Chapter XI.
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, backinto 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.