‘All right. But you ought to have been telling your tale. Now you begin, and when you’ve finished, we’ll go back and see what’s really happened.’ He sank a little lower in his seat and rested his head on the cushions. She began her story of the lights and the door, and as she spoke her head gradually slipped down until at last her cheek was resting against his sleeve. Throughout there was at the back of her mind the thought of that great closed door and the surrounding darkness and the rain that could still be faintly heard beating against the roof of the shed. But there was a little roof of their own, the car’s hood just above their heads, between them and that other roof, and they seemed to be in a queer tiny room, smelling of leather and petrol, that lodged them warmly and securely in the very centre of the night, just the two of them, talking so easily together. She wanted to give herself a shivering little hug—just as she used to do when she was a kid and the curtain went up at the theatre—and she hadn’t felt like that for a long time. It was queer how excited and happy she was inside, simply because the two of them were there talking about strange things and all the time talking their own strangeness away.
CHAPTER VII
It had looked as if Philip were going to plunge into an explanation, as if they were going to have it out together at last. They had drawn away from the others and were standing near the fire, intent upon one another. They ought to have begun as soon as that curious talk, which had pretended to be a mere game round the table, had come to an end. Indeed, their eyes had begun, Margaret told herself, and then admitted that it was mean of her to have left the actual cold plunge into talk to Philip. Poor Philip was so dreadfully handicapped. If he wasn’t too proud to talk to her properly—and she was sure the night had withered away all but the merest husk of pride in both of them—he was still shy. Why had she stupidly waited and then squandered the precious moments in chatter. No, it wasn’t really chatter, nothing they said now could be called that, but it wasn’t the talk they wanted. Their eyes condemned it. Eyes were doing that everywhere, watching in despair the world being chattered away.
Then it had seemed as if he were about to begin. He had tightened his lips for a moment and that familiar little frown had appeared. How well she knew that look! There had been times too—and they weren’t pleasant to think about now—when she had hated it, had turned away and had allowed other faces (Murrell smiling down at her, the sickly fool!—how could she have been so silly!) to come flashing into her mind. The little speech that had followed that look on his face had seemed to confirm her judgment. He had said, very gravely: ‘Did you understand what I meant when I was talking at the table, Margaret? It was important, you know—I mean important for us.’
There was everything in that plural. Of course she had understood. As if she didn’t know him, know every twist and turn of his mind, so anxious, blundering, honest, yes, gloriously honest! She had waited a moment before replying, but only to pick out the right words so that she could get the two of them really launched. And then, before she had spoken a word, it had happened. The lights had gone out. It was as if the house couldn’t leave them alone. She was just finding her feet in it, that queer experience in that horrible room with Miss Femm was just beginning to look like a mere attack of nerves, everything was settling down into decency and friendliness, and now the light was gone. At first they seemed to be in total darkness, but it was soon partly dispelled by the dull glow from the fire. Now she stood among shadows in a faintly crimsoned cavern.
The fuss that followed was rather welcome; it did at least keep the house at bay. The men began shouting to one another about fusing and short circuiting and accumulators. Philip, who knew all about these things, offered to try and make the lights work again, but Mr. Femm seemed to think it was hopeless. Margaret didn’t listen very carefully, being content that their loud, cheerful voices filled the darkness. But when Sir William struck a match and held it up and there was talk of candles, she remembered the one she had brought back with her from Miss Femm’s room.
They lit this candle and put it on the table, and then they all drew a little closer and looked down on its tiny wavering flame. At this moment, Miss Femm marched in upon them, carrying another lighted candle.
‘You’ve got one, have you,’ she yelled at them. ‘Well, look at it. It’s guttering. There’s a draught.’ She looked round the room. ‘The door’s wide open.’ She went over and closed it with a bang. Then she returned to the table, put down her candlestick, and let her little button eyes run from one to the other of them.
‘Look here,’ cried Sir William, heartily, ‘isn’t there anything else we could have, a lamp or something? Not much of a light this.’
‘What’s that?’ Miss Femm screamed, looking at her brother. He explained in his curious hissing voice that always contrived to reach her ears. Meanwhile, Margaret seemed to hear a faint knocking, but as no one else appeared to hear it, she thought she must be mistaken. Then Miss Femm’s voice drove all thought of it from her head. You couldn’t think of anything else the moment that woman opened her mouth.