Benighted

by J. B. Priestley

  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.

  CHAPTER XII

  Sir William heard the knocking again, sat up and rubbed his eyes, stared at the door for a minute, recovering his wits, then marched across and opened it wide. ‘Hello!’ he cried, as the bedraggled pair staggered past him into the room. ‘And where the devil have you two been?’ He followed them across to the fire.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Penderel began; his face was pale and a little drawn, but his eyes were dancing.

  ‘Then cut it short,’ Sir William growled. What a wild young devil he looks, he told himself; something between a gunman and a fiddler.

  Penderel was busy taking off his boots. ‘Well, you see, I went out to Waverton’s car to get my flask——’

  Here Gladys broke in: ‘And I went with him to the door, and then I was shut out and couldn’t get in, and so I found him in the car and we sat there and talked.’ She looked at him rather defiantly, very bright-eyed. ‘And we’ve had to wade through a lake to get back.’

  Penderel was padding across the room in his stockinged feet, in search of his bag. ‘Why, what’s been happening here?’ he asked.

  ‘God knows. I don’t. I’ve been hanging about here, waiting for somebody to come or something to happen. And just look at the place. It gets on your nerves. Every time I’ve wakened up I’ve had a shock.’

  ‘But where are they all?’ Gladys looked bewildered.

  ‘Don’t ask me. Can’t tell you.’ Sir William blew out his breath impatiently. ‘I’ll tell you what I do know. The lights went out. Waverton and what’s-his-name—Femm—went off to find a lamp. They’re finding it yet. Then that little screeching woman—she’s as mad as a hatter, that woman, and I hope I’ve seen the last of her—well, she wanted someone to shut a window. I did that and listened to her raving. Then she dug out a little lamp and I came back with it. That’s the one.’ He pointed to the tiny oil lamp burning on the table. ‘Good job I brought it, too, or I’d have been in the dark. Well, when I came back, Mrs. Waverton had disappeared. I didn’t want to start roaming round the house, so waited here by the fire. Must have dozed off. Thought I heard a crash somewhere, but may have dreamt it. Woke up though, but nobody came, so dozed off again, and next thing I heard was you knocking.’

  Gladys exchanged glances with Penderel, who was coming back with some clothes over his arm. ‘We must investigate this,’ he said cheerfully. He moved over to a door opposite the staircase, to the left of the fireplace, a door that had not been opened yet. ‘I wonder what happens in here. Could I go in, do you think?’

  ‘Why?’ Gladys was alarmed. ‘What are you going to do?’

  He grinned at her. ‘Change my trousers.’ He looked a little longer and his grin changed to a smile. ‘Back in a minute.’ The door closed behind him.

  Sir William had turned quickly and was now holding Gladys lightly at arms length. ‘What’s the idea, Gladys? Amusing yourself, or love at first sight?’

  She met his look bravely. ‘It’s real, Bill. You won’t mind. You’re too decent—and friendly. You ought to be glad.’

  ‘Oh!—ought I?—you monkey! Sharp work, I must say. But—tell me—is it—both sides? What
about him?’

  She nodded gravely. Then suddenly her face lit up, and the sentimental boy who still lived on inside him felt as if he were catching a glimpse of sunrise in a lost world. It was indeed the most exquisite sensation she had ever given him, and he struggled hard not to enjoy it. ‘I can’t begin to tell you——’ she began.

  ‘Then don’t,’ he broke in, still at odds with himself.

  Then he softened: ‘No, go on. Let’s hear all about it.’

  She came nearer and put a hand on his arm. ‘There isn’t time. But listen, Bill. It’s no good pretending to be cross. I know you don’t mean it. He’s coming to town, to be with me. I want him to do something, put his back into it, and I know he will. You saw what he was like before, absolutely fed up, not caring a damn about anything. Well, I’m knocking that on the head, knocked it already.’

  ‘Ah, the old game, eh?’ He chuckled over her. ‘Reforming him already, are we? Then it’s serious.’

  ‘It is, but it’s going to be a hell of a lark too. Now you’ve got to help. You can easily find him a job, you’ve plenty to spare.’

  ‘For solid downright cheek,’ he exclaimed, ‘give me a young woman who thinks herself in love.’

  ‘Now don’t be silly. It isn’t cheek, and you know it’s not. Besides, he’s tremendously clever, you can see that, and full of push and go. Hurry up and say you will, he’s coming back.’