‘What do you want?’ she cried shakily. Her voice sounded so feeble that it only emphasised her weakness, her loneliness. And what was the use? He was dumb. If only he hadn’t been dumb, she felt, she could have done something with him.
His little eyes dwelt upon her, as if in answer to her question. Then he raised a hand lumberingly and his mouth seemed to gape into a grin.
She held herself tightly. ‘Go away,’ she cried again, and stared at him. He did not move but made an uncouth noise in his throat. There came with it that smell again, rank from a huge unwashed hairy body. If he could only say something, however foul, it would have helped her to control herself. But this sickened and terrified her. Still trying to look self-possessed, she moved away again, with wincing little steps, this time round the right-hand side of the table, thus keeping it between them. She would go towards the stairs. Philip was up there somewhere and might be coming down any moment.
She could see Morgan out of the corner of her eye. He was still standing there, watching her. Now she was turning away from him, facing the bottom of the stairs. There was a noise behind her. Had he moved? She quickened her pace and was now within a yard of the lowest stair. He was following her; he was very near. Then she gave a little shriek for a hand fell upon her shoulder, twisting her round. A great arm swept about her, and there was a fleeting nightmare of a lowered hairy face, a suffocating hug, heat and stench and huge sliding paws. She threw herself back, struggling wildly, sickeningly, beating upon the arm that held her, wriggling desperately in his grasp. A sharp tearing—the top of her dress ripped—and she was free, stumbling backward, gasping. He loomed above her, but now she summoned all her strength, darted blindly beneath the outstretched arm, and contrived to scramble up the first few stairs.
‘Philip, Philip!’ she called with what breath remained to her. Oh, where was he, where was he? The stairs heaved and trembled; her hair fell in front of her eyes, which saw strange flashes of light; there was a roaring in her ears; but he was coming after her now and she clutched at the banisters and pulled herself up and up, half falling and then recovering herself at every other step. He was there grunting behind her, only a few feet away. The stairs now curved into darkness, and in a moment she would be at the top. Something freed her voice at last, breathless though she was. ‘Philip, Philip!’ she called, and now the cry went ringing through the dark. ‘Philip!’ it went ringing again, sending her terror and her need clamouring through the upper rooms and landings, the black space into which he had disappeared. He was there somewhere and he would hear.
CHAPTER IX
Following Femm upstairs left ample time for reflection. He seemed to move not merely slowly but with downright reluctance, as if he were climbing to the scaffold. Philip was telling himself that he felt a durned sight better. He had Penderel (and the house itself too, perhaps) to thank for that, because it was that outburst of confidences round the table that had done him good. To begin with, he had let off steam himself, which made an immense difference. Then Margaret’s answer to his question had told him a great deal. In fact, he had thought of trying to put things right between them, had just been about to begin—led on by the good old Come-now-Philip look in Margaret’s clear eyes—when the confounded lights went out and eyes and all disappeared. Then, too, the others had rushed in to give themselves away, and that had been a warming and heartening kind of experience. The night had redeemed itself. If you can put yourself right with people, he announced to himself, the rest doesn’t matter; the roof can fall in. And a serious young architect couldn’t put it stronger than that.
So far he had been climbing funereally in Femm’s shadow. Now they had reached the top of the first flight of stairs, and his guide had come to a halt and was holding the candle above his head, as if he were inviting the architect in Philip to look round. There wasn’t much to be seen, but Philip peered curiously and suddenly found himself interested. He turned to examine the panelling at his elbow, and Femm brought the light nearer.
‘Seventeenth century?’ Philip asked.
‘That was when this house was built, or at least some of it,’ Mr. Femm replied, and seemed anxious to remain where he was and to volunteer further information.