores_.
2. Illustrations are indicated by: [Illustration: caption and/or
descriptive text].
3. Text spelling has been left unchanged from the original printed
version.
4. “Benighted” was published in the US under the title “The Old Dark
House” in 1928.