Benighted

by J. B. Priestley

  ‘All round us now, I should think,’ he replied. ‘Probably finding its way in.’

  Yes, the house was an eggshell perched on the hillside. There was no security anywhere. This thought angered her; she felt as if she had been cheated.

  ‘It won’t bother us,’ Sir William was declaring. ‘Only keep us indoors here, and anyhow we don’t want to go out.’

  She hastened to agree, and told herself not to be so foolish. A foot or two of water, a few tumbling rocks outside, a little space of darkness, that was all, and what were they? The trouble really was, she ought to be asleep, dreaming. There came a fancy that it was the dreaming part of her, now awake and active, that was taking hold of her experience, turning it into queer stuff, flashing baleful lights upon it. They were now both drifting away from the window, going back to the fire again.

  The opening of a door behind turned them round. Could it be Philip at last? No, it was Miss Femm. She came in with a candle in one hand and with the other outstretched, a finger pointing at Margaret.

  ‘You opened it, didn’t you?’ she screamed, accusingly. ‘Well, you can go and shut it now, go and shut it. I can’t. No time to lose either. It’s down on us, coming in too, I expect, in the cellars.’

  Margaret couldn’t find a word. She felt rather sick. Sir William, however, took charge of the situation. ‘What’s this?’ he called, with some sternness.

  ‘The floods, of course!’ cried Miss Femm. ‘All round us.’

  ‘Yes, I know that,’ he returned. ‘But what’s this about opening and shutting?’

  ‘My window.’ She pointed to Margaret again. ‘She must have opened it, and now she can shut it. I’m being swamped out.’

  Margaret found her voice. ‘I’m sorry.’ Then she turned to Sir William and lowered her voice. ‘I’m afraid I opened the window in her room. That’s what she means.’

  ‘Is that all? Well, I’ll go and close it for her,’ he replied, to her relief. ‘All right,’ he shouted, nodding to Miss Femm. ‘I’ll come and shut it.’

  Miss Femm nodded in reply, keeping her mouth tightly closed and fixing her little eyes on Margaret in a long evil stare. Then she went over to the door through which she had just entered, the one that led into the corridor that Margaret knew, and held it open. Sir William walked towards it, then turned and looked back at Margaret. ‘Shan’t be long,’ he told her. ‘Your husband ought to be back with that lamp in a minute or two.’ He went out, followed by Miss Femm, who banged the door behind her.

  It was a desolate sound. Nor was the silence that came so swiftly afterwards any more comforting. There dripped into it the thought that she was now alone. The shadows, thick in every corner of the big room, lit so feebly, despairingly, by the solitary candle, crept nearer to tell her that she was alone. It was only for a minute or so, though. Any moment might bring Philip down those stairs. She walked slowly over to the foot of the staircase and stood there looking up into the gloom above and listening for his footstep. She heard something, a vague noise, it might have been someone talking or moving about upstairs. Was it Philip and Mr. Femm? And if not, who was it, and what had become of them? There was a creaking somewhere. Was it on the stairs above? She glanced round the hall and then had a sudden impulse to run upstairs and find Philip. It would be better than staying there alone. But would it? She might miss him; he might return some other way, down another staircase at the back, and find her gone; and she might be wandering about upstairs. Who knew how big and rambling the house might be! She saw herself creeping down strange dim corridors. No, she would remain where she was. And anyhow, Sir William would return soon.

  She wandered back to the table and looked down on the candle-flame. Idly she held one hand above it and began twiddling her fingers, watching their play of light and shade. Then she saw the shadows they cast, a dance of uncouth crazy figures, savages leaping in the smoke of a ceremonial fire, and she brought her hand away and remained quite still for a few moments, feeling very small and desolate. Soon she grew impatient, first with herself and then with everybody else. Why had they all stolen away, leaving her alone? Her mind swayed towards unreason. There came gibbering into it the fancy that she was the victim of a plot, that all the others had been deliberately spirited away by Miss Femm, who would lock them all up and then come creeping back to lay a toad-like witch’s hand upon her. For one sickening moment she could feel that hand, but the next instant the whole fantastic web was broken. Nerves and a too eager imagination were playing her false again, playing false indeed to life itself, through which there ran the unbroken cord of sanity; they were lying and treacherous, betraying her mind back into primitive darkness. You go native, they whispered, it’s easier. Thought came to steady her, and things shifted back into a reasonable shape and colouring again.

