Джон Пристли - Benighted

But Miss Femm did not stir. In another minute she was talking again, this time, it would seem, more to herself than to Margaret. "They were bad enough before here, but after Rachel died they were worse. There was no end to their mocking and blaspheming and evil ways. They were all accursed, whether they stayed here or went away. I see that now. They were all branded. They were marked down one by one. I see His hand in it now. And it's not finished yet. Sometimes He will reveal his great plan to the least of His servants. He's out there to-night. He's out there now."

This was awful. In despair, Margaret sat down and began peeling off her stockings. She knew that the woman's eyes were now fixed upon her; she could feel their beady stare.

Miss Femm was quieter now that her interest had narrowed to Margaret. "You're married, aren't you?"

Margaret reached out for her towel so that she could dry her feet. "Yes. My husband's out there in the hall." Philip turned into something different, something intangible and yet substantial, like a big account in a bank, as soon as she called him my husband . This thing was not to be confused with the exciting personal adventure called Philip .

"Which one?" Miss Femm was asking. "The quiet dark one or the other?"

"Yes, the quiet dark one." Margaret rubbed away and suddenly felt proud of Philip for being a quiet dark one.

"The other's a godless lad. I saw him. There isn't much I don't see. He's got wild eyes, and he's one of Satan's own. I've seen too many of them, coming here laughing and singing and drinking and bringing their lustful red and white women here, not to know. He'll come to a quick bad end. If I'd have known, he wouldn't have set foot in this house." Miss Femm was screaming again and she had now moved forward a pace or two. But it was quite evident that she had no intention of going, so Margaret did not hesitate any longer but continued changing hastily. The room was horribly oppressive; you seemed to breathe dirty old wool. As she pulled on dry stockings she was annoyed to find that her hands were trembling.

"Yes, they'd even bring their women here." Miss Femm's voice was edged with hate. "This house was filled with sin. Nobody took any notice of me, except to laugh. Even the women, brazen lolling creatures, smothered in silks and scents, would laugh. They went years ago, and they're not laughing now, wherever they are. And you don't hear any laughing here. If I came among them – my own father and brothers, my own blood – they'd tell me to go away and pray, though they never used to tell Rachel to go away and pray. Yes, and I went away and prayed. Oh yes, I prayed."

This was poor crazed stuff, but Margaret seemed to hear those prayers, terribly freighted. She stood up now, before pulling off her dress, and saw, so vividly in the candle-light from the mantelshelf, one side of the swollen face, a fungus cheek. It looked like grey seamed fat, sagging into putrefaction. The woman's whole figure seemed so much dead matter, something that would just stay there and rot. Only her voice and her little eyes were alive, but these were dreadfully alive; and they would remain, screeching and cursing, staring and snapping, when everything else had rotted. Oh, what nonsense was this? The poor old creature was infecting her. She must be sensible, she told herself, and found relief in pulling off her dress.

After the last outburst, Miss Femm's mood seemed to change. "I've kept myself free from all earthly love, which is nothing but vanity and lusts of the flesh. You'll come to see that in time, and then it may be too late to give yourself, as I've done, to the Lord. Just now, you're young and handsome and silly, and probably think of nothing but your long straight legs and white shoulders and what silks to put on and how to please your man; you're revelling in the joys of fleshly love, eh?"

Margaret was only too glad that she was busy rubbing her shoulders with the towel, for this talk made her want to rub and rub, to wipe every word away as soon as it reached her. This stuff was even worse than the other. She towelled away at her bared arms and shoulders and made no reply.

Miss Femm didn't seem to care. She went on staring, and said at last: "Have you given him a child?"

That, at least, could be answered. "Yes, we've one child," Margaret told her, "a girl, four years old. Her name's Betty." How queer to think of Betty now! She suddenly saw her asleep in that nursery, far away, not merely in Hampstead, in another world. But no, Betty wasn't in another world – that was the awful thing – she had come into the same world as this Femm woman, yes, and that other, Rachel, who had once screamed on that bed. Her heart shook. She wanted to rush back to Betty at once.

"Betty," Miss Femm began. "I once knew a Betty."

"I don't want to hear, I don't want to hear," Margaret repeated to herself, and somehow contrived to beat off the words that followed as she picked up the blue dress she had taken out of her bag. It was a lovely dress – almost new, and Philip and Muriel Ainsley had both admired it – and it might conquer everything, make this night all clean and sensible again at a stroke. Lovingly she unfolded it.

When she looked up again, she was surprised to find that Miss Femm, now silent, was much nearer than she had been before. The eyes in that swollen, grey, fatty mask were now fixed upon her. She shivered, suddenly feeling as if she were standing there naked.

Miss Femm came nearer, stretched out a hand and touched the dress. "That's fine stuff, but it'll rot. And that " s finer stuff still, but it'll rot too in time."

"What's finer stuff?" Margaret was looking down at her dress as she asked the question.

" That is." And the hand that had been fingering the dress was suddenly pushed flatly and coldly against the bare skin, just above her right breast.

Margaret sprang back, sick and dazed, all her skin shuddering from that toad-like touch. "Don"t!" she gasped. She was going to fall, to faint; the room was slithery with beastliness, dark with swarming terrors. Then anger came shooting up like a rocket, and cleared the air. She felt herself towering. "How dare you!" she blazed at her. She made a sudden movement, shaking herself, and Miss Femm retreated, mumbling.

There was a knock at the door. Margaret jumped and looked round, then turned to Miss Femm, who was still mumbling. "There's someone at the door," she shouted. "You'd better see who it is." The other looked across, and then, without a word, took the candle from the mantelshelf and went slowly to the door, opened it an inch or two and peeped out. The next moment it had shut behind her.

The room darkened and grew as soon as Miss Femm had left it. But of course there was only one candle now; it sent Margaret's shadow sprawling gigantically across the foot of the bed. She turned her eyes away. She did not want to look at that bed. It was growing ghostly; the whole room was filling with ghosts. If she looked at that bed long enough she might see a wasted hand thrust out of it, and meet the eyes of that girl, Rachel Femm. She had heard Rebecca Femm, perhaps it was time now for her to hear Rachel Femm. No, no; things were not really like that; they kept their sanity even if people didn"t; it was only yourself that pushed you over the edge, where the horrors began. She wouldn't look again, but she'd be sensible inside and busy herself with the familiar comforting things.

But she couldn't put on that dress yet: she didn't feel clean; she wouldn't feel really clean for days, but something could be done to wipe away that hand. She could feel it yet. There was some water in a jug on the wash-hand stand. She stared at it for a moment, disliking the thought of using it, but finally dipped her towel in it and then rubbed herself hard. She was very tired now and still trembling a little, but the rubbing made her feel better. After she had put on her dress she sat down in front of the little cracked mirror (turning a twitching back to the ghosts) and hastily, shakily, tidied her hair. The familiar reflection brought comfort to her; its peeping blue eyes and lifted mouth sent a message to say that she was Margaret Waverton, that Philip was waiting for her a few yards away, that the car was only round the corner, that they were merely taking shelter in a funny old house among the Welsh mountains. After that message she had time to powder her nose. Then she put away all the things she had taken off and fastened the bag. I'm treating you now, she told the house, as if you were a railway station; you're not worthy of having an open bag in you and some stockings left to dry.