Джон Пристли - Benighted

Philip watched the grey light steal into the room and then begin to creep towards every corner. There was Gladys, the most tragic figure among them. She was half-sitting, half-lying on the floor, with her head against Sir William's knee and one arm flung across it. She, too, was sleeping peacefully at last, completely worn out after her long storm of sobbing. When she had first learned of Penderel's death, she had been strangely quiet; and it was only afterwards, when in spite of all they could say to dissuade her she had gone to look at his body and had suddenly flung herself down upon it, that she had lost all her self-control. And now she was asleep, and when she wakened to the world again the night's tragedy would have lost something of its stabbing power, would already be a memory, be softened, gauzed about with dream, and she would be ready to go quietly away, to complete – and how strange that seemed – her journey.

His thoughts wandered on as he watched the room tremble between darkness and light. Penderel and poor crazed Saul Femm had only seemed to be sleeping, as if suddenly weary of their long wrestling bout, when they had found them, twisted on the floor beneath the broken banisters. And there had seemed, he remembered, to be a queer brotherhood between them. You felt they were going to awaken somewhere else and immediately shake hands and talk it all out together.

Margaret stirred and his arm tightened about her, but she didn't waken. Nothing much had happened between them; they hadn't had it out in the old cool and clever way; but they had exchanged a glance or two, a few broken sentences; and it looked as if everything might be different yet. "I'm so lonely," she had whispered once; and then: "It's unbearable without love." But that was in the last long terror of the dark, and perhaps he ought to forget it now. Still, the sun would set again, and the darkness would come again. And he had said once, when she was burying her face in his coat: "Let's make another start"; and he had felt an answering grip upon his arm. But the real moment which might change everything for them, had been one of silence, just a clasp of hands. That was when they were standing together on the landing upstairs. Mr. Femm had come and gone like a shaking ghost; Miss Femm had departed to pray by the body of her dead brother; Gladys, growing calmer at last, had been handed over to Sir William; and it was then they had remembered old Sir Roderick upstairs, lying there wondering and helpless in the dark. Nobody could have visited him because Philip himself still had the key. Together they had returned there, haunted by a curiously poignant memory of that room, that last little outpost of sanity, and together they had crept in, carrying the remaining inch of lighted candle, to whisper the end of the story to him who had begun it for them in a whisper or two. It was a strange errand, with a conclusion stranger still. Not a sound nor a movement had come from that shadowy bed, and when they crept forward to look at the old man, it had seemed as if he too had died. Then they had noticed his faint breathing, the very lightest sigh of life, and had seen that he was calmly sleeping. Probably he had slept through everything. They left him undisturbed, but when they had closed the door behind them, they stood very close together, in silence, and hand had reached out for hand. Something had united them at that moment, little more than a breath perhaps, and yet it brought them so close, so close. Surely they could begin again now?

Somebody moved and grunted. That was Sir William. "Hello!" Philip called softly. "You awake?"

"Yes, worse luck," Sir William replied, in a very hoarse, uncertain voice. "Can't either sleep or keep awake. I'm sore all over. Keep thinking, too."

"So do I," said Philip, companionably, and then waited.

"Tell you what keeps coming into my mind," the other went on, after a pause. "Remember when we took hold of that poor devil, the lunatic? Well, I noticed something lying on the floor on my side, just by his coat. It was a couple of cards. I can tell you what they were. Seven of clubs and five of diamonds. I shan't ever forget "em either. Seven of clubs and five of diamonds. And then some more came tumbling out of his pocket when we lifted the body. He'd a pack in his pocket. Must have played patience up there sometimes, poor devil. That got me somehow. Don't know how it is, but can't forget those cards."

Philip made a little answering noise that showed he was listening, but said nothing. He hoped Sir William would go on talking, but he didn't much want to talk himself. There was silence for a few minutes.

"I liked that lad Penderel, you know," Sir William remarked at last, as if musing aloud. "He wasn't my sort and I don't suppose he liked me, but I liked him. I'd have done something for him too. He was going to get a job, you know. About the last thing he talked about."

"What was he going to do?" Philip found he could talk about Penderel quite calmly now.

"God knows! He probably wouldn't have done it long, whatever it was. He'd got guts all right – we know that – and I fancy he'd brains, but I don't see him fitting in anywhere, I mean I didn't see him. You never know, of course, you never know. But this is no way to talk about the poor lad, is it? I liked him, liked him from the first, when he was talking about himself. I thought it seemed damned unfair, somehow. I dunno. What can you do? And it seems a damned sight worse now. Won't bear thinking about, will it? Gladys here's sleeping like a three-year-old now. Well, I'll see she's all right. Made up my mind about that."

Then Sir William struggled with a series of yawns. "Nearly dead for want of sleep," he confessed. "How about you? But then you're still young. I'm getting on, and if I didn't know it before, I know it now." He yawned again. "There'll be something to do about this business. Just thought of that. Inquests and God knows what else, keeping us dodging about for days. Damned nuisance, eh? Lot to do to-morrow – to-day I mean – if we're not still cut off. Well, we'll have to get busy. But must have some sleep first." His voice sank to a mere grunt and in another minute he had dozed off again.

Daylight itself was at the windows, suddenly chilling the place. Philip shivered a little, feeling cold now and very hungry. The arm that held Margaret was cramped and aching and very gently he tried to move it. She stirred, turned her head, and he saw that her eyes were wide open though still vague with sleep. Something caught at his heart as he stared down at her face, for she looked different, at once dreamy and curiously fragile, yet he remembered her looking like that once before. Was it when Betty was born?

For some little time she remained like that, and neither stirred again nor spoke. He leaned forward and watched her eyes clear themselves of sleep and then slowly move this way and that, up to his face, towards the windows. "It's nearly daylight," she said at last, very softly.

"Yes, it's dawn," he told her. "I've been watching it arrive." He saw her eyes close again and waited a moment. Then he added: "It's been a long time coming."

Her only reply was a little murmuring sound from her closed lips. It seemed as if she were falling asleep again. The next moment, however, her eyes were wide open once more and looked up at him. "You've not been asleep, Phil, have you?" she said.

"Not yet. I suppose I've been thinking in a numbed sort of fashion. I must say I'm tired."

"You look tired," she whispered. "Try to go to sleep. Don't bother about anything any more." Her eyes closed again, but she raised her head a little and he bent forward and kissed her, very gently.

Now holding her lightly at arms length, he half raised himself from the chair and gingerly tried his legs. "I'm horribly cramped," he said softly. "You must be too. Try this big chair while I work this stiffness off." She nodded, and he moved to one side and helped her into the arm-chair.