  She was ridiculously impatient, of course, she told herself, swelling every second into a minute, but still it was queer how long everybody seemed to stay away. And where were Penderel and that girl Gladys? They must be together, of course. Perhaps they had tucked themselves away in some corner of the house (somehow the idea made her shudder), or they might possibly be outside.

  The thought steered her towards the door. She would have a look at the night. Even if no one had returned by the time she came back from the door—and that was improbable—a peep outside would at least make things easier by contrast, would banish the desolation of the room, give it a suggestion of warmth and security. She opened the door and peered out. At first there was nothing but darkness and a rush of sweet cold air in her face. Then the light of the room, dim as it was, stole through and her eyes began to sift the dark. There were still noises coming from a distance, the sounds she had heard before, but these only formed a vague tumultuous background for other and more curious sounds, near at hand, all watery sounds, a kind of mixed lapping and swishing and splashing. She leaned forward and looked more closely. There was little or no rain now, only a few drops came spattering in the rising wind. But what was that faint curved gleam below? She peered down and saw that two of the three steps from the door had disappeared. Then she understood, though it was difficult to say how much her eyes actually saw. But that was water that darkly shone and lapped and swished and splashed there below. She was looking out upon what was virtually a river or a lake. The flood had come pouring down upon them, had rolled round the house (and was perhaps filling the cellars this very minute), and its waters had risen to a sufficient height to cover the two steps. It was besieging them. She was standing on the edge of a little island. Involuntarily she drew back and swung the door a little further forward, but did not close it. Fascinated, half lost in a dream, she still stared out, her fancy deepening the dark water every moment until she brooded over whole drowned valleys.

  Then suddenly she went cold and stiffened. Somebody was standing behind her, very close. For a moment or so she did not move and there came back to her, in one crazy flash, that vision of Miss Femm which tormented her before. It was she who was standing there, malignant, corrupt, a witch.

  There was a shuffling movement and the sound of heavy breathing. She had no need to turn and look now. It wasn’t Miss Femm, it was Morgan. A great hand came uncertainly over her head, touched the door she held, and began closing it; she could feel his hot breath; he was brushing against her; there came a sickening animal warmth, a rank smell.

  One quick desperate twitch of her whole body and she was free. The door crashed to, with all his weight upon it, and for a moment he remained there, leaning against it, a breathing hulk. She stood trembling, only a yard away, and stared at him. She wanted to cry out, but she dug her nails into her palms and remained silent, asking herself frantic questions. He was drunk, of course, as they said he would be. Had he been simply trying to shut the door? Yes, that was all. She had only to keep quiet, to be calm, dignified, and he would be gone in a minute.

  Without
another glance at him, she walked slowly across the hall towards the fire. It was extraordinary how far it seemed. Her back crept with little shivers. But it was all right; he would go away, and somebody would be coming soon, yes, somebody would be coming. She had reached the table now and the candle burning there gave her confidence. What was he doing? She turned to see, narrowing her eyes. The dim light showed him to her still standing there, a vague shape at first, but then she saw that he was no longer leaning against the door but had turned round to face her. Was he looking at her? The blur of his face told her nothing, but she felt sure that he was staring across at her. It would have been less terrifying if she could have seen him clearly, but that vague mass, that dark hulking shapelessness, like something monstrous spawned by the shadows, appalled her. Was he moving forward or merely swaying? And there was not a sound; nobody was coming. The whole world was suddenly empty and horrible.

