Джон Пристли - Benighted

"Is Gladys asleep?" she whispered.

"Yes; she's never moved."

"I'm glad. We mustn't waken her." She sank back and he bent over her and seemed to see her eyes cloud over with sleep again.

"I think I'll go over to the window," he remarked, "just to see what it's like outside."

She looked at him and tried to smile. "It's different now, isn't it?" she whispered, and saw him nod and then creep away. Vaguely she thought how it had seemed once as if it would never be daylight again, as if it would just go on getting darker and darker, more and more horrible, as if she too would soon be lost in madness. Then, she couldn't have imagined the daylight coming into the house. But it hadn"t, not into that house. This was a different house.

She was very tired and sleepy, and she had to sink down and close her eyes again. But her mind went groping about and at last stumbled back through the night. It seemed different now; something had vanished from it; that huge background of nightmare, horror mounting in the dark, all that had gone. They had come running out of the rain, the black night, into this house, clamouring for shelter, and had found here some people like themselves, only twisted, crazed, with loneliness, age, some weakness of blood or brain. Their figures came swaying before her, and now for a moment she could look into each face steadily and pitifully. Last night she had been sick, terrified, despairing; to-morrow, looking back, she might be angry; but just now she could only be sorry. She thought of the five of them coming in here, saw them a long way off, dim little figures, and then vaguely tried to remember the talk they had had, what they had said. She heard Penderel's voice again. Something about a snag, the great snag. Had he got round it now, leaped over it, gone on his way? But what was it? About being taken in or being piggy, was that it? She could remember thinking it all rather young and silly, and that's all she could remember, she was so sleepy, just sorry and very sleepy.

The window showed Philip no red flares and rising ball of fire, no sudden triumph of day. It was a chill misty dawn, a landscape in smoke and steel. It held out no large promises of sunlight and the blue; yet there was a touch of kindness in its level sober light, which moved so slowly in that room to which he turned now, and dealt so gently with the eyes it found there. The morning's truth would not be proclaimed with insolent haste. It would be revealed very slowly and quietly.

As he passed, he heard a sudden little noise from Sir William, who was apparently clearing his throat. Philip stopped and turned, and saw that he was awake again. He tip-toed nearer, glancing down at Gladys, who was still in the same position, sleeping soundly. The hand above her grasped a handkerchief, tiny and crumpled. She looked like a child. Sir William looked different too in this new light, looked curiously aged, stony, desolate.

"Saw you looking out," he told Philip in a hoarse whisper. "What's it like?"

"The floods have gone down, I think," Philip replied very softly. "It's not too bad a morning."

Sir William grunted. "It's got plenty of time yet. Wish I could sleep."

"I'm going to try now," said Philip, and crept away. The next moment he was lying on the floor by the side of Margaret's chair.

"Your wife asleep?" The question came faintly.

"Yes," he whispered, "fast asleep."