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  He looked round at the faces turned to his. Mr. Femm appeared impassive, Sir William slightly uncomfortable, and the Wavertons and Gladys serious and sympathetic. Then suddenly he started up and broke into speech again, this time swiftly, vehemently.

  ‘You think I’ve justified myself,’ he cried to them. ‘I haven’t really. It’s cant, though not the worst kind, but still it’s cant. It’s weak sentimentality merely turned topsy-turvy. I’ve realised that when I’ve heard other fellows explaining away their slackness. It’s nearly as bad as being one of those creatures who, when they get put into the dock, begin snivelling about their War record. It’s not the first time that boys have left school to be shot at, have lost their brothers and friends, have been jilted, have been swindled. If a man’s got guts, he ought to be able to win through. That’s what you ought to tell me. I know it. I know this disillusion or cynicism or bitterness or whatever it is is the new cant, an attitude, weakness trying to disguise itself. And that makes it worse for me. I say I ought to be able to win through, and then I ask myself “win through to what?” I don’t like being in this pit, but there’s no motive-power to lift me out, or you might say there isn’t even any “out.” You can put it another way. I asked Waverton what he thought was the great snag in life, the catch in it. I asked that because I was curious. I wondered if his idea would agree with mine. But it didn’t. Mine’s this. If you approach life in the old noble-silly fashion, then it’ll simply cheat you and bump you badly. If you don’t, if you crawl into it with no grand illusions, then you’ll come to terms with it, of course, and live easily, but you’ll be nothing but a pig, and it’s not worth having at all on those terms.’

  ‘That’s not unlike mine, you know,’ said Philip. ‘Only I feel I could patch up your trouble, that a compromise is possible.’

  ‘And that’s what I felt about yours,’ cried Penderel. ‘I felt it would be possible to find a safe seat somewhere between the horns of your dilemma, but not between those of mine. Of course, if you’re a born pig, you don’t feel it, but if you’ve merely turned piggy, it hurts for a time. I’m hoping it’ll stop hurting soon. I’ve turned piggy, of course.’

  ‘You’re a raging idealist,’ Margaret smiled at him, ‘or you wouldn’t talk like that.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Sir William, complacent now. ‘He wants the moon.’

  ‘No, that’s wrong,’ replied Penderel, eagerly. ‘That’s something quite different. I know people like that, but if you think I am, you’ve missed the point.’

  ‘I don’t know, Penderel,’ said Philip. ‘Surely it’s really a matter of wanting better bread than can be made of wheat, as someone once said of somebody.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ Penderel was very emphatic. ‘It’s worse than that. It’s finding that bread made out of wheat isn’t worth eating.’

  ‘That’s the same thing,’ Philip told him.

  ‘I don’t mean it to be.’ He leaned forward on his elbow and frowned. ‘Wait a minute and I’ll tell you what I mean.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ Gladys’s voice surprised them all, for somehow they had not expected her to speak. ‘Well, if I don’t know what you mean, I know what’s the matter with you. You’ve nothing to live for. You’re just passing the time and it’s rotten. Everything so far’s been a washout, and now it’s Monday morning all the week.’

  Both Penderel and Sir William opened their mouths to speak, but they were drowned by a new voice that was so shrill and unexpected that it startled them all. Miss Femm had returned and was approaching the table, shrieking at her brother.

  ‘Morgan’s at the bottle again,’ she was shrieking. ‘I knew he’d begin to-night. Where did he get it from?’

  Mr. Femm bit his lips. ‘He did not get it from me. Can’t you stop him?’

  ‘There’s no stopping him now. He’s there in the kitchen, stupid already. I’ll take these things away, the rest can stop where they are.’ And she bore away the remains of the joint and the cheese.

  The others pushed back their chairs and rose to their feet. That entrance had obviously put an end to their talk, during which they had seemed to be sitting on a bank, watching life go by like a river and pointing out to one another its eddies and ripples and gleams; but now, with the opening of a door and the sound of another voice, life seemed to be roaring round them again; they were in the river.

  Miss Femm was back again. ‘If he goes on, he’ll have to be watched,’ she screamed. ‘It’s getting worse outside too. We’ve not done with it yet.’ She departed with the bread and the butter.

  Sir William felt he wanted to do something. He turned to Mr. Femm. ‘Who’s this fellow, Morgan? Your man? Is he as bad as all that? Couldn’t you tackle him about it—tell him to get to bed?’

  Mr. Femm, who did not look happy, shook his head. ‘I have seen him once or twice like this before. Being little better than a brute, he is very close to Nature, and these upheavals have a bad effect upon him, and then he takes to drink and that makes him worse.’

  ‘Could I tackle him?’ Sir William looked masterful. ‘I’m used to dealing with some pretty tough customers. He’s the big rough chap I saw at the door here, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is. Very big, very rough, very strong.’ A tiny smile crept into Mr. Femm’s face. ‘He is also dumb.’

