Джон Пристли - Benighted

"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.