  Yes, he was coming towards her, there could be no mistake about that now. She saw him lurching forward gigantically. She wanted to run away. But he had stopped again, and was swaying there not two or three yards from the table; and she could see him clearly now, could see his hair and dripping beard and even his little sunken eyes, and this was something for faint comfort, for he did at least become a person again. Desperately she told herself it was only Morgan, the servant here, a big stupid creature. Why should she stand looking at him like that? If she took no notice of him, he would probably go away. She turned a shivering back upon him and walked slowly across to the other side of the fireplace. Then she faced about sharply. He too had moved and was now standing where she had been a moment before.

  ‘What do you want?’ she cried shakily. Her voice sounded so feeble that it only emphasised her weakness, her loneliness. And what was the use? He was dumb. If only he hadn’t been dumb, she felt, she could have done something with him.

  His little eyes dwelt upon her, as if in answer to her question. Then he raised a hand lumberingly and his mouth seemed to gape into a grin.

  She held herself tightly. ‘Go away,’ she cried again, and stared at him. He did not move but made an uncouth noise in his throat. There came with it that smell again, rank from a huge unwashed hairy body. If he could only say something, however foul, it would have helped her to control herself. But this sickened and terrified her. Still trying to look self-possessed, she moved away again, with wincing little steps, this time round the right-hand side of the table, thus keeping it between them. She would go towards the stairs. Philip was up there somewhere and might be coming down any moment.

  She could see Morgan out of the corner of her eye. He was still standing there, watching her. Now she was turning away from him, facing the bottom of the stairs. There was a noise behind her. Had he moved? She quickened her pace and was now within a yard of the lowest stair. He was following her; he was very near. Then she gave a little shriek for a hand fell upon her shoulder, twisting her round. A great arm swept about her, and there was a fleeting nightmare of a lowered hairy face, a suffocating hug, heat and stench and huge sliding paws. She threw herself back, struggling wildly, sickeningly, beating upon the arm that held her, wriggling desperately in his grasp. A sharp tearing—the top of her dress ripped—and she was free, stumbling backward, gasping. He loomed above her, but now she summoned all her strength, darted blindly beneath the outstretched arm, and contrived to scramble up the first few stairs.

  ‘Philip, Philip!’ she called with what breath remained to her. Oh, where was he, where was he? The stairs heaved and trembled; her hair fell in front of her eyes, which saw strange flashes of light; there was a roaring in her ears; but he was coming after her now and she clutched at the banisters and pulled herself up and up, half falling and then recovering herself at every other step. He was there grunting behind her, only a few feet away. The stairs now curved into darkness, and in a moment she would be at the top. Something freed her voice at last, breathless though she was. ‘Philip, Philip!’ she called, and now the cry went ringing through the dark. ‘Philip!’ it went ringing again, sending her terror and her need clamouring through the upper rooms and landings, the black space into which he had disappeared. He was there somewhere and he would hear.

  CHAPTER IX

  Following Femm upstairs left ample time for reflection. He seemed to move not merely slowly but with downright reluctance, as if he were climbing to the scaffold. Philip was telling himself that he felt a durned sight better. He had Penderel (and the house itself too, perhaps) to thank for that, because it was that outburst of confidences round the table that had done him good. To begin with, he had let off steam himself, which made an immense difference. Then Margaret’s answer to his question had told him a great deal. In fact, he had thought of trying to put things right between them, had just been about to begin—led on by the good old Come-now-Philip look in Margaret’s clear eyes—when the confounded lights went out and eyes and all disappeared. Then, too, the others had rushed in to give themselves away, and that had been a warming and heartening kind of experience. The night had redeemed itself. If you can put yourself right with people, he announced to himself, the rest doesn’t matter; the roof can fall in. And a serious young architect couldn’t put it stronger than that.