  ‘Dumb!’ Sir William was taken aback. Somehow he couldn’t see himself trying to reason with somebody who was dumb.

  Mr. Femm nodded. ‘Very strong, very stupid, and dumb. I said he was very close to Nature.’ He nodded again and then walked away. Sir William stared and began to whistle soundlessly. This fellow was as odd as his servant. He joined the Wavertons at the fire.

  CHAPTER VI

  After they had all risen from the table, Gladys and Penderel found themselves standing together. There were several yards and the width of the table between them and the others, who were close to the fire. This isolation was accidental, but they were in no hurry to put an end to it. The mood of candour and revelation had passed, leaving them rather shy and awkward with one another, but something had been carried over from that shared feeling. Their faces were still strange but their feet were on common ground.

  Gladys looked about her and gave a little shiver. ‘Glad I’m not here alone,’ she told him. ‘This place’d give me the horrors.’

  Penderel was curious. ‘D’you mean absolutely alone?’

  ‘No, I didn’t really. I meant just with the people here.’

  ‘The Femms?’ He hoped that that was what she did mean.

  She met his glance and nodded. ‘Yes. There’s something a bit queer about the man, but that little fat woman, with the voice—there’s something about her . . .’ She finished the sentence by wrinkling her nose.

  Penderel hadn’t troubled himself much with the thought of Miss Femm. ‘She’s probably a harmless old creature, though she certainly does remind one of a slug.’

  Gladys kept the wrinkle on her nose for a few moments more, then let it go and smiled. ‘What’s the time?’

  He couldn’t tell her. ‘Sorry. No watch.’

  ‘Fancy a man without a watch!’ she cried, though the thought seemed to please her. ‘But I never have one neither. Can’t be bothered somehow. Why don’t you?’

  ‘I hardly ever want to know how it’s going—the time, I mean; and if I do, there’s always somebody ready to tell me. Some people never seem to think about anything else. I don’t think I like watches and clocks. We ought to go back to hour-glasses and sundials, things that deal with time quietly and don’t for ever pester you with their sixty seconds to the minute.’

  She seemed to be looking at him rather than listening to him. ‘You’re a funny boy,’ she said at last. ‘I expect you’ve been told that before.’

  Was this something real, only defeated by
language, or was she becoming heavily arch? ‘No, I haven’t,’ he replied lightly. ‘I haven’t been told anything for ages. I’ve been spending most of my time with men, and men, you know, never say things like that, never really tell you anything about yourself.’

  ‘I can tell you something about myself,’ she said, making a droll little grimace.

  ‘What’s that?’ He put on a look of mock gravity.

  She curved a hand round her mouth. ‘I’m dying for a drink.’

  ‘So am I,’ he assented, heartily. ‘This confessional business has made me thirstier than ever. Well, what about a drink? There’s some gin left there.’

  ‘Ugh! Not for me. I’ve not come to mopping straight gins yet. That’ll be the last act. You wouldn’t like to see me soaking gin now, would you?’

  He admitted that he wouldn’t. And he meant it. It was curious how the idea revolted him. He had a quick shuddering thought of gay and impudent youth, of something that deliciously held the balance between the urchin and the woman, rotted away: a mere trick, of course, of associations, but nevertheless very curious.

  ‘Isn’t there anything else?’ she went on. ‘One whisky now, and I’d face the rest of the night cheerfully. Sir Bill there, the greedy pig, swallowed all we had as soon as we came in. If you want to know how those men make so much money, that explains it. They’re greedy pigs.’

  Penderel looked at the table and rubbed his chin. ‘I’m with you about the whisky. But there’s none here.’

  ‘Well, it’s a damn shame, now, isn’t it? Why don’t you carry a flask?’

  He stared at her and suddenly struck his left palm with his right hand. ‘Why,’ he cried, ‘what a fool I am!’

  ‘Of course you are.’ She made a mocking little face. ‘But what’s the big idea?’

  ‘I don’t carry a flask as a rule, but I had one to-day. I’d forgotten all about it. You can hardly believe it, can you? But it’s true. I had one, I had one, full of good whisky. I remember having one little drink out of it, when we started off again just after dinner.’

  ‘What about it, then?’ she asked him. ‘You’re not going to be a greedy pig, are you? You’re not going to tell me now that little girls oughtn’t to drink whisky?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’ll go and get it and we’ll share what there is, just the two of us.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Then her face seemed to change a little and now she really smiled at him. ‘Just the two of us. We don’t want Bill in this—he doesn’t deserve any either—and the others won’t want any. Where is it?’

  ‘In my raincoat pocket, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘I’ll go and see.’ He went over to his coat, but returned shaking his head. ‘It’s not there. I must have left it in the car, somewhere on the seat.’

  Her face fell. ‘If that isn’t just my luck. What’s the good of having a flask out there? We can’t start climbing over rocks and wading through rivers to find it.’

  ‘But this car’s here, just round the corner,’ he said. ‘You’re forgetting that. I can easily slip out and get the flask.’

  ‘Of course!’ she cried. ‘I was thinking of our car. Just a minute then, and I’ll come to the door with you. I’ll put my boots on first.’

  ‘Have you got a torch?’ he asked. When he discovered that she had, having carried Sir William’s through the darkness, he continued: ‘Well, if you let me have that, I can get the flask in a minute. No need for you to bother yourself, you know.’ But he hoped she would.

  When she returned, wearing her boots and coat and carrying the torch, she said: ‘No, I’ll come to the door with you. It’ll be something to do and perhaps we’d better have our drink there. I’ve shocked your friend—Mrs. What’s-her-name—Waverton—enough for to-night. Besides, Bill will be wanting to butt in.’ The others were clustered round the fire and were paying no attention to them. Gladys was eager to go, to do something. It would be a little adventure. She didn’t want to stand there, waiting for him.

  They left the big door open behind them and stood at the top of the three steps outside, sheltered from the rain by a small porch. The night was as black as ever and still roared gustily, and the light from behind only showed them a gleaming slant of rain and pools in the sodden gravel. For a minute or so they made neither movement nor sound but simply stood close together, looking out. Somehow it was as if all things had narrowed to one perilous rim.

  ‘Give me London,’ said Gladys, her mouth close to his ear. ‘London every time. You never see a night like this there. It never seems so bad. Ugh! I’d get the horrors here. And, mind you, I’ve struck some rotten places in London, but you always feel you’ve only to make a little dash for it and everything’s all right, there’s the lights and the buses and policemen just outside. But look at this.’

  ‘We’re probably cut off altogether by this time.’ Penderel found the idea attractive. The five of them were shipwrecked. There had come at last a break in the smooth and dreary sequence of things. He hoped they were cut off at least for a few hours. ‘According to these people here, it’s happened at least once before. The house itself is all right, but it might easily be impossible to get away from it.’ But it didn’t look impossible though, and he couldn’t help wishing the evidence were plainer. He didn’t want everything to settle down again.

  Gladys surprised him by touching at once the core of his thought. ‘You’re rather pleased about it, aren’t you? Anything for a bit of excitement’s your motto, isn’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps it is,’ he replied. ‘But I hope you’re not going on to say that you’ve met my sort before. That would make me very angry. I like to think I’m original.’

  She reflected for a moment. ‘No, I’ve met all sorts, and some were a bit like you but not really very like. You’re different really.’

  ‘Now that’s a compliment,’ he cried. ‘Nothing like being different. You’re different too.’

  ‘Of course you’d have to say that, wouldn’t you?’ She turned her head to look him in the face. Her eyes seemed enormous in that strange half-light of the open door. ‘But you don’t really believe it. I know.’

  ‘You don’t know.’ This was silly stuff, but he had an odd desire to tease her.

  ‘Yes, I do. You shut up,’ she retorted, quite calmly. ‘Run away and get that flask. Where’s the car?’

  ‘Just round the corner here somewhere.’ He waved his left hand. ‘It’s in a shed or coach-house or something and won’t be locked up. Can I borrow the torch?’

  She handed it to him. ‘I’ll wait here for you.’

  ‘Right you are,’ he cried. ‘I shan’t be long.’ He hurried away, and a moment later she saw the light from his torch vanish behind a corner of the house. Three or four minutes passed for her in a kind of dream, in the very centre of which, far removed from the darkness and the rain, there seemed to be something comforting, warm, glowing. It would be fun when he came back with the flask. The drink didn’t matter much—though she had missed the whiskies-and-sodas that most evenings brought, and felt a little uncomfortable, uncertain of herself—but she liked the idea of the two of them, just them and nobody else, sharing that flask, making a kind of cosiness together in the middle of this awful night. There was something about this boy . . . she felt she understood him. She had remembered him from that one night at the ‘Rats and Mice.’ He hadn’t remembered her, hadn’t noticed her. That was nothing. She wasn’t so sorry about that. He had had a lot to drink, was nearly tight, but not red and goggly like most of them, but pale, with very bright eyes, all strung up. He wasn’t the usual sort. He didn’t care much about girls, but was one of those who went round drinking with other fellows, played cards for money all night, and talked and talked about the War and books and politics and all that, very clever and very funny. They’d think he was happy, they’d know no bett
er; she could almost see and hear them, a lot of men talking and laughing, silly babies. That girl had done it for him, or begun it. She found herself wondering what that girl was like. Tall and fair, little head, high voice and snobby accent, cool sort of stare, twenty-guinea tailor-mades as ‘these old rags’ for the morning stroll, one kiss if you’re a good boy—she’d be that kind, rather like this one here he’d been staying with, Mrs. Waverton. But he wasn’t in love with this Mrs. Waverton, wasn’t even interested, she could see that. Perhaps that girl wasn’t the same kind. And anyhow, what did it matter, what was she being so silly about? It was time he was back.