‘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.
She could go now, walk out of this horrible room for ever. (How did she know she could? What if she were brought back in here, to lie in that bed and scream, like Rachel Femm?) She took up the candle and her eye fell on a text just above: The Lord is my Shepherd. She suddenly saw a vast herd of Rebecca Femms. What was their shepherd like? And somewhere behind all that was a beautiful idea, something to do with Betty snuggled into her pillow or with Philip smoking his pipe in the garden on summer nights; and it was all buried, suffocated. The very air of this room, atmosphere made out of dirty wool, would suffocate anything. Well, it was her turn now: she would show this room something, however badly she might be behaving. So she put down her candle, drew back the heavy curtains from the window, jerked up the blind, and, after a struggle with the rusty fastenings and the stiff cord, opened the window. The night came roaring in with a sweep of wind and rain, but the air was unbelievably fresh and sweet. She stood there for a moment, lifting her face towards the now friendly darkness, and strangely she felt the tears gathering in her eyes. A gust of wind blew out the candle. She turned away, found her bag, and walked to the door. When she came to close it from outside she could see nothing of the room, for now all was darkness there, but she seemed to hear the rain, blown in through the window, faintly pattering on the floor.