  So far he had been climbing funereally in Femm’s shadow. Now they had reached the top of the first flight of stairs, and his guide had come to a halt and was holding the candle above his head, as if he were inviting the architect in Philip to look round. There wasn’t much to be seen, but Philip peered curiously and suddenly found himself interested. He turned to examine the panelling at his elbow, and Femm brought the light nearer.

  ‘Seventeenth century?’ Philip asked.

  ‘That was when this house was built, or at least some of it,’ Mr. Femm replied, and seemed anxious to remain where he was and to volunteer further information.

  Philip nodded to all that was said, looked about, touched things. Everything there was magnificently done but had been wickedly neglected and was now in a ruinous state of decay; it was a sight that went to his heart. He thought he understood now why the house had depressed him at first, where he had picked up the idea of an evil desolation, for everything told the same sad tale, and no doubt downstairs he had quite unconsciously taken in all this. Treated with anything like decency, this house would have been a joy, a miracle. Now they stood there holding a candle to a fallen empire of craftsmanship. A not unpleasant melancholy, touched with autumnal beauty, invaded his mind. He wanted to talk about it to somebody, to Margaret.

  They moved slowly down the landing, past several stout old doors. The last of these Mr. Femm tapped with his forefinger. ‘This is my room,’ he said, halting. ‘There are some things here that you would like to see, I imagine.’ He looked at Philip almost wistfully.

  ‘I’ve no doubt I should,’ Philip replied, ‘but not just now, if you don’t mind. We’ve got to get that lamp, you know.’

  Mr. Femm lowered the candle and then made use of his other hand to stroke his long chin. He looked most fantastically bloodless, brittle. ‘Ah, yes, the lamp.’ He stared at Philip for a moment, then pushed his face forward a little. ‘Why should we bother about the lamp? We have been long enough away now. We can go back and say that we cannot find it or that it was too heavy for us or that it is broken. They will have to believe us. Why should we trouble about the lamp?’ He spoke very softly but with even more precision than usual.

  Philip looked at him in amazement. What was the matter with the man? ‘I don’t see the point,’ he began, then broke off and changed his tone, feeling rather indignant. ‘Besides, we couldn’t do that. We said we’d get the lamp and we’ll get it. Why shouldn’t we?’

  ‘Why should we if we don’t want to?’ said Mr. Femm, calmly. ‘And I don’t want to. Are you afraid of telling a few lies? If you are, I will take it upon myself to tell them.’

  ‘It’s not that, tho
ugh I must say I don’t like lying. And in this case it would be particularly mean.’ But Philip couldn’t be angry, it was all so absurd. He never remembered a more absurd conversation—the two of them standing there in the little glow of candle-light at the end of the landing, arguing about a tiny errand they had undertaken.

  ‘I must say, if I may do so without offence,’ Mr. Femm mused, ‘that for a man of culture, as you have just proved yourself to be, you are singularly naïve. Perhaps you have religious convictions, like my sister. Perhaps God is on your side.’

  ‘No, I’ve not,’ Philip replied shortly. He was beginning to be annoyed. There was something offensive about the man, a queer unpleasant streak in him that could hardly be dismissed as eccentricity. But something came to break his thought. ‘Hello, did you hear that?’ he exclaimed. It was a stifled cry from somewhere, and there came with it a kind of battering noise.

  The candle dipped and shook, and in its wavering light Mr. Femm, who had started back, looked more ghostly than ever. He answered Philip’s stare with hollow eyes. ‘I did hear something,’ he said at last.

  ‘I should think you did,’ Philip returned. It was rude, but he couldn’t help it. ‘What was it?’ he demanded bluntly.

  The other leaned forward again. ‘It must have been Morgan. That fellow is drunk, as you know. He is probably making a disturbance in the kitchen.’

  The sound had not come from the direction of the kitchen, but Philip couldn’t very well pursue the topic, although his mind had not dismissed it. They were wasting time. ‘Well, what about the lamp?’