Джон Пристли - Benighted

It had looked as if Philip were going to plunge into an explanation, as if they were going to have it out together at last. They had drawn away from the others and were standing near the fire, intent upon one another. They ought to have begun as soon as that curious talk, which had pretended to be a mere game round the table, had come to an end. Indeed, their eyes had begun, Margaret told herself, and then admitted that it was mean of her to have left the actual cold plunge into talk to Philip. Poor Philip was so dreadfully handicapped. If he wasn't too proud to talk to her properly – and she was sure the night had withered away all but the merest husk of pride in both of them – he was still shy. Why had she stupidly waited and then squandered the precious moments in chatter. No, it wasn't really chatter, nothing they said now could be called that, but it wasn't the talk they wanted. Their eyes condemned it. Eyes were doing that everywhere, watching in despair the world being chattered away.

Then it had seemed as if he were about to begin. He had tightened his lips for a moment and that familiar little frown had appeared. How well she knew that look! There had been times too – and they weren't pleasant to think about now – when she had hated it, had turned away and had allowed other faces (Murrell smiling down at her, the sickly fool! – how could she have been so silly!) to come flashing into her mind. The little speech that had followed that look on his face had seemed to confirm her judgment. He had said, very gravely: "Did you understand what I meant when I was talking at the table, Margaret? It was important, you know – I mean important for us ."

There was everything in that plural. Of course she had understood. As if she didn't know him, know every twist and turn of his mind, so anxious, blundering, honest, yes, gloriously honest! She had waited a moment before replying, but only to pick out the right words so that she could get the two of them really launched. And then, before she had spoken a word, it had happened. The lights had gone out. It was as if the house couldn't leave them alone. She was just finding her feet in it, that queer experience in that horrible room with Miss Femm was just beginning to look like a mere attack of nerves, everything was settling down into decency and friendliness, and now the light was gone. At first they seemed to be in total darkness, but it was soon partly dispelled by the dull glow from the fire. Now she stood among shadows in a faintly crimsoned cavern.

The fuss that followed was rather welcome; it did at least keep the house at bay. The men began shouting to one another about fusing and short circuiting and accumulators. Philip, who knew all about these things, offered to try and make the lights work again, but Mr. Femm seemed to think it was hopeless. Margaret didn't listen very carefully, being content that their loud, cheerful voices filled the darkness. But when Sir William struck a match and held it up and there was talk of candles, she remembered the one she had brought back with her from Miss Femm's room.

They lit this candle and put it on the table, and then they all drew a little closer and looked down on its tiny wavering flame. At this moment, Miss Femm marched in upon them, carrying another lighted candle.

"You've got one, have you," she yelled at them. "Well, look at it. It's guttering. There's a draught." She looked round the room. "The door's wide open." She went over and closed it with a bang. Then she returned to the table, put down her candlestick, and let her little button eyes run from one to the other of them.

"Look here," cried Sir William, heartily, "isn't there anything else we could have, a lamp or something? Not much of a light this."

"What's that?" Miss Femm screamed, looking at her brother. He explained in his curious hissing voice that always contrived to reach her ears. Meanwhile, Margaret seemed to hear a faint knocking, but as no one else appeared to hear it, she thought she must be mistaken. Then Miss Femm's voice drove all thought of it from her head. You couldn't think of anything else the moment that woman opened her mouth.

"Let them have the big lamp then," she was saying. Miss Femm always talked about them to her brother as if they weren't there. "There's oil in it. We used it the last time the lights went out. We must have some light down here, and not just to please them either. There's Morgan, remember. Go and get the big lamp, Horace. You know the one."

He stared at her, his face an edge of bone in the candle-light. Then after a few moments" hesitation he stammered: "Yes, I – I think so. I cannot remember where it is though. You get it, Rebecca."

"Not I!" she cried. "Too big for me. And if you don't know where it is, I'll tell you; though you know as well as I do. It's on the little table on the top landing." Her voice rose to a scream of savage derision. "You know where the top landing is, don't you? You've heard of it, I dare say. You can perhaps believe there's a top landing, even though you do believe so little. Well, it's up there, next to the roof."

It was strange that Mr. Femm should seem so agitated. It wasn't the mere screaming that was upsetting him; he frowned his resentment at that; yet he was still hesitant and disturbed. "I remember it now. Yes, the big lamp. It is very heavy, too heavy for me." He shook his head. "I couldn't carry it down all those stairs."

"You mean you're afraid to go up there alone," she screeched, pointing a finger at him. "Well, I'm not going up, I've enough to do. You go with him." And the finger was sharply turned until it pointed at Philip.

Margaret jumped and felt like crying out that Philip shouldn't go, but then suddenly realised she would be making a fool of herself. Why shouldn't he go? Yet she was half alarmed, half annoyed, when he nodded across at Mr. Femm. "Yes, I'll go with you, of course, and help to get it down."

"Get it myself, if you like," Sir William put in, looking from one to the other.

Philip grinned at him. "No; I've been chosen, and I'll go. We'd better have one of these candles, hadn't we?" He took up a candlestick, gave a smiling glance at Margaret, and moved a few paces forward. Mr. Femm joined him at the foot of the stairs, was given the candle, and then slowly led the way up. The others stared at them in silence, and it was not until both the men themselves and their jigging shadows had disappeared that anybody turned away or spoke.

"I want this," cried Miss Femm, laying a hand on the remaining candle.

Margaret exclaimed in protest against being left in the dark for even a moment. Philip's queer little exit had somehow left her shaken, and now she regarded Miss Femm with positive hatred.

"Must leave us a light, you know," Sir William shouted. And he gave Margaret a friendly glance, as if to suggest that he knew what she was feeling, a glance for which Margaret, who hadn't expected it, was instantly grateful. "If you're going," he went on, bellowing cheerfully, "you must leave us this. Can't sit in the dark."

In reply to this, Miss Femm, surprisingly enough, produced from the grey fat folds of her face a kind of smile. "It would do you good to sit in the dark," she told him, "but I'll see. I can't go about in the dark and I'll have to find another for myself." She fumbled in the bottom of the candlestick and found there an old candle-end, which she lit and held before her as she waddled away to the door that led into the corridor. The other two watched her for a moment and then settled themselves in front of the fire.

"I think I'll try a cigarette," said Sir William, producing his case. "Will you have one?"

She didn't really want to smoke, but she took one because it would help her to feel easy and companionable. Their being left alone together and the fire and the candle-light all combined to suggest, quite definitely if not strongly, a certain intimacy. You felt you ought to begin talking of something very personal and important almost